The "Harvard of the West" turned out to be little more than a conservative country club run in the guise of a university, one of the nation's best in fact. Though beautiful bodies and bare chests would occasionally saunter into classrooms after a rugged set of tennis, the brains attached to those bodies weren't always turned on.

Don't get me wrong. Stanford has its fill of brilliant wonks and serious academicians. But the level of intellectual intensity doesn't compare to what you'll find at Harvard. Introspective souls do exist at Stanford even though they don't have the green and pallid "Underground Man" countenance of the driven Harvard neurotics. Discovery through suffering is not high on the priority list at Stanford mostly because environmental advantages abound.

Stanford innoculated me against Harvard's disease that spring. But as happens with innoculations, I developed a fever that left me incapacitated. It's not that I wanted to suffer, but I craved Harvard. I had unknowingly been tainted by the elitist attitude that nothing could compare to Harvard. I was itching for those all-night discussions with my cynical friends, and I missed the vitality of Cambridge. To me, Stanford smacked of anti-intellectualism. I wanted out.

But my stint there broadened my perspective toward Harvard. I realized that Harvard was just as much a part of me as I was a part of California. I no longer feared or disdained the place. Instead, I could semi-objectively criticize its weaknesses and strengths. I was ready to meet Harvard head-on and no longer worried about becoming diseased by the place. Stanford's innoculation prevented growth of the germ which, I discovered, had been inside of me all along. Once I had recognized my ambitious nature, I could keep my competitive zeal in check and deal with Harvard people without developing compulsive anxiety attacks about who I was and where I was going.

So, I headed back to Harvard in the fall of my junior year. And though I had officially withdrawn from the university in February, Harvard had no qualms about my return as long as I could cough up the money. People greeted me with surprise. They'd playfully give me a hard time: "So the California chauvinist has returned!" I dug it.

Adaptation was easy because I felt so good. It was back again to small-time Ivy League football. The Cambridge humidity left me feeling akin to Blanche DuBois--avoiding all light and begging for another drink. But I got used to it. I was reacquainted with that compulsive Harvard desire to succeed, but I didn't conform. I actually had a good time when reading period rolled around and learned to avoid all talk about papers and exams. God, I was ecstatic about feeling so comfortable, so good. At long last: end of Step 2.

Now I was ready to understand Step 3: I could enjoy Harvard without denying my origins. It was a cinch. I became slightly confused, but pleased when friends would tell me that I have a California accent.

Denying one's origins is a hard thing to do unless you especially despise your parents or hometown. I never had to contend with ill-feelings toward either one, so Step 3 happened relatively effortlessly. But it's not all that simple. Since stereotyping is rampant at Harvard, people tend to deny parts of themselves that might be associated with some innocuous stereotype. For example, though I knew nothing about prep schools when I got to Harvard, I soon realized that they are the source of endless snide remarks. I met preppies who were truly embarrassed about their background. (Of course, there were those who prided themselves on where they had prepped.) In retrospect, I can only suggest facing up to where you are from and trying to understand how much of Harvard is you and how much of you is Harvard.

Adaptation, you understand, is a natural process, or so said Darwin. It simply happens. Awareness of adjustment facilitates comfort, but introspection can destroy. So be careful. It all boils down to Survival of the Fittest. And fitness at Harvard necessitates pain--lots of it.

I'm lucky. I have one year left here. Adjustment was a struggle, but the challenge was met. Now I can't wait to get out. I'll probably return to the West coast, but I am seriously thinking about spending more time at Harvard--for my 25th reunion at the turn of the century