Code Names [That awkward moment when French guy is actually Italian]

Disclaimer: I am fully aware that what I am about to write is incredibly superficial and vacuous. So I want you to be aware of it too. If you are easily offended don't go past the italics. 

Also, this piece is not a reflection of the author's views. Just of her lack of knowledge about certain people.

Before you go ahead and judge me for saying what I am about to say, do a conscience check and admit to yourself that, in this town, the sad truth of the matter is that we judge books by their covers all the time. Hey, I've been there; have you tried going to the library in hiking boots? Suddenly, you become "hiker girl", and the label sticks with you forever. 

To begin with, may I just say that I didn't start out this way. In the beginning, I sought to learn other people's names and remember their faces.  This, however, seems to breach the St Andrean norms of conduct, and although I did not wish for this to happen, slowly, my ability to be good with names and faces faded away. Furthermore, seen as there are certain people I began to see all the time, I tried to communicate by eye contact that I would have liked to get to know who they are; in lectures I would sit next to them and smile, which, in my world, is a signal for: "I'd like to start a conversation". Here, it rarely went down well.

With that said, I am hardly to blame for what happened next. You aren't to blame, either. Why, amongst 7000+ students, there should be a set number of people one sees constantly is beyond me, but, alas, such is the case. Some of these individuals overlap amongst friends. So, when one wants to refer to someone you and your friend both know, you naturally have to come up with a code name. Thus, I've accumulated a plethora of code names (pretentious word is courtesy of my pretentious Swedish counterpart).

It began with simple nicknames; "library guy" was perhaps the first to be baptised in our church of ignorance. He was quickly followed by "smooching guy", who ate with his mouth open and smacked his tongue against his palate even when he wasn't eating. He then turned out to be a candidate in the latest student elections...awkward, but at least now we have an actual name for him. 

Then there were the code names we had to come up with out of need; when your friend has a stalker and he is about to approach, you have to warn her in some subtle manner. So "Mufasa" came into being, and so did "staring guy" shortly after. Then, there's those people who everyone knows the minute you say their code name (unknowingly shared by the whole student community), such as "The Suit Guys". And, I'm sorry, but when you dress in three-piece, red, velvet suits and take a briefcase to lessons, you're just asking to be labelled as something.

On that note, this past year has been a prolific one for code names. When I was in Barcelona this January, we were walking down the street of our hostel, and my friend pointed out a guy to me: "I bet he goes to St Andrews". The man I am referring to was wearing a plaid blazer with matching trousers, black leather gloves and pointy, shiny shoes, a shirt with ruffles on the front and a handkerchief tucked in his blazer's pocket. He also had massive side burns and stylish Wayfarer sunglasses. "Oh, yes", I told her, "that's 'The Lord'. He's in my English class". We see him regularly; today, he was wearing bright pink socks underneath his impeccable suit.


The library is, inevitably, where most of our code names are borne. Let's begin with those individuals who have gained their labels, not because of their physical attributes, but because of the auras they carry with them; notably, "Old Spice guy" and "smelly balls guy". They are the epitomes at the ends of the spectrum of individuals who come into our radar every day. The latter is a mystery, mostly because I cannot for the life of me think what it is that happens when he sits, legs wide open, and that horrible smell invades the immediate surroundings. Regulars on the first floor are: "ex-boyfriend look-alike" (not mine, someone else's), "Rachel Berry look-alike" (I am not by any means aware of any 'Glee' reference here), "Avatar guy" (no, he's not blue), "the princess of rude" and "the queen of awkward". There's also "KK guy", (easy to spot because of his bright red KK jacket), "Penelope Cruz's sister" (who was also in my lectures in first year), "midget whore girl" (I KNOW this is wrong in every possible way, but if you saw her, you would agree), "babyface", and "angry library guy", who is actually not a student, but a library invigilator, who always tells me off if I'm breathing too loudly. We also have "the hot nerd" who has been promoted to "annoying nerd", as  he seems to have become aware of how hot he is and makes a point about being noticed whenever he comes into the library. Here, we begin to give code names by association. For instance, we have "hot nerd's girlfriend" or "Rachel Berry's flatmate".


