I pull down the top of my screen and a cartoon yak turns around on itself. I look around Alderman Maps to make sure no one sees, and the lowered eyes spur my investigation.
With classes adjourning Friday for Spring Break, thousands of University students will embark on travels across the globe. Though some will head west or north with the slopes in sight, and others — this bi-weekly columnist included — will head homeward for some much needed R&R, there is one image alone that typifies collegiate Spring Break: a warm getaway to the tropical beach of your choosing.
Since moving to Paris, I have experienced several waves of what is commonly referred to as “culture shock.” Certain adjustments to life overseas were expected — stronger coffee, catcalls and copious amounts of bread.
Somewhere, sometime, in the back corner of my brain, I made the promise to myself I was only ever going to drop the word “home” in reference to one place. There’s a white house with a gravel drive and quasi-green grass on a corner lot in Richmond. That dandelion speckled plot, my friends, is hallowed ground. That’s home.
Throughout my entire childhood, I was convinced I was going to be famous. I spent an inordinate amount of time alone in my bedroom practicing my opera scales, calling our voice mail and refusing to let my parents pick up the phone so I could record myself singing and listen back to it.
Last Saturday, I became aware of my incredible inadequacy. At TEDxUVA, I listened to 20-year-old Cason Crane modestly talk about his astonishing feat of summiting the highest peak on every continent in order to raise money and awareness for LGBTQ rights.
As a former Dillardian, catching the bus was more than just a means of transportation — it was a way of life. Since then, the bus has not only become deeply ingrained in my lifestyle, but also irrevocably intertwined with my personality.
As anyone who has spent more than 14 seconds with me can attest to, I am rather famous for my awkward encounters.
From those going abroad to the ones who can’t look past the paper due in three days to even contemplate Spring Break, here is a look at some of the more common U.Va. Spring Break-ers.
I found out Santa did not exist the first Christmas I can remember; the Easter bunny freaked me out; I was pissed when I turned 11 and no letter arrived from Hogwarts; and when my first baby molar came out, I didn’t tell my parents — I waited skeptically to see what the cold side of my pillow would surprise me with in the morning. Clearly the “tooth fairy” dropped the ball on that one.
The college dating scene has been revolutionized by social media, set aflame by the innovations of the internet, and recently, a little more tinder has been added to the fire.
Growing up with a Virginia alumnus as a father, I have been at least a nominal fan of Virginia sports for my entire life.
My interactions with hairdressers always follow the same pattern — which is saying a lot, because over the span of my life, I would estimate I’ve interacted with roughly 23 hairdressers. Be it number three or number 17, though, our dealings follow a singular progression.
“Dude, we look like Home Depot workers,” my friend says to the group as we don the bright orange aprons we wear to hand out programs to thousands of students coming to John Paul Jones Arena for the game against Notre Dame.
We grow up being told to find our fairytale, to pursue happiness, to attain perfect pleasure. But what is happiness without meaning?
I’d love to be enrolled in the Engineering school for a day. Better yet, I’d love to be a physics major or a Nursing student or even one of those exceptionally rare Northern Virginia-born “pre-Comm” or “pre-med” first-years.
As a young child, one of the main principles I learned was to always save dessert for last. This began as a sort of mandate from my mom in order to ensure that I did not skip over my vegetables in search of the delicious chocolate that I knew would come.
I have no way of confirming this, but I think this week was a little off for everyone. I can’t remember the last time there were two snow days in a row at the University. Surprisingly, though, last weekend was beyond perfect, and I don’t think anybody — besides a couple of professors with their panties in a bunch — would have had it any other way. We got our own taste of Sochi.
I show up to my class 10 minutes early for the exam. I wait for the rest of my 25 classmates to arrive.
The best advice I have received at the University came when I least expected it. Still floating in the honeymoon period of first year, when the perks and problems of college are still fresh and exciting, I found myself walking along Rugby Road one evening with a fourth-year.
