The blink of an eye

F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote that Amory Blaine loved Princeton from the first, and it's been that way for me, too. From pre-frosh parties in my hometown to the "Beginnings" DVD to the first glimpse of my freshman roommate in our hallway — fantastic for me, though later my roommate would tell me that at first sight, I looked like a douche — my time at Princeton has been a love affair from the onset. Not even early setbacks could dampen my spirits. I remember showing up at a fraternity party during orientation week on the night of a hurricane; my ratty black T-shirt and jeans ensemble (sensible, I thought, given the storm) didn't exactly fit in perfectly at my very first "Golf Pros and Tennis Hos" night. But I wasn't fazed.

Looking back four years later, the memories are all wonderfully jumbled, the results of an exhilarating rush that has continued unabated. It seems like 100 years have gone by since that day when I stood as an innocent young 18-year-old in the Butler quad with my mini-fridge. Nowadays, I look at certain freshmen, and they look and act like they're 12. I see freshmen sorority girls amble up the Frist Campus Center staircase in '80s gear yelling about whether they all have appropriate passes, and I can't help but hum "Sunrise, Sunset." DJ Bob might as well be on my speed dial, and 2007 isn't just my class year, but also the number of times I've heard "Don't Stop Believin'." In fact, I think the longest relationship I've ever been in with a woman is my email correspondence with the beguiling Undergraduate Housing Manager Angela Hodgeman.

As I get ready to graduate, it seems like it all went by in the blink of an eye. I walk around campus some days, and I wonder if I really have to leave. People ask me if I wish I had gone abroad, and I say that I suppose it would have been nice. After all, Florence might have charms not wholly mimicked by Teresa's. At the same time, I wouldn't have wanted to leave for a second. I don't want to leave, even now. I can't even imagine having one semester less.

So now, looking back on it all, what do I say about a place that is the best? What do I tell the school that has everything?

I suppose I could write about how Carousel is underrated, that the ambience is fantastic (it's always deserted, and, given its prime location, it must be a mob front to keep up with the rent), that the service is charmingly bungling and that the food turns out better than you'd expected. I could write that the East Asian Library is a great place to study, that Murray-Dodge used to be better and that the cluster in the basement of McCosh Hall is a hidden gem that more people should use.

But I think that my love for this place is best captured by what I've only just discovered: the feeling that I know a million and a half people. I know of no other campus where everyone seems to know everyone. My friends at other schools have their balkanized cliques; they atomize in their freshman year and never really seem to engage beyond their core cadre of acquaintances. But here, as you amble gently over the well-manicured lawns and pleasantly stroll through the bucolic scene, you're bound to run into someone you know. Sure, it can lead to myopia at times (freshmen and sophomores, do your work: Your GPA is more important than the social contacts you're making with your casual robo partner), and the "everyone-knows-everyone-else's-business" vibe can make the campus feel like a Jane Austen novel.

But that's also part of Princeton's charm. Is there anything more pleasant than knowing that it's impossible to walk from the slums to a meal without seeing someone you know? Isn't it reassuring to know that, without having to make plans, you can triumphantly plop down at dinner — be it in the dining hall, Frist or an eating club — knowing full well you're going to find a crowd of people you like to eat with? If you go through the hard-copy freshman Facebook your senior year, chances are good that there won't be many faces that you don't recognize. The people here — the vast swath of interesting, dynamic people here — are what make this place special and what make these years so damn lovely. Especially around this time of year, amid the blooming magnolias and twinkling lights of Houseparties, it's enough to make you think your hill of beans is a worthwhile hill of beans indeed. Tyler Allard is a senior history major from Washington, D.C. He can be reached at tallard@princeton.edu.