Of course, there's our classmates--how we don't know each other's names even if we spend a whole semester in the same lecture room is beyond me. So, there's "sushi girl" (aka "the bad-ass"), "hot douche bag", "dinosaur girl", "yogurt girl" and "ginger brows". There's also "hot internship guy", who, may I just note, I did try to approach and meet, but despite my one-time attempt at conversation, we did not, in fact, hit it off. Then, within the class mate category, there's also those who don't deserve a code name, such as one fine individual who claims that "global poverty is a reality that we should all start to embrace" and who also says he does drugs "to support the poor farmers who have no other means of subsistence"; such individual we call by his real name, and shall, of course, remain anonymous here.


Around town we often see "the purple lady", "the pirate" and "the cowboy" (all self-explanatory); there's also "naked girl" from next door, and the "whale woman" (NOT what you're thinking: she studies whales and told my friend all about it. He's to blame for not remembering her name despite having had an actual, real-life conversation with her).


So yes, there's a couple of people I do see all the time. You know what the problem is with all these code names, though? I've realised just how encapsulating they are. For instance, just the other day, I was in the entrance of the library and "French guy" was there next to me, having a conversation on the phone. Turns out, "French guy" is actually Italian. But do you have any idea how difficult it is to not call him "French guy" now? Suddenly I get this massive anxiety attack: are all the code names this inaccurate?

Becoming a Badass

Several people in this town seem to think they are such bad-asses. Truth be told, I think I have been with two year olds who are more controversial than most people here. And with tasteful remarks such as, "Like a boss", springing up in everyday dialogue, one cannot help but become aware of how much people think they get away with things around here, and how non-bad-ass these things are.

This thought takes me back to the day I crashed an IR lecture (the reasons for this shall remain undisclosed, although most of us know there's only one reason, and one reason only, for crashing an IR lecture these days). One fine specimen of IR student loudly blurted out, "I am taking sushi into this lecture hall. I am such a bad-ass. What are they going to do to me, huh?". Now, unless that sushi was meant to be given to an undercover agent and was rolled to kill, there is very little to be proud of, in bad-ass terms. I think the repressed bad-ass in her was really trying to make its way into the real world though. I wonder if the bad-ass voice of her subconscious told her it was a better idea to slam into the lecture theatre's door in order to open it, rather than using the more conventional method of, oh, I don't know, the door handle?! Maybe I'm just too mainstream.

Then I see those people at the library's water fountain: seriously guys, the button says PUSH, why are you lifting it? Your bottle is not filling up faster, and the bad-ass alter ego can hardly be impressed. Bad-asses are supposed to be a source of upheaval, not insult. I get violent instincts when I see people throwing recyclables into the wrong containers. Just how lazy can one be? The yellow trash can IS RIGHT NEXT to the green one. And there's big letters on them too, don't you dare tell me you're colour-blind.

Lately, however, there's one particular, unidentified, bad-ass who I'm feeling strongly unhappy with. Whoever takes the time to put another house's bin inside our gate really needs to find something better to do. That's not bad-ass: that's just repressed freeganism.

Hurricanes, Gales and Sunny Days

It has been raining all day today. Thankfully I've had to stay in the library revising (although my productivity levels have now, clearly, lowered). Yet, I cannot help but notice how particularly miserable today is. You know when you can't really see the rain, but the minute you step out of the house you get drenched? And the phenomenon of horizontal rain? Precisely. You just know that the saying, "There's no bad weather, just bad attire", has no applicability on a day like this.

I have been in St Andrews for three years, and I am completely honest when I say that I was expecting weather much worse than this before coming. For instance, I was prepared not to see sunshine, ever. I was happily surprised; apparently St Andrews is one of the sunniest places in the UK. However, I was not very happily surprised with the snow situation the first two years. It seems the one thing I really was expecting before coming here, was completely unexpected by the rest of the nation.

Speaking of unexpected weather, however, this year has seriously been the weirdest, meteorologically speaking. Let's begin by mentioning those last days in September, memorable for the fact I went out of the house in just a skirt, and no tights. Now, I know this seems like a very common occurrence around these parts, but I had seriously never ventured outdoors with my bare legs. Hell, I had never even wore shoes with no socks on (as opposed to some people who don't even wear socks in the winter *cough-cough*). It was truly mind blowing to walk around feeling such warmth upon me.

