How a Californian 'dude' found himself at home at Princeton

I used to envy the "townies" a whole lot when I first got here. Princeton wasn't just a school for them; it was a home, a well-known habitat that yielded few surprises by the time they got to FitzRandolph Gates.

The total distance of their trek to campus was a few angry blocks of crooked cement, and perhaps a stop light or two. Even these wouldn't have been much of a problem, as the New Jersey "law" of pedestrian superiority would have been common knowledge to all of them.

The aggravation I felt as a result of god-awful humidity of the September sky would have cuddled them like a reassuring environmental baby blanket.

And, had they somehow forgotten to pack their shower shoes in their carry-on baggage, they wouldn't have had to brave the seething metropolis of bathroom bacteria on bare feet. Mom could have just picked up some sandals from the laundry room and brought them by. Piece of cake.

And that wasn't even the tip of the ice berg.

The "townies" didn't have to traverse the rocky terrain of unfamiliarity that the rest of us all were struggling with. They were both at school and at home, and the customs of Princeton life were merely the customs of everyday life to them.

The rapidity of movement, the dark (usually all-black) clothing, the curt attitudes, the way everything — even convenience stores like the 'Wa — is adorned with Princetonian memorabilia, the way everyone shies away from eye contact, the overabundance of pizzerias and dearth of Mexican cantinas — these were the facts of life, the very way that the world was created for the "townies."

And for me — a wide-eyed, poofy-haired, red shirt and green shorts wearing Californian "dude" who had spent but a few fleeting hours in Princeton before move-in day — the "townies" seemed to have all the luck.

I cringed at the awkwardness of the weather and tried to grasp the attraction to haircuts that homogenized everyone into a mass of Abercrombie ads. For a few days I was puzzled as to why a coffee company named L.L. Bean would be making backpacks, and I felt a little bit out of place because my very own model (with my initials to boot) was still back at their roasting factory. Many nights saw me staring at the back-alley brick wall of my Butler single, my mind lost in an ocean of contemplative confusion.

Where had the beach gone? What had everyone done with the salsa? Where were the girls in short skirts? Who had destroyed all the movie theaters? And when had everyone gone and traded in their Descendents CDs for Dave Mathews crooning?

Dorothy said it best, I think. I wasn't in Kansas. Or California. And for a good while, I couldn't understand why I had left.

I looked to the "townies" and saw how happy they were, how their arrival on campus had been a giant step in their lives, but one that left them only a stone's throw from home. I figured that had I gone to school back at UCLA I would have felt a lot like them, a lot like I had finally been introduced to an old friend that I had never met. Princeton was an unexplored backyard to all of the townies, and it was the final piece in their puzzle of home. For me, Princeton was whole new backyard, a brand-new puzzle that I wasn't quite sure I would ever figure out.

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As the sun traveled around the spinning globe, my heart tossed and turned from lonely to fearful to bitter and finally to apathetic.

Each day presented new people, new places, new ideas, new ways of living. For the longest time, I felt that I could never buy into any of it, any of the Princeton way of life.

Everything except for the academics of this institution felt foreign and, somehow, not quite right for me. Perhaps my expectations had been a little bit too high, or perhaps I just didn't know what I was getting myself into when I signed away four years of my life to a small suburban town in New Jersey.

What I did know was that I was not happy here and that the root of my irritation was my inability to see eye to eye with the people, places and community that I had been transplanted into.

And, with each fall break or winter vacation or intercession, my fondness for home grew and my frustration with Princeton intensified.

As spring rolled around, though, I came back to my room to find that I had begun to piece the puzzle together.

Strewn across my desk between my copy of Dante's Inferno and the rough draft to the corresponding essay was the border of my Princeton puzzle, completely connected. I realized that I knew every building on campus; that the "townies" now had names; that I was coming to know that a sunny sky didn't always mean sunny-sky clothes; that Panera had really good German chocolate danishes.

I started to laugh at the incoming prefrosh and other visitors and their obviously non-Princeton mannerisms, the way that they looked at buildings with awe and actually believed that our school lacked a Greek system.

Pretty soon, I realized that I was laughing because the incoming prefrosh and other visitors were not Princetonians. They weren't from here, and I could tell. Ironically, they were looking at me as if I belonged here.

Suddenly, the "townies" and I weren't all that different, and my position as dutiful malcontent had been compromised.

I realized then and there — as I sat out on the McCosh sundial watching the lines of prospective students pass my precept — that I had bought into Princeton life. The home of the "townie" had become my residence, and I knew it almost as well as they did.

Pretty soon, I realized, I'd be a sophomore with a pretty good grasp on what Princeton life was all about. Pretty soon I'd be the envy of some lonely, confused freshman caught far from home.

Only, there isn't any reason for that Californian kid to be envious. He's got more things going for him than he knows. He'll never see home the same way. It'll somehow be transformed into more.

Sure he'll get out here next September and wish that he could feel the sense of home that all the "townies" feel.

But soon enough, it'll be May and he'll get over the Sierra Nevada's in that 747 on his way back from his first year of college, and swoop down into the valley with a rush of nostalgic joy.

All the reasons that made home so great will be apparent as the wheels touch the ground. He will have gained a perspective that none of his friends back at UCLA could have appreciated. While they all get on the freeway to transport their stuff back home for the summer — while all the Princeton "townies" make their cross-town trek back to their driveways — he'll be experiencing the culture shock of 3,000 miles. He'll understand why the heartache of missing home was so worth it. He'll understand why he chose to come to Princeton. Alfred Brown '05 is from Manhattan Beach, Calif. He can be reached at aebtwo@princeton.edu.