Lucky for not falling on the floor. This is what I am. Another day, my body is spared the bruises so common for childhood but definitely not elegant on the legs of a 19-year-old trying to make good impression at university. Hip Hip Hooray, adult me… Wow. Turn down that enthusiasm. You are not even an adult. Until this degree you are pursuing gives a result, you cannot consider yourself capable of wiping your own…
…kitchen surfaces.
“Falling from where?”, you would ask. Or would you? You might not even be interested. But then… people are many times much more fascinated by stories about failures than about climbs. Whether it is about hearing the preface to a remarkable success, or about a simple demonstration of schadenfreude, we do seem to enjoy listening about abysses, trenches, dark caves and minds where humans have a tendency to get lost[1].
Unfortunately, my story doesn’t involve falling into an abyss, I am afraid. But, oh boy, believe me, the consequences are quite vividly felt.
The bed is the starting point of the fall. The bed that I am still reluctant to call “mine” for a different student occupies it for a period of nine months every year. A bed the mattress of which will have forgotten the shape of my body before I even pack my bed sheets in vacuuming bags at the end of Year 1 at University. Nine months of experience not quite like the one in momma’s womb.
But for now – it is still September, signaling the beginning of a four year journey through roads of perilous experimentation, fruitful mistakes, revitalizing friendships, and lessons on all the different ways to burn a stainless steel, nonstick pan. Or, in my case, the journey consists in absorbing into my room during Fresher’s Week, trying to avoid the sounds of drunken students outside my window. So close to my 20s, I finally learnt the art of staying in your bed for a certain, maybe unhealthy, number of hours.
Why though… why would I fall from the bed? Is it because I changed the position of the pillow so that I could breathe far from the gradually flourishing mushrooms on the ceiling? Might be the case, potentially. However, as much as my mind is trying to convince me to believe in that sweet hypothesis, the truth is quite the opposite of sharing a room with species not identifiable as either an animal or a plant.
In reality, the one in which I last saw my parents in person with a heavily blurred vision through teary eyes, my body finds itself on the Scottish carpeted floor for a seventh consecutive morning because every time I wake up, I don’t expect to find myself in that box of mine that consists of a small; illogically close to the taps, sink; a desk with two chairs; a wardrobe that gives me the opportunity to somehow learn how to fit all my clothes in a limited space; a window that can be open only partially so to prevent my drunken self from jumping; and the aforementioned bed. The stage managing of my future theatre play gives me enough space to dance, but not enough to not hit my foot in a corner somewhere.
The still unfamiliar ceiling surprises me when I open my eyes. No air circulates above my head. No plans or new sensations in the life of a student can persuade me in believing that it will be a nice day. When I turn my head there is not a second bed perpendicularly to mine containing one piece of a younger brother. It reminds me that I am not at home.
And it hurts.
Emotionally and almost physically.
And, in less flowery words, it sucks.
The thing that makes me get up and get dressed are the photos I pinned on the bulletin board. All of them taken miles away from Scotland, all memories of a life that still continues but feels paused so that the other one, the new one, can lead the way at least until Christmas. The faces of my family, relatives and friends smile at me reassuringly. “Go on, Anita, explore, this is what you wanted so much.” Or so I thought…
Just two weeks ago, I rolled my suitcase on Scottish land and with the help of my dad I put it in the luggage space of a black taxi. Prepared that the driver would be sitting on the right seat and driving on the left *cough-wrong* side of the road, I tried not to pay particular attention to the fact that some other vehicles might run over us. Instead, my body concentrated on the semi-openness of “the first portion of the alimentary canal that receives food and produces saliva”(Wikipedia definition). Everything, from the sidewalks to the angles of the buildings, was different from my hometown and from the cities where I had been. The sandstone capturing a myriad of red and yellow tones of the architecture was giving Glasgow an appearance quite peculiar but so fascinating that no uphill streets could scare the cardio out of me. I was about to spend a minimum of four years in this unique in every sense city!
But then three days passed, my parents’ hugs and kisses started to feel too short, my brother’s sarcastic remarks and jokes were like honey to my ears that became deaf to the English language.
“I am not saying a word in English throughout the whole first month of University,” said Anita. “This is ridiculous,” replied mum. “Well, watch me,” insisted Anita and suddenly she was 5 years old again – stubborn and funny. Actually, she was so closed to herself in that moment, looking on the inside of her identity, failing to find place for the new country and its people. She was already missing the physical place that home was. She had started saying goodbye to all the separate pieces and groups of people that made home what it was. Now, it was time for the closest ones.
Only for three months?
Theoretically, yes. However, saying goodbye for three months was related to saying goodbye many times more until graduation and there was a chance that these goodbyes were going to become a common practice.
When I finally manage to suck some indications of existence from what constitutes Anita, the better ear of mine registers the sound of steps in the narrow prison-like corridor of the flat. It must be one of “those.” One of the four menacing female creatures called flatmates. Their smiles cannot be honest and they most probably are laughing at the overtly emotional Art student that cries for her parents at night. Not only at nights. A couple of benches in the park that I have marked as mine are drowning in my tears when I go to read a book in-between induction lectures. Sensitive wreck is what I have grown to be. A career with a prospect.
Little do I know…
The city that was described to me as a rainforest in a much Northern Hemisphere turned out to be a lot sunnier than I had imagined it. First, it is a bit annoying when people say that in Scotland it rains ALL THE TIME. Yes, it rains occasionally, it might rain every other day, it might even rain every day in a week, but it will begin with a beautiful sunrise, or the rain will go on a lunch break and the clouds will move from the Sun’s stage, or the day will finish with a stunning sunset reflecting from the windows of these buildings that I will fall in love with because of Mackintosh (not the computers). Secondly, the people… oh my, these non-nationalist-but-nationally-proud, welcoming Ceilidh dancers with “Auld Lang Syne” in their hearts and openness to new friendships in their minds people. Exactly they reproduce what the weather looks like when our burning star shines down in the streams of Clyde.
Little do I know…
That “those” flatmates of mine, each with her own cultural habits, will acquire the ultimate right to make the most inappropriate jokes about me without me getting mad at them because this is how best friends express their love for each other. Especially when ¾ of them have Northern understandings of personal space and don’t quite accept hugs and kisses on the two cheeks every time we see each other.
Little do I know…
That the degree that I very riskily decided to pursue will throw at me a person of the same blood type with whom I will share a sofa for ABBA dances just a year later. The course that will come in package with an artistic family of supportive friends that won’t feel underappreciated when I want to stay in my room after having been home-home during the holidays. And they will come to check on me because they will have noticed the gloomy weather on my face.
Little do I know…
That the love for my old friends and my blood family will grow stronger, wiser and wider with every mountain above which the plane flies on the way to Scotland. That Bulgaria will be sensed even when it is being represented by the expressionless face of a silly dog in the kitchen of my home. That, suddenly, I will reevaluate my reluctance to call Internet a blessing after I realize how much I depend on morning and midnight calls from different parts of the world.
Little do I know…
That home will be given an idiosyncratic, abstract, affectionate meaning spread in two countries and among countless people.
If you are lucky enough to be gifted with awareness of the world around you in advance, then nostalgia begins even before the past has become the past.
Today, already almost two years into my studies, I am nostalgic of every precious moment I spend in both Bulgaria and Scotland without even attempting to connect them in a bigger picture. Aware of the fact that this will pass, I wrap myself around the second and I cut it into long pieces of eternity.
[1] Even if there is a sign that conspicuously says: “Do not enter!”
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