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I have to say, as I traveled down the east coast of Sydney, Australia, this summer, I was disappointed to learn that “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way” did not exist. However, I was glad to learn that at least the East Australian Current was real, although I voyaged by plane and car to get to Australia, rather than floating along the EAC with 200-year-old sea turtles.
A play within a play. A murder mystery within a romance within a family drama within a coming-of-age story, all within a socio-political satire about Asian-Americans, created by Asian-Americans. “Charles Francis Chan Jr.’s Oriental Murder Mystery” — a mouthful of a title, yet fittingly convoluted just like its subject matter — is the very first play in Princeton’s theater department to feature a cast of entirely Asian-American actors.
Unlike some study spaces on campus, the Rocky Common Room is hardly ever empty. At least during the regular school year, you can almost always find someone working late into the night or coming in early to catch the morning light through the glass windows.
1. A confession: I make lists of what we might fight about (don’t worry, this is not that kind of list). I’m terrified of the inevitable mistakes, hurt, poisonous words. I can (and frequently do) imagine several lifetimes’ worth of failures and heartbreak, and it’s almost enough to make me want to run far, far away.
While love does not seem like the type of thing you learn from a textbook, at a lecture, or in a seminar, it has been studied in everything from history to sociology and psychology. Unsurprisingly, at Princeton, there are many classes that provide unique opportunities to learn more about love — how it has been written about, how it changes social relationships, how it relates to current politics — and so on. While we can’t promise that these classes will make you an expert in love, they may give you some insight on on how to talk about it.
With gallery walls and floor spaces adorned with a vast assortment of fine paintings and statues, it is hard for any patron visiting the University Art Museum to not feel a sense of romanticism in the air. On Feb. 11, this sense was further heightened when the recurring Art for Families series dedicated their event, Art from the HeART, to telling some of the great love stories behind select museum works.
This could have been a story about us. About how I felt lonely one night, and went on that app that people use for 'a good time.' How I found you. This could have been a story about how we eventually decided to meet after a few days of talking. About how I bragged to my friends that first night after we had sex even though we had sworn we wouldn’t.
This week, while most students were preoccupied dreaming up their own Valentine’s Day wishes or plans, I took the time to sit down with professor Suzanne Staggs and lecturer Jason Puchalla to talk about being a married couple in the Princeton bubble. Staggs has been a professor of physics at Princeton for roughly 20 years now, focusing on cosmology and astrophysics, while Puchalla is a physics lecturer and maintains an active research lab, investigating a wide range of biophysical phenomena.
At Princeton, it’s easy to justify being too busy, too stressed, or simply too tired to even consider being romantically engaged on Valentine’s Day. Despite being scholars, artists, and scientists, it seems as though we haven’t yet managed to crack the formula of finding love — but perhaps there are things that will get a Princeton student to fall in love with you. This week, the Street suggests ten ways to get closer to a Princeton student’s heart:
There are certain expectations that one has when going to a dance show. One anticipates seeing dancers in beautiful costumes gliding across the stage in ways that seem to defy gravity and human anatomy. One expects to hear music that perfectly captures the quality of the movement on stage, and one awaits to be swept into an alternative reality in which movement becomes the best medium to convey pain, passion, love, and what it means to be human.
As an ode to Valentine's Day this week, The Street interviewed four random students on campus to get a glimpse of what makes Princeton students feel loved. We received a variety of responses, which range from family and friends to a cup of Campbell’s tomato soup.
On Jan. 27, President Donald Trump signed an executive order that limited the entry of any refugee awaiting resettlement in the U.S for 120 days. According to the Department of Homeland Security, “For the next 90 days, nearly all travelers, except U.S. citizens, traveling on passports from Iraq, Syria, Sudan, Iran, Somalia, Libya, and Yemen will be temporarily suspended from entry to the United States.”
For many students, the University’s campus is like a second home. Throughout their four years here, campus transitions from being an undiscovered site to a comforting bubble where fun and work intersect. However, some students who arrive on campus for their first school year have called Princeton a part of home long before the first day of classes.
I’m biking down the familiar cobblestone pavement of the medieval downtown area of Münster, Germany. I feel the little bumps below me causing tingles in my body, and I try to evade the raindrops that are rushing through the leaves above my head. Suddenly, the avenue ends, and I have to face the fact that I will be completely soaked by the time I arrive in the city center.
If you were to take out a world map, search for the little sweet-potato-shaped green dot to the right of China — beneath Japan and South Korea — and point at its lower half section, you’d find my hometown: Kaohsiung, Taiwan. When people think of Taiwan, they most often think of Taipei, our country's capital. The difference between Kaohsiung and Taipei can be simplistically likened to the difference between South America and North America, California and New York, suburb and city, stroll and power-walk, or areca trees and skyscrapers — we operate in different universes of human interaction.
Departing the whirlwind of Princeton on school breaks never fails to provide a return to childhood. At the same time, it provides a poignant reminder that, as a college student, I'm caught between two worlds — childhood and adulthood — often without a firm foot in either. At school, scrolling through Facebook memes about exams, sleeping at odd hours of the day, and receiving emails from professors reminding me about item 937 on my list of things to do, I can't help but daydream about entering my house, smelling my favorite home-cooked meal wafting in from the kitchen, and feeling that — in a world of seeming chaos — at least some things never change.
“¡Guadalajara, Guadalajara!” is the opening line of one of Mexico’s most famous mariachi songs and is also the official hymn of my hometown. Affectionately called “La Perla de Occidente” (“The Pearl of the West”), this city is the birthplace of some of Mexico’s most legendary symbols.
Coming from Beijing, I grew up in what Chinese people would call a "dayuan" which, translated directly, means “big courtyard.” The word specifically refers to a kind of self-sufficient residential community for retirees from state-owned companies or the military. Built to cater to the needs of seniors who don’t travel a lot, dayuans normally have everything: a few dining halls, a convenience store, a hospital, a library, and even a kindergarten. I guess Beijingers do believe that your living environment shapes who you are.