Senior Activities

So I've officially graduated college. Crazy, huh? I want to share with you the details and the emotions of the event, but first I have to write about senior week.

Last week, my final week at Fordham, was full of scheduled senior activities. These are all sponsored by the university, and it's a cool way for the class of 2008 to get together and party. Tuesday night featured the first of these events- the Luau under the bleachers.

The Luau was supposed to be Hawaiian themed, but it was difficult to get a sense of that in the concrete cavern under the football bleachers. There was plenty of cheap light beer to be had, so my friends and I capitalized on that. For me, he best part of the night was when we got together and 'rode the ram'; a rite of passage for any Fordham student. There is a life-size bronze ram statue on campus, and before you graduate you have to climb up on it and take a picture saddling up. I was wearing a skirt, so the bronze was rather rough on my bare legs, but we got some excellent pictures, as you can see here.

Wednesday was the senior ball, which was held in a colossal ballroom downtown at Chelsea Piers. I went with my friend Xavier; as I mentioned in an earlier post I needed a platonic dance partner, and he fit the bill. Needless to say, we looked sharp and tore up the dance floor. It was also very cool to see all the members of my class dressed to the nines.

The one glitch in the night came when my date unexpectedly disappeared. Remember when I wrote about my friend Mary, and how she was razzing me about asking Xavier to the ball? And remember my prediction that she would drunkenly steal him during the course of the evening? Well, ladies and gentlemen, Annie knows how to call it; this is exactly what happened.

Xavier left to go to the bathroom at about 11:45, and after about fifteen minutes had gone by, I began to grow restless. The ball was scheduled to end at 12:30; there was only a half hour left to dance, and my default dance partner was MIA. I managed to find his roommates, and they explained to me that they last saw Xavier being dragged out unto the dance floor by Mary. Needless to say, when I heard this news I was incensed. Keep in mind that at this point the bar was closed down, I was completely sober, and I had seen a number of ex-boyfriends lurking in the background. I wanted to be out on the dance floor with my date, not standing on the sidelines waiting for some ridiculous girl to return him.

"I'm going to rain Sicilian wrath down upon her head," I vowed aloud, literally shaking my fist to the ceiling, not caring who heard or saw me. At this point the deejay announced he was playing his final songs for the night, and more people flooded to the dance floor. My anger and discomfort deepened.

Fortunately I was rescued by perhaps my oldest guy friend, a boy named Mark. We've been so tight for years that people jokingly call us a married couple.

"Annie, where's Xavier?" he asked, on his way to the dance floor.

"He's been stolen," I replied, gritting my teeth.

"Come dance with me," he said, and he grabbed my hand and we moved into the crowd. We danced the last few songs together, my head on his shoulder. My anger began to dissolve and was replaced by a sense of bittersweet sadness. My classmates were moving around me; Frank Sinatra filled the air.

"We started it out together, and we're ending it together, Wray," Mark told me and we moved in slow circles.

I didn't know what to say to that; I was quickly becoming overwhelmed with emotion. I gave him a kiss on the cheek.

The last song ended, and me and Mark hugged tightly. I belatedly realized that he had ditched his own date to be with me. Oh well.

And then Xavier materialized, drunken Mary trailing behind him.

"Heeeeyyyyyy!" Mary slurred, but I ignored her. Lucky for her the Sicilian wrath remained dormant.

"I'm sorry," Xavier said to me. "She jumped me. And my phone gets no reception in here."

"Whatever, let's just go get some Guinness," I replied. Xavier and I spent the rest of the night downtown at our favorite bar, Ulysses, where we reminiscenced about the last four years and knocked back some pints, still in our formal wear. Needless to say, his disappearance was forgiven.

Friday night, the night before graduation, was the Baccalaureate Mass and the Parent Appreciation Dinner. As a member of the University Choir, we sang for the Baccalaureate mass, which was attended by over 1,000 people and held in the Rose Hill gym. My parents and brothers came for the Mass; when I saw them before the service was to start the reality of my impending graduation sank in. My entire family had never all been assembled at Fordham before.

There was little time to think about that though, because I had some serious singing to do. The mass went very well. We sang some pieces as selected by the seniors; for my part I picked "Cantique de Jean Racine" by Faure, and "I Was Glad" by Perry. Look them up on Itunes- it's good stuff.

Immediately after the Mass we all went to a huge tent on Martyr's Lawn for the Parent Appreciation Dinner Dance. It was very nice event, with delicious food and great music. I enjoyed hanging out with my entire family; in particular, my younger brother Jack and I had a good time on the dance floor.

And on Saturday came my graduation, but I will save that discussion for my next post...

Fragility

I usually do not post on serious subjects, but today was one of the those days that will sit in your memory for quite some time. I sincerely hope that 'blogging' about it will not trivialize the matter; I consider this blog a forum to stay in touch with my family and close friends, so I think posting about this is appropriate, because I really want to share it with you.

Today started out ordinarily enough; I slept in, relishing the lack of scheduled responsibilities. I met up with my good friends for cappuccinos and cannolis (an amazing combo, especially when you're dining in Little Italy of the Bronx). Over the pastries, two of my oldest friends, Mark and Bill, told me about how there were police detectives in their hallway on the first floor of O'Hare Hall this morning.
"It was really intense; they even checked for our i.d.s to make sure we lived there," Bill said.
"Maybe someone is hiding an alien in their room or something," I suggested, completely immature, buzzed on caffeine.

When I got back to my dorm at about 4:00 this afternoon I checked my email (which most of you know I hardly ever do). I had received a mass email from the university, informing me that a student had died this morning in O'Hare Hall. Suddenly Mark and Bill's story about the police made sense.

I felt sickened and paralyzed, staring at my computer screen. Fordham has an undergraduate body of 6,000 students, but only 4,000 attend my campus of Rose Hill in the Bronx, and a decent percentage of those are commuter students, not residents. This individual was directly in my community.

Information started to leak in from the grapevine; the student was a junior boy, the circumstances surrounding his death were unknown, he had a mother and father and brother, and I did not know him. It did not matter. He was in my little community, he was one of us. I felt physically ill, and before I knew it hot tears were running down my cheeks.

The email mentioned that a prayer service was going to be held at 7:00 in the basement of the church. I decided I was going to go; not only would it make me feel better to be with other members of the community, but I felt it was important to honor one of our own. I asked my roommates if they wanted to come with; their responses were incredulous: "Why would we go? We didn't know him."

I went to choir rehearsal at 5:00; we have to prepare for the Baccalaureate mass on Friday and commencement on Saturday. Needless to say that I sucked. I screwed up songs that I had known for years. It was like I had forgotten how to read music. Some of my fellow choirsters looked equally distracted; the tone of the entire rehearsal was subdued.

