There’s no place like home
(except at spring break)
w
By Nancy Feigenbaum
Reporter
i
don’t understand the big fuss
at Texas A&=M about spring
break. Students at the Univer
sity of Minnesota would proba
bly give anything to have the
choking humidity, dead daffo
dils and sunburns of central
Texas at this time of year.
Spring break seems to have
been named strictly for stu
dents in the south, the only part
of the country where you can
call the second week in March
“spring” without being sarcas
tic. People here who start wear
ing shorts to class in February
can hardly be sick of winter.
For the sake of contrast, con
sider my alma mater, a large,
nameless, in order to preserve
its reputation.
/I little less than two years
ago, as I was struggling to grad
uate, we were enjoying a typical
northern week in May, (which
is not considered summer, inci
dentally). A few spring flowers
were out, the timid kind that
huddle around bases of trees.
Exams were approaching full
steam.
Then, on one of those morn
ings when we all slept through
the weather report, the skies
opened up and burnt every
thing a frigid white, from the
grass to the roof tops.
It was May, and it was snow
ing.
I’ve lived in some of the most
popular vacation spots in the
Students in these places are at
a loss when their universities
close in March, ostensibly to
give them a chance to relax, go
sailing and drink margaritas.
“What have we been doing
all year?” they ask themselves.
For a change, they hole up in
the libraries to do the work that
piled up while they concen
trated on competitive beach
volleyball, surfing (and there
are no waves in Virginia
Beach), and distinguishing be
tween light beers so that they
can get jobs doing commer
cials.
There’s something depres
sing about admitting to people
you’re going home for spring
break, even if your parents live
in Virginia Beach like mine do,
where the bars outnumber the
gas stations and “formal attire”
means “don’t forget your flip-
flops.”
There’s an until-now unwrit
ten rule on campus that after
mid-terms no one makes small
talk by asking a person’s major.
By mid-term, most people are
as enthusiastic about their ma
jors as they are about hay fever.
I violated the nile recently at
a party held by the outer-Snook
home town club.
“Arsenic,” replied the angelic
face of a slightly drunk sopho
more.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“You’re majoring in arsenic? I
thought they only offered that
m Detroit.”
“No, no,” he slurred. “I’m
going to poison my BANA pro
fessor. It’s too late to drop.”
Since then, I’ve stuck to the
convention, which is to ask
about spring break.
“Where are you going?” is
typically asked before a per
son’s name as a safeguard
against anti-socials who’ll an
swer, “My grandmother’s,” or
“I’ll probably stay here and
work on some papers. Aren’t
you?”
Alerted at an early stage, you
can move on to the next person
before things get to the dance
floor.
So I always hedge a little on
these occasions. I don’t want
people to know that I’m actu
ally going to spend the week
watching tapes of Masterpiece
Theater and fighting with my
little brother about doing
dishes, when there’s a beach 20
minutes away.
Ivy League University in upstate United States: Miami, Virginia
New York that shall remain Beach, and San Juan, Puerto
Rico.
“Where are you going?” is typically asked before
a person’s name as a safeguard against anti
socials who’ll answer, “My grandmother's,” or
“I’ll probably stay here and work on some
papers. Aren’t you?”