New Nest, Part 2: Here, There, and Back Again

Olin Memorial Library, Wesleyan University

And so there I found myself, the morning of July 1st, 2012, about to depart on the 800 mile road trip that would not only define my destiny, but also test my bladder control. You're probably expecting a lot from the next few paragraphs. A word of caution-- not many people take intrigue in what I find interesting.

Just as Lewis and Clark adventured into the great unknown, mapping several thousand miles of Native American land that several western powers suddenly decreed had actually belonged to them, I branched out to discover the path in which my life would lead.

On the itinerary were tours at Harvard, Wesleyan, Yale, and UPenn. I had previously toured the University of Michigan in February and was blown away (a strong winter storm besieged Ann Arbor at the time and would only abscond after we left town). As I've never been very superstitious, I didn't think the blizzard had any significance-- it was just a glaring example of the Michigan weather I wouldn't be able to escape if I stayed here. Nevertheless, UMich climbed to the top of my list and would remain until that fateful trip.

Because I didn't feel like writing six more essays for UVA and Northwestern, I dropped them from my list. In addition, because of my deep aversion to student loans and unreasonable debt, this move was all for the better.

My list of schools had dwindled down to five. Only now do I regret not considering Williams or Brown in my college search, but it's all in the past now...

And on we went, leaving at the crack of dawn from my home in Southfield, driving non-stop until we reached the Cambridge House Inn at Porter, a small bed and breakfast near Harvard's campus, around nine o'clock at night.

Within five minutes of this picture I was sound asleep

I awoke early the next morning with less than four hours' sleep-- not just from anxiousness, but also from a rowdy group of drunks who decided to coalesce outside our room at one in the morning. I ran two three-mile loops, passing sleeping homeless people around every turn (a promising sign to be sure) before cashing in on the 'breakfast' part of the inn and heading to Harvard's campus.

My original plan was to take a photo in front of each college's sign during my trip. Surprisingly, Harvard didn't have a sign denoting its storied campus. Strike #1

Before I could investigate whether there was another sort of marker indicating that we were at the oldest college in the country, we were rushed into the beautiful Sanders Theater by sweaty tour guides who, despite going to the most recognizable institution of higher education on the planet, couldn't swing a better summer job than answering the most inane of questions ("are there any badminton teams at Harvard?") for hours on end and entering info into computers for the admissions office. Just for the hell of it, Strike #2.

We were shown the same admissions video Harvard has used for years, appealing to the Ivy Fallacy I spoke of in Part 1 of this series of increasingly narcissistic blog posts. I should want to go to Harvard because I'd be following in the footsteps of so many great people! And hell, if I play my cards right, I might get to wash my dirty fingernails in the same sink that Eleanor Roosevelt once used! Golly!

Finally out walked an admissions officer, who probably hadn't even begun to shave, to begin the long-awaited information and Q&A session. As he spoke, I rapidly took down notes until realizing how big of a joke he was. He presented Harvard as 'not a bad deal' (pshh, $60,000 a year is monopoly money) and 'a place like no other'-- the recruiting slogan used nearly a dozen times in the aforementioned twenty minute video.

His spiel quickly deteriorated into making bad jokes and nervously laughing at them. "There were a lot of moose around there. Meese? Ah, who really knows?" Strike #45.

Then, he actually made a good joke: the average ACT score at Harvard is a 30. I erupted, "HA!", which quickly earned a glare from the Asian parents seated in front of me.

Now came the moment parents and students-- those who were still awake-- had all been waiting for: the "no-holds bar" Q&A session where they could "fire away" with any question on their mind. Up stood parents of all nationalities and religious backgrounds: Asians, orthodox Jews, Russians with strong accents, a man in a Kufi. The Early Decision cut-off date? November 1st. Oh, no way! What is highly valued on a college application? Community service and academic rigor. What? Tell me more!

Me with John Harvard's statue.
Spoiler alert: it's not really John Harvard.
(Yes, I did wear sandals to tour Harvard)

And just when I thought they couldn't, the questions got even worse, probing into the exact process by which the admission officers pick who gets accepted into Harvard.

Okay, for starters, this guy is barely out of college; do you really expect that they would trust Michael Cera's doppelganger with their formulas and secret criterias? Second, why the hell would they ever make it known?

Admission boy wonder's answer was the same thing I'd heard and read non-stop for the past few months: his office uses a 'holistic' approach to review each of the thirty fucking thousand applications they receive every year. Right. Sure. Of course. Strike #563.

Because of boy wonder's ineptitude to field questions, the session suddenly ended, leading us into our tour.

From there on, it's honestly all a blur. The tour guide was unknowledgeable and boring. Worse still, she also repeated verbatim everything we had just heard from Michael Cera. I don't even remember her name.

Thus, I left Cambridge with a bad taste in my mouth and sped on to Meridan, Connecticut, where we would spend the night before departing to Middletown to tour Wesleyan University.

Normally, I would include my adventures getting lost in the backcountry of Massachusetts and Connecticut, but I fear it's far too interesting and would take away from this already riveting tale of my college admissions experience.

