Of all the things I miss about Amherst, I miss Valentine the most. Let me tell you what I had for dinner tonight: a "blueberry muffin" Tri-O-Plex bar, a bowl of cottage cheese mixed with applesauce, a banana, half a bag of baby carrots and, to top it off, a peach yogurt.
This, sadly, is almost routine-to the extent that any routine exists in my diet these days. For every time I try to cook a vaguely legitimate dinner (i.e. throw raw food willy-nilly into a frying pan), I eat at least three makeshift ones (see above). And lunch, since I steal it from work every day, is something of a take-what-I-can-get affair.
Even more sadly, these makeshift dinners are not the worst of my eating exploits. My nutritionist-yes, I have a nutritionist as there's no AA for compulsive eaters-was far more appalled by what I ate last Saturday when I'd gone to Mission Beach in San Diego with Dan, Scott and three of Scott's friends from college (Pomona). This is where the Pomona guys had spent their senior week, so it should come as no surprise that the day's main activities included eating burritos and vodka watermelon, drinking beer and flirting with danger in the ocean. ("Anything besides burritos, beer and vodka watermelon?" my nutritionist asked. "Yes," I admitted, unable to look her in the eye. "I also had a large bag of corn nuts.")
Indulgent weekends like this-completely free from papers, reading or upcoming tests to worry about-are my favorite thing about the real world. With this freedom in mind, Scott and I agreed to go on some adventures every weekend while we were in L.A.
This weekend, the adventure was another quintessential California experience: skiing and surfing in the same day. As inconceivable as it sounds, it's not hard to manage out here. Hence, we were in no rush. I slept until noon, but we still made it to Pomona (where we picked up Scott's girlfriend, Lauren) with plenty of daylight to spare. On the way to Lauren's room, I got an impromptu tour of campus; here was where the organization Scott started met, there his room senior year, here the courtyard where many school-sponsored parties took place (these were school-sponsored keg parties on an outdoor courtyard, lest you confuse this place with Amherst). After a quick look at the garden in bloom on her balcony, we were off.
Fifteen minutes later, a chairlift brought us through the mist into another universe: There was snow; there could have been skiing, but none of us wanted to pay to rent skis, so we had a snowball fight. It was not, however, cold; an outdoor dance party was in full swing. We arrived in time to see the costume contest won by an especially hairy man (#69) who wore only a ski bib as a loincloth. And 15 minutes later, we were back on Lauren's balcony, surrounded by lush green plants. Scott and I then went to the Pomona soccer field. It was as nice a field as I'd ever stepped on-the kind of field, we realized, that we'd never again play a meaningful game on after graduation. As we kicked the ball back and forth, Scott regaled me with tales of past glories on this field, with the requisite interjections of "I'm so jealous you have another season" mixed in.
When it was time for dinner, Scott had only one condition: no eating at the dining hall. He didn't want to run into everyone, he said. Seeing everyone is exactly what I miss about Valentine, not the food. After college, you simply can't see your friends as often as you once did. If Zack ever called me at school, he wanted to know either a) where I was, why I wasn't back in the room and when I'd be back, or b) where I was, why I wasn't out at some party with him and when I'd arrive there. We didn't call to schedule appointments to hang out; we called, surprised that we weren't hanging out already.
But on the outside, there are jobs, commute times between each other's apartments, sneak-attack traffic jams to complicate those commutes and mitigating circumstances. In short, just hanging out requires effort-and I'm not talking about the walk from the socials to the Triangle. In fact, the real world renders certain types of interaction essentially impossible. I can't take a five-minute break-which would inevitably become a 45-minute break-from writing this column to discuss the merits of a beer and a caffeine pill on writing productivity with Dan (he is vociferously in favor).
Valentine, a place everyone on campus must visit several times a day, provides a locus for unscheduled encounters. Sit in Val long enough and you'll see everyone you want to see. At Sunday brunch every week, that's exactly what I'd do. "Once you've graduated, though," said Scott, who also deemed mealtimes his favorite part of college, "you just don't want to see everyone all over campus. It feels weird. You'll understand next year." He had spent the day remembering and approximating life at Pomona, but the one boundary of nostalgia he wouldn't cross was the threshold of the dining hall.
Driving back after dinner, we decided to make good on our titles as Dan's two biggest "soccer dork" friends, so we went to Ye Old King's Head pub to watch a bad German league game.
As last call approached, and it became clear that Zack and Dan wouldn't be joining us, we started toasting-to a place where sand and snow could fit into the same day; to British pubs, whose broadcasts of European soccer games offer a reason to start drinking before noon; to each other and our willingness to kick it at almost any time, in spite of jobs, commutes and having met in L.A. only a couple of months ago.
By closing time, we were drunk enough to get into the water without noticing how cold it was, so then we hit the beach. Technically, I guess we didn't ski or surf that day. But we did have a snowball fight, we body-surfed and we touched the last post out from the waterline under the Santa Monica pier. Swimming out that far at night-in the dark, choppy water-probably isn't advisable, but I'm now confident that I won't get washed out to sea.
As Ian laments the new "07E" affixed to his e-mail handle, he looks forward to seeing everyone at Sunday brunch in Valentine once he returns to campus next fall. He welcomes comments, questions and especially recollections of last night's parties at iglovett@amherst.edu.