Dear Tom

Salutations! You have just chosen your future alma mater based on the most important of criteria: the Dinky. You came to Princeton because you thought a campus that had its own train line was oh-so-slightly Harry Potter-esque. You loved the dormitories that looked like castles. (I can tell you right now that you'll never live in one. Welcome to Butler!)

In many ways, you and I are very much alike. We both have reddish beards, we both have a penchant for travel and stories and Scandinavia, and when asked our major, we'll both still tentatively answer "Woody Woo." The difference between us, though, is that I've been through a great deal. Let's call this great deal the "Princeton Experience." I am a ma-toor adult, and you, young man, are but a young whippersnapper. So listen up, whippersnapper, as I educate you.

You will fall in love, and your love will be called Hispano-American Literature. Often, you will swoon for her, as her magico overpowers the realismo of your life. You will become enraptured by her modismos, enthralled by her matices, enamored of her maestria. She will take you on a six-month fling to Buenos Aires that will be the defining experience of your next four years. ¡Abrochate, gaucho!

You will soon discover that an occupancy of six for Wu Hall's booths is merely a polite suggestion, and that 10 to a dozen can fit in there if you want it badly enough. Just don't let anyone get up for more food.

John Kerry will lose the election, but your consolation prize will be a really sweet filibuster on the front steps of Frist Freedom Campus Center. This will almost be enough to make another four years of failed presidency worthwhile.

You will discover P-Rides, the path to the South Pole (hint: It involves eating dogs) and the sweet brohamitude of dinnertime fellowship. And all you wanted was some lousy train!

Best Wishes,

Thomas Dollar