I asked my friend Quan to come to the service with me. Before I continue with my story, let me tell you a little about Quan. He is a short Asian guy from Louisiana and one of my good friends. He's always been in choir, and we've recently started hanging out again. He was abroad last spring, and I was in London in the fall, so we went for a year without seeing each other. Earlier today I had run into him when I was going to get cappuccinos with Bill and Mark, and I asked him if he wanted to come with, to which he agreed. It was the first time we've hung out in earnest in months. Quan, who's also a scholastic Jesuit but is in my grade, also today took me to the Jesuit community hall off-campus where he lives, and showed me around, which was very cool. He's been a scholastic Jesuit, which is a Jesuit who's still in the training process, for four years. Overall, he's an intelligent, sensitive, nice guy.

So this evening, after choir ended, Quan went back to his residence hall to drop off his music, then met me at the basement of the church for the service. There weren't alot of people there; after all most people have gone home for the summer. The family of this boy weren't there either, but this did not surprise me.

Father Currie asked for capable readers to deliver readings, and I volunteered, along with one other student and two professors. I figured that I would be able to maintain my composure, and besides, I wanted to help. I read a selection from 2 Romans.

Overall, it was sobering, sad gathering. Father Currie asked for people to share memories of the boy, but nobody spoke. The silence was perhaps the most difficult part of all. I was grateful to be surrounded by other members of the community, but it would have been nice if more were there.

After it was over, Quan walked me back to my dorm.
"This is for you," he said, and he gave me a little wooden crucifix. "I could see in choir how upset this has made you."
"I'm sensitive," I replied, a little embarrassed. I thought I had successfully concealed my emotions at rehearsal. But still I was touched by the gift. "Thank you, Quan."
"You're a good person," Quan answered. "Hold unto God." He gave me a hug and left.

With graduation approaching, this is already a week of bittersweet transition, but this death of a member of my community reminds me forcibly of the fragility of life. Mundane worries about paychecks, grades and boys are not important; the fact that I'm alive and able to relish a delicious cappuccino on a May afternoon is a gift. I also think that it was interesting that Quan came back into my life on a day like this; he was there for me right when I needed someone to lean on. I'm not a deeply religious person, but I can not ignore the spiritual significance of that.

It's almost 9:00 pm now, and I am still rattled and upset by the day's events. Mostly I think of my fellow student, and of his family. I hope he's okay now, and I can't imagine what his family is going through.

Earlier today I planned on baking cookies for a friend's birthday, and I am still going to do that. I think it's important to cherish small celebrations, and some chocolate sounds delicious.

I apologize if this post was preachy; I just decided to be honest. xoxoxo

Academic Achievement

One week to go. One week left in my undergraduate career. This realization brings in a deluge of conflicting emotions; I am alternately excited to leave and at other times I am quite upset at the prospect. Bittersweet is the best word to describe it.

So anyway, this past week saw the completion of my academic career at Fordham. I finished up my finals and my final papers. It was a grueling week but I think I did well on my exams. On Friday after everything was finished I met up with my good friends and we cooked a nice celebratory dinner. I even made brownies; it was quite a culinary achievement in my opinion.

I also attended my last Archaeology of the Ancient Near East Seminar at Columbia University. As I've mentioned in previous posts, The Professor hosts these seminars, and I've been attending them every month for the past two years. Normally the lecturers speak about topics that are way over my head, but this week the presenter was an archaeologist from Tel Aviv who spoke about the Philistines. Keep in mind that I had just completed a term paper on the Philistines.

Normally I never open my mouth at these seminars; the other attendees are other Columbia profs who are well into their fifties and sixties. Speaking would just reiterate my ignorance. But at this lecture, with a subject that I actually had some background in, I raised my hand and asked a question at the end:

"When examining these artifacts, you mentioned that the primary animal motifs were of bulls or horses. Did you notice the presence of a bird motif? I ask this because the bird motif is a classic Philistine design; it's on contemporaneous Mycenaean pottery and also in the reliefs at Medinet Habu."

Killer question, huh? I couldn't believe myself! The archaeologist, an old, irascible Israeli woman, simply replied in her thick accent: "No. No bird motif."

But it didn't matter. I had opened my mouth and sounded like I actually knew what I was talking about! And it got even better. After the end of the lecture, as the professors were all getting ready to go to dinner, The Professor came up to me.

"Would you like to join us for dinner?" he asked. "It's your last lecture, after all. The university will pay for you."

"Really?" I replied, flattered and astounded. "I would love to! Thank you."

So I went out to an Italian restaurant with about seven of the professors. We went to a place close to the University, and the venue was packed with students. It felt a little strange arriving there with a bunch of white haired academics, but what the hell. Over dinner they talked about their days in grad school, debated various theories about the Philistines, and argued about concepts that I had never heard of. I did my best to pay attention and stay engaged, and I am pleased to say that I did well. It was a little nerve-racking, but I held my own. The free wine helped, too.

I viewed that whole night as quite an achievement. I never would have dreamed, four years ago, that I would know enough about archaeology to engage intelligently in debate with seasoned veterans of the field. And I still can't get over the fact that they invited me to dinner!

And now it's Sunday, and this week I will graduate; I'm still trying to wrap my brain around it. There are alot of activities planned for the seniors, and I will try to post more frequently to keep you all updated on this tumultuous, exciting time. Until next time...

The End of Classes

So this week saw the end of my undergraduate classes. I had my last day of regular classes on Tuesday, something that was both liberating and unsettling. First, at 11:30, I had my last archaeology class (Ancient Cultures of the Bible), and my last class with my mentor, The Professor. To be honest, it didn't really sink in that is was my final class with him; I was too busy taking notes, as it was a serious lecture class. At 1:00 I had my final Anthropology Fieldwork class, and again I didn't get that sense of finality; we were too busy wrapping up the course and getting through final student presentations.

But at 2:30 on that Tuesday I had my final class of the day (and of my undergraduate career). It was very appropriate that it was Liberation Theology, my senior values seminar. The class is all seniors, and we sat in our typical circular formation. As I sat down and looked at my fellow seniors, I was shocked and embarrassed to have a lump form in my throat. The reality of it all was sinking in; our time in college and at Fordham was drawing to a close.

In that class we sat and talked about the course and our upcoming final, but there was no lecture or note-taking. Some of the seniors spoke of their plans post-graduation, but the majority of us sat there, staring blankly. A few girls were tearing up, and I am glad to say that I did not join their ranks. I tried my best to keep my emotions concealed in the classroom context.

