Coincidences

For a long time, I never questioned whether destiny existed or not: to me it had always been a bit of a given. A few months ago, when I told a friend of mine I thought having met her in St Andrews was destiny, she corrected me; "There's no such thing as destiny. Only coincidences." She said that the notion of destiny is inflexible, as if our whole lives have been predetermined and there's no room for chance and changes of direction. She still called having met each other a "lucky coincidence" and, although lucky, it happened because we were in the right place at the right time, nothing else.

The more I think of this, the more I'm convinced she's right, particularly looking back at my entire St Andrews history. To begin with, I ended up there having chosen it as a safety net and under recommendation of my ex-boyfriend, for whom St Andrews was the dream university--I had never heard of it. In the end, unexpectedly for the both of us, I ended up in Scotland and he in London, after being offered a place at a university that was a dream even bigger than St Andrews.

It seems that after that point it was all a succession of lucky and unlucky coincidences: being put in flat 5 in Donaldson at DRA where I met one of my best friends, changing degrees and finding a vocation, ending some friendships that did not necessarily bring out the best in me. My friend is right: if destiny existed, wouldn't things be much clearer and linear; would there really be so much room for error? Surely, it is because so many things have been determined by coincidence, rather than destiny, that it's been possible to go back and make adjustments. 

And maybe there's a part of me that still clings on to the idea of destiny a little bit; maybe because I don't like to think that everything that will happen to me is, ultimately, up to me (talk about commitment issues, huh?). But knowing that coincidences happen, and make us realise what we thought was "meant-to-be" isn't actually meant to be, is one of the best lessons a friend has taught me. 

Trust Issues

Being in mainland Europe for the past month or so has been, at times, a bit of a traumatic experience. One of the qualities that I think St Andreans love the most about the bubble is how safe we are there--no one steals, there are no criminals lurking in the streets at three in the morning, front doors can remain unlocked. By contrast, my Italian family is paranoid that burglars will break into their homes, or that they will be robbed on the bus in broad daylight. In Mexico, as you can imagine, the paranoia is also there (and, granted, slightly more justified). 

All my life I've been aware that there are countless reasons to be scared and always on the watch. Coming to St Andrews provided sweet release from this constant state of panic, and I could finally surrender to the natural conclusion that there's more good than bad people in the world. Unfortunately, of late, stealing is not so much a matter of being good or bad but is much more related to need. It is perhaps one of the most tragic consequences of the economic crisis that not only do people distrust their politicians and bankers, they also don't trust the people they encounter on a daily basis. 

So leaving St Andrews will definitely cause me to have some trust issues: not the kind in which I don't trust people, rather the kind in which I trust everyone. This isn't necessarily a negative thing--isn't it good to give people the benefit of the doubt?--but I think it might all come down to the level of trust issues new people around me will have. 

Technofobia

Am I about to be hypocritical? Perhaps. I am, after all, a dedicated smartphone user, an avid Skyper, a fellow Facebook addict. And as the time for graduation draws nearer, these are the comforting qualities that I am happy to share with my friends: it just means we can be in touch with each other in ways that people 20 years ago couldn't have dreamed of.

Yet...despite the wonder that technology provokes in me, I cannot help but feel an increasing apprehension for the role it has in our life today. Just the marketing that smartphones and tablets have seems, to me, outrageous. Has everyone seen the ad with the father and son on a camping trip? The father reads Winnie The Pooh to his kid off the tablet (don't even get me started on Kindles and e-books), they look at the constellations through the tablet, the compass is on the device, they light a fake fire on the screen...and I'm thinking, ok, if I were in the middle of the woods I probably would find all these things quite practical. Then the commercial ends and you realise the tent is set up in their backyard. Yay dad, thanks for this amazing adventure--I think we were even able to use the wifi from home to play out here! And have you seen the Samsung Galaxy ads? The one with the on-screen proposal? I'm not saying we should be expecting a candle-lit dinner proposal in this day and age, but I think we can all agree some things are better done in person. And the one featuring our very own town of St Andrews, with the mum getting all the photo updates from his son's travels? What will they talk about once the son gets home if the mum has already seen everything while he was gone?!

You see where I'm going with this: I think technology is not only making us lazy but it also is, paradoxically, belittling social interaction. It seems that by being in touch all the time via all these means, when we actually see each other in person it's just awkward. We already know everything about each other. Don't deny it, we've all been there: you're finally meeting up with that special someone you just met. You ask them what they did that week, but it's a pointless question: the Facebook stalker in you already knows where they were, who with and when that week. But we need to converse, right? Or do we? Families at restaurants don't seem to anymore. I am a little sad when I see parents handing an iPhone or iPad to a child who can barely hold its head up. An Italian newspaper reported that they are now making potty trainers with iPad holders attached to them. Call me crazy, but I would argue it is more important to learn how to deal with your own fecal matter before learning how to use an iPad. 

And then, what if there's a power cut? For real, this isn't just my Mexican paranoia. If your entire house depends on electricity to work, you're screwed. You can't cook if you have one of those fancy induction hobs, you can't even make yourself a coffee if on top of that you have an electric coffee machine. Least of all tea, if you're used to the kettle (or the microwave, as the first-year me used to be).

As much as I love that I am able to instantaneously know everything about my friends, and I can let them know everything about me, using technology, I worry that children today won't grow up learning how to write letters to each other and, by extension, be able to express themselves using full sentences and proper characters. I'm scared that bookcases will become obsolete and that no one will buy paper newspapers anymore. Above all, I'm scared we will all become accustomed to the growing lack of mystery there now is when we meet a new person--all we have to do is look up their name on Facebook or Google. Will we actually become less mysterious as we create and manage our online identities, which need to fit concisely on wall posts, albums or 140 characters?

Call me antiquated, but next year I am going to send letters and postcards to everyone, and I expect to get some too. Or at least an e-mail every now and then--and please don't ask me questions you already know the answer to.

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.