George Burns was right
When I arrived in the campus union bar, I found familiar scenes of international students dressed in vaguely referential and slightly cliché costumes from their home country, the result of a day of international festivities; and a bunch of first year students from the local pool, undergoing early, though not their first, lessons in perils of excess.
Edgard was seated at a table with a bunch of students from across the globe, but primarily they were European and Asian, with a smaller number from the Middle-East and the Americas. A number of local kids were with them, making an effort to be friendly and welcoming to the new internationals, as well as perhaps show the Americans how to drink real beer.
Their comments and questions about the places these new people with unfamiliar accents came from, revealed the locals as ignorant to a large degree about anything outside the English-speaking world (and even to a large degree, about the things within it).
It’s not the first time I’ve found myself thinking I wasn’t so narrow in my world view when I was 18, but then again, a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then, particularly in the last few years. I’ve experienced some of the world now, but can hardly profess to be worldly either, and this time I not only found myself embarrassed by the ignorance of my countrymen, I found myself yearning to get back out into the world to somehow compensate for their ignorance by diminishing my own.
Eventually, the locals drifted away to continue drinking beer (or more specifically, spilling it on the floor). The huddle closed up a little and we were for the most part international students, and me. Despite the international students being senior members of the university population, they were still at least five years my junior. One guy told me he had to get to a party in Clayton, and asked me how he should get there. On checking my watch, I told him that as it was already well after 10pm, the chances of him getting there on public transport were pretty remote, given he was in Bundoora and if it hadn’t already, public transport in this area was going to be closing down soon.
As the ’party‘ was beginning to subside, the bar became suddenly inundated with teenagers wearing bed sheets as togas, and I felt like I’d been pulled back to my first Toga Party at the Student Village, 16 years earlier. As I counted back just how long ago I was engaging in the experiences these kids now are, I realised that these teens were probably just starting to talk at a time when I was being taught how to lose the ability to.
I didn’t need to stick around to see what the next phase would be. Despite my memory not being so good around events of that year the first time, subsequent re-enactments have instilled a kind of muscle memory to the extent I know without remembering, what tomorrow will bring.
&helips;George Burns was right, I wish I was 18 again.