It was time to leave. We got up, said our goodbyes, and shook out our sleepy legs. We had been initiated into the temple of harsh, greasy reality. We knew the guru's name and what the regulars ordered for breakfast.

Stepping out into the light, we raced down to the river, caffeine and sugar pumping through our blood. When we reached the Weeks Bridge, we took deep breaths and congratulated ourselves on the orange sunrise. --By Heather R. McLeod

Dizzy after the pre-freshman ice-skating party, a group of us had trouble finding our way back to Harvard Square. We wandered into concrete buildings, confused by the narrow streets and ice. We laughed, and got more lost.

Someone said we should look for ice cream. But it was too cold even to snow and what we really wanted was an excuse to keep talking. We found it in a large building which sprawled onto the street. I remember a big red sign. And lots of chairs.

We drew the chairs into a circle, held the paper coffee cups in our hands, and talked about what we thought we had seen here. Other people recognized us as pre-freshmen and soon we had our own corner.

When I came back to Harvard a few days before freshman week, my mother came too. My father thought it would be a good idea. She would be less nervous.

She said she wanted to see the buildings where I had been and where I would be so that she could see them from California. I showed her Au Bon Pain, recognizing the red sign, and then we tried to find my dorm room. She didn't know what she had expected, but it wasn't the bicycle, stray newspapers, and beer bottles on the floor. After that, I didn't know which school buildings we should see. I didn't know which would be important.

We found the Coffee Connection and she looked at me with more calm. It smelled warm. She pointed to the fruit salad on the menu and ordered it for me. I looked at the coffee menu with the dozens of choices and chose the Zimbabwe 53, with honey. She said she would think of me trying all the other coffees, with friends, and the fruit salad.

At the end of freshman week I went back, brought a friend, and sat near where my mother and I had. I ordered Zimbabwe 53 again, without looking at the menu.

I've never tried all the other coffees on the menu.

By reading period, I had found another place that felt familiar--Cafe La Ruche. I liked the quiet noise and music that kept me from worrying as I studied.

I looked forward to going there at a specific time each night--after one library had closed and before I went to another. I liked ordering French Roast and sprinkling cinnamon on top. I liked taking friends who hadn't been there. I liked meeting friends I had been there with before. And I liked thinking that people might know that they could find me there.   --Camille L. Landau

I have always preferred hot chocolate. Hot chocolate is warm and filling. It is a symbol, of winter days and sledding in the back yard with my older brother. Quite simply, hot chocolate is my youth, condensed and poured into one little styrofoam cup. Of course I prefer hot chocolate.

But then I arrived at Harvard and met people who liked the color black and who smoked imported cigarettes--none of this domestic cowboy Marlboro crap. They understood--really understood--James Joyce on a first reading. I met a girl named Anastasia who had a vaguely European-sounding accent and had spent the last four years studying in Paris, London, Madrid, Rome, Venice, Florence, Sydney and other assorted exotic cities. She wore a mauve beret and it actually looked good.

I knew hot chocolate wouldn't cut it.