"Ask for no guarantees, ask for no security" // On travelling
“See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories. Ask for no guarantees, ask for no security.”- Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
I haven't seen much of the world. My parents were always big fans of holidaying within the UK, staying in too-clean cottages in small towns where the only real tourist attractions are teddy bear or telephone box museums and the odd cave or two.
Me and my little brother at Avoncroft Museum, sometime long before I was even aware of Doctor Who.
Before my eighteenth birthday I'd left the UK twice; I was almost four the first time- it was the childhood trip to Disney World in Florida which is basically mandatory for any young, middle-class family living in suburban Britain. My second trip out of the UK was to France- I think I was around nine years old, and I can't actually remember where exactly we stayed, but it was in a small holiday resort and on the last night I had some bright blue ice cream- I won't tell you why I remember that fact so clearly, but you can take a good guess. This trip also came complete with two days at Disneyland Paris, of course.
Me on the teacups at Disneyland Paris. That hat could be worn either way out. Vogue.
Last year I finally got my hands on an adult passport and hopped on an Easyjet flight to Charles De Gaulle with eight of mes copains. When my friends and I go away we always adopt a policy of everyone getting to pick one thing they have to see or do when we're away. I can't remember exactly what I wanted to see in Paris, but my favourite things were definitely Versailles and the Shakespeare and Co bookshop. We stayed in a slightly ramshackle apartment in the Jourdain area (the bathroom was like a cave and the dishwasher had weird green stuff in it). It was out of the way of tourist attractions, so eating out was cheap and sometimes the streets were covered in pizza boxes. But the people were nice and managed to restrain their eyeball rolling when our attempts to speak the language fell flat. This is quite easily my favourite photo from the trip-
Tour de Selfié
A couple of weeks ago a group of us were sitting having a festive pre-Christmas Nandos, when my friend Marwa suggested an impromptu whizz around London in the new year. My heart said yes but my student loan said no. I listened to my heart, on the condition that I wasn't to spend too much in London, if at all possible. We booked our flights with RyanAir and stayed in the EasyHotel on Old Street, which cost us only £15 a night each. The EasyHotel is very, um, minimalistic, but I seriously recommend it if all you need is a bathroom and a bed (because that is the full extent of what you get). With only two full days, but I still managed to tick off a few bucket list items, including seeing Wicked and the Elgin Marbles (it's shocking, we may as well have taken the whole bloody Parthenon). My 'thing' for this trip was to visit The Globe theatre on the South Bank. The South Bank is my favourite part of London because its home to a whole bunch of companies I'd love to work for- The Globe, National Theatre and Tate. We were the only ones in our tour group, which gave the perfect opportunity for me to flirt with the poor, unsuspecting tour guide. We have the same favourite Shakespeare play- I did not tell him this.
Me in my element at Shakespeare's Globe. I know, I should've brushed my hair more thoroughly.
I absolutely adored the Natural History Museum's dinosaur and natural world exhibits and getting a proper night's sleep after a whole day of walk-tube-walk. A personal highlight of mine was the National Gallery, not because I'm hugely into art, but (and I hope she won't mind me being a cringe-y dickhat) my friend Isla. I don't know why anyone wouldn't want to go to an art gallery with her. Her sheer love for Van Gogh is enough to make me want to have a wee cry- you'll never meet someone more passionate about her studies than Isla.
The dinosaurs are so well lit, the shadows they cast on the wall are hella cool.
There’s little purpose in me trying to claim that I’m some kind of free-spirited globetrotter with an insatiable wanderlust. No, I’m a self-confessed city dweller who’s in a deeply intimate and committed relationship with her own bed, thank you very much. I would actually say that the best part about travelling is knowing your bed is at the other end. This isn’t because I don’t enjoy myself while I am away- it’s quite the opposite. It’s about knowing that all of this different is temporary; knowing that I only have so much time to take it all in before I’m forced to return to the mundane. It keeps me present.
I do love travelling though, start to finish. I love picking clothes to pack and putting my liquids in a separate bags. I love taking off and I'm not so keen on the landing, but that's okay because I'm about to go somewhere. I love making playlists to listen to while I gaze out of train windows (see below). I love taking the tube, though I must say I prefer Paris' Metro- it's much better for drying your hair if you've not had time to do it in the hotel.
Pondering how I'm going to take down Capitalism on the Stansted Express.
Where to next, then? That's a very good question. It's really about time I went to Dusseldorf to visit my cousin Elena, who is always here but I've never been over there. I've always been incredibly drawn to Amsterdam and I dream of visiting the acropolis in Athens. I have friends and family 'across the pond' who I'd love to see again or for the first time. Unfortunately, I don't yet have a job, and my student loan only stretches so far, so for now, I'll keep an eye out for cheap flights and new opportunities.
