Hot Tubs and Sea Legs

Well aren’t you lucky. Stuck here on campus the Friday before spring break, with nothing better to do than read The Crimson, weeping softly to yourself about the midterm you just failed and the fact that the grapefruit you ate for breakfast probably hit its peak in December, just like you. Stop crying so hard—you’re soaking the paper, and making a scene.

Before we get too excited about spring break, a big congratulations is in order for the freshmen who were just assigned their houses! I must admit, I had my doubts. Third parties have reported that this year the administration replaced its sorting hat with a sorting “algorithm”, which is, as far as I can tell, an article of clothing worn around the neck, kind of like a necklace or scarf. Nevertheless, the sorting proceeded as planned, and the number of houses remained constant at 12, with three staying in the quad.

I know what many of you freshmen are thinking. “Me? How could it be me? I knew some people would have to end up in Dunster, but I never thought it would happen to me!” Fret not. All houses were created equal, the same way your parents love you and your siblings equally, ignoring the time they gave your brother a new car for Christmas to replace his old one, and they didn’t even bother to give you, the older sibling, a new bicycle. And now you’re just sitting there, cold and hungry, crying over spilled grapefruit juice. I already told you to stop. You’re embarrassing yourself.

And the rest of you freshmen, the ones who seem to be happy with your house placement, remember that however luxurious your new house may be, it will never be as lavish as the Business School. Does your house gym have a gold-plated hot tub filled with holy water from the Vatican? Didn’t think so.

But the time has come to let all your troubles go and call it a semester. Spring break is upon us, and, let’s be honest, there is no way much of anything will get done when we return to campus just in time for summer. For the first time since Jon Snow was sent to the Wall to protect us, the sun will finally shine. Brace yourselves; Yardfest is coming.

First, though, spring break.

Look on with jealousy at all your friends who are headed to Cancun or Punta Cana, even though they assure you they are going strictly to practice their Spanish: “Señor, un plato de nachos y una bomba coche Irish, por favor.” These lucky souls will return to campus glistening with gorgeous tans, or, as my mother terms it, early stage melanoma. They will also show up to lecture next Monday still unbalanced and swaying side to side, getting over their “sea legs” after spending a week “riding the rough waves” of “los nocheclubs” in the Caribbean.

But instead of lying around sloshed by the beach or frolicking in the water, you’ll probably sleep for two days and get right back to homework, conveniently due the day after break. Professors here are the best. “Oh, you have a week off? Great, then why don’t you write a policy memo and work on a group presentation focusing on European banking integration? You heard me correctly, a group presentation, due the Monday you get back.” I’m looking at you, Ec1400.

Once the memo is finished, you may or may not need to fill out a dozen or two summer applications for unpaid internships in which you might or might not wind up doing more than using the stapler and coffee machine. Those skills, your employers will tell you, are probably more applicable to “real life” than the class you’re taking on the history of Dadaist influence on the application of Cubist structural architecture in downtown Johannesburg. They might be right.

So no “bombas coche Irish” for you.

As for me, I’ll be on the beach in Miami, practicing my Spanish. If you’ll be in town, stop by and say hello.

But I’ll probably be too wobbly to say hola back.

Jacob R. Drucker ’15, a Crimson editorial writer, is an economic concentrator in Mather House. His column appears on alternate Fridays.