“Some power may from rough waters steer us skillfully towards prosperity.”
-Brothers Poem, Sappho
My heart races as the train slowly pulls into the station. Before me lies the grand city of Boston, rich with urban wonders, a sprawling maze for me to explore. With, of course, my new friend Elisa, who seems to be taking in the experience with far less composure than me. Her face is practically pressed against the large window next to us, and her eyes dart around, no doubt capturing every detail of the train station.
I’m lucky to have run into Elisa. Over our hours-long train ride, I learned that due to her sister’s residence at the University, Elisa has had plenty of opportunity to explore Boston as a visitor. She will be my tour guide, so to speak, until I adapt to my new home for four years.
As soon as the conductor welcomes us to Boston and the compartment doors open, the passengers around us leap out of their seats, grab their things, and dart out the doors. Elisa and I wait until the compartment has been thoroughly emptied to make our exit, phones poised to take lots of pictures. My companion decides to take the opportunity to capture several candid shots as we walk out of the high-arched train station. Unlike Elisa, who appears to possess a bottomless phone storage, I decide to take a more prudent route and save the picture-taking for when it counts. Our first stop is the University, which is in Cambridge, across the river from Boston. We’ll need to receive our dorm card keys and leave our stuff so that we can explore the town and grab some dinner.
“We can take the subway over to Cambridge, and there’s a station that’ll drop us off a couple minutes from the University. And then, we can drop stuff off at our dorms and visit each other’s, blah blah blah. And then, we have to go get pizza, because I’m literally starving. And then, we can just, like, hang out in our dorms until 4 a.m. and I can show you the good places to visit and pass the time, et cetera, on my phone” Elisa speedily delivers her sales pitch to me, complete with hand gestures. “I hope my roommate is tolerable. My sister told me that in her freshman year, her roommate would bring all her friends over, and they’d leave gum wrappers on the floor and blast trashy pop and stuff. I could never handle that—I’m too OCD. I’m sure that’s just a ghost story, though.”
I wonder if I could count the number of caffeinated drinks coursing through her bloodstream on one hand, I joke internally. I offer to let her lead the way, and we set off.
As arranged, Elisa whisks the two of us away to the Boston subway, after which a brief 15 minute ride takes us straight to the University. A walk through the summer-warmed town of Cambridge later, we find ourselves at the mouth of the path leading straight up to our new four-year home.
The sprawling campus unfolds like a fantastical children’s book before us. I can almost hear the rousing classical music accompanying my leisurely walk down the gracefully-embellished pathway. Viewing the college of my dreams from an insider’s perspective can only be summed up as “enchanting.”
A disheveled smattering of autumn leaves decorates the granite and flagstone pathways that cut through the campus buildings, which range in height and shape. Classroom windows poke through the motley of brick and glass that compose the University’s well-structured halls. Soon, Elisa and I approach the stately atrium, with its slightly cantilevered roof and adorned with curved panels of translucent blue glass. The exterior, though, conceals a more magnificent interior yet. A short corridor takes us to the University’s elegant and ceremonious Rotunda, complete with three stories’ worth of postmodern bliss. Dustless sofas and evenly-fluffed beanbag chairs surround plump, stylish light gray tables topped with miniature potted plants.
“This has literally got to be out of a movie or something!” Elisa asserts, spinning around in dizzying circles, phone at the ready for picture-taking. “This place was the highlight of my tour last year. I cannot believe that I’m standing in here as a student.”
I nod, yet I can’t help blurting, “If only it wasn’t so sunny right now. These ultra-clear windows aren’t doing my eyes justice right now.”
My friend’s left eyebrow shoots up in dramatic suspicion. “Um, are your glasses malfunctioning or something? You should be basking in the wonder that is the Rotunda! Plus, I think the sunlight is quite refreshing this time of year.”
About half a minute later, though, Elisa energetically insists, “Okay, is it just me or do we just have to see our dorm rooms? You’re sure they’re close to each other, right?”
“Same building, different floors. We can go now, if you want,” I suggest reluctantly.
Before I know it, Elisa darts off towards the other side of the Rotunda, apparently ready to immediately progress our settling-in. Despite the unfortunate sunlight situation, I can hardly bring myself to leave the radiant atmosphere of the Rotunda. And yet, Elisa and I must inevitably make our way to the residence sector. Our path, as it turns out, leads us from one architectural wonder to another.