After that class was over I went outside and stood by the quad. It was a beautiful day; the sky was a bright glaring blue and devoid of clouds. I had oversized sunglasses on (very trendy), and I stood there, absorbing the beauty of the campus and allowing my new reality to settle in. Before I knew it silent tears were rolling down my face (thankfully concealed by the sunglasses). While I saw it as an accomplishment that I had finished my classes, keep in mind that I am an avid lover of academia; in general I enjoy my work. The fact that all of my classes at Fordham were now over was a bitter pill to swallow.

There was only one person on campus I could talk to about this: The Professor. The Professor and I have developed a strong bond over the past four years. I consider him to be my mentor both in archaeology as well as in other areas of life, and I respect him highly. I met him up in his messy, chaotic office and sat in the chair that I have sat in for countless hours.

"You're growing up!" he said to me as I plopped down in my chair and removed my sunglasses, revealing my tear-stained face. "The new adventure in your life is about to begin!"

"Yeah, I guess," I said, rather unenthusiastically.

"There will always be moments of transition like this in your life," he said. "That's what it's all about. I mean, you wouldn't want to stay here for another year, would you?"

"I guess not," I answered.

"And it's not like it's the end of school for you," he added. "It's just the end of school at Fordham."

I nodded- after all, I did plan on grad school in a year. The Professor was so wise.

"You'll be fine, Annie," he said to me, clapping me on the back. "I have absolute faith in you."

I didn't have alot of time to think about the close of my classes; now I am thoroughly entrenched in preparation for my finals. Those will be wrapped up by the close of this week, so another milestone will have gone by. It is quite unbelievable to think that I have two weeks left in my college career...

Spring Weekend

This past weekend was Spring Weekend, the last weekend during the regular school year. It's supposed to celebrate the end of classes and the start of finals. Fordham sponsors alot of events during this three-day stretch, including concerts on the quad and a massive formal dance under an outdoor tent. Among the students, Spring Weekend is notorious for the amount of drinking that takes place; undergraduates make it their policy to remain intoxicated for the entire weekend. This provides for some interesting yet also unsavory situations.

Thursday night Spring Weekend kicked off early. I began to see openly drunk students all over campus starting around 8:00 pm. I was working on a paper and therefore was not in the mood for any alcohol (and besides, I never hit it as hard as most of my colleagues). I took a break to go outside and catch some fresh air with my friends. Outside, this fat junior boy from the debate team (and a friend of one of my friends) plopped down on the bench opposite me and began to smoke a cigarette. He was clearly intoxicated; I became all too aware of this reality when the fat junior suddenly lobbed his cigarette into the air. It landed in the curls at the end of my hair, still lit, tumbling ashes. Needless to say I shook it out, quite upset and angry.

"What is wrong with you?" I demanded, balling my hands into fists.

"You were in my way," the drunk, fat junior replied. He was slurring his words. I was tempted to clock him right then and there, but he was clearly out of it and perhaps could turn belligerent. This is why I don't like hanging out with really drunk people. I headed back into the dorm, seething. And thus did my Spring Weekend begin.

So the weekend didn't start off well, but it got better as it went along. On Friday night I went to the annual Irish-Italian rugby game, which was moderated by a Jesuit. It was pretty exciting to watch, although I couldn't decide on a team to vote for; after all, I am Italian and Irish. The Irish team ended up winning, continuing a winning streak. My friends and I then went back to the room and drank some Guinness to celebrate. Very appropriate.

Saturday was packed full of activities. There was a concert out on the quad, featuring a bunch of Fordham bands. There was also a free barbecue. The bands were rather unusual; I listened to one for over an hour. This band basically free-styled for the entire hour with some never-ending composition. The main singer came up with his lyrics on the spot- here are a few of my favorites:

"Nobody's falling in love! Everybody needs a shove!" (repeated over and over)

"Everybody's eating Dippin' Dots! Eat alot and alot!" (again, repeated over and over)

"If I had some money to go to the record store, I would!" (I didn't understand this at all, and the lead singer repeated it over and over for almost ten minutes.)

The music wasn't that great, but it was a beautiful day and I was outside with my friends, so I enjoyed myself.

The best part of Spring Weekend was the Under the Tent dance, which took place Saturday night. I got all dressed up with my friends and headed out to this massive tent constructed on the quad. It was beautifully decorated inside, and it featured good food and drinks, and a massive, gleaming dance floor. The dance also had a live band, and they were excellent, playing everything from Madonna to Journey. I love to dance, and it was great to be surrounded by so many friends and just let loose. Fabulous is the best word to describe it.

So here's my opinion of Spring Weekend- it's a wonderful way to cap off the regular semester, but it always ends up getting out of hand. It's quite difficult for me to describe the amount of drinking that takes place among my fellow students, but trust me, it is out of control. I like to party, but not to such excess. I mean, every night this weekend when I tried to sleep, I would be kept awake by the drunken screams of other Fordham students. Not to mention that many of my younger friends just passed out cold at parties. This was the first Spring Weekend that I felt really old; I enjoyed the quality time with other seniors, but I have to say I was relieved when it was over. Does this just mean that I'm ready to graduate? I think so...(gulp)

Here and There

The countdown is on! I'm entering into my final week of classes, and I have to say I cannot wait until I'm done with all of the work. The weather has been gorgeous lately, and it's getting harder and harder to stay inside and write papers. All I want to do is lounge on the quad with my fellow seniors and soak up some sun, but instead I am trapped on my room, forced to work. This week, for instance, I've been writing a paper on the origins of the Philistines (don't ask). Instead of boring you with Philistine talk, let me tell you what else I have been up to...

So last weekend I went up to Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, New York, to visit my good friend Elizabeth. It's a tradition every spring that I make the journey up the Hudson to have a ridiculous weekend at Vassar. It's a way more laid back school than Fordham; it's not uncommon to see streakers, enormous bonfires, spontaneous dance parties, and people having epic make-out sessions on the quad. Fordham always appears tame in comparison.

Elizabeth threw a huge party at her house Saturday night, and by midnight the event had quickly turned into a dance party. I danced for awhile and then kicked butt in beer pong, vanquishing every challenger (I tell you, people always underestimate my pong skills). The night slowed down and we ordered pizza at three o'clock in the morning (probably some of the best pizza I've ever had) before going to bed. It was my final springtime visit to Vassar, and I'm pleased to say that it was fabulous.