I made a flying visit to my university town today with my cousin. Due to the fact that a considerable proportion of the population of St Andrews is students, at this time of year the place seems relatively lifeless. I wanted to write down my feelings about this visit, which felt a little unusual.
An unexpected feeling of nostos overcomes me as I step onto the pavement. It's only been two weeks and I find myself drawn back, reasoning that I left notebooks behind and the razors at home give me itchy legs, Mum.
Everything is shut up. The library won’t open again until Monday morning. The town is dormant, almost comatose. A few families enjoy the relative peace, the median age of cafe-goers raised considerably from the last time I was here. They seem relieved- I don’t know why- the place is drained of her lifeblood. I recognise a postgrad student in the bookshop, remembering her mention that she has a cat here to look after. No one is leafleting in the streets or selling cakes; there’s no flash of a red gown.
Someone’s left the gates open on Lower College Lawn. The grass is still patchy-it hasn’t grown back yet. Finding our way back to the streets, my walk home is lined with tourists, taking the same four photos we all take at some point. I indulge, snapping a picture of the moon over the rocky coast of the North Sea. You could think that the world ends where the bay meets the horizon on either side. I hope the stairs behind the cathedral don’t exhaust me to climb like they had three months ago.
One person has their light on as we approach our house. Plastics and papers litter the ground where the wind has upturned a bin. There’s a pile of mail on the floor by the door; a few letters from the NHS and a postcard from Krakow. Someone’s left the bleach on the shelf above the toilet and there’s still Christmas cracker jokes littered around the common room. I open the fridge to four tubs of butter and several jars of jam. An unpleasant smell greets me, but I can’t pinpoint it. I transfer a tub of sour cream marked “Best before: December 27th” from the fridge to the bin, but it doesn’t seem to be the problem. Two mugs washed and left to dry, the lights switched off and the door locked once more.
“Student to Dundee, please.”
The bus driver looks momentarily surprised to see one of us at this time of year. As the bus pulls away from the station I experience a strange sensation. Is it possible to be going home both ways?
"I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it" // Freshers Update
"I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it"- Celia, As You Like it ,Act II, Scene IV
Hunched over my laptop with bags under my eyes and a Lemsip in my cold,clammy hands, it's pretty safe to say that fresher's flu has definitely got the better of me. Luckily, I'm only a twenty minute bus journey away from my home city of Dundee, which seems like an absolute world away from the picturesque university town of St Andrews.
I got up yesterday morning hungover, exhausted and craving the sound of Scottish accents. Were it not for the cold, unpredictable weather and unavoidable presence of copious quantities of alcohol, I wouldn't even think we were in Scotland. After getting out of my bed and unsuccessfully trying to puzzle together the details of the night before, I couldn't deny that I absolutely needed my parents, my cat and my bed.
Don't get me wrong- I've loved Freshers' week, but it has undoubtedly been the most challenging experience in socialising I've had since I was three years old. Funnily enough, it's not advisable to adopt the same friendship building techniques at university as at pre-school; standing shouting "BE MY FRIEND" at passers-by tends to be a little off-putting for potential BFFLs.
For the first time ever, I've been out at night alone for the first time ever. Trying to make friends in a loud 'clubby' atmosphere is extremely difficult, and not something I plan on making a habit of. The whole 'friend making' thing is something i'm trying to stay sensible about, but selling your tickets for events you kinda wanted to go to partially because you're going alone is a little upsetting. I've been trying to convince myself that that's why other people have been selling their tickets too.
My friend making attempts haven't been wholly unsuccessful. My housemates are lovely and a few are on the same course. One of them is vegan, which means our fridge is always full of veg. As a result my eating has been healthier due to the fact that I don't want to bring a meat covered pizza into the house. Also, we don't know how to work the oven yet.
I've also enjoyed meeting people who like talking about politics. I even met my first Tory- quite a novelty! Luckily, the lack of Scottish folks about seems to keep referendum chat to a minimum, which, coming from the 'Yes' capital of Scotland, is a nice refreshing break.
The whole experience has been surreal, and I'm not just talking about the bit where I was eating toasties in a church hall at 1am with someone I'd just met or how I somehow ended up signed-up to teach high school kids sex-ed. The town is full of history and people from all over the world. I'm still struggling to come to terms with the fact that I'm here for four years and not just two weeks.
Did I mention I have eight books of the Odyssey to read for my monday classics lecture?
