There is a certain way that sunlight glints off the grass of the Meadows – an unavoidable green space that anchors Edinburgh University students to a particular, universal meeting spot. It draws out the runners and cyclists, the drinkers and activists, the musicians, and the Mormons. If you go there on a day like today, dressed appropriately for the gentle warmth, you’ll observe the grass turn emerald and blur the horizon, and you’ll wonder for a moment if the expanse has become a little bigger since yesterday. At times like these you’ll remember that the sun is in fact a burning star, and has been all along.
The illumination of the Meadows is a phenomenon that happens every year; an annual rebirth that serves only to frustrate those revising in the library. At least, that’s the general feeling of those currently indoors. Yet the sun will flood the park in the same way next year, and the year after that. I know this because I have been here, in Edinburgh, every summer for over a decade. This is my hometown. It is also where I chose to go to university.
Making that decision came with an obvious set of problems: should I move out? (yes); how often should I visit my parents? (as often as they can bear); how do I make friends? (sick moves and self-deprecation). These issues were inconsequential compared to the real troubles with staying put, as I grow from an unstable and headstrong 18-year-old into a generally less-irritating young woman. Yet it is difficult to detach myself from my unattractive qualities when they’re to be found in everything around me. For someone who craved a new start, there are certain places in this city – a particular bench, café, park, cinema – that hold parts of me I don’t want to revisit.
* * *
It was the sort of comment that simply slips out. The kind that sounded wistful in my head. We were sipping over-priced smoothies on the Grassmarket. At the festival last year, I had said, I sat in this exact spot, exactly the same one, with Harry. His lips had tightened. I couldn’t help but let comparisons creep in. It was colder this time, but at least I hadn’t accidently ordered a drink containing milk. He’d paid. Last time I did. What happened between you and him? , he replied.
It wasn’t a sudden realisation, like finding out the difference between definitions of jealously and envy. It was the slow acceptance of a fact, something I’d always known but left unacknowledged, akin to recognising that ‘Ultraviolence’ is actually Lana Del Rey’s best album. Heavily, it hit me. Not as a strike across the cheek would suddenly burn, the stinging quickly passing. This was like dressing in sodden clothes. Living with an extra weight, making me perpetually hesitate.
He left too , was my reply.
I suppose I might blame myself for taking two boys to the same juice bar. In truth, there aren’t many places I don’t already have roots. This city holds all of my firsts and all of my won’t lasts. And it certainly needs more smoothie vendors.
* * *
Getting to know someone often feels like chopping onions. Just as I discover their favourite music genre, they travel to Australia. Finding out their dog’s name is a cue for them to move back in with their parents. Everyone is older. They fit their skin and transcend the space between visitor and native. The hellos and goodbyes all sound the same, I’m sorry to say. What happens in the middle, the moments that seep into the benches, cafés, parks and cinemas, are the parts I treasure. Memories corrupt the neutrality of inanimate objects. Even cereal. Even god-damn cereal.
My friend’s grandfather recently died. We agreed that, although deeply grieving, he would be okay. His grandfather wanted to stay. It hurts more when people leave out of choice.
Sometimes I look up from my books and revision notes, thinking about the thousands of students who have studied here before me. Were they as baffled by feminist interpretations of Medieval literature as I am? I guess everyone doubts themselves. And surely I’m not the first person to go to Hive in a jumper dress. I wonder if they ever closed their eyes and wished they were somewhere else. I did, for a moment, but then I opened them and the sun-soaked Eden reminded me why I chose well.
The ever-changing student entity is what breathes life into the old buildings of the city. Like the constant roadworks around campus, we appear for years, make a barely detectable impact, then leave. What we change is each other, even without realising. I know that if this city – with its grimy elegance, vibrant and imperfect – can’t hold someone here, then I don’t stand a chance. There’s something about distance that helps you figure out who’s worth fighting to keep near, and who you should let go.
Grown-ups leave. That’s okay. With every departing friend it gets slightly easier. This is my home – for four more years at least. Everyone else is just passing through. What will make me truly sad is when I inevitably leave too.
By Alice Orr | 27 April 2016