Other news from the past few days- I recently bought tickets for senior week. Senior week is the final week at Fordham in which all the underclassmen have gone home for the summer and only the seniors remain on campus. It's a week full of class-bonding activities, including a cookout with the Jesuits, a luau under the bleachers, a parent-appreciation dinner dance, and a baccalaureate mass the night before graduation. The biggest event of senior week (besides graduation) is the Senior Ball, which is a formal dance downtown at Chelsea Piers. Tickets were pricey, but Chelsea Piers is a pretty nice venue, and there's an open bar. Many kids go stag, but I wanted to have a default dance partner, so I asked my good buddy Xavier to be my date, making sure to stress that the night was going to be platonic. He agreed to go.

Yes, it would have been nice to have a boyfriend to go to the ball with, but it wasn't in the cards. I know I will have a good time with Xavier; he's a great dancer, and we've been friends for a long time. The fact that I asked him and got it out of the way ensures that I won't be worrying if or when some other guy is going to ask me to the ball. Little did I know that my asking Xavier caused problems almost immediately...

On Wednesday of this week I was accosted by my good friend Mary.

"What did you do last night?" she asked. "Were you hanging out with Xavier?"

It was a bizarre question to ask, but her assumption was correct. "Yeah, I was actually," I replied. I hang out with Xavier and his roommates (also good buddies of mine) all the time; we drink beer and watch sports.

"I heard you're taking him to the ball," Mary said, smiling as if she had just uncovered a dirty secret.

"Um, we're going together, but it's strictly platonic," I replied, raising my eyebrows.

"Oh, sure it will be platonic," Mary said, her voice laden with sarcasm.

What was going on? Was she about to launch into 'Annie and Xavier, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G'?? Why was she razzing me? Then I realized it. Mary liked Xavier. I had inadvertently stepped on her toes. Crap.

"It will be platonic," I replied eventually.

"Sure it will be," Mary repeated, and I made up some excuse about homework and hastily removed herself from my presence. We'll see how this pans out, but I am fully expecting a drunken Mary to show up during the ball and try to steal my default dance partner. Why are formal dances always such ordeals??

A final story from this week- this past Thursday was the last of the senior nights. Senior nights happen once a month; they take place in the student center and are hosted by the university. They are strictly for members of the class of 2008 and feature loud music and cheap two-dollar beers served in plastic cups. Each one has a theme; this one was simply entitled 'Fordham Pride', meaning we had to wear Fordham clothes.

The event itself was alright- nothing beats a hot sweaty gathering of Fordham students in the basement of the student center - but it was after the party was over that things got strange. I was walking back to my dorm with some of my friends when there was a commotion from the quad. We walked over to the quad and saw that there was a small fire burning on it! Drunken seniors were vaulting over the fence lining the quad and running pell-mell towards the fire, like moths to a flame. Soon there was quite a crowd of seniors dancing around the fire, and many more were climbing up on the fence to watch the commotion. They were even shouting encouragement:

"Yeah, FIRE!"

"SENIORS! THAT'S HOW WE ROLL!"
"CLASS OF 2008! WHOOO!"

The weirdest part was when two Fordham security vans drove over the sidewalk, through a gap in the fence, and unto the quad. I've never seen the vans off-road it before. Security guards broke up the crowd and put out the fire, much to every one's disappointment.

So all in all, a very bizarre Thursday evening. I guess my class wants to graduate with a bang and burn the school down. Now I'm off to tackle more of my Philistine paper. Until next time...

Nearing the End

It's getting down to the wire now, and I'm already experiencing some of my 'last' moments. My 'last' set of midterms. My 'last' research papers. My 'last' few weekends of unbridled Fordham debauchery. This past weekend I experienced another 'last' event: my final choir concerts at Fordham.

I've been a member of the Fordham University Choir since day one, and while it has been a big time commitment, I've enjoyed it thoroughly. Singing was always a way for me to unwind; it's kind of difficult to worry about boys, friends, and schoolwork when you are busy at rehearsals trying to nail that precise A flat. When I returned from London this winter, I was elected Vice President, which was a big honor for me and also transformed choir into a larger commitment. It took up alot of my time when I wasn't at work or at class.

Every couple of months we have a 'concert weekend' in which we hold two performances showcasing some pieces we've been working on. Last weekend was our final concert weekend of the year, and we sang Mozart's Requiem, which is a really exciting and well-known piece (think the movie Amadeus). It was exhilarating to sing such an iconic work, and our concerts went beautifully. We had professional orchestral accompaniment as well as professional soloists; we even got standing ovations at the end of each performance. I felt like I went out with a bang.

When the concerts were finally over, and I was back in my room hanging up my long, black choir gown, I was surprised to be overcome by a wave of sadness. For the past two weeks I had been so busy preparing for the concerts, and now that it was over, I was faced with the stark reality that it was never going to happen again. No more concerts. Hell, I wasn't even going to wear my ugly black choir gown again. This realization depressed me. My Dad, who had come down to see my final performance, cheered me up a little; he pointed out that this was not the end of my singing, it was just the end of my time with the Fordham Choir. I was grateful that he put things in perspective for me.

A couple of days ago the choir met again to elect officers for the new year. Being one of the only seniors at the meeting (our President was rather uninvolved with choir this semester), I conducted the elections. The newly elected officers were all a bunch of easily excitable sophomores, but they were also quite dedicated to choir, so I knew that they would effectively serve the group.

Now, at the end of every choir rehearsal, our director Rob dismisses us but always announces: "Officers, stick around." So I never leave on time; I hang out with the other leaders of the group and discuss fund-raising, publicity, etc. However, at our last rehearsal, post-elections, Rob announced: "New officers, stick around. Everyone else can go."

It was a weird moment for me as I realized that my responsibilities had ended. For the first time all year, I was not needed after rehearsal. The new president and vice president, both fellow altos, turned to me and grinned excitedly, ready to take up their posts.

"Well girls," I said, and I couldn't help smiling at their enthusiasm. "I pass this on to you. Good luck."

"Thanks Annie," they replied, and I turned and left.

As I walked home, I felt a strange mixture of emotions well up in me. I was sad about the closure of that one chapter, relieved at the lessening of my responsibility, and overriding all of this, I felt a kind of exhilaration. There's a month left here at Fordham, and before I know it I will be swept away into the uncertainty of the real world, never to return to my collegiate bubble. The post college adventure is almost at my fingertips, although the transition is already bittersweet.

The Dating 'X'

I am a single girl in New York City, a status which inspires either envy or pity in others. True, being a single girl has its difficult moments; it's not easy being the only singleton in a group of couples, and it can be lonely going home alone after a long party and having no man to cuddle up on the couch with. And then there are the nights following a bad date that makes a girl throw up her hands and wonder when she will find a 'good one'. While I have found my singledom to be quite exciting and satisfying lately, I have gone on my share of bad dates.

