Andrea Saint: There’s no way like the USA

In August, I left foggy London town and everything I knew and loved in order to study abroad, broaden my horizons and further that special relationship that exists between Britain and America.

Things I have accomplished so far: I’ve basically been re-living the joys of freshers, but with more life knowledge and better weather; my American accent has radically improved, so much so I was able to convince an entire frat I was from Fairfax, Nova (that’s ‘North Virginia’ for those of you unfamiliar with Virginian lingo); I have joined a sorority, which has involved lots of top secret missions, fewer lesbian encounters than I expected, and the loss of a much loved toenail; I have gone to class before 9:00am for the first time in my university career, and done all the reading, because stuff like that is important and compulsory here; AND I now know all the words to ‘Wagon Wheel’ and ‘Country Roads’ like any good American should.

Most importantly, I have utilised my ‘Britishness’ to its full advantage; professors love it, footballers love it, and one time I sung ‘God Save the Queen’ on a beer pong table in a frat house and they all loved it. What I am trying to say is that if you are British and feel unloved and under-appreciated by our humble island – travel across the Atlantic to our former colonies and, despite the horrifically expensive healthcare and lack of marmite, you will have the best time EVER.

I must admit, however, that my adventure to the land of the free has not been without its hiccups. It all began when United Airlines left me stranded at my connecting airport for hours. As I wept, feeling strangely nostalgic for bagpipes and tartan, my British identity was revealed when I asked someone for the location of the ‘queue’, causing every old man wearing a confederate flag hat in the near vicinity to target me. One man invited me to stay with him and his seven cats. Another, even creepier man gave me a copy of the Declaration of Independence to keep under my pillow and told me to ‘never forget’. After fighting for a seat on the last flight of the night, I finally arrived on campus at 4:00am. Well, sort of. My foreign taxi driver dropped me off in the middle of nowhere, so I had to be picked up and escorted to my dorm in the back of a police car.

Apart from my terrible journey, and the earthquake, hurricane and tropical storm I encountered in my first two weeks, American College life so far has been everything TV and movies taught me. The campus is beautiful, and everything is enormous: the canteen, the stadiums, the men! And what sort of bitter St Andrews student would I be if I didn’t mention the library… the library here has a Starbucks in it open till 2am! And actual BOOKS. And it is not mustard coloured. And the football players have to be there to study every night! Heaven.

My first week was basically Freshers Week, but with NO ALCOHOL, making all the ice breaker games we played to introduce ourselves extremely awkward, like ‘Two Truths and a Lie’. I discovered that apparently I am not funny in America (was I ever?) and was very confused as to why no one in my group could spot the lie in ‘Hi, I’m from England, I have one brother and I was born a man.’ I longed for the glory days of St Andrews Freshers’ week, where lasting friendships were formed with a sexually inappropriate game of Never-Have-I-Ever and some Tesco Value Vodka.

Obviously, after that, I knew alcohol was completely necessary for the rest of my time in America, which has led to many exciting encounters with the American police. I always forget how badass they are with their guns and batons, but I was kindly reminded the other day when my friend got pepper sprayed in the nuts and sent to jail. Luckily, this hasn’t happened to me, but I have been pulled over while riding in a pussy wagon, and hidden in a cupboard for hours, petrified I was going to be deported while they raided a party, and had an inappropriate interaction with a bouncer in a club in D.C. who told me to blow on him and I got completely the wrong idea.

Eventually, I decided to obtain a social life and go Greek, which did not involve wearing togas and spontaneously quoting Homer like my parents naively thought (bless ‘em). So I ‘rushed’ for a sorority, which involved an army of pearls and sundresses bombarding me with fake smiles trying to suss out if I was hot enough. After a tough two weeks of girl-flirting, my British charm and general swag got me into the sorority I wanted, gaining me 100 new friends on Facebook who all strangely claim to be my sister. My parents are still confused and are now convinced I have joined a pagan cult, which is actually pretty accurate as I continue to find Greek life incredibly surreal.

Most of these surrealities occur at frat parties, which are just as gross and sweaty as you can imagine. One can almost catch an STI just walking across the dance floor. Every time I’m at a frat party I feel like Baby in Dirty Dancing, when she walks into the staff party carrying a watermelon and everybody is getting frisky on the dance floor. Except instead of a watermelon, I’m carrying a rape alarm. I stare, shocked, appalled and not in the slightest aroused at my surroundings (and to add to your visual, my hair is as big as Jennifer Grey’s from the humidity). One time, I made the mistake of saying yes to ‘Wassup Boo wana dance wit me?’ – I have never felt so violated in my life. Call me a prude, but whatever happened to good old fashioned fist pumping?  These are the times I get nostalgic for the dear old Lizard and Ian the transvestite DJ. I long for the sweet dulcet Scottish tones of ‘ALREET DAALIN’ YE WANA SHOT O’ APPLE SEWERZ WIT MEH?’ Alas, I guess I will just have to wait until fourth year.

And who am I? You have absolutely no idea who I am even if you think you do. So don’t even bother guessing. You will fail.

Xoxo, Andrea Saint