Three weeks ago, I was convinced that the University of Edinburgh thought I was a boy. About a month ago, they sent me an unofficial letter to confirm that I had applied for housing that referred to me as “Mr. Jamie Slater.” I laughed it off at the time, because I know Jamie is a predominantly male name in the UK and I assumed they would realize their mistake when they looked at the official records for housing placement. But, shortly thereafter, I found out from Facebook that at least one of my five flatmates would be a male, despite the fact that I had applied for all-female housing. At the time, this seemed like a terrible calamity that could never be overcome—even though I would have a single room either way, I was sure I would have five male flatmates, I would have to move and there would not be anywhere else to go.
Of course, after emailing the housing department and urgently demanding to make sure their records were correct, I found out that they were aware of this and I had just forgotten to check the same-sex housing box on the application. That means three of my flatmates will be male, but apparently that’s the way they do things in Scotland. Compared to what I had initially expected, that’s just fine with me.
I’m sure this won’t be the last time this will happen this semester. Cultural differences (like who can be named Jamie) are sure to be confusing at first, but I’m equally sure they will lead to new and interesting experiences, like living with five other people of both genders.
When I initially chose to study in Scotland, though, I didn’t quite realize it would be so different. I know it’s a foreign country, but they do speak English, and I’ve seen nearly as many movies and TV shows about Scotland and the UK as I have about the US. Twenty years ago, I even lived with my parents in London for a few months.
But, on the other hand, I was only six weeks old when I lived there, and it’s my parents who have the memories, not me. For that matter, all my mom has told me about are the scones and clotted cream, which were apparently delicious since she hasn’t been able to stop talking about them. “Braveheart” is just a movie, and neither “Downton Abbey” nor “Harry Potter” is actually set in Scotland, anyway. In reality, I don’t know anything at all about the place where I’m about to spend the next four months.
While this is partially terrifying, the fact that it is unknown is why I’m going to study abroad in the first place. As I learned this summer from a musician who performed on the radio show where I interned, “[I was] wishing that the roads could all be clearer, so I could always see what’s coming, but if you always see what’s coming then you may as well stay home.” This came in a song about deciding to go see the snow, regardless of the obstacles that might persuade one otherwise, but it’s just as applicable to a European adventure.
The roads of my study abroad journey are not clear at this point, and I can’t possibly see what’s coming. What a ceilidh is is just as much of a mystery to me as how to pronounce it (apparently, it’s kay-lee, and it’s some sort of dance or festival.) I’m not sure when my classes will be, or who all of my flatmates are, or whether I’ll try haggis.
But, despite the fact that I can’t see what’s coming—despite maybe some scones and clotted cream—I’m certainly not staying home.
