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?â€