Is it a hickey or a bruise?

I recently attended one of the debates organised by the SRC; the debate was titled, ‘This house would sell its scandals to The Sun’. As in any other debate, towards its end, the issue of what the definition of ‘scandal’ is was raised, and it is likely that all people present thought about this word in the context of St Andrews. In such a small agglomeration of people, it seems any small piece of gossip we hear gets blown into pretty great proportions—that we St Andreans consider ourselves to be somewhat self-important in no piece of last-minute news. 

Fresher’s Week offers us the perfect atmosphere for scandalous behaviour; the newly arrived youngsters are still unfamiliar with the idea that the shadow of your drunken mistakes will follow you for the rest of your academic career here. It is fun to watch them. Sometimes I feel like I need to take a long shower afterwards, but that is relatively unimportant, given the conversation topics these inexperienced beings provide us with.  

After three years of St Andrews I have learned to: identify someone who is on the verge of chundering in the bushes; what person who I thought was gay hooked up with a girl; nationality according to attire; and event attended on previous night according to level of hungover state.

Ah the Union, with its blue trash container, against which we once saw two people have sex in the open air...how many scandalous moments we have seen there. And that lamp post on Market Street, with which that very drunk girl made out some time ago. We have made up new games as well, like counting how many people step into which puddle of vom. Oh, and the clueless people dropping comments on their obliviousness towards the middle classes...

I really cannot complain, we get our amusement here for free—real quality entertainment. I just wonder where the scandal draws the line, or if that line will ever be reached. I asked myself this as I exited the Fresher's Fayre today, while in the background the legs of a pole dancer from the 'X-statica pole fitness' society contorted, en train of pulling a demonstration for the masses of people present. Let's just hope she didn't pull any muscles, too, while she was at it.

Peter Pan Syndrome

I’m not sure how this is possible, but the summer has already come to an end…and we are going back to St Andrews to start our final year of undergraduate studies. It’s thrilling, yet what is this feeling of dread/anticipation/excitement/happiness/fear/and just pure, nerve-wrecking, soul-shacking sense of time passing by too quickly? Is the horizontal rain hitting me too hard on the head as I step off the airplane at Edinburgh airport, or is everyone else feeling it too? Yep, I thought so.

Of all the St Andrews syndromes I’ve experienced during the past three years, I have to say Peter Pan syndrome is perhaps the one that I suffer from the most. As the time for graduation approaches, an alluring, yet slightly ominous, stretch of water extends before us, an ocean called ‘reality’, in which we have shyly been dipping our toes, but which we are definitely not prepared to dive into. At least, I feel rather unprepared.

It is also the idea that once we’re done here we need to pack up and start all over again somewhere else. To me, that is reasonable grounds to feel slightly apprehensive, especially when I have friends that come from more countries that I can count on both of my hands. And yes, it is exciting, we have all had our fair share of the bubble for four or five years, and we are e-ager to cut the cord. After all, growing up means learning to be by yourself—but that is the beauty of Peter Pan syndrome, you know what you should be doing, as a grown up, but you just let the knowledge be and go back to the comfort of divine immaturity.

Coming to university was, to me, the moment of truth, the threshold one crosses before walking into the realm of adulthood. Why haven’t they taught me how to do this in four years? I feel as unprepared as a deer, drinking from a pond, about to be eaten by an alligator. Not a great feeling, agreed?

The truth of the matter is, nevertheless, that we all do have plans, we just can’t measure how achievable or unachievable these are. It is safe to say that St Andrews has the effect of distorting many of our perceptions: of course we think we can afford the Masters in Oxford, and that London will have all the answers, and that while travelling the world or teaching English in Burundi we will find our true calling. I think I am not alone in feeling fortunate for attending a university that opens so many doors to its students, but I often wonder what the real prospects for the graduating class of 2013 everywhere else is…is it actually safe to assume things will just work out, somehow?

I guess right now it is a bit too early to be worrying about the future: after all we still have a few months ahead of us before taking the big plunge. Not before sprinkling our clothes with some fairy dust, that is…

Mexi-coma

“This is how it is supposed to rain”, I think as I watch the summer storm from the cab window. You might ask yourself why I am glad to see it rain as I enter the depths of Mexico City, after spending seven months in Scotland. The thing is, when it rains in Mexico, it rains; none of that pathetic drizzling falling all day long and moistening everything, including one’s humour. Here, it is dramatic: there’s thunder and lightning, and the clouds make the sky so black it seems like it is night time even if it is early afternoon. Then it passes, and the city’s air becomes pure, and it smells of clean cars and muddy streets. The sun comes out again. This is how it is supposed to rain.

It is strange when I explain my life in Mexico to my fellow St Andreans; those looks of horror when I speak of the danger and the traffic, the restrictions that in Europe aren’t even concepts in people’s heads. When I talk about what it is like for me to go out at night in Mexico, the response I mostly get is, “I couldn’t live like that”. Quite reasonably. 

That’s when I ask myself, how does one explain Mexico in another language? Because, despite it all, when I come back to Mexico I feel relief and, no matter what, I have never felt unwelcome here. If I have lived as an outsider in Mexico all my life, and yet I am able to feel more at home here than in the place where I was born, there must be a reason. A reason for which there are no words. 

Why do I love Mexico so much? Why do I go into a Mexi-coma every time I leave? For one thing, I miss Mexicans’ ingeniousness. In what other country can one find fruit juice sold in plastic bags with a straw, or candles in the shape of Disney characters, or 1.5 lt. glasses with beer containing jelly babies, chilli pepper and Worchester sauce (de-licious, in case you’re wondering)? Where else do soap operas have names such as Abyss of Passion, Fire in the Heavens or The Flames of Love? And why does everyone take things so lightly here? Only here would I let a nickname as ugly as Paca belong to my person—although thanks to that I am always able to laugh at myself and my clumsy existence. That’s a Mexican lesson I take with me everywhere.

It is just that everything is different here, and I don’t know how to put it into words. The blue of the sky is not the same as everywhere else, neither are the clouds which are always far and big, full of air, storing all the sighs of the people they dwell over. You never feel alone here; it is normal to smile at each other in the street, and to say good morning to strangers, even more so to people you encounter on a daily basis (even if you don’t really know them). It is perfectly fine to talk to someone you’ve never met before at a bar—with decent levels of soberness—and to have a conversation with the girl in front you in the bathroom line—again, without the need of being drunk. I love the genuine politeness of people. I like that the vendors in open-air markets greet their regular customers with a handshake…maybe it’s a little awkward when they start calling you ‘princess’, ‘queen’ and ‘blondie’ even if your hair is brown. There’s no scent I can compare to that of tortillas being heated on a grill with some delicious content in them, nor the sweetness of tamarindo or water flavoured with hibiscus flowers. I miss the hills I spent my infancy in, and the city I gave my adolescence to—neither have changed much since I left. I liked when I could measure myself against the maize plants growing in the fields, and that I know the flavour of the fruits that grow on cacti.

What language can convey Mexico’s essence, I ask myself? And am I doing it justice by attempting to describe it here, in the only way I can?

I am fully aware that Mexi-coma is not a St Andrews syndrome—in fact, only about twenty St Andreans or so suffer from it, I think. Yet, if anything, being in St Andrews has made me re-appreciate many things about my home country, and somehow has made me fond of the very things I was escaping from in Mexico. Undoubtedly, wherever I end up next might have a similar effect on my view of St Andrews. For now, I am happy to have realised where it is that I truly feel like I have a home; I am still in the dark about what I will do here if I am able to come back permanently, but at least I know Mexico is waiting for me with open arms. 

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?!