"Are you married? I have a cubic zirconia," said the drunk college student as he stumbled towards us.

We had hit Harvard Square hard that Friday night. Although we had been drinking together for three years, never before had our age matched our i.d.s. This night was our opportunity to barhop, courtesy of The Crimson.

At 10 p.m., we arrived at Pizzeria Uno's Sunflower Cafe (22 JFK St.), with its relatively mellow, boring atmosphere. We had often stuffed our faces with pizza upstairs, but we had never ventured into the depths of the building, because we knew the bar there carded. But tonight, with legal driver's licenses in hand, we went downstairs.

We walked past the dark wood bar and saw an empty table next to a sailor and his date. We couldn't resist. Madonna's "Lucky Star" played in the background, interrupted periodically by annoying calls of "John Smith, party of three."

The waiter came promptly, and we ordered two Bud Lites--no sense in getting blitzed right off. She carded us, and we proudly handed over our i.d.s. Although the beers cost $3 each, the portions were ample.

College students, mostly from elsewhere in the Boston area, were seated at both low and high tables on genuine imitation leather chairs. Brooke stared at the electronic message board, reading the red letters streaming across it. "Tyson accuses Givens of faking a pregnancy to lure him into marriage."

When Madonna's "Lucky Star" came on for the second time in 20 minutes, we stood up to leave.

On to the Wursthaus (4 JFK St.), or as the sign to the upstairs bar read, Zum Goldenen Lowen. We sat talking at our low wood table in the front room for about 15 minutes before realizing that there was no waiter. Julie approached the bar, which was surrounded by tall men and lined with dozens of ceramic steins and college pennants.

The Wursthaus offers upwards of 100 kinds of beer--prices vary--but it was out of our first three choices, Corona, Bud and Miller. We tried two German beers we had never tasted before and cringed at their bitterness.

True to its name, the Wursthaus was Germanic in its decorations--carved horses and shields and barrels and dark wood. It seemed as if everything around us was made of wood, except, of course, for the plastic grapes hanging from the shelves.

Since the television in the corner was off, and there was no music, we eavesdropped on the couple sitting next to us. He bragged about his natural talent for speaking Japanese, and she played with her waist-long ponytails.

The Wursthaus was definitely not a pick-up place. Most of the patrons sat in pairs, clearly couples or buddies. In fact, two overdressed women in pearls walked out, looking disgruntled.

Strolling, not quite swaying, we made our way down JFK to the Sports Bar (the Galleria, JFK St.). A line of very cold students--all of them male--had formed outside the Square's newest bar, but the attractive bouncer from Tufts let the two of us in quite quickly. Although packed to capacity, a mirrored wall and glass partitions made the bar seem spacious. Several televisions blared different sporting events.

College-age students stood and drank in the front room. Management removes the stools on the weekends, anticipating crowds. In the second room, behind a glass wall, students sat at tables or mingled in small groups. Posters of Boston heroes-Larry Bird, Tony Eason and assorted Bruins--lined the walls.

Three feet into the first room, a man approached us. "Are you reporters? I work for a newspaper too," he said, eyeing our notebooks.