I find that when you're dating, there's a usually a moment with a guy when the 'X' appears in your brain. It is a sudden and immediate response to your date's behavior, a response that wipes away any affectionate feelings you may have been building. The 'X' makes you wrinkle your nose, shake your head, and ask yourself: 'What the hell am I doing with this guy? Next!' In the past few weeks, the 'X' has appeared in twice in my dating exploits. Let me share those experiences with you.

I went on four dates with Andy, a recent college grad who moved out to NYC from California. We met a birthday party for my roommate down in the East Village. Our first date was amazing; we went to a comedy club down on West 14th, then to Magnolia Bakery for some late night cupcakes, and then wrapped up the evening sitting in Columbus Circle, talking philosophy for hours and observing a dizzying rush of traffic around us. Our second date was classic New York: a trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art followed by a walk through Central Park. I was really starting to like this guy.

On the third date, there was an ominous warning sign. Andy cooked me dinner at his apartment in Brooklyn, and over the wine, we shared a kiss. Mistake. He was not a good kisser. I was not eager to continue. Struck by 'sudden fatigue', I did not stay for dessert.

Not wanting to be so quick to call things off (maybe he was tired, maybe it takes a few tries to have good kissing sessions??), I agreed to our fourth date. I decided to take him up to the Columbia University neighborhood, one of my favorite areas of the city.

"Let's go see St. John the Divine," I suggested. It's the largest Gothic cathedral in the world, and needless to say, quite impressive to look at.

At this Andy balked.

"What if they're eating their Jesus crackers now?" he asked me.

"What?" I replied, not sure if I heard him correctly.

"Their Jesus crackers," he answered. "I mean, what happens when you eat Jesus anyway? What if you throw Jesus up? And what about when you poop Jesus out?"

I looked at him, unable to believe my ears. "Um, you're being kind of offensive."

"What?" he snorted. "You're not religious."

"I go to a Catholic University!" I pointed out

Andy raised his eyebrows. "Fordham is a Catholic University?"

At this point the 'X' appeared violently in my head, announcing itself with a loud buzzing noise. I had to clamp my mouth shut to avoid yelling "Next!" Suffice to say, I did not see Andy again after this. After the 'X' appears, the hapless man is doomed. And besides, this one had also been a bad kisser.

Shortly after dating Andy, I went on a date with Chris. He met me after work and we went for lattes downtown. After the lattes, we walked around for hours, talking about everything from politics to celebrity exploits. We we riding the D train back uptown at about 11:00 when the 'X' manifested itself.

"So, Annie, do you do any drugs?" Chris asked me.

"Um, no," I answered, immediately taken aback. "Do you?"

"Well, yeah," he replied, and began to detail his pot usage as well as the drugs (cocaine and ecstasy) he planned to use over spring break. The 'X' flashed brilliantly into my brain, and I knew this guy was done. Such a shame, because he was adorable.

Dating can be both exciting, amazing, and hazardous. Sometimes it's not easy finding a good guy, and I admit that occasionally I get discouraged. The 'X' mechanism prevents me from wasting time on undesirable candidates, but there's always a little let down when you realize that the cute guy is just not going to work out. The key to getting over this disappointment is the realization that the next new guy is around the corner. And in New York, anything can happen.

Time Crunch

I apologize for the recent lack of posts. It seems that as soon as March started, I have been overwhelmed with work and other responsibilities. Let me give you a run down of what I have been up to lately...

I just finished midterms last week, which is a relief. I spent way too many nights up late studying and working on papers, and I am glad to return to a normal sleep schedule. It is hard to believe that the semester is half over already!

I've been busy with choir. I'm the Vice President of the University choir, so I have a lot of responsibilities when it comes to fund raising, publicity, and organizing other events. Besides this, our spring concert is coming up (featuring Mozart's Requiem), and so our practice schedule has become quite intense. I'm excited for the concert though; the Requiem is such an excellent piece, and the choir sounds better with every rehearsal.

I've gone back to work, too. Twice a week I commute out to New Jersey to work for a contract archaeology firm. In case you don't know, contract archaeology firms are hired by construction companies before any large construction project. The archaeologists conduct a systematic excavation of the site to make sure that the impending construction doesn't disturb any historical materials (like old cemeteries). The result is that the archaeologists excavate, process lab work, and write reports in a very short period of time. You can gain alot of experience in just a few months. I worked with this firm last summer, and fieldwork is starting up again next month, so they asked me to come back and help them out. I'm looking forward to more fieldwork (it's tough but keeps you in great shape), but the commute to Jersey is a killer.

Besides school, choir and work, I've been trying to keep up with my obligation to live it up during my final semester. I've been going out, going on dates (none of them amazing so far, but what are you going to do?), and hanging out in Manhattan. I've been having a blast, but I'll admit my schedule has become quite grueling. It is not uncommon for me to wake up in the morning with puffy dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep. Oh well; as my brothers always say, You can sleep when you're dead.

And of course, hanging over all of this activity is the omnipresent rain cloud called: Graduation/Real World. I still am in the process of finding a job and an apartment. It seems that every time I talk to my parents or professors, they ask me what I'm going to do come May. I always respond that it's a work in progress.

So now it's officially spring break, but I'm staying on campus for a few extra days in order to go to work and catch up on the job search. Saturday I head home to RI to catch up with friends and family, and it'll be nice to have a few days of R and R. Until next time...

Getting Old

It has finally happened. I am getting old. I may be twenty-one, but in the context of the Fordham community, I am a second semester senior, and by those standards, I am ancient. Before you write me off as being melodramatic, let me share with you some of my recent experiences.

Ever since I got back on campus, I have been struck by the youth of the student body. I barely recognize anyone anymore; my old friends have been replaced with round-faced teenagers. You know who I'm talking about- the annoying freshman girls who talk too loudly, travel in packs of ten or more and crack gum in their teeth. And the boys seem no more mature. Every time I go to the gym I am disappointed; instead of the usual hotties the gym, lately it is full of adolescent boys barely past puberty. I doubt whether or not they are even capable of growing facial hair! It's like being back in high school.

And I feel old even in my own room. My roommates are sweethearts, but they are all juniors. Since I am the oldest, they come to me for boy advice or just to complain about their day. I always listen and dispense comfort/tough love when needed. And when the girls go out at night I remind them to be safe and not drink themselves silly. As a result they call me 'Mom'. "You're just like our mom," they tell me affectionately any time I dispense pearls of wisdom. Nothing like being called 'Mom' at twenty-one to make a girl feel like a sexy New Yorker.

