St. Andrews

I am not the only West Point graduate and scholarship winner at St. Andrews. Two of my classmates are here studying other subjects. We arranged to have dinner together in St. Andrews: my first foray to the mecca of golf, affectionately named the 'Old Course,' the burgh that invented golf and frequently hosts the British Open. Granted, it was getting late and I wasn't able to see the old 'royal burgh' in any great detail, but I can share with you some of the things that struck me immediately.

The ruins of the St. Andrews castle and cathedral are fascinating. As I've gathered from hearsay, St. Andrews was the 'centre' of the Scottish Catholic diocese that covers Fife. The church instigated the creation of the first college at St. Andrews, the third oldest college in the English-speaking world. But given that St. Andrews hosted many of the intellectuals of the Scottish Enlightenment, Reformation fever, ironically, resonated in her learned halls. The English Civil War and Reformation marked the city's decline, and, if it weren't for golf, the University might have even been moved. Maybe due to neglect arising from the Reformation and Civil War, the main cathedral of St. Andrews survives only in ruined pieces. Of course, this is what I've managed to piece together in the course of casual conversation; I haven't researched anything per se. 

Though I only drove by, the cathedral's dilapidation is what makes it so interesting. Against the backdrop of the ocean and setting sun, the place emanates a sense that I cannot accurately describe as peaceful, powerful, or mysterious; it confers all and none of these conflicting adjectives at the same time. It is in the category of things, of which we have all experienced, that humbles your vocabulary or photographic abilities. As Camus says, it is difficult to communicate the dramatic with language sterilized by common misuse in the marketplace of petty conversation. I won't dwell on it, although the glimpses I caught were the highlight of my day.

At any rate, St. Andrews is among the wealthiest communities in Scotland. In fact, most of West Fife is quite wealthy, whereas, I'm told, the East Fifers in 'coal country', some thirty miles away, are on the average below the national poverty line. In such a short distance, you go from dignified desperation to undignified trappings of class and distinction. St. Andrews is a kind of Cape Cod, and if my sources are to be trusted, certainly too few to comprise a just reading of the local sentiment, the University of St. Andrews is a school for kids from Cape Cod-- or rather the British equivalent, whatever it might be. As the home of the 'Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews,' the most prestigious golf club in the world, St. Andrews seems perfectly suited for the likes of Prince William (class of 04).

I am about 12 miles away from St. Andrews. The folk near me are well-to-do and retired, but not the type to flaunt it. My neighbors' posteriors are clear of any sticks, clubs, etc. I don't mean to imply anything negative about St. Andrews, by the way. The wealthy are attracted to it because it is a beautiful place, and it is a beautiful place because the wealthy invest in and preserve it. As soon as I get my camera, (why is that taking so long?) you can see for yourself.

I 'let,' as they say, this property site-unseen. It is in every way better than I could have expected. The landlord fully furnished it as promised and then some, complete with a three-in-one printer, broadband, some starter food, and other knick-knacks that one doesn't usually expect from a landlord. This, however, is not the lot of my classmates, who live in squalor. They were given wonderful but misleading pictures of a property that they decided to rent together. The landlord completely deceived them; where there should be sparkle, there is mold; where there should be a room, there is a locked door. A toilet, sink, and bed are broken. I have broken a toilet and a sink in my lifetime, but never a bed.

My classmates are resourceful and will undoubtedly correct the problem. But I serve this example to reiterate how fortunate I have been. At every turn, with the exception of one cantankerous call center woman, the Brits I have interacted with in the UK have been very helpful.

The Brits at the Consulate in LA, by contrast, are so entangled in bureaucracy as to be completely ineffective. Without a passport, I am a walking question mark. NATO travel orders allow me entry into the country, but they do not provide proof of identity for a bank account, university matriculation, or to purchase a glass of cheap wine from a grocery store. To summarize, it has been easier to clear customs and access secure radar facilities (RAF Menwith Hill) than buy toilet paper, crackers, and a pack of Bud Light from the local Tesco (items to be used separately).