timxu

I have been on this beautiful campus for exactly a week, and it still does not cease to amaze. It’s been a breathtaking journey, day by day, through halls rich in history, courtyards and paths beaten by footsteps of the brilliant men and women who came before us. Each day is a pleasant, unassuming voyage through an almost surreal, magical environment.

Sitting down for breakfast in Branford’s Dining Room, I’m surrounded by the smiling façades of the former Masters, illuminated by several chandaliers hanging from an arching ceiling covered with dark, rich wood. I then take a walk across Cross Campus, the rather large and imposingly stunning Sterling Memorial Library to my left, and the bustle of construction on Calhoun College to my left. A few large trees provide a pleasant shade from the hot morning sun, and their gentle swaying adds a symphonic element to the soundtrack of footsteps and conversations. There’s a few boys playing a quick game of two-hand touch on the grass in front of Sterling.

As I approach Commons, there’s a modern sculpture and a much older-looking memorial. Its gold-gilded inscription is clear even from a distance. “In memory of the men of Yale, who, true to her traditions, gave their lives that Freedom might not perish from the Earth,” it reads, along with a date attributing the memorial to the brave men who fought in World War I. I enter the rotunda, a beautiful domed vestibule with a rich blue ceiling from which are hung many more chandeliers. I pay little attention to the inscriptions on the wall, the names of every Yale student who gave his life in defense of his country. The moment of tranquility is broken quickly as I exit the rotunda and face the busy corner of Grove and College Street. Dozens of students race across the wide intersection as drivers wait patiently for an opening to continue.

A short walk later, I find myself reaching into my backpack for my notebook and laptop. Davies Auditorium is a large, modern lecture hall with comfortable, cushioned chairs and small retrievable platforms for note-taking. Professor Mark Johnson takes the floor and takes us through the beginning of modern chemistry, from Lavoisier to Newton to Dalton. He lectures with energy and humor. There must be over a hundred students sitting in the lecture hall, but it’s to be expected for General Chemistry.

After class is dismissed, I walk down College Street back to Vanderbilt Hall, my version of home at Yale. I have a moment of solitude at my desk as I organize my notebooks and peruse the news. Nobody liked McCain’s speech. The Mets won. Soon, I get a call from a friend, inviting me to lunch. I accept and leave Vanderbilt, nearly forgetting my keys on my desk. I briskly walk across Old Campus, under towering trees swaying and rustling to what seems like a perpetual wind. A few minutes later, I’m surrounded by chaos: lunch at Commons. I manage to make myself a sandwich and grab some yogurt before sitting down with a few friends. I have gotten over the majesty of the cafeteria. I no longer wonder if this is what Harry Potter sat down to everyday at Hogwarts.

After lunch is Introductory Microeconomics with Steve Berry. The lecture hall is absolutely packed. He’s a brilliant man and a wonderful professor. He mixes his own brand of humor and irony into a lecture introducing us to the basic concepts of economics and, specifically, microeconomics. It’s enjoyable, but I harbor a secret hope that some people decide not to show up next time.

Next thing I know, I’m walking down Elm Street with another friend, empty backpack in hand, towards the Barnes & Nobles that serves as the University’s bookstore. Minutes later, I emerge with a strained back and 400 dollars poorer. I figure that it’s the price we pay for education. We visit a mutual friend in Swing Space. We pass by the club soccer team practicing on a patch of grass, shaded by more rustling trees. Swing Space is far away from the center of campus, but it’s air conditioned, has an elevator, and each room has a little kitchenette. It feels comfortable, and the Calhoun upperclassmen don’t mind it. We stay for an hour or so, before heading back to Commons for dinner.

This time, we’re there early and the place is deserted. There are many portraits lining Commons, all but one with dark backgrounds and old men with an array of facial expressions. The only one with a light background is George H. W. Bush. The dinner is rather delicious: turkey and mashed potatoes with gravy. I get some yogurt again.

Slowly, night falls over New Haven. I spend some time in my suite, deciding between studying and watching TV. I end up doing neither, and heading over to a friend’s suite to hang out. We talk about what classes we’re shopping, what homework we have, and just have random conversations about random things. I meet friends of friends who become new friends. We relax in rooms, all of us not eager to begin doing the ever-increasing pile of homework. There’s a party in a suite upstairs. It’s crowded and hot, but we stay anyway to socialize.

Almost without realizing, it’s 1 AM and I’m outside of Lawrence Hall with a few friends. They say they’re hungry. I agree. Ignoring the effects to our health and our weight, we make the short journey to Yorkside pizza. It’s almost closing, but we each get some slices anyway. It’s good, but not as good as A-1 pizza.

A few minutes later, I’m alone in a shower, washing off the day in preparation for the next. I try not to wake up my sleeping roommate as I remove my contacts and prepare my cell phone alarm. As I lay in my bed, staring up at a ceiling I can’t see, I reflect on the day that just passed. I don’t consider what mark I may leave on this 300-year-old university. I don’t consider what mark it may leave on me. Rather, I just sit and appreciate the wondrous beauty of a campus and a university I have just begun to explore.

In fact, you shouldn’t really give guns to anyone. But that’s beside the point. I went to the movies earlier and saw Tropic Thunder and Pineapple Express. Ben Stiller, Jack Black, and, especially, Robert Downey, Jr. were pretty hilarious in Tropic Thunder, but they really can’t compare to Seth Rogen and James Franco in Pineapple Express. If you haven’t seen the trailer, the film’s a classic Apatow about a pair of stoners who are on the run from the drug lords. This eventually involves a laugh-to-tears chase scene and guns. Lots of guns. I’m not going to elaborate more – go to the theater and check it out for yourself – but it really verifies what we’ve seen already: movies make stoners seem like the funniest idiots ever. It’s like America’s Funniest Home Videos on crack, literally, for two hours. So, kids, don’t do drugs. Just go to the movies and watch stoners beat and shoot each other silly. Hey, maybe it’ll give you a natural high.

In exactly twelve hours, I will be sitting in the cabin of a small commuter plane on the tarmac of Newark International Airport. After a short, one hundred minute flight, I will layover in Toronto for three hours before boarding a Boeing 777 direct to Shanghai, China. Once there I will stop in Nanjing, where my father’s family is, then in Xi’an, where my mother’s family is, and then finally in Beijing, where family friends have secured tickets to several less-than-population Olympic events. I’m sure it’ll be bustling and crowded, but it’s still exciting to attend the Olympic games. I’ll be back on August 14th, tired, jet-lagged, and ready to watch the more exciting parts of the games on TV.

In fact, I name them after Greek Goddesses. My main hard drive is named Astraea, goddess of justice. My flash drive is named Iris, the messenger goddess. My external hard drive is split into two partitions: the Time Machine partition is named Soteria, the goddess of safety and preservation from harm and the storage partition is named Eos, the goddess of dawn. The computer itself is named Rhea, the mother of all gods.

It’s not that I’m a fan of Greek mythology or even that I’m more than superficially interested in them. They just have cool names, and it’s certainly less boring that “Macintosh HD; Storage; Flash Drive; Time Machine.” Plus, it’ll confuse everyone, which is always a plus.