On Thursday night I had an experience that further reiterated my older, senior status. I went out with my girlfriend Christen to this cool club in the city called Plumm. Christen knew a promoter who could get us in for free and also get us free drinks. We met this promoter and his two friends (cute, glamorous girls) down in Grand Central and headed to the club. It was a trendy place, and it was such a pleasure to realize that since I have reached the age of twenty one, these types of venues were now fully accessible. No more going out to shady bars!

So Christen and I sat there, decked to the nines and feeling fabulous, and chatted up the two glam girlfriends of the club promoter. They were also Fordham students, and so we hit it off.
"So what grade are you girls in?" one of them asked Christen and me.
"We're seniors," I replied. "What about you?"
"Oh, we're just freshman," she answered with a shrill giggle. "I'm only eighteen!"
Christen and I exchanged a glance. Apparently if you were friends with a promoter, he could get you in even if you were ridiculously underage.
"I'm not in the mood for babysitting," Christen told me when the girls got up to go to the bar.
"I thought the whole point of cool places like this was that there would be no underage kids," I replied.
These girls reiterated their freshman status throughout the course of the night. They got embarrassingly drunk, danced provocatively, and even broke a glass towards the end of the night. They also burned out quickly; they called it a night at one o'clock, just when things were starting to pick up. The few conversations I had with them made me feel old; they expressed their disbelief of my impending graduation.
"Oh, but what are you going to do?" they had asked me at one point. "I mean, your college career is over! What happens after that?"
"I'll figure it out," I replied. After all, with age comes wisdom.

Living it Up

I told myself in January that it was my duty to wring every ounce of awesome out of this final semester. True, I have to get good grades and find a job and an apartment for May, but I also have to hang out with my fellow seniors as much as possible. Plus, I am finally twenty-one and have recently developed amazing drinking powers (thank you, London), so I have no choice but to go out there and live it up.

Here are some of the highlights of my recent exploits in the past week:

Wednesday: There was a total lunar eclipse, and my friends and I decided to make a party of it. We stood out on the quad and drank beer to keep warm in the freezing cold. Towards the end of the eclipse, we were so cold/tired/buzzed that we shouted encouragement to the moon: "You can do it, moon! Eclipse already so we can go inside! C'mon!" Our words did not hasten the process. Other students walking by thought we were crazy.

Thursday: Wrote a paper. Hey, I have to be a student sometime, right?

Friday: We got five inches of snow and had a snow day. I didn't realize it; I woke up early and spent the morning in the library before going to my 11:30 class. It was only when I noticed that the classroom door was locked and dark that it dawned on me that school was closed. I had lost a morning to sleep in! To vent my frustration I had a snowball fight with my guy friends. That made me feel better in no time.

Saturday: I went out into Manhattan with six of my oldest friends (that I've known since freshman year). We went to an awesome little Mexican place on 54th and 9th, and then we went to a local dive bar and split a few pitchers. At around 11:00, three kids decided to go back to the Bronx (wimping out on a Saturday night??), and the remainder of us decided to go all the way downtown.

Now when I say downtown, I mean downtown. We ended up right by the New York Stock Exchange; any farther on the subway and we would have landed in Brooklyn. We went to this cool bar called Ulysses', which boasted imported beer from all over the world. A good Irish girl, I ordered Guinness on tap. I have to say, it was one of the most delicious beers I've ever had in my life. Maybe it's because it's been so long since I've had one, but every sip was ecstasy.

So the four of us sat there in this cool bar, all the way downtown, and I was overcome with this marvelous feeling of satisfaction. Here I was, with good friends, good drinks, in the most exciting city in the world, on a Saturday night. How could it get any better? Okay, maybe Prince William could have strolled in and professed his love for me...

Anyway, Saturday night contained one of those moments that I look to achieve when I try to 'live it up'. I want to take advantage of this unique time in my life- I'm young, finally legal, I live in New York, and I have no serious responsibilities (mortgage, marriage, kids). I know that this time will not be forever, so I have to relish it while I can. So far I think I have been accomplishing my mission.

Until next time....

A Quick Weekend Home

I spent President's Day weekend back home in Rhode Island, catching up with my family. My older brother, who is stationed out on an air force base in Montana, had leave, and so I made sure to make the trip to see him. He is normally never on the East Coast, and I was looking forward to spending some quality time with him and the rest of my family.

In case you don't know, I have an older brother, who's 24, and a younger brother who's 19 and a sophmore at BU. This makes me the middle child, and the only girl. It's not a bad situation really; being the only girl has made me tough, and as a result I don't put up with any crap from the opposite gender. This turns out to be more helpful in the dating world than one might think.

Anyway, my brothers and I used to fight alot when we were kids (who didn't squabble with their siblings?) but now we're in the strange process of forging adult relationships. We actually have to make time to call each other and maintain contact; after all, we now all live in different states. Unfortunately, this distance is likely to increase with my impending graduation, and with both my brothers in the military. Who knows where we'll all be living in a few years? That's why brief moments when we're all together, such as this weekend, are important.

So on Saturday night my brothers and I met up with some of my cousins and mutual friends, and we went out to a Japanese Hibachi grill (I don't know if I spelled that right). The food was amazing, and it was great to catch up with everybody. After that was over we all went to a pub and had some beers, with my underage younger brother regulated to designated driver (hey, we've been there).

On Sunday my brothers and I went out for lunch with my cousins. I have three cousins that live in Rhode Island: A girl who is 25, another girl who is 23, and a boy who is 20. They all live in Providence; the oldest share an apartment, and the youngest is a sophmore at Brown. In typical family tradition, they are all brilliant, good-looking, musically talented, and they also know how to drink. Couldn't have it any other way.

So while we were having brunch, an old man at the table next to us passed out. Two of my cousins are trained EMTs, and they got up and started checking his pulse and breathing, and generally keeping an eye on until an ambulence showed up. The old man was fine (he had low blood pressure, so at least it wasn't a stroke or anything), and I was amazed at the swift actions of my cousins. I swear, everyone in my family is so accomplished.

I had a good time catching up with the family, and before I knew it the weekend was over and I had to head back to Fordham. There's a total lunar eclipse tonight, and I plan to lie out on the quad and watch it all go down. I am not ashamed of my nerdiness. Until next time....

p.s. I realize that there have been some issues with leaving comments... I adjusted the settings on the blog, so now hopefully everyone can comment away!

Surviving Valentine's Day

So the most dreaded holiday has come and gone, and I have emerged unscathed. I am referring, of course, to Valentine's Day, probably the most uncomfortable holiday ever devised by humankind. It's an unpleasant holiday to grapple with when you're in a relationship, because you are inundated with cheesy cards, candy, and other fake signs of affection. And it's even worse when you are single, because you feel like a loser when you are not receiving these lame tokens. There are the few girls that love Valentine's Day, but they are the ones involved in syrupy relationships that are marriage-bound. For the cynical single girls (such as yours truly), Valentine's Day is a holiday that deserves to be eliminated from the calendar permanently.