After a brief respite, which involved me forgetting my favorite scrub brush/back scratcher at our hotel, we arrived at the Stewart M. Reid House, Wesleyan's purposely charming colonial-style admissions office, long before our tour started. I passed the time flipping through the coursebook and sifting through glossy brochures, extolling Wesleyan's great traditions and values. Hmm. Really? Never heard that before.

Before Wesleyan became impressed as stuck-up and smug, just as most prestigious colleges on the east coast tend to be, our tour started. We were led around by Danny, a super-fly music major with cool sunglasses but bad teeth, and Earl, a chubby sociology major who could easily answer questions (boy wonder should take note).

The first thing that Danny said really struck me: we would never turn around on our tour, "Wesleyan is a forward thinking school" And yeah, I know, it's cheesy, but damnit, it stuck with me throughout the next hour and a half. Now that's good marketing.

Again, the tour all blurred together. We stopped by the student union, the science center, the Olin Library (designed by Henry Bacon, who also worked on the Lincoln Memorial), the observatory, the football field, the athletic center (where I was impressed by the treadmills overlooking the vast forests), and then went back to Reid House. Even now, I can't quite put my finger on it, but there was something about Middletown that drew me in. Maybe it was the quaint shops amidst the new Wesleyan facilities. Or the strange mixture of learning and partying.

Little did I know, I would soon be
calling Wesleyan home.

I was smitten. The information session that followed only preached to choir. I thought I had heard it all, but it only got better-- there was the outhouse (although Wesleyan is very LGBT-friendly-- there's a Bend it at Beckham House event during orientation at which new students bend genders-- this is an outdoorsy group that goes on hikes), the Wesleyan Student Assembly (alumni include two US senators and a governor), Wesleyan's record versus the University of Michigan in football (1-0, thank you very much), the vegan food options around every turn, the relatively small campus, which negated the need for a car, and the general 'weirdness' of the students and teachers on campus. This is where I belonged.

Within a few minutes, however, where I belonged was in a car on my way to Yale for my second tour of the day (the proximity of Middletown to New Haven was just right for me to sit through another rousing information session and tour); and I quickly left Wesleyan. I spent a total of three hours in Middletown-- a relatively small amount of time considering the gravity of my college decision-- but that was more than enough. I was home.

We arrived in New Haven with more than enough time to spare. I went on a quick three-mile run before taking a shower and walking to the admission office, passing dozens of homeless men and women on the way, for our tour at four o'clock. We were greeted by Sam, our tour guide for the day, who looked both overworked and under enthused. We were shushed in libraries, led down narrow streets, and stared up at large academic buildings.

This was supposed to be the moment I'd been waiting for. I'd dreamt about coming here since early my sophomore year. I'd wanted to make this mine.

Now, I was devastated. I came in with such high expectations; they were dashed almost instantly. Yale came off as being stuffy and, like Harvard, too pretentious. There was no reason to go into details about their academic programs-- you were assumed to have already known. And with the tour barely over, off Yale went on my list.

Before I left New Haven the following morning, my choice became solidified. I woke up sometime around four to go on a short run around campus when a downpour erupted on me just as I was at the farthest point from our hotel. Adding injury to insult, I had rammed my head into the dresser when I was getting ready for my run; as the rain continued to pour I noticed my head was now bleeding. Great.

First, the Blizzard in Ann Arbor. Now, the torrential rainstorm in New Haven. This was a Sign.

On the road we went again, logging another 175 miles on the whip, this time to Ben's city, Philadelphia. The history there was overwhelming; better yet, I would be in town just in time for the Fourth of July festivities. What better way to spend the Fourth than in the city where it first occurred?! This history nerd was getting his kicks.

I wonder if the NSA has ever heard of the Liberty Bell...

After spending the day touring Liberty Hall, checking out the Liberty Bell, and enjoying the liberty we had to move from place to place freely, we arrived late to our tour the next morning. Apparently, hosting information sessions and tours at a college's admissions office is simply too much to ask. Instead, and this makes so much sense anyway, it would be so much better to have prospective students meet at the academic offices. Why bother to tell anyone on your website? Let's just assume they all know. Admission tip number one: expect the unexpected!

My notes from that morning berated the unorganized and unprepared admissions staff, though some of what I wrote down were simple observations, most of which are incomprehensible. Let's begin:

• strange smell, not related to shirts or other clothing-- from the city?
• ASIAN INVASION
• half-hour wait for anyone to start speaking-- build suspense?
• no visuals-- lame. this is Ivy League. come on.
• created by Ben Franklin-- when he was senile?? oh. okay, he was 34. whatever
• oh god. please stop talking. another half-hour of this? kill me now.
• boast as much as possible on college app. pro tip right there.
• students clearly hate campus housing
• "What's the acceptance rate?" "Do you really want to know that?"
• clearly not, the parent who asked just wanted to waste breath
• admission officer never answered question
• to parent: have you not heard of the internet?
• 'good' vegan options in cafeteria and in food carts encasing city. doubt it.

And the only redeeming quality about UPenn...

• FREE laundry!

My notes, believe it or not, continue on for another two pages. They, however, deteriorate into illiterate scribble due to my copious amounts of boredom and the aforementioned noxious smells.

But I made it out of Philly alive, at least. And back home we returned. And this is when the hard part started...

Stay tuned as Fred makes the decision that will change the course
of the rest of his life, even though you already know what happens.