"No matter what, Ari, my job is to care." // What makes a good teacher?
"No matter what, Ari, my job is to care."
"Even when they don't?"
"Even when they don't."
"No matter what?"
"No matter what." - Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, Benjamin Alire Sáenz
When someone influential dies, their life's work is filtered down to a compact film reel of highlights by the media and by the public. The tragic death of actor and comedian Robin Williams is no exception- except in his case narrowing down his work to just the 'best bits' proves to be a bit of a struggle. However, as soon as I heard the news of his death, the first of his films to spring to mind was Dead Poets Society (after, of course, the cinematic masterpiece that is Flubber).
Dead Poets Society is probably the most iconic of the ever-expanding genre of teacher/student relationship movies. You'd think in the twenty five years that have passed since its release that the 'inspirational teacher changes students' lives' would be a dead horse taking a beating by now, but still we see it over and over; in Les Choristes, Perks of Being A Wallflower, History Boys, School of Rock, heck even Ms Norbury in Mean Girls. Why don't we ever seem to tire of seeing this story played out? Is it because we all secretly wish a teacher had changed our lives? I think so.
What we don't realise is that these teachers aren't just the idealistic imaginings of Hollywood screenwriters- they do exist. It's just that the system hates to hear that there isn't one simple scientific fix-all for educational problems. I've talked about this before on my blog, but I wanted to expand on my feelings about what makes a good teacher a good teacher.
When I started school at the turn of the millennium, there was a shift in the teaching world. Learning 'by rote' was being increasingly pooh-pooed by educators, scientists and psychologists alike. It's very true that sitting in front of a blackboard copying notes down is neither an engaging nor an interesting way to learn, especially as a young child. However, it only took me a few years to work out that there was something I didn't like about the changes being brought in by my local government. The first thing I remember being introduced was W.A.LT..
W.A.L.T. was an a laminated felt-pen drawing of an owl who sat above the whiteboard. His name stood for We Are Learning Today. As I grew older this came to be known as the 'Learning Intentions' for a lesson. This involved spending most of the lesson writing down what we were going to learn in that lesson, spending another ten minutes actually learning anything (by rote or textbook, of course) and then what remained of the lesson reviewing whether we had actually learnt anything at all. By the time I reached my second or third year of high school I realised that teachers who still used this method of teaching were often time wasters and chronically apathetic about education. Of course, this is just rote teaching wearing a sequinned body suit.
As someone who really loves science and scientific research, I can appreciate why many teachers like to go for 'experimental' teaching methods. These methods are often time consuming, patronising and most of all, dull- epitomised by gratuitous faff.
This year I volunteered as a classroom assistant with a class of twelve year olds who were struggling with their English. Some of them had learning difficulties like autism and Aspergers, others were simply not interested, apathetic. Now here's the thing, the teacher of the class tried using all of her names on lollypop sticks, mind mapping, team spirit bullshit, but none of it was working really. The kids still didn't care. They didn't care because she didn't care. Despite her having awards for her teaching, she still kept a copy of a book called "Getting the Buggers to Behave" on her desk for all to see. I was pretty shocked- the kids could read, even if some of them could only just do that and no more. She had all these strategies that were supposed to make these children easier to manage but she forgot to actually care. I remember a on a few occasions being able to actually engage with the kids about something they were actually interested in, only for them to be told to be quiet and concentrate on their work.
So what makes a good teacher? It's all in the caring. You have to care for your pupils and care for your subject. I believe that the tell-tale sign of whether a Literature teacher is good or not lies in whether they will tell you their favourite book. If your English teacher has never recommended a book from outside the course to you, run for the hills. If they don't like their subject enough to share it with you, then you're not going to enjoy it. For a lot of kids, their teacher's enthusiasm is a ceiling for their own enjoyment.
When I think about the best teachers I've ever had, three stand out to me. The first was an English teacher I had for my third and fourth years of secondary school. She always had books she was reading for leisure on her table, and encouraged discussion and debate. She never forced kids who were uncomfortable speaking in front of the class to do so unless it was completely necessary. The class became a safe place and a community, and without her I wouldn't be writing.
The second teacher was a Physics teacher who was so passionate about kids reaching their potential that she would get visibly upset about it. If you under performed she'd never pretend she didn't care. She'd get upset, even angry about it. She never chose to harden to the profession as most teachers would. She was so human that you never wanted to upset her, because you knew she cared so much.
