Punching the culture club

Something is amiss here at Harvard, and I've felt it ever since September. Even now, it gnaws at me during my daily treks through the Yard, my walks around the Square--and even during my meals inside the sanctuary of Lowell House's walled courtyard. For a whole month I've been disoriented, adding myself to the list of the many alienated members of this community. I couldn't quite pinpoint the problem; all I knew was that I felt like a stranger in a strange land.

Then it hit me sometime last week when yet another cell phone went off during Warren Court lecture. As another gaggle of stylish juniors in tight jeans walked out of Sever, a water bottle in one hand and a cigarette dangling from another, I realized that this wasn't the campus I used to know. Where before, "the look" ranged from J.Crew all-American to a slightly grungy indifference to style, something has now clearly shifted.

I recently ate at Artu's, a trendy Italian eatery in Boston, and recognized more Harvard students in the North End than I did during my latest trip to Au Bon Pain. With every restaurant patron sitting outside as they eat their meal, the Square resembles one large quaint little bistro. Finally, my growing suspicions coalesced into a conclusion: Harvard, in its eternal search for new heights of elitism, has co-opted the latest in flamboyant Euro-snob chic. As if the fireplaces and finals clubs weren't appealing enough to every "sophisticate" on campus, we now have crepes served in the dining halls and electronica parties in Adams House.

Perhaps we've tried to copy the flashy tourists, whose hot pink Italian InVicta backpacks are as much an attraction to us as John Harvard is to them. Or maybe, without realizing it, we've imitated the Square hipsters, mixing and matching neon orange and light green suede New Balance sneakers, and picking out black thick-framed glasses to go with our carefully selected messenger bags.

Whatever the source, I am not sure where I fit in. I still get peeved when a rustic bicycle with a metal basket on the handlebars--undoubtedly a refugee from the French countryside--knocks into me at the crosswalk. Whenever I see a new silver VW Beetle whiz through Mt. Auburn Street, a wave of nostalgia hits me as I long for the days of punchbuggy yellows.

Yet, could I give up the usual keg party for a more sophisticated drinking atmosphere? Definitely. Could I kick my new habit of eating yummy Pane Romano avec Nutella that they serve at the Parisian cafe in Holyoke Center? Never. So maybe I should shop at Diesel, develop an accent, and let my attitude skyrocket. Or I could go a step further and do it the real way: take a semester off, rent a flat in London, and acquire a taste for Prada and Versace.

But why should I bother? As any style consultant at Louis of Boston could tell you, Europe's allure will fade the moment Prince William decides not to apply to Harvard. But if you want options beyond escargot and entrecote, the wider international scene awaits. This epiphany hit me like a Ray of Light as I watched the MTV music awards, where Madonna showed me how easy it would be simply to exploit my own Indian heritage instead. Visit Kashmir (the restaurant on Newbury Street) and the adjoining souvenir store, Eastern Accent International, for some inspiration of your own.

Madonna only needed a few months to cultivate that meandering "international" accent of hers; without any paparazzi hunting your new baby, you probably won't need to take as long. Once you've done that, invite some friends out to a vegan dinner to discuss meditation and chanting. For dessert, visit Cafe Algiers and sip mango tea in between puffs from a hookah.

I plan on writing a quick letter to my aunt in India, asking her to send me some bhindis for my forehead, some heavy gold jewelry, and a few wall-hangings of Ganesha and Krishna for my dorm room. If you lack any Indian connections to help you furnish your digs, light some incense and you'll be fine.

So maybe there is hope, after all. Perhaps we can break free of our hopelessly domestic mindsets, our blue jeans and baseball caps, our Starbucks and Sam Adams. Why order a pizza when foccacia has twice the charm? Who needs Poland Spring when San Pellagrino has both bubbles and attitude? Nationalism is so passe.

To join the new globally enlightened class on campus, you may have to lose your meat-eating ways. You may even have to abandon your North Face equipment and start subscribing to the J. Peterman catalog. Drastic changes can be quite unnerving, but considering how fixed our lives become once we've begun our journey to college graduation, an image makeover is probably easier than changing concentrations.

Once you've acquired a taste for pate and displayed your contempt for your former philistine friends, you will have finally earned a place among the new Harvard elite. And you'll no longer be a for - eigner, because you will have joined the ranks of the foreign.