The Legend

You know how it is in St Andrews: more often than not, if you describe someone to someone else, they will know who that person is, even if they only know them by sight. That's how it usually goes in my conversations, but some weeks ago, as I described someone to a person I had just met, they had a, "Oh, that's you?!" moment...which had never happened to me before.

The person I was talking to was the new president of the Italian Society. I had spoken to him a few other times but, it being Sangria Night and all, we spoke for a longer time on this occasion. At one point I told him I was glad he was the new president of the Society, for I found his predecessor and entourage slightly creepy (creepy Italian leaders? Where have I heard of this before...?). When he asked me why I thought so, I said it was because every time the previous president saw me, he managed to forget I spoke Italian, and proceeded to loudly comment on my ass. Now, it is no news that I suffer from 'big butt syndrome' (I always have) but sincerely I like to think there's more to me that just an ass, and if it were really that memorable, these individuals would at least remember they've seen and commented on it before. But no, no. So my reaction to those comments usually was to start speaking in Italian to them, and watch their faces as realisation turned into mortification (oh, the joy!). 

As I kept going on with my convoluted anecdote, doubtlessly fuelled and made more complicated by the cheap Sangria, he opens his eyes with surprise and says, "That's you?! You're a legend! You really traumatised those guys, you know?"

A sense of victory came upon me. Who knows what sort of reputation I've gained with this, but hopefully these men will think twice before screaming, "Look at that ass!", from one end of a table to the other.

Falling in Love Again

There's different opinions about the new semester: some really enjoyed their first study-free Christmas, some wished for exams after Christmas to be spared from the extreme stress that was last semester. I count myself amongst the former, but there's a price to be paid for everything, isn't there?

Can it be that love really does last only for three years? I ask myself this as I sulkily pulled my suitcase up the stairs to our flat after the holidays, the memory of the Mexican sun still shining too brightly in my head to make this an easy return. Sulkily, I've been making my way around the same old (three) streets, and have only rejoiced in finding my amazing friends waiting for me with open arms. As much as it pains me to think I'll be leaving those arms soon, the idea that, in the near future, I will not have to face the same cobblestone alleys everyday brings me a lot of comfort.

Yet, is it that I just need to fall in love with St Andrews again? Weather allowing, I'll just have to venture out for a long walk on West Sands, sit on the pier at sunrise and breathe the earthy smells of Lade Braes. Or maybe I've really just had enough; maybe the time has come to start sealing my usual cardboard boxes, full of memories, and start forcing everyone into planning weekly Skype sessions (group sessions, if need be) to fight the separation anxiety and withdrawal symptoms I'll inevitably experience after leaving. 

And yet, perhaps my disenchantment is associated to fulfilment. Like all good relationships, St Andrews and I have brought out the best in each other, and now I am ready to move on to greater things...or maybe new disappointments that will make me appreciate St Andrews even further. For the time being, I'm looking for new ways to spice this relationship up a little, find that spark we had the first few years. I think, however, it may take a little more than sexy lingerie and a candle-lit dinner...

Lesson 1 in YOU101

Prepare for a cheesy one. I can't help myself, my days have taken an unexpected and happy turn, for I now know the answer to: "So...what are you doing after graduation?"

All around me, people seem to be getting closer and closer to their answer to this. My Swedish Counterpart has suggested this is the first lesson one learns in 'YOU101: Getting life started, and making it awesome'. I'm fully aware the answer hasn't come to everyone yet, and forgive me if this is incredibly annoying to those who haven't gotten here yet. But 'yet' is the operative word here, as it suggests that there will be a time in which we will all get there ("And indeed there will be time...And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And a hundred visions and revisions..."). 

Truth be told, despite all of my complaining, St Andrews seems to put us rather close to Lesson 1. Is it because time here is ending that I suddenly realise and appreciate how fortunate it is to have landed here? Is it just the euphoria of working so hard towards something and actually achieving it? I've never run a marathon before, but right now it feels like I've crossed an important finish line: maybe one day I'll try running one to see if it feels the same.

What I want to say is that we are all running in one direction, which will split us into a kaleidoscope of different paths once we graduate, all of them equally interesting and exciting. A song from Italian rapper Jovanotti resonates in my head these past few days; we are like the sun shining at midday, not even a shadow around us...