The third teacher would absolutely roll his eyes and scoff at this blog if he ever saw it. My Classical Studies teacher was a very sarcastic and cynical Irishman with a bit of a potty mouth. He liked to pretend that he didn't really care about teaching you the material and getting you through the year, but that wasn't really the case at all. He went out of his way to make sure my two friends and I could sit the Advanced Higher, even though we'd be a class of just three people; he spent his own money getting us books to help us through a course he'd never taught before; he organised extra time at breaks and lunches to go over the coursework with us. He even once offended one of my friends and instead of brushing it away, actually took her out of the class to sincerely apologise. He was a seriously cool guy, who always cared much more than he was willing to let on.
In Patch Adams, Robin Williams says “Our job is improving the quality of life, not just delaying death.” I believe that this statement applies to teaching too. Improving teaching should not simply mean improving results through 'scientifically proven' BS methods of increasing tedium and overall anxiety. Good teaching comes through the contagious nature of enthusiasm and care. Sadly, for a lot of teachers this means discarding their 9-to-5 apathetic attitude of 'just get them through the course'. Well, guess what? Next year there will be more kids to get through the course; and the next and the next after that. We need to stop pretending that caring can be replaced by science. It can't.
"And when the sun burns out
We’ll light the world with tiny glowing screens
Tiny glowing screens"- Tiny Glowing Screens, Part 1, Watsky
I submitted the following piece for my Advanced Higher English creative writing folio. I thought it'd be fun to do a 'Manic Pixie Dream Boy' type thing. Plus, I was pissed off about something of anti-millenial technophobic trash I'd seen on the internet, and I was really enjoying the song Tiny Glowing Screens by Watsky, which is funny because in a way it contradicts what I'm going for in this but w/e. Anyhoo...
“I don’t get why people can’t just watch a concert with, you know, their eyes?” says Rebecca, her words muffled by the crunch of cheese puffs. We’re stretched out on her living room floor because only the small grey cat can endure the scorching leather sofa that the sun has been slow-roasting all day.
I’m still parched. I’ve just finished my second-wait no; third- can of lukewarm Diet Coke, so asking for another feels a little, I don’t know, excessive. I roll onto my front to look at the television. I don’t recognise the band that are playing but I recognise the song from an advert for insurance or garden furniture or something. Sure enough, Rebecca is right; as the sun begins to sink behind the impressive Glastonbury stage, the sky making its usual blue to yellow, yellow to pink transition, a thousand-and-something tiny glowing screens replace the fading daylight.
“I see what you mean,” I sigh, fiddling absent-mindedly with the ring pull of my most recently emptied coke can. I mean, it’s not exactly like it’s a poorly documented event- we’ll be watching rose-tinted montages of the highlights for months with Elbow’s “One Day Like This” being un-ironically played in the background, desperate to remind ourselves that summer was here, if only for a few days. This was the year we watched summer from the tiny glowing screens in our living rooms- the first of many to come.
My fingers feel in the pockets of my shorts for my own tiny glowing screen.
5 missed calls- Mum.
“Crap, Rebecca, I’ve got to go,” I groan, hoisting myself to my feet so quickly that the edges of my vision go dark and blurry for a moment.
“Aw man,” she says, her tone much more apathetic than her words, “Oh well, see ya!”
“Thanks Becca,” I yank my shoes on and pull the door shut behind me, already halfway down the street before my jacket is over my shoulders.
I race towards my next tiny glowing screen, veering into the road to avoid a group of boys who’s bikes unsettle the dust on the pavement as they trundle along.
“Run, Forrest, run!” one of them jeers in a poor faux-American twang as I gallop past them at full speed.
I reach my destination, panting. Another tiny glowing screen informs me that it’s three minutes until my bus. I drum my fingernails impatiently on the glass pane I’m leaning on. Three minutes, two minutes, one minute…due. The timetable stagnates at ‘due’ for another four or five minutes before the familiar green double-decked bus breaks the horizon. I fish around for my bus change. There’s been talk of replacing the bus conductors with ticket machines. Another victory for the tiny glowing screen invasion.
The bus lets out a long, slow splutter as it pulls in in front of me. I find a seat and collapse into it, relieved but still exhausted from the run. It occurs to me that I should maybe do some exercise occasionally, but I push the thought to the back of my mind- I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life. As the bus continues it’s suburban safari the volume of the chatter from the upper deck experiences a considerable increase. My eyes are drawn to the driver’s tiny glowing surveillance screen. Two young girls are arguing about something, from what I can gather, a boy named Angus. I guess I chose the right seat.
The bus slows again, pulling up beside a bustling supermarket where at least half a dozen people line up at the bus doors, fully kitted out in sunglasses, rolled up windbreaks and barbecue paraphernalia- all except from one, of course, and I recognise this one.
