February 8, 2006

A week old in St. Andrews, it is funny to me how the scenery has changed and yet many things have not. Stuffy old women remain overstuffed. Snobby British prep stars persist in their obnoxious condescension. Blue collar grit remains readily apparent on the sleeves, brows, and boots of the groundskeepers, repairmen, and construction workers. And thus, my conclusions after a week: St. Andrews is an enrapturing seaside daydream, built around castles and gothic buildings meant to attract visitors because of its mysticism and like many things there is a gap between the ideas behind the founding and the execution. While this is not a poor attempt at personification for the saintly churches, it is to say that the physical beauty of the town, the history that looms large around each corner is undeniably charming, but many of the people are not. Sadly, this is where I am.

My thoughts in coming here were to meet people with thick Rs in their accents and a distinct outlook on life: a Scottish outlook. But, despite being in Scotland, I have met few Scots. St. Andrews is overrun by obnoxious Americans like myself, public school (which in the UK actually means private) Lacoste flaunting trust fund babies, other overly-privileged internationals and some Scots. Worst of all, it seems that there are labels, similar to the AT&T commercials, about who is getting reception from which country and while one would like to think that there is a difference amongst the spoiled of different countries, I have found there to be very little. Rich women from Spain are equally ‘entitled’ as are the women from Rockland or Rome. The accents differ, the styles differ too, much less than the accents, but the baselines remain.

And so, literature flexes its muscles, charming me into other worlds. I am escaping my social discontents in the pages of the great writers and the rooms of the gothic architects. Launched back centuries, I find solace in the vocabulary, precision, imagination, and wit of the world’s best writers, trying to rip them off, improved my vocabulary and fall unrelentingly in love with the idea of falling in love. Right now, I am enthralled with the passions, scents, and convolutions of early 20th century upper-class life. Marquez has flown me from the gloomy skies to a place of unrequited love and pungent almonds. Awesome indeed.

And yet, this is not entirely true. Of course, it is a judgmental, hyper-critical and unfair of me to arrive and these lofty conclusions after just 7 days. There is much to explore and I need not settle. I need to persist in my pursuit of the native Scot, unique outlooks on life, and grounded UK-ers who do not dawn horses on their breast. Pub life is cool and it awaits me in an awesome way that I have yet to taste. Someone out there is cooking a great time and I can’t settle.

So that’s where I am; needing to meet people because most of the people I have met are unexciting and revolting.

Like the skies, my time here will become sunny enough; there are just some clouds to break through.