Things were normal for a while after that, and then...the hurricane struck. Thankfully I live in a place where inhabitants possess a sense of humour as weird as mine, yet not even in my most twisted cogitations would I have ever been creative enough to call "a storm with violent winds" Hurricane Scrotum (affectionately, Hurricane 'Bawbag'). Was anyone else stuck in the library when it hit? I remember the announcement about the library closing at 10pm due to "unforeseen weather circumstances" and the windows creaking. I think I am not alone in thinking those couple of days were slightly unnerving.

Then it went crazy again: whoever was lucky enough to be here the first week of spring break knows what I'm talking about. It felt like I was back in Mexico City; not too cold, not too warm, and excessive exposure to the sun's rays did in fact result in getting sun burnt (lobster woman can attest to this matter). But of course, all good things come to an end, and in this case, the week after this incredible, heaven-sent spring atmosphere it began hailing and sloshing and the gales came back in full splendour. Of course, this was the week my best friend came to visit me from Mexico. Good riddance.

It took time getting used to it, but I think I have acclimatised rather well. I mean, I did not pull out my winter coat until December this year (as opposed to my recurring to it in early October during my first year). Still can't walk around bare legged on a night out, but have mastered the art of wearing open shoes and no socks (goodbye ugly, skin-coloured ankle-highs!). What I yet have to master is the glamorous, rain-drenched look: walking into the library looking like a wet (water impregnated, even!) mouse in an over sized raincoat cannot be doing anything good to my impeccable, lady-like appearances.

The Academic Orgasm

Have I talked about professors already? Forgive me if I have. Lately, I don't know if it is a product of my being in two very difficult modules, but pleasing my professors has been an essential component of my student experience. It's sort of my own fault as well: I am convinced that doing well in class and in my coursework will impress my professors immensely, although I am also pretty sure that they couldn't care less about this attempt.

I am not alone, however. It has gotten to a point where some of us are becoming increasingly infatuated with professors just because of how they speak (e.g. http://whatstandrewsfeelslike.tumblr.com/post/22127743410/when-i-interact-with-dr-mcmullin). It has become about much more than just looks; it is now about knowledge, and, alas, they are all at least 20 if not 40 years ahead of us in the game. It makes me giggle that we think that we can somehow reach to them with our little blurbs on medical anthropology and spiritual displacement in T. S. Eliot's poetry, which, by the way, we've written with sweat and blood and distressed nerves. Hopefully, these wondrous individuals were, at some point in their lives, at the stage we are at today.

Oh, but then there is that moment. That moment when they tell you you've made a good point in class (always happens when, in a state of half-consciousness at 10.00 in the morning, one blurts out anything just to break the awkward silence in the tutorial room). That moment when you get an essay back and you get a grade you really weren't expecting, and, if you're really lucky, you get some pretty good comments along the margins. That moment, my dear friends, which I like to call an 'academic orgasm'. Don't deny it: even those of you less academically inclined than me have had at least one during the course of their time here. And we know how it is with orgasms; how that rush of endorphins just keeps us going about our daily activities with a big smile on our faces...well, I think academic orgasms have two results. The first outcome also involves a smile and an energy rush to keep the achieved standard going. The second is total panic: how will we impress our professors next?! 

The Housing Blues

The winter is over. How do I know? When I wake up in the mornings my nose and ears are no longer blocks of ice; in December, I once woke up and, literally, the first thought that came to my head was, "The tip of my nose is the tip of an iceberg". Word. I know we've all been there. It's comforting to finally sleep with all limbs stretched out under the covers rather than tucked into a ball of jumpers, blankets, hot water bottles and triple-layered socks...kudos to all those girls out there who manage to sleep in their sexy boxers and bra even when one can see one's breath fog up the air inside the house.


But can I complain, really? You know where I'm going with this. The situation with housing in St Andrews is a tragedy. I was talking to a first year the other day, who told me her future flatmate's parents are buying an apartment for them because they couldn't find anywhere to stay next year (yes, yes, only in St Andrews...). So, in reality, I am fortunate to sleep in this bed, no matter how many bruises that mattress has given me, or how often my curtains dance with the ever-present draft coming from the windows (look at me turning complaints into an anthropomorphic love-saga).


The question of why we are all so desperate about housing has been approached by the Students' Association, the University, Fife Council, student activists, and our student media is always all over the issue, whether for satirical purpose or serious denouncement of the matter. We pay ridiculous amounts (London prices, sometimes) for accommodation that leaves a lot to wish for, and with some landlords that, well...you've heard the stories.


