"U goin out 2nite?"

This weekend I exchanged many parting words, celebrating my last hurrahs by going to see "Hair" in Central Park (a friend and I woke up at 5 in the morning to wait for tickets), travelling to Cambridge to bid farewell to my wonderful friends and teachers, and "going out" at Wesleyan with my best friend A.

Each event of the weekend struck a chord that resonated with a particular part of my life. "Hair," for example, was the first real musical in which I was ever cast -- at the tender age of twelve. (I don't see why parents don't give their teenagers a copy of the libretto to "Hair" instead of "Our Bodies, Ourselves.") Seeing it in the Park, remembering every single lyric (and there are many of them), I felt some of the same blithe freedom that "Hair" brought to me eight years ago. What's more, I saw the play with a friend whom I've actually known since I was seven: we danced together for a long time in the City and, years later, found each other at Harvard. The whole 24-hour event took me back to the years when I was on the verge of teenager-dom, and in many ways, I feel the same anticipation -- both excitement and fear -- about the coming year that I felt about adulthood when I was at that age.



And Cambridge, of course, had its own Cambridge feel. There's not much to say on this score. For me, at least now, it's a total clash of extremes: the people there inspire me to improve *and* make me happy with where I am; just looking at red brick, on the other hand, makes me feel as if I'm trapped in Lamont Library at four in the morning with a giant cup of coffee and half a response paper to write. Aside pictures the view from (what would have been!) my room this year.

By far the most wonderful part of the weekend was visiting A. at Wesleyan. While it was quite the adventure to get there and back (Middletown-New Haven taxi drivers are fascinating!), the trip was well worth the added effort. On Friday night we "went out"--as they say--to various parties attended by girls in strappy black dresses and bearded men in flannel. Where the gigantic lawn gatherings and balcony soirees are hiding at Harvard is a mystery to me. It was an excellent time, truly topped only by the 2AM falafel sandwich that A. and I shared from the falafel cart perched at the edge of the main quad. "Do you want hot sauce?" asked the nice veiled lady making our sandwich. "Bring it on!" we enthused: such a bad choice. But flaming mouths aside, really, it was a fantastic falafel.

The party continued the following morning, when A. and I dined on massive breakfasts at O'Rourke's diner in "bustling downtown Middletown". This was followed by a personal (though rainy) tour of the gorgeous Wes campus, where it is indeed possible to buy 12-year aged balsamic vinegar and homemade pizza dough at the student grocery store.





As A. so aptly noted: "They know their audience." Excuse me while I transfer.