The Yard always looks pretty much the same. When it's nice out, you can see things with remarkable clarity--from a window in Holworthy you can pick out people frolicking in front of Matthews, and the sound of stereos blaring out of windows rattles the sills far into the night. Saturday night was that kind of evening, but it was special because it was the first big night of Freshman Week, that unavoidable whirl of partying, anticipation and one-upsmanship that is somehow an appropriate introduction to the strange little world that is Harvard.

Everyone has their own personal Harvard horror story, but many focus in retrospect on their experiences during Freshman Week, and with good reason. Some really enjoy the week--the more outgoing types and those from far away seem to fare best. Saturday was probably the best night to watch the goings-on; it's too soon for people to be turned off by the Velveeta-like sameness of the parties.

Several things distinguish the class of 1981, which arrived in force Friday and Saturday, from its predecessors. Perhaps the most important change is that the entire class is housed in the Yard. In the interest of more normalized relations between the sexes, the Class of '81 boasts the best male-female ratio in the history of the University: 1.87-to-1. Finally, 80 per cent of this year's crop of future leaders have already declared themselves either pre-law or pre-med, according to the Freshman Dean's Office, a statistic that boggles the minds of those who believe in free will.

But Freshman Week itself never really changes, and the masses of people milling in and around Weld Saturday night didn't look much different from the same crowd two years ago. The women wore more makeup, it seemed (and of course there were more of them), and the men seemed to have shorter hair, but the topics of conversation remained the same:

"You look exactly like someone I know. Where are you from?"

"I'm from New Jersey."

"Oh, sorry, you look exactly like a friend of mine."

"Yeah, I've been having that problem a lot these days."

"Hey, here's Steve!"

"No, my name's John."

"Oh, sorry."

People drift around, looking for others to talk to. Some wear a look of cultivated superiority, others look drunk, others just look lonely. Groups of strangers form, usually centered around one or two women, and dissolve just as quickly. In the Weld foyer, a few erstwhile musicians bring out guitars. Soon they are joined by a flautist, and they begin to play: "Heart of Gold," "Can't Buy Me Love," "Johnny B. Goode," and "The Boxer."

A woman sweeps by in a slinky dress with a remarkably low decolletage. Heads turn as she passes, leaving a wake of admiring comments. Men seem bent on cornering women, on getting them away from possible competitors, but they rarely succeed. The ratio isn't that good yet, apparently. No one remembers names. Someone actually asked his companion what his SATs were. A guy wearing a Lacoste shirt (the international symbol of preppiness) climbs the stairs in Weld North, claiming he is "trying to perfect his preppie image."

It's a deep flashback for upperclassmen scouting out the territory, and the memories are fresher than one would like to admit.

Despite the sameness of the scene, there's another difference in this year's freshmen, one that can only be perceived by talking to them. It is the continuation of a trend that started several years ago, part of the incredibly overwritten "new mood on campus," which is now the old mood. It is reflected in the rampant pre-professionalism (that 80 per cent figure is the highest ever) and an increasing depoliticization. This is not just a move away from leftism--although that, too, is evident--but a move away from all political interest or conviction. Of course, it is risky to generalize from a few conversations, but the trend seems to be confirmed once again.