You asked for it and the Class of 2019 delivered. After weeks of cajoling, sweet-talking and threatening (*cough* YikYak *cough*), we sent 12 brave souls into the depths of the flames (and one unfortunate ’19, Bryan B, into the arms of HPo) thus creating the next generation of Dartmouth legends. Over the past week I spent some time talking to seven of this delinquent bunch, discussing everything from their thought process to their choice of footwear. Here are the highlights of our discussions.
Homecoming is undoubtedly one of the best weekends Dartmouth has to offer. With its parades, parties, pong and ponderous pile of wood, it’s enjoyable for everyone from the Class of 2019 to the returning Class of 1942 (although visitors may think we’re in a cult). In case you’ve been living beneath the Connecticut River for the past week — or perhaps you can’t seem to remember last weekend — we dug up some clues to prove that this past weekend was indeed Homecoming.
Peak foliage: You just want to be outside all the time.
Students in suits: First round interviews, second round at Murphy’s.
Midterms and hangovers: The only pairing worse than Franzia and EBA’s
Rapidly changing temperatures: Don’t cry because it’s cold, smile because it was warm for so long.
Visitor, looking at Homecoming bonfire: “It seems a little cultish.”
’16: “Biting into a cold croissant is like finding out that Santa Claus isn’t real…for the second time.”
’16, about speaking Portuguese: “My uncle’s new trophy wife is from Brazil.”
’16: “I like my body to be entirely touched by fabric in a weirdly specific way.”
Oct. 9, 6:27 p.m., South Street: Safety and Security officers and College Troubleshooters responded to seven apartments for a report of multiple local smoke detectors that had been activated by smoke from burned food. The smoke was evacuated from the residence and the detectors were reset. There was no actual fire.
Every night of homecoming has its party: Wednesday’s is Tackiez or Lingerie, Thursday’s is Pop Punk, Friday’s is the bonfire, Saturday’s is branches and Sunday morning’s is a pity party you throw yourself as you sit in misery, pretending to do your p-set while really flipping through your texts. And then you see it — the text you don’t remember sending, or maybe you just don’t remember why you thought it was a good idea to send it. But let’s raise our glass to those Texts From Last Night. They’re evidence of a good night, they’re good for a laugh and at least they weren’t a drunk flitz. Continue reading