Some Things Never Change

The life and times of my 02.

I'm bored," the kid complained. It was the same refrain I'd heard every summer. But this time it took me aback. After all, he was working a full day up on campus, then running along the river in Pine Park most evenings. Often he'd take a post-run dip at the swimming dock, then head back to campus for a few hours of late-night socializing. He'd attended some special events, too. He took two sophomores to the Big Apple Circus, and he floated down the river during Tubestock, the unofficial annual riverfest. When, I wondered, did he have time to be bored?

pants. It was hard to find the '01s in amongst racquetwielding teenagers and "mature-age" students, as the euphemism goes. Some sophomores thought Now, I realize that many students consider summer a laid-back term, and not just because of the heat. The Hop quiets down, the stadium sits empty. But this summer seemed different. The campus seemed busy. It seemed crowded. In fact, it seemed overcrowded. More than 60 summer groups filled the streets, the dorms, classrooms, and dining halls with some 5,400 sports campers, conference attendees, intensive language course students, and Alumni College particithere was way too much Camp Dartmouth atmosphere. Rob Valet '01 vented in The D that the sophomores had been looking forward to having Thayer Dining Hall to themselves. "Food Court was going to be great, or so I thought. There was no one there those first couple days, and the sandwich line was even short enough that I got a sandwich for like the first time ever. Then after that first weekend all the campers arrived and everything slowed right back down to normal." Addressing the "little campers," he suggested that instead of invading Thayer, they could "dig up roots from some of the many trees available around campus." The campers didn't bother to read Valet's rant. They were too busy eating.

Not that all sophomores were above Camp Dart-mouth. From the ease of my auditor's seat I heard Professor Peter Saccio scold the Shakespeare students he suspected had spent more time at the Ledyard dock than on the papers he had just graded. And here I'd been impressed that the class was able to absorb a different play each week. (I admit to having trouble keeping up.) I'd been impressed, too, with the student who breakfasts during class (it begins at 8:45) by shoving a handful of dry cereal into his mouth (try doing that quietly), then swigging milk.

The College did its share of luring students into campy activities. Like the "Multathlon," a run-canoe-bikeswim race that began in front of Robinson Hall, looped around Occom Pond, paddled the Connecticut, biked Oak Hill, and ended up at Storr's Pond. Sponsored by the programming board and the Coed Fraternity- Sorority Council (I didn't realize they talked to each other), the Multathlon attracted 27 six-person teams, including the unitard-clad "Uni" team and a machomuscled group calling itself "The Rock."

The kid missed out on the Multathlon (he was working), but that same weekend he announced that he would be attending a disco party at A.D. ("Don't call it 'Animal House,'" he chastises me as he struts his disco stuff: shorts and a ruffled blue tuxedo shirt from that most unfortunate of decades, the seventies.) Heading out the door, he says, "I can't wait till sophomore summer." And I'm thinking, neither can I.

Students dashed to the "Multathlon" run-canoe-bike-swim race.