Chipotlove

Trudging through the cold at five in the afternoon, I saw the line wrapping along the block long before I reached it. All that was missing were the cameras and Mickey Mouse hats and it could have been Disney World. The line had taken on a life of its own, swelling and curving and slithering along.

I had never been to Chipotle. I had homework to do. What was I doing here?

Mindlessly, I joined the throng. Perhaps it was the prospect of eating a dinner that did not involve brown rice and broccoli, or perhaps it was a tendency towards more creative means of procrastination, but I decided I would stay in that line and get my free burrito, so help me God.

I had never been to Chipotle. I had homework to do. What was I doing here?

In front of me, a couple holding-hands happily discussed what type of burrito they would soon be eating. A white-haired, professorial man farther up the line surveyed us all with a sort of bemused fascination, like an anthropologist marooned amidst a tribe of savages. Three Asian students behind me pored over copies of The Economist and handed me a copy when I remarked how much I missed reading my parents’ subscription at home. Curious tourists asked us what all the fuss was about, and all we said in response was: “Free food.”

We all had homework to do. What were we doing here?

After an hour in line, finally clutching my prize in its brown paper bag, I had an epiphany. Yes, I bit into the burrito and heard the choirs of angels and saw the stairway to heaven, etcetera. But I came to realize whatever happiness I gained from that silly vegetarian burrito had little to do with the taste. My happiness came from spending a whole hour without having to hear or even think the words “midterm,” “problem set,” and “all-nighter.”

Harvard hosts Nobel laureates and diplomats on a weekly basis, but when it comes down to it, sometimes what students want most is a long line to stand in with nothing to think about but the people around them (and saving six dollars). Sometimes we’re offered as diversions poetry readings, guest lectures, and forums on health care, when all we really want is a burrito.

We always have homework to do. But we should enjoy it here.

Marina S. Magloire ’11, a Crimson editorial editor, lives in Weld Hall.