Pre-frosh 101: Early lessons in the ways of Princeton

I was grinning like John Kerry on Botox when I stepped off the Dinky, adorned in my brand-new Princeton sweatshirt and rolling a suitcase behind me. I was a pre-frosh then, and young. Map in hand, I strolled eagerly down to Forbes. I was to meet a high school friend there, but my calls to his phone had gone unanswered all day. Puzzled, I resorted to wandering the halls of the Inn, looking at names on doors. Somehow, I found his room.

It was around 2:30 on a Thursday afternoon when I entered the dorm, which seemed eligible for federal disaster relief funds. I picked through a pile of pizza boxes and uncovered my host, who was slumped unconscious on his bed. I shook him vigorously until he would countenance me, and a murmured string of expletives informed me that he was glad to see me. This was my introduction to Princeton.

I had been admitted to Princeton through the Early Decision program, for which I signed a contract saying that Princeton was the greatest school since Plato's Academy and that if admitted I would not only attend but also enroll my firstborn so long as legacy preferences persisted. My knowledge of the school, however, was limited to a tour I had taken the past summer. I convinced my parents to allow me to travel to Princeton to attend classes on Friday morning and learn about the four years ahead of me.

The first lesson I learned was that a good hangover can last well past noon. The second lesson I learned was that true Princetonians — like the one I had just revived — do not take classes on Friday, which destroyed my best-laid plans. Our only course of action was to watch a pirated version of Lord of the Rings — my first experience with campus-file-sharing — and wait for time to cleanse the toxins from my host's veins.

After late dinner in Frist, it was time to begin drinking again, or so I was told (Lesson #3). My generous host handed me my first-ever Coors Light, which marked the beginning of a beautiful friendship. He then convened a drunken task force to espouse the virtues of Princeton — and how eloquent the panelists were! — until 11 p.m., when it was "time to go out." Lesson #4: nobody goes out before 11.

Our first stop was the Cottage Club, where I was introduced to the bouncer as "a wrestling recruit." The only wrestling I was aware of was the tumultuous match in my stomach between Pete Coors and Jose Cuervo, but the ruse was successful. And as the door swung open, I walked into paradise: it was Catholic Schoolgirl Night. My first reaction was that these girls must spend more time in confession than in class. As they poured beer on me and demonstrated the temptations of Christ, however, I concluded that my baptism was a righteous one.

Next, we moved to the Tiger Inn. Lesson #5: You must chug one to get one. I waded through beer to reserve a Beirut table for my compatriots — and I had thought it was a city in Lebanon! — but found that my squatter's rights were being contested by some large speculators. As unsanctioned warfare broke out, I feared I was not protected by the Geneva Convention, for even though I was in uniform (my soaked sweatshirt) I was still not yet a lawful combatant. Just as a pounding seemed imminent, however, another acquaintance from high school — who happened to be 6' 9" — waded into the fray and extracted me.

As my host and I stumbled back to Forbes, he told me that a true Princeton visit was incomplete without a blurred tour through the taprooms of Prospect Avenue (Lesson #7). Then I crashed onto the floor.

Somewhere around 1 p.m. the next day, a phone call from my mother shocked me into consciousness, and I by the grace of God (under whose light she flourishes) I caught the train in time to fly back to civilization. Though I attended no classes on my trip, I learned many valuable lessons that are still with me today. I concluded that I couldn't wait to come to Princeton. Powell Fraser is a politics major from Atlanta, Ga. He can be reached at pfraser@princeton.edu.