I made sure to have plans for Thursday night. Normally my Thursday evenings involve watching LOST with my friends and drinking light beer, but not this Thursday. I did not want to seem like a loser; I had to do something more substantial. So when my old buddy Dave asked me once again to see his new apartment and cook me dinner (I had been busy for weeks), I agreed, even though he scheduled it for Thursday night, the only night we both had free.

"So it's okay that it's on Valentine's Day?" he asked me.
"Sure, it'll be an anti-Valentine's Day dinner," I replied. "We'll drink cheap wine and play video games." I was relieved; I was doing something for the evening, but it was not Valentine's Day related. I could coast through the dreaded evening, numbed by cheap wine, filled with Italian food, and in the company of an old friend.

I had alot of work due for Friday (a paper and a presentation), so I spent Thursday afternoon in my room, typing furiously on the computer. At one point my roommate burst into my work sanctuary, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Look what he sent me!" she sang, and proceeded to show me the dozen roses her boyfriend mailed her, along with some other Valentine's Day items. I was a good roommate and indulged her in girly conversation (much oohing and ahhing and 'oh that's soo cute'), but inwardly I felt a little queasy. I was not in the mood to talk about LOVE and WONDERFUL BOYFRIENDS; I was thoroughly entrenched in my role of brooding, cynical, anti-valentine's day creature.

So when it became time to meet up with Dave, I was relieved. Finally I could hang out with someone and kvetch about the ridiculousness of the holiday. I bought a 7.99 bottle of merlot called 'Sweet Bitch' (I'm not kidding- I thought it was so awesome I had to buy it), and made my way to his apartment, where he was cooking up a fabulous Italian dinner.

As soon as I got there, I could see that he was very stressed out about the meal (he was concerned he was going to mess it up or something), and his anxiety began to make me uncomfortable.
"Are you okay?" I asked him repeatedly as he rushed around the kitchen, frenzied. "I mean, it's just me. I'll eat anything."
"I'm fine, I'm fine," he insisted, but I could tell he was not. I became acutely aware that it was only the two of us in his apartment. I threw back a glass of the 'Sweet Bitch' to take the edge off. Dave followed my example.

By the time we sat down to eat, he had had a few glasses, and he was drunk. He's a very skinny guy, and I guess he's a lightweight. It was only 7:00 pm.

"Annie, I don't know how you can just not knock everything off this table, climb over here, and tear my clothes off," he said abruptly. I looked up from my ravioli, mortified. He was laughing, but I could sense truth behind his words.
"Yeah, I'm really restraining myself," I replied uncertainly.
"I mean, I am CUTE!" he declared. "I am so cute!"
"You are drunk," I said disbelievingly.
"Yeah, I am!" and he dissolved into giggles. He went on to say other things that would make certain readers blush, and that I will not get into. The dinner continued, and I ate as quickly as possible; this meal was rapidly heading south.
"I have a really long tongue," Dave boasted next, raising his eyebrows rakishly. "Want to see?"
"No!" I yelled. This situation was unraveling. What happened to my cool, edgy anti-Valentine's Day dinner? I was not supposed to be receiving propositions like this! I was with my old friend, my cynical touchstone. He was NOT supposed to express hidden, bizarre desires to me. I braced myself- if he came over to make the moves on me he was in for a world of hurt.

Lucky for me, he was more interested in finishing his meal than coming over to my side of the table. Dinner ended, and I stood up. "I have to go, I have alot of work to do," I said, without elaboration. Dave was unhappy; he pleaded for me to stay but of course I politely refused. In the end he agreed to walk me to the bus stop. At this point the uncomfortable, druken statements continued (and most of them I cannot relate here).

"I remember when I first saw you," he said as we walked in the crisp night air. "I thought you were so HOT!"
A few seconds later-
"Uhhhhh, I feel so sick! I'm so queasy! I might puke!" he groaned.
I gritted my teeth and sent up a silent prayer. Fortunately, no vomiting occurred. We made it to the bus stop, and I left Dave, and got on the Bx 12 to go back to campus. I walked back to my dorm in a daze. What the hell had just happened? The worst part was, it was only 8:00, and I saw sickeningly cute couples dressed up, out on their way to dinner (the very sight I had tried to avoid in the first place, with my ill-conceived dinner plans). Blehh.

So I guess the moral of the story is, no matter what you do, that day never goes well. Or maybe the moral is, Cum Vino, Veritas. Whatever. I'm just relieved it's a whole year before I have to deal with it again. Happy Valentine's.

A Taste of Things to Come?

So on Monday my archaeology professor invited me to attend an archaeology seminar at Columbia University. My professor (whom I will simply refer to as The Professor) hosts a series of monthly lectures at Columbia, and the guest speakers are visiting professors from all over the world. These academics typically discuss the excavations they are working on, as well as new discoveries in the field. I attended this lecture series last year, but I missed a bunch in the fall because I was abroad. Now that I was back, I was eager to attend the lectures once more.

I bummed a ride with The Professor downtown (Fordham is in the Bronx, and Columbia is on the upper west side of Manhattan), and on the way we talked archaeology. The Professor is my mentor; he's been an archeologist for over thirty years, and I never cease to be amazed by the breadth of his knowledge. I've known him since the end of my freshman year, and I've done independent archaeological work for him for two semesters (my independent study in human bones, for example, is under his tutelage). Besides his knowledge, he is also a practical, down to earth kind of guy. On the car ride, for instance, we were discussing grad school:
"You'll probably want to get your degree before you get married," he had said. "It's easier to get it done before you have kids and everything."
"Well, I don't have to worry about marriage with all the losers I've been dating," I replied (immature on my part, but the statement is true, nontheless).
He had looked at me, raising his white eyebrows. "Now Anne, you know that not all boys are losers. They are just immature at your age. I remember, I was a young man once about a hundred years ago."
See, the man knows everything. He doesn't hesitate to tell me when I'm full of crap (although he'll say it more delicately). I think it's because he has two adult daughters, so he's heard it all before.

So we get down to Columbia, (which is an awesome part of the city, by the way-it's also the neighborhood were Seinfeld was set), and we headed over to this faculty building for the lecture. The attendants of these lectures are usually other Columbia academics, and they all tend to be over 50. The Professor, being the organizer of these lectures, knew everybody, and he drifted off to talk with them while I grabbed a seat at the seminar table and proceeded to drink Red Bull and read my sociology book. I find that the few times I have engaged these lauded academics in converstation, I end up coming across as the total rookie archaeology girl that I am, so I usually keep my head down and stay out of the way.