As much as I wish I were serious enough to go on a very clever rant about the 'housing market' of St Andrews, what I really want to do is list the top (or bottom!) five things that I've seen in flats here that have truly left me speechless. Whom, where and when shall remain undisclosed:


1. Mould House--yes, literally, I think that house was made of mould. I stayed there for about 15 minutes and when I came out I had been transformed into mould girl. I reeked of mould. My hair, my coat, my very core had moulded. And it was such a nice house as well! I'm not sure if my friends were aware of the smell or not: isn't it worrying, spending so much time in a  house to the extent that you become part of it? (Does this mean that my skin might turn magnolia soon?!)


2. The outdoor closet--not literally, but when there isn't insulation between the exterior world and the wall of your bedroom closet, the result is that clothes begin to resemble stalagmites (or is stalactites? I can never remember). My friend's solution was to run from the shower to her clothes to her bed and to get dressed underneath the blankets. That is, when her clothes didn't stick to her fingers, like a tongue against an ice lolly. 


3. The un-jammable window--one of my friends lived through the first few months of winter with a jammed window next to her bed. Jammed open, of course.


4. House relics--when plumbing should be kept in a museum as evidence of early history's engineering techniques, rather than connected to your toilet. 


5. Ugly carpets--very few houses are exempt from this charming design concept. The patterns, colours and antiquity of the carpets in many St Andrews flats are just...well, what words can I use? Are there words? My question is: when were these carpets ever even considered an attractive decorative element? The worst are bathroom carpets. It just instantly makes you wonder what kind of flora is growing under that fabric (interestingly, the mould house did not possess a carpet in the bathroom). There is a positive side to ugly carpets though: seen as many of them are not properly attached to the floor any more, they provide an excellent work out session when you vacuum. You know, one foot holding it down, an arm trying to vacuum swiftly whilst applying pressure to the aforementioned carpet...and voilà, Pilates suddenly becomes such an amateur fitness concept.

Happy Times

So, it has been a while since I last blogged. I partly blamed this on hectic April--spring break, course work, life--and partly I blamed it on writer's block. It has come to my attention that, mostly, I have had little to whine about lately.

Of course, it is difficult to be happy with everything in one's life. Frankly, I think it must be impossible. But this past month has made me realise that if you focus on the good things that do go on in your life, and you work for them, chances are those small bursts of happiness will make up for a lot of other shit. Why force oneself to keep working towards, or for, something that we find unpleasant? Why not rechannel those efforts and energy to accomplish things that we know will give us satisfaction? If not all aspects of our existence can be perfected, at least let's perfect those that are already quite rewarding. Then, once we get really good at that one particular thing, we can move on, and start working on something else. Hey, I never said it was an easy or quick procedure...but what I learnt in April is that we have to wait. Waiting, which I have discovered, is not a passive act.

You see, waiting is rewarding. Personally, it has made me realise what defects I would like to abandon, and what qualities I most certainly want to hang on to. It taught me that focusing on the positive does not mean forgetting about the negative--it just means getting yourself through it. Because, you see, the better the things you're good at get, the more motivated you become to emerge from your pity pool and meet the bright world above you. And the bad things start to paint the backdrop upon which you survive, day by day, through your achievements.

I have done a lot this semester, things that weren't even on my radar a couple of months ago. Sure, not everything else is 100% great: as some of you may know, I've made a resolution not to cut my hair until I fall in love again. As most of you might have noticed, my hair is getting pretty long. I still would like those skinny jeans to fit again, and I wish I were better at countless other things I still think need improvement in my life. But I've also achieved a lot lately, and, for now it suffices; happy times just remind us that improvement can only come from oneself. And then, all the threads that make up the fabric of our lives just get tighter and tighter, until they are pulling us together, and we can release them, because they don't need to be clutched or tightened any longer. Let's work towards integrity. Or let's just simply work towards and not against. That's my little sermon of the year.

