Toke Burns Are the New Shabby Chic
At some point the other night I realized I was slightly buzzed and very lost. (Or it may have been vice versa.) In broad daylight, the campus had been laid out in a logical manner. A friend had shown me around earlier, pointing out the major landmarks and intersections. That was easy, I thought. It's only been a day, and I understand the entire layout of the campus. What a breeze. I was filled to the brim with confidence and vigour.
All that disappeared with the onset of night and a post-party mental state. Half way between taking my friend to the bus and returning home, I wandered into a netherworld of sinister dream-visions. I understand now how Dante felt lost in the dark wood. At some point I had the impression that I'd entered the first circle of Hell, but I think it may only have been Wesbrook Place. Cyclopean structures loomed on every side, their walls dripping ichor. Night-gaunts haunted the shadows, and occasionally I could glimpse huge membranous wings unfolding in the darkness, accompanied by chanting in a forgotten tongue. A once-comprehensible street plan turned into a phantasmagoria of non-Euclidean geometry. I was paralyzed by the sudden realization of my ignorance in the face of unimaginable cosmic horrors.
Even more than afraid, I felt ashamed. I had made a resolution earlier this year that I wouldn't get hopelessly lost at UBC, and already it was broken. I have the complete opposite of whatever it is that directs Canadian geese south in the winter. It's difficult finding the bathroom in my own house. It shouldn't be a surprise that I got lost on my second night at UBC - it should be a surprise that I didn't somehow end up at the American border.
After exhausting all other possible locations on campus, I ended up at the one where I live. The purple haze had cleared by then, and it was a relief to recognize my surroundings. I share a townhouse in Fairview Crescent with three others. It's a few Hummel figures short of coziness, but already it's starting to feel like a home. Our furnishings are basic, almost utilitarian, but they have their own charm. The kitchen cupboards are a comforting shade of puce, and the toke burns on the couch bring a warm, shabby chic sensibility to an otherwise stark living room.
The three other guys are from Sweden, Indonesia and Japan. As a born and bred British Columbian raised in the WASP hives of Vancouver Island, I suddenly find myself in the minority. Most of the people I've spent time (read: drank) with here come from places I've never visited and can speak languages other than English. Surrounded by such a cosmopolitan blend, I feel like a backwoods country boy - wandering around barefoot, a chicken tucked under my arm, an imbecilic grin plastered on my face. "Howdy, fellas!" I say by way of introduction. "Where y'all from?"
I've re-met a lot of people I went to high school with. (One of the benefits of going to school close to home.) They've all got the leg up on me. During my long, personal stagnation at home, they travelled, went to school, and somehow managed to forget what a jerk I was as a teenager. I'm glad they're here, and even gladder they're willing to spend time with me because, even though "small fish in a big sea," is a cliché, I've been feeling distinctly minnow-esque. There are about 45,000 other people on campus, and the anonymity this grants is both liberating and a little scary. A familiar face does wonders to clear up first-week angst.
Classes aren't properly under way yet. Once I have to start using my grey matter on a regular basis, maybe I'll experience some of that academic "stress" people are always talking about. Some seem eager for classes to start, others are filled with dread. I'm not sure where I stand. I woke up with a grimace yesterday because I had a single, hour-long morning class. Oh horrors! To have to leave the house, to endure intermittent rain, to walk almost twenty minutes on even terrain carrying a light shoulder bag - I almost wept. The unfairness of it all! I was wrapped in a warm cocoon of self-pity, ready to endure the ordeal, until I remembered that, a few weeks ago, I would have been waking up at 7 o'clock to trudge around in knee-deep mud. It made my book bag feel a little lighter.
BRYCE WARNES
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Bryce you are the living end.
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