The lecturer for that evening was great; she was this tiny woman with steel gray hair who had been excavating an awesome middle-bronze age site in Turkey, named Alalakh. She was also from the University of Chicago and had a resume that was over 20 pages long (trust me, I looked at it). All in all, she was a bad ass in the world of archaeology.

All the while I sat there amongst these academics, feeling like a kid who was allowed to sit at the grown-up's table at Thanksgiving. These people really know their stuff, and while I completely admire them, it also makes me realize that I don't know anything- I am a neophyte compared to them. Although to be fair, they all have decades on me.

There was a really old guy sitting right next to me, and I guess he had had a long day, because he kept nodding forward, as if he were about to fall asleep. About every thirty seconds or so, his head would nod foward, and then he would snap it up, startled, and then he would tug at his chin, as if reprimanding himself. Thirty seconds later his head would slump forward again. This process went on for an hour. I am assuming he was not very riveted by the lecture. Hey, we've all been there.

So at the end of the lecture, the professors all went to the faculty dining room for a nice formal dinner, and I had to head back to the Bronx. I've never gone to the dinner after the lectures, but I am not a member of that club. Besides, it costs 25 dollars for non academics, and what student can afford that?

I walked through Columbia's main quad on the way to subway. It is a beautiful campus, and I've always been envious of the Columbia students (my older brother included). There's such a aura of academia at that place; there's a real sense that you are surrounded by some of the greatest minds around. Who knows, maybe one day I'll be some gray haired archaeologist going to formal dinners with a bunch of my collagues at a place at like Columbia. Until then, I am perfectly content to take my classes and drink beer with my friends on the weekends. You're only young once....

Going Out

Every college student looks forward to the weekends. There's no classes, and no work. It's the time to sleep in until noon and stay up till four o'clock in the morning. Here at Fordham, which is also known as 'The Bar School' of New York, there is a very distinct drinking culture that is affiliated with the weekends.

As a Fordham student, you have several options:

-Go to one of the local Bronx bars

-Go to a party

-Head into Manhattan

The local Bronx bars are a common destination. They are all rather unsavory to outsiders; they are small, windowless places, and their wooden paneled walls are covered with sports memorabilia and beer logos. These bars are usually packed with students at about midnight, and they can become smoky, claustrophobic dens of excess. You need strong constitution and a few drinks to be able to enjoy yourself at these places. The upside is that the drinks are cheap, every patron is a Fordham kid, and you usually see several people you know.

Parties tend to be held off campus, and they are usually smaller gatherings. You tend to know more people in these settings, and the crowds are less oppressive. The classic drinking games are employed here, including Beer Pong and Kings. Personally, I prefer parties, because you can leave without your hair reeking of cigarette smoke.

And then there's always Manhattan. Manhattan offers everything, from great restaurants to clubs to upscale bars to movies and shows. Anything and everything you could want is in Manhattan; the only issues are transport and money. Fordham's main campus is 13 miles away from Midtown, so it can sometimes be annoying to shlep all the way downtown (usually a 30 min journey with no traffic) and then head back to campus when the night is over and you're exhausted. The city is also quite expensive, but if you're smart you can go to good places for cheap.

Now, some kids spend their weekends firmly entrenched in one of these options. I know kids who only hang out in the city (usually the older, 21-plus students), I know kids who go to the local dive bars every Friday and Saturday night, and I know kids who prefer only parties. Personally, I dabble. For instance, this Friday I saw a movie with friends downtown, and last night I went briefly to a local bar before going to a low key party at a friend's apartment.

As a senior, my tolerance for the Fordham bars is waning. They tend to be too crowded, and lately they seem to be full of overtly drunk kids, which can be an unpleasant distraction when you're just trying to relax with friends. I remember those heady days when I was younger and I thought the bars were the coolest places on the planet, but now I look at these places through the more critical lenses of someone older, and I'm not too impressed. Oh well, everyone remembers their local hole-in-the-wall college bar, and I will retain fond memories of mine. And in the mean time, I will always have Manhattan.

Until next time...

New Semester, New Classes

So I have officially started my final semester at Fordham University. That statement conjures up a mixture of emotions; disbelief, anxiety, and excitement. I have been catching up with a lot of my senior friends and our conversations inevitably turn to that dreaded question: so what are you going to do after graduation?

I of course have my tentative, general plans (work for a year and then apply to grad school for archaeology), but the details are completely up in the air. For instance, what job am I going to get? Where exactly will I live? At this point, I am not sure. I am too busy getting re-acclimated to Fordham and starting my classes.

Speaking of classes, here's what I'm taking:

Ancient Cultures of the Bible: an archaeology course focused in the Ancient Near East, or more specifically, the Levant

Anthropological Fieldwork: a workshop course in which we actually go into the city and conduct anthropological fieldwork

Liberation Theology: One of the required senior seminar classes

Independent Study- Human Osteology: I'm single-handedly going to organize the anthropology department's human bone collection (which is something of a mess right now) and try to transform it into a proper teaching collection. This will all take place under the supervision of my professor. A lot of independent research is involved.

So yes, my classes sound bizarre, but that's the name of the game for anthro students. Whenever I try to explain my classes to my friends, I always get one of three possible reactions.

Reaction One: You're taking a class in what? Weird. What are you going to do with that?

Reaction Two: That sounds interesting, much better than Econ or something.

Reaction Three: Archaeology? Man, I LOVE Dinosaurs!

I tend to get the third reaction more often then I would care to admit. Sometimes I don't even try to explain the difference between paleontology and archaeology (dinosaurs vs. human cultural materials); I'll just tell them my favorite dinosaur is the T-Rex. Which inevitably leads to a Jurassic Park conversation.

Anyway, I'm sure my classes will be cool, and I will fill you all in on what I'm learning. Now it's time for me to go eat dinner with my roommates. Until next time...

A New Chapter, A New Blog

So here's my first post of my new blog. After my British Blog concluded, I had many people coming up to me and telling me how much they enjoyed reading it. And to be honest, I enjoyed sharing my (mis)adventures with all of you. So I thought to myself, it's my final semester in college, and in a few short months I will thrust into the Real World. It's bound to be a ridiculous year (probably the most interesting in my life to date), and I would like to share my experiences with you. After all, not only do I have to do well in my classes and have a kick-ass final semester at Fordham University, but I also have to find a job and a place to live. Not to mention all of this takes place against the backdrop of the most fabulous/terrifying city in the world....New York. If you stick with me, I promise to keep you updated on my whole new set of adventures. Stay tuned...