How Sex&Gender has screwed my mind

Oh, the complaining I'm about to do. I've been holding it in since Mexico: this truly annoying song just hit the charts over there and man, do they love it. I believe we are all, unfortunately, familiar with 'Whistle'? Let me start by saying a thing or two about this song. To begin with, I feel a bit sad for the man singing it: if he's referring to his penis as a whistle, I'm thinking he's got an issue or two with his self-esteem. Just saying. Secondly, I feel doubly sad for him if he's got a girlfriend so retarded he's got to explain how to 'blow  his whistle' as if he was teaching her the ABCs. Sure, I'm not saying every woman (or man, for that matter) should be expected to know immediately how it's done, but a handful of neurones are enough to know where the starting point is at. 'Getting real close' is definitely top of the list. I'd be careful on repeating the 'put your lips together' bit; she might just seal them closed and fail to understand the following steps. 

Then, James Bond. I've been holding that in for even longer, because everyone seemed to love it so much: didn't want to immediately become the party pooper on call. And, admitting this movie displays several quality action scenes, I have a real problem with the role of women in it. Yes, yes, Bond is a very damaged and dark man (not that Daniel Craig can truly portray the inner depths of his character, mind you) and his behaviour is a reflection of that fact--a man who is hurt and forever unable to express himself again? I hadn't heard of that before... In any case, my question remains: when was it ever stipulated he would sleep with those women? Come on, the first woman just gets fucked. That's her role in the entire movie. She doesn't even have a line...did she even sigh? And then he just leaves her in bed and that's that. Not cool. In the second instance, again, when was it stipulated that it was ok for him to walk into that shower and screw the second woman? Excuse me, I don't know about you, but if a man unexpectedly walks into the shower whilst I'm in it, I will not spread my legs readily, I will hit him in the crotch with a loofa, repeatedly (and possibly try to asphyxiate him with my shower cap). I'm just saying. Also, M, really? You were head of Foreign Intelligence and yet you manage to die in Bond's arms? Poor effort M, poor effort. But of course, the only truly unsettling threat Bond faces in this movie is that of gay sex, as hinted by the one great performer in the movie, Javier Bardem. Bond gets shot off a bridge and his hair barely gets muffled. He pulls out bullets from his shoulder as if he were picking lint out of his socks. But man on man action makes him lift an eyebrow, a genuine look of sheer terror crossing his eyes? How progressive...

And then, the worst all this Sex&Gender analysis has done to my world: disappointment at Ellen DeGeneres, the last woman on earth I though would let me down. Perhaps it's a cultural thing, but still. The other day I watched a video where she features the heart wrenching story of a single mum, supporting four kids after recently having lost her job. This woman is black. Upon calling her on stage, Ellen hands her a pile of money: $5,000. And there I began to think: this is a little icky. The white woman has the power here. What is this trying to tell me? As if these doubts weren't already uncomfortable enough, out comes a second woman, also white, introduced as the 'guardian angel' of the single mum. Again, the little Sex&Gender alarm in the back of my head started ringing, making me read waaay too much into these scenes. Which is probably what I'm doing, to be honest. Still, are there no deprived, white single mothers in the US that could have been featured in the show? Just putting it out there and encouraging further discussion. I have to, after all, resolve this conundrum. 

Of course, there are some lamentable trends which just hand me the stuff to bitch about on a silver platter. I refer here, of course, to Fifty Shades of Grey. The only word I can find for this book is 'insulting'. Perhaps I am too quick in saying this since I've only read some passages, as suggested by my Swedish counterpart, but I am pretty certain this book is absolute garbage. Misleading, insulting garbage. As I was sitting there half laughing half despairing over its contents, I really started to wonder if the most appropriate response to it I could have is to rant about it in academic lingo. It is highly possible it would be more productive to talk to the millions of women who read and enjoy this book, just to understand at what stage of the evolutionary chain we've gotten to here. I fear, after reading the 'contract' within which the protagonist agrees to be 'the property of Mr Grey', that we've only successfully been able to remove negotiators in the process of making women goods to be exchanged. 

The Smile

This issue has been on my mind since I arrived in St Andrews. At first, it was just that I did not understand it: why did people I had met just a couple of days earlier ignore me when we passed each other on the street? It took me a while, and then I realised people here are just not as good at remembering faces or names. Then I just learnt to deal with it, and come to terms with the fact that people often just 'blank' each other here for no apparent reason.

My never-ending question in relation to this is: what is so wrong with smiling in this town? Not even saying 'hi', but just a smile of recognition. People look so uncomfortable when I do it. A smile doesn't mean much, I think, but blanking a person really does. "What did I do?", one wonders. Smiling is just a friendly way of acknowledging people you kind of know, but with whom you've never really spoken: a way of saying "we know each other", and then moving on. Ironically, smiling can even be a way of keeping this, seemingly, very desired distance. Smiling politely does not mean "let's have a conversation right here, right now", which is what I think most people must think it means. But at least it doesn't leave you feeling like you are some sort of non-person, something the eyes must avoid.