“Oi, Seth!” I yell at him as he drops a handful of change into the machine and tears away his ticket. Everyone knows a boy like Seth- wears a beanie all year round, more as part of his “aesthetic” than for actual heat-retention purposes; carries a moleskine around with him all the time because he fancies himself the next Salinger or Fitzgerald. He’s a nice guy, I guess, regardless. He looks up in my direction, trying to workout who had just shouted at him. He catches sight of me and smiles, just a little, before pushing past a couple of women with buggies to sit down beside me.
“Chilly outside?” I tease, gesturing to his hat. He yanks the hat from his head with an air of faux-nonchalance, but his flushed cheeks give him away. His fluffy dark brown hair is considerably longer than it was when I last saw him in fourth period Physics on the last day of term. He laughs a little, not making eye contact with me. “So, what’s up?”
“Been at the beach with the guys.” One of my eyebrows shoots up involuntarily and he smirks a little. He continues, “ Yes, dressed like this. How about you?”
“I’ve been at Rebecca’s, watching Glastonbury and drinking copious quantities of Coca Cola,” I explain. My phone lights up again, and I’m tempted to ignore it, but not reading mum’s text might do me more harm than good.
Your dinner’s cold. x
I sigh, “Do you ever just wish we didn’t have phones?” Seth pulls a questioning look, encouraging me to go on. “All these tiny glowing screes, everywhere. Like, when we were watching Glastonbury earlier, no one was watching the band, well, not directly anyway-”
“-through their phone screens,” Seth finishes, seeing where the conversation is going. “I guess.”
“What’s the need? Why not just enjoy it in the moment; actually be there? If you paid two hundred quid for a ticket, why watch it through a tiny screen if you could do that at home?”
“I don’t know, man,” he responds, pushing his hair back off his face. Obviously disagreeing with my sentiment, at least politely.
“What?” I press him for his opinion.
He sighs in defeat and picks up the expensive looking camera he has hanging around his neck, its tiny glowing screen flashing to life as he presses the big red button on top. The screen briefly shows the back of the bus seat in front, before he flicks to his already taken photos, which are overwhelmingly blue with the juxtaposition of sky and sea. He clicks through photos of the sand and boys in trunks until he finally settles on one. He turns the camera to face me- it’s his two best friends, Jamie and Liam, having a water pistol fight, their faces a mix of concentration and childish joy.
“That’s so lovely,” I smile. “That’s a really nice photo.”
“Thanks,” he looks up at me. “Look, am I in it?”
“No.”
“But I took it, right?”
He looks at me pointedly, expecting me to understand what he’s getting at. My brow furrows, I don’t. “Yes?” I say slowly.
He lets out a frustrated sigh, and then continues his explanation, “So, it’s the hottest day of the year, and me and my friends are at the beach, which is obviously mobbed. What do they do when this happens? They send out a photographer from the paper. Now, I’ll be in that photo tomorrow morning, albeit a speck away off by the sand dunes, but I’ll be in it. If I had to choose between this photo and the one in the paper to put in a scrapbook, which would I pick?”
It clicks. “Like, when you get a map and you put pins in where you’ve been, rather than just having a plain map.”
“Right,” he says, relaxing into his seat, finally satisfied. I turn his words over on my head as the bus turns onto my road, my mind drifting back to the TV screen and the big stage and the flickering lights of the crowd and I put myself there, amongst the tiny glowing screens. Up close I see much more, no two screens are the same- a different view of the band; a different sweaty body obscuring the view; a different face of a different friend; a thousand people refusing to settle for the birds-eye television view of a thousand tiny glowing screens, just trying to personalise now. It’s about where you were, where you are.
“There are seven billion forty-seven million people on the planet, and I have the audacity to think I matter. I know it’s a lie but I prefer it to the alternative,” Seth says matter-of-factly, his face flickering as the evening sunlight is intermittently interrupted by the shadows of tree branches. “George Watsky.”
“Writer?”
“Rapper,” he chuckles, his pretentious writer vibe momentarily subsiding. “The song’s called ‘Tiny Glowing Screens’ if you wanna look it up.”
I laugh inwardly, no way. I gaze out of the window, and my moment of peace is disrupted.
“Crap, Seth,” I say, reaching over him to press the STOP button. “This is my stop, I gotta go. I’ll see you at school.”
I go to get up, but he grabs the bar that goes across the back of the seat in front, barricading my exit.
“Wait- wait a second,” he reaches down for his camera and points it in my direction.
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to mask the mild frustration in my voice as I see my stop coming towards us.
The camera shutter clicks. “Putting a pin in the map.”
