The Birds

I never thought I would do this but, alas, here it is: my petition to Fife Council. After a semester's worth of waking up in streets that look like a warzone, this morning I had it. 

"Piles of vom?" you might be asking yourself. Despite that recent episode of chunder sliding off the walls of H&M for a couple of (daytime) hours, the answer is no, the piles of vom are not the problem here. Nor the nauseating smell of fish&chips permanently flowing in the morning air, not the buskers. Although that might be my next petition to Fife Council: this week, we've had a serious development in the busker saga. The past week, we've had it all: the ever so repetitive flute player, the accordion player and the guitar player. AND the newly arrived junior bag piper (who really, really can't play) and the ukulele band, who sing The Lumineers' ''Ho Hey'' ad infinitum. Needless to say, they have now also ruined this song for me.

But no, my concern here is with the birds. I have written about the worrisome seagulls of our town on a previous occasion and, let me tell you, they have gotten worse, if anything. The other morning I witnessed the slaughtering of a crab by one of the seagulls, and my first instinct was to board my windows. They've gotten bigger too: maybe they still haven't lost their winter fluff, but those toddler-sized, feathery beings are preparing for something bigger than the ice age. They'll be laughing at us when we perish during the catastrophe.

So, they're getting meaner, and they're getting more populous. But they are not alone. The crows are following suit. These are animals big enough to inspire Poe to write 'The Raven, part the second.' They are even faster than the seagulls, so their sporadic aggressive spasms are always, infallibly, resulting in a minor heart attack to those passing by them. Why are they so angry? you might ask yourself.

Well, clearly, because we pack our garbage. How much easier would it be if we just let it out in the street for them to have? This would hardly be a bad decision: they will get to it one way or another. At least by leaving it on the side walk we spare ourselves the trash bag confetti flying around in our streets. My question here is, Fife Council, have you thought about making your bin bags (and bins) bird proof? 

The Italian (Nut) Job

Oh Italy. Every time I go back to you, you surprise me further. To begin with, how do you manage to keep a population of more than sixty million people, who presently have no government, so calm? How do you even function, I wonder? I think, like the majority of these people, I'd rather not know the answer to that question, and ta-da, it's magic. The country keeps functioning: as long as we have our good food and our good wine, the rest will solve itself.

But (bringing it down a notch or two...) what is up with Italian eyebrows lately? First, the ongoing fashion of male eyebrow waxing. I am all in favour of alternative masculinities, but those eyebrows look seriously sketchy. Unless you have a caterpillar crawling on your forehead, leave those eyebrows alone! And now, women are following suit: shaving eyebrows off and painting them on. I think this fashion is even dying out in Mexico, come on ragazze, have we really run out of ideas already? Maybe this is a sign that we've done enough to our faces already...

On that note, I've discovered what Italian women seem to fear the most (not Silvio Berlusconi, you might be surprised to know). Cellulite. Italy will sell you anything to fight it: gels, creams, pills, raw vegetables, mud masks, massage tools... When did cellulite become such a big deal? Seriously, when (and if) we get rid of it, do we become happier, more intelligent, generally better people? Thighs and butts are two parts of our bodies that aren't that exposed: get a grip! Do you realise how much time and money one can end up spending on this problem? I'd rather have cellulite than waste my life rubbing some smelly unguent on myself for hours, locked in my bathroom.

I guess that's what makes me, and most Italians, crazy: the constant need to fare bella figura, to be impeccable and have a perfect image. Sure, we are descendants of beautiful figures like Michelangelo's David, but alas we are not made of marble. Let's take a chill pill and realise that if we are to get through the country's crisis we need to fight against more than just cellulite and hairy eyebrows. Perhaps it's this obsession that got us into the mess to begin with...

Bed Bugs

Working at a B&B has had somewhat of an impact on me. For instance, I now know that pillows are not that white underneath the pillow cases and that not all towels get replaced after a guest leaves if they look unused. Call me a clean freak, but I found this a little worrying at first. 

This changed after a conversation with a couple of my friends. One of them assured me beds are probably the dirtiest furniture in our homes. After enjoying a never-ending scene of me freaking out about all the hair that is probably hidden between my sheets and mattress cover, my friend added an extra element of horror: bed bugs.

Apparently bed bugs are a common phenomenon of all beds. Suddenly, yellow stains on duvets seemed like a joke compared to a host of crawling creatures within my mattress. My Swedish counterpart felt the need to add, "Well, I'm sure the hostel we slept in in Paris had them." Why?? How many different types of bed bugs have I slept on? And, most importantly, where on me have they crawled?!

In an optimistic end to our conversation, however, my friend brought to my attention that bed bugs are not that bad. At least I can now legitimately claim that I am never alone in bed.

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.