Cultural Cockups

All this sunshine is making me so confused. I mean, I'm in Scotland, it's March; I'm supposed to be walking around in a jacket, still. On Saturday I went to the dry-cleaners to drop off the winter coat, and was daunted by the three-week wait to get it back, fearing I'd be unprepared if unimaginable sorts of freezing weather falls upon us from one day to the next. But I was wrong. And I feel out of place every morning, as I leave the house in a waterproof jacket, whilst everyone else is walking around in bermudas and sun dresses. This time I can't even say it's the British craze for those couple rays of sunshine they see every other decade: this time, I admit it is actually very warm.

So I got to thinking about all the times I've felt out of place in Scotland because I didn't do the right thing, culturally speaking. On the top of that list is, perhaps, the 'boiling-my-tea-in-the-microwave' incident, which many friends so fondly remember. You see, before coming to University I had never seen a kettle. At home, if we want the occasional cup of tea, we just pop a mug full of water into the microwave and call it a day. So, when I arrived here, and my Mexico-accustomed biological thermostat started to require more than just the occasional cup of tea, the microwave in our flat was rumbling away several times per day. Until one afternoon, when the girl who I would later come to call 'my Weegie doll' walked in on me.

Her: "Fran...what are you doing?"

Me: "I'm making tea"

Her: Look of total and utter bewilderment "But...why don't you use the kettle?"

Me: "The...what now?"

We: are still laughing about this.

During those early days, the cockups just kept coming. I had to learn about the 'no-kissing' policy the hard way too. In Mexico, people just greet each other with a kiss on the cheek, even if they've just met. Here, you reserve this type of exchange for the darkness of a bedroom, at most. So, naturally, when I tried my way of saying hello with a Scottish man, the (disgusted) remark I got was, "Why are you smelling me?!". To this day, how he thought "she's smelling me" over "kiss on the cheek" is beyond me.

Priceless, and perhaps quite naive of me (given the context of the place I live in), was the complete and utter curiosity with which I asked a girl on my corridor, "Who is Jack Wills?", after examining the big letters on the front of her t-shirt, thinking that I was about to discover some unheard of, cool, indie band. That, I did not find out from her.

I guess there's also some of the classic ones; the 'crisps' vs. 'chips' dilemma, the 'french fry' taboo, not to mention 'baked potatoes' or 'potato scones', neither of which I had previously encountered (so much catching up to do in the potato-eating department of my life). Asking for a sausage, expecting a sausage, and getting a squared-shaped, dubious-looking piece of meat instead. The Scottish buzz words, "wee", "chapping", "down-the-road", they all took a while to be incorporated to my already jumbled up English. Apparently, I also have an awkward way of saying 'category' and 'salmon'. I still retain the L in 'salmon' is there for a reason.

But, at least all these things did not take that long to be corrected. Not like some other major cockups. On one occasion, it took me months to realise a mistake I had made. You see, in the summer of 2010, I was working in Stirling, as a camp leader. Almost all the other camp leaders were Scottish or English. On one occasion, we decided to play a game of Never-Have-I-Ever (after a day's work, of course, not with the kids we were taking care of). I was doing quite well, revealing the right amount, not loosing my train of thought when coming up with things I had never done. Then, someone said, "Never-have-I-ever...been in the mile-high club". I was the only one who drank to that. The cheering and patting on the back was almost instantaneous, as were the pleas to "tell the story!". I was so mortified; I immediately thought to myself how rude and immodest I was being, why I hadn't simply sat that one out. Because, you see, in my world, being part of the 'mile-high club' means flying so much during the year that you get one of those special cards to collect your air miles on, and you get to go into the business class lounges at airports. Never did it occur to me that it means having sex on a plane. So the story continues:

Them: "FRAN! Tell us all about it!"
Me: Humbly "Well...it's no big deal...I do fly between Europe and Mexico quite a lot, you see...and, I mean, my whole family is in the mile-high club, even my little brother..."

Them: Petrified looks of absolute discomfort

I never understood that look on this particular occasion, and we just moved on. So I didn't give it much thought. It wasn't until about three months later, when playing another round of this game (incidentally, with my Weegie doll and company) and the same question came up again.

Me: "Hey...what does that actually mean?"

Them: "It means that you've had sex on a plane"

Me: Petrified look of absolute discomfort...and understanding

I'm just scared I'm still walking around life, one cockup after the other. I'll wake up, years from now, and realise, "Oh! That's what I was doing/saying wrong...". I'm still waiting for that to happen to me with regards to Irn Bru, for instance.