The University’s marvelous residence sector, given the high-sounding misnomer “The Villa Beaufoy” after its founders, is not made up of one villa but several small three or four-story residence halls with sleek windows and cozy common areas.
By throw of the dice, Elisa and I have miraculously ended up on the second and third floors respectively of one of the central halls. Upon entering, the muted red and purple beanbags, along with the gray island and modern pool table on the far side, stick out at me. It takes my brain a couple seconds after entering to process that I’m in a residence hall and not a vacation rental.
This time, the awe must be visible on my face, as Elisa glances at me and stifles a giggle before rushing me up the stairs so I can help her set up her room. Leaving my things outside, I enter Elisa’s room to find that half of it has been decorated elegantly with sketches of all kinds: colored pencil, charcoal, even sharpie. Their creator is nowhere to be seen.
“Looks like my fear about toxic roommates has been promptly assuaged,” Elisa heaves a sigh of relief.
She then sets her two extravagantly-colored suitcases on the ground and beckons me to assist her. We first unfold her bed sheets, including a charming white comforter with tiny cartoon-ish flowers arranged in a very confusing pattern. Then, we carefully place her variety of stationery items on her end table. From a distance, the comforter looks like it would be part of a very picturesque catalogue bedroom. Packed with Elisa’s linens are an assortment of other bedroom subtleties, comprised of a miniature plush of indeterminate animal identity, a pastel purple alarm clock, several dustless animal squishies.
By the time we’re done, the quaint dorm room’s two sides look like two complementary pages out of a decor magazine. They contrast, but they don’t clash.
“What do we think?” Elisa asks proudly, putting her hands on her hips.
“It looks interesting,” I reply.
Elisa shakes her head and sighs, “We need to work on your compliments.”
With that, it comes time for us to go check out my dorm, which appears to be at the center of a row of three on the third floor. From out of the windows, I can see a nearby mini-eatery and several other residence halls. Looking around my room, it’s evident that my roommate has not yet set up, as the entire room is bare save for an elegantly-decorated note from the hall monitor etched with a hasty welcome message.
The look on Elisa’s face is one of pure perplexity as I open the first of my suitcases to reveal the oddly-organized heap inside.
“How do you even…” Elisa starts, tilting her head to inspect the odd manners in which my bed sheets and clothes and arranged.
Crouching to carefully unravel my stash of items, I mutter, “You don’t wanna know.”
We then open the second suitcase, equally filled to the brim, and struggle to lay out my things on the floor to sort them by category. Finally, we manage to quickly lay my sheets and quilt on my bed and categorize my clothes in my drawer based on where they might go on the body. My menagerie of painted clay animals wind up on my end table, and I hang up my assortment of trinkets evoking the sea just above my bed.
“I would definitely live here,” says my friend from behind me after we finish arranging my things. It looks like home. I feel like I could wake up one morning, look out of the window, and see the sea foam fizzling out on the sun-baked sand. I run my fingers over the smooth fabric of my quilt and pretend that the wavelike patterns on it ripple beneath my touch.
“Anyhoo, we should go grab something to eat,” Elisa suggests. “Are you not hungry?”
She’s right—the minutes have dwindled by faster than I expected. I take a glance out of the window, and the rays of light cutting through the mesh of residence halls pierce my eyes. I close the delicate sheer curtains to save my roommate, whenever he arrives, from blindness. With that, we set out.
Elisa’s tour guide capabilities are extraordinary. Within seconds, she’s able to pull up directions to an impressively-rated pizza shop a mere nine minutes from the University by foot. We arrive in less time, yet something is off about the interior.
“These fluorescents are killing me,” I complain, unable to withhold myself. I shield my eyes from the glaring lights, which seem to be boring straight into my skull. All the while, the clamorous retro beat and incessant chatter pound my eardrums.
I don’t want to be picky right off the bat, but the restaurant’s harsh atmosphere forces the request, “Is there anywhere else nearby?”
A brief pause from Elisa ensues. I fully expect her to start mocking me or prodding me with questions, but surprisingly, she gently responds, “Yeah, sure. There’s like a billion places we could eat around here. I’ll try to find something chill.”
A couple clicks of her phone later, Elisa locates yet another fairly-priced restaurant nearby. “Let’s get you out of here, hmm?”
