Saturday, April 16, 2005
Lux et What?!
Being a warm, sunny day I decided to make the walk up to North campus this evening--the place where the freshmen reside and where the food is purported to be a bit better. Not only that, I just wanted a change of scenery and a slightly different selection of food and drinks.
Woha. On the stairs leading up to the dining hall I ran into a line spanning a full flight and a half of stairs. Assuming it was a bizarrely long line to enter, I took my place. But then I traced the line to its origins and noticed that they were all standing aside while some students seemed to bypass their way right in. I leapt out of the line and up the stairs and made my way to the entrance.
"What's going on?" I asked the girl in front of me who was wearing flip-flops, tiny shorts and whose hair dangled out of her pony-tail in sweaty strands.
"I don't know," she said to me. "Who are you?" She asked the people at the head of the line.
"Yale rowing," one of the guys snapped tritely and then looked away. Ah yes, I should have guessed. Well, I should have guessed at least part of it based on all the guys wearing Yale shirts.
Once I made my way into the busy, bustling dining hall, I tried to spot a seat. I headed over to the section with the booths and the small tables next to the windows. As I approached a table, a man more than a full head taller than me and probably twice my width stopped me, "Are you with the Yale rowing team?"
"No, I'm not."
"Well, you can't sit here. This whole section is reserved for the Yale rowing team."
"I can't even sit at the edge at the two-seater table by the window?"
"No," he blurted coldly and echoes of his scorn reverberated in waves through his big body's jelly.
Ooookay. I didn't want to start messing around with him. It seems like the elite bends head over heels to bring their self-segregation with them anywhere they go. Was that so necessary? They're visitors at another school, why can't they forage for tables just like any other student. Heck, maybe they'd even mingle with some us in the process, and wouldn't that just be peachy-keen?
Under the scrutiny of the scary guard's ominous gaze I made my way to the opposite end of the dining hall--as far away as possible so he wouldn't tell me that that table was reserved, too. I got my food, put the tray down on the table, and then went to get some drinks. As I carried my lemonade cup in one hand and raspberry lemonade (how snotty of a drink does that sound like?) cup in the other back to my table, I noticed some Yalies decided to defy the norm and sit at the table right next to me. Would there be mingling after all?
As I put my cups on the table the plain-lemonade cup slipped out of my hand. The cup fell on its side, facing the Yalies. The lemony liquid zoomed across the surface of the table on a trajectory right towards the Yalies. They boys looked at me in fury. But our tables weren't connected, so for the most part the lemonade fell off the side of my table before it could splash them. The Yalie sitting closest to me might have gotten a few spritzes of lemonade, but really nothing even close to serious.
"Ooops," I looked at them smiling. I've grown tired of acting tomato-red-blush-embarrassed by each mistake I make, I'm only human, too. "I'm really sorry," I said as I began to wipe the table up with napkins.
The Yalies were outraged. Apparently this kinda s!*t doesn't fly in high society. The three of them pierced nasty looks at me, grabbed their trays and moved away. Oooh snap.
Yale, thank you for rejecting me. Actually, no I still wish I were the one who got to reject you. I could never pull an attitude like that, I don't think I would have fit in too well.
Woha. On the stairs leading up to the dining hall I ran into a line spanning a full flight and a half of stairs. Assuming it was a bizarrely long line to enter, I took my place. But then I traced the line to its origins and noticed that they were all standing aside while some students seemed to bypass their way right in. I leapt out of the line and up the stairs and made my way to the entrance.
"What's going on?" I asked the girl in front of me who was wearing flip-flops, tiny shorts and whose hair dangled out of her pony-tail in sweaty strands.
"I don't know," she said to me. "Who are you?" She asked the people at the head of the line.
"Yale rowing," one of the guys snapped tritely and then looked away. Ah yes, I should have guessed. Well, I should have guessed at least part of it based on all the guys wearing Yale shirts.
Once I made my way into the busy, bustling dining hall, I tried to spot a seat. I headed over to the section with the booths and the small tables next to the windows. As I approached a table, a man more than a full head taller than me and probably twice my width stopped me, "Are you with the Yale rowing team?"
"No, I'm not."
"Well, you can't sit here. This whole section is reserved for the Yale rowing team."
"I can't even sit at the edge at the two-seater table by the window?"
"No," he blurted coldly and echoes of his scorn reverberated in waves through his big body's jelly.
Ooookay. I didn't want to start messing around with him. It seems like the elite bends head over heels to bring their self-segregation with them anywhere they go. Was that so necessary? They're visitors at another school, why can't they forage for tables just like any other student. Heck, maybe they'd even mingle with some us in the process, and wouldn't that just be peachy-keen?
Under the scrutiny of the scary guard's ominous gaze I made my way to the opposite end of the dining hall--as far away as possible so he wouldn't tell me that that table was reserved, too. I got my food, put the tray down on the table, and then went to get some drinks. As I carried my lemonade cup in one hand and raspberry lemonade (how snotty of a drink does that sound like?) cup in the other back to my table, I noticed some Yalies decided to defy the norm and sit at the table right next to me. Would there be mingling after all?
As I put my cups on the table the plain-lemonade cup slipped out of my hand. The cup fell on its side, facing the Yalies. The lemony liquid zoomed across the surface of the table on a trajectory right towards the Yalies. They boys looked at me in fury. But our tables weren't connected, so for the most part the lemonade fell off the side of my table before it could splash them. The Yalie sitting closest to me might have gotten a few spritzes of lemonade, but really nothing even close to serious.
"Ooops," I looked at them smiling. I've grown tired of acting tomato-red-blush-embarrassed by each mistake I make, I'm only human, too. "I'm really sorry," I said as I began to wipe the table up with napkins.
The Yalies were outraged. Apparently this kinda s!*t doesn't fly in high society. The three of them pierced nasty looks at me, grabbed their trays and moved away. Oooh snap.
Yale, thank you for rejecting me. Actually, no I still wish I were the one who got to reject you. I could never pull an attitude like that, I don't think I would have fit in too well.