The worse is when the blanking is accompanied by the 'raped walk'. This applies to men only, I think. Have you noticed how some men who think highly of themselves walk with their legs kind of really apart, with a strange little bounce that suggests some kind of pain in the butt area? The blanking in these cases is so much more arrogant, but then again, watching this kind of person walk away, I can never resist but to crack a little smile. 

The Yahs

OK, give me some credit. I have been writing this for a few months now and I haven't touched upon this subject yet. It would have been the self-evident thing to do, really: such an enormously big component of the student community, so much room for parody. Indeed, they already are parodies of themselves...

My early days observing the yahs were both amusing and disturbing. High on the list was a conversation I overheard outside the Union: "Yah mate, our flat is such a mess right now...like, yah, there's champagne all over the ceiling." Most recently I was standing in line at an ATM: two girls, one of them getting money out for the night. Girl 1: "So, how much should I get? £500?" Girl 2: "That's a little too much don't you think?" Girl 1: "You're right. £250?" I really do wonder where they were heading out to...

My best yah moment was, of course, interviewing Matt Lacey for The Saint last year. Such a win. He definitely tops all my yah stories, serious quality. I have, of course, come across my fair share of 'gap yah' stories here too; "Africa girl" stands out for commenting on how, when "she was there [Africa...just, Africa], although people were so poor there were always happy...and they never smacked their children". Read and rejoice. 

A close encounter of the third kind with a yah at the bus stop: I was on my way to horse-back riding, and in my full-on riding outfit. Guy approaches me: "Sorry. I was just wondering, does the University have a riding team?" Me: "Yes, we sure do. But I'm not part of it." Guy: "OK, fair enough. Does the University have a Polo team?" Me: "Yes, yes it does." Guy" "OK, great. And do you like the riding school here?" Me: "Yes, it's really great." Guy: "Thanks!" At this point I thought this had been a pleasant exchange of information. Guy: "Oh, just one more question. Did you bring your own horse?" Me: *repressed horror/laughter* "No. No I didn't..." This has been making me question if I really do like riding, after all.

Most recently, it has been incredibly interesting to see how yahs cope with fourth year. A girl posed the following rhetorical question to me recently: "Reading just takes so long, doesn't it?" I am still wondering: so long in comparison to what?!

My biggest concern is that these are the individuals we're going to be seeing on TV and newspapers not too long from now (Exhibit A: the royal couple). I do worry that this niche group is so emblematic of our University. Alas, I guess we could be infamous for worse things...

Contextually Specific Sex

Lots of things are constantly in our faces in St Andrews. The library. The annoying kids from Madras. The flute player. Our classmates. I think sex ranks quite high up that list: at least, it's not in our faces all the time (that would be bad, actually) but it definitely is a huge conversation topic.

Sex in St Andrews is no different than everywhere else. It is in advertising, it is in the fashion shows, the events... It walks hand in hand down the street, plastered on the faces of all the happy couples. You would think this is a simple matter of life, yet it is all but simple. 

Seen that we talk about it so much, I think clearly this must be a reflection that it is a subject that crosses our mind quite a lot. Yes, even girls. This is a riddle I've been trying to solve: we take it for granted that men think about sex every 15 seconds (or some similarly crazy statistic), but is it true that men think women don't do the same? And, conversely, can it be that men are increasingly content with just having a nice meal out, a goodnight kiss, and nothing else? 

The question rises out of my bafflement at hearing that men feel used by the women of this town. I agree that some of us here come off as slightly aggressive, but hey, walking around in high heels on cobblestones whilst wearing incredibly tight trousers can give a girl a slightly violent air (although I have been told by the wise people at hercampus.com that there are ways to get around this serious issue...). Generalisations aside, I'll give the guys some credit: I am fully aware that not all men are keen on the meaningless sex, and go you for admitting it.

The fact remains, however, that in some form or another we all want it: whether it's a quicky outside the Union (or God forbid, the toilets at the Lizard), a very compliant fuck buddy, or a full-on wedding at St Salvator's chapel in a few years' time, I have a feeling that collectively we all think about sex much more than every 15 seconds. The important thing to remember, however, is that it has to be contextually specific. Be sure to be on the same plane; if both people are in it for just one night, then go for it. If one of you has put on a look of intense post-coital endearment whilst the other is bolting for the door, there is some serious imbalance taking place. Essentially, communication helps. It avoids making one feel used, or makes using each other much simpler.