I mutter a thanks and rush out of the door. The next attempt, a meager block away from the previous, is far more pleasing to the eye. The whole place is decorated with a calming sage, and adorable potted plants hang on opaque chains from the ceiling. There’s a bar at the center of the restaurant, but the music playing is jazz rather than drinking music. After determining that neither my eyes nor my ears will suffer anywhere in the establishment, Elisa and I are guided to a seat along the right wall beneath a photograph of some mulleted 80s artist. Within a couple of minutes, a dapper young waiter wearing a Harvard University pin brings us a pair of menus and leaves us to our decisions.
Our appetites stoked, the two of us order as many small dishes as the round wood table between us can hold and gorge ourselves over throwaway conversation. Elisa tells me about her childhood in Milwaukee and I recount some of my memories from when my brothers were still around. I can hardly believe that I’ve found someone with whom I can bond so quickly.
By the time I finishing signing the bill, my friend has somehow managed to acquire the waiter’s name and phone number.
“Oh, don’t worry. If he’s a dry texter, I’ll let you have a go!” Elisa winks.
I almost drop my credit card.
Elisa clasps her hands together, grinning, and celebrates, “Ooh, I guessed right! Hey, fix your face—you look ferocious! I see everything. You would never have evaded my sight.”
She wiggles her fingers in front of her face like a cliche fortune teller. Somehow, I know that I can trust this bubbly young lady with important details.
“Good to know,” I mumble. Elisa giggles heartily.
It’s gotten late. The darkness outside overwhelms my eyes when we step outside. I look around for the nearest lamppost but find that the one stationed nearby has gone out. Luckily, the blinding lights a block over help my eyes readjust nicely.
Elisa retires to her room, offering to visit later once she’s taken care of all of her dorm business. I tell her I’ll text her and walk with lazy steps up to my room, which over the span of the last couple of hours has changed significantly.
The half of the room opposite mine has now been covered in numerous shades of gray. The wall is hastily decorated with posters displaying a sundry mix of artists and bands. Their owner, it turns out, is a lean young man with filled-out cheekbones and a shapeless mass of red curls spilling over his forehead. The sweater he has on bears some kind of indeterminate message in a crimson and yellow graffiti-style font.
Sat criss-cross on his pitch black comforter, he appears to be examining something on his computer very closely. His eyebrows are furrowed in a contemplative look and his hands are fastened in a way that makes it seem as though his fingers are wrestling with each other.
On one hand, I don’t want to disturb him, I contemplate, but on the other hand, I kind of want to grab my books from my bag to do some nightly reading. This seems quite the dilemma.
Fortunately, I am saved by my sinuses. I don’t feel the sneeze ahead of time, yet it escapes me, drawing my roommate’s attention. He beams, bolts off of his bed, and walks up to me, offering a hand to shake.
“So, you’re my roommate. I was wondering when you might show up. I’m Andrew; nice to meet you!” the boy prattles. I timidly accept his handshake, fully unprepared for his vice-like grip.
I wince, but I introduce myself briskly, “I’m Max.”
Andrew snorts. “Not a talker. I see. Your side of the room is so neat, by the way. I wish I had that kind of organize-y talent.”
The corners of my mouth tick upwards. “It reminds me of home. I love hearing my wind chimes in the morning, so I hung them up. And the color blue is just really satisfying for me. So many good things are blue, you know? I really wanted to bring a part of my life with me.”
Andrew pauses, then jokes, “Wow. You are a talker.”
“Sorry.”
He chuckles. “Don’t be. I’m just playing with you. Hey, you don’t mind if I go back to what I was doing, do you? Something momentous is happening right now.”
Momentous, huh? I wonder.
“I don’t mind,” I mumble.
“You seem like a great guy already,” Andrew breathes out a dramatically long sigh and goes back to his mysteriously worrisome task. I take that as my opportunity to dig out my copy of A Passage to India and start reading.
As much as I love Forster, I can feel myself slipping less than a hundred pages in. The words on the pages blend together, turning into delirious forms. I check the clock. 12:32. I come to the exhausted realization that I should probably get some rest to jumpstart my new sleep schedule.
“gonna go to -.- z-z-z” I text Elisa. “talk to u tmr”
And yet, when I click out of Elisa’s contact, I see one more face that I have yet to update. My mother’s cheerful face smiles at me from inside the phone. I tap on her contact, pinch myself to make the fuzzies go away, and press “Call.”
Above painting: Nighthawks by Edward Hopper