I don't imagine there's a prefrosh anywhere who dreams about living in Greenough, Hurlbut or Pennypacker. Along with places like New Quincy and the Jordon Coops, these dorms have been relegated to a sort of Ivy League purgatory--they're bona fide, but some of their prestige got lost along the way. You'll never see a Union dorm on an admissions tour or in a promotional booklet. They represent the underside of a preppie heaven, where bedroom vistas incorporate the band headquarters, a cafeteria delivery zone and old rusty dumpsters.

So, three years ago, I moved into my first year home, Hurlbut, with a considerable degree of uncertainty. My proctor, Lee, had led off his welcome letter by insisting that "it's not that bad," so I figured it probably was. A haven for older students and musicians, Hurlbut had a healthy supply of singles, but I had been placed in a "suite" for three overlooking an empty lot (now the Inn at Harvard) on Mass. Ave. and the Hong Kong. We piled all our books and desks into the common room and managed to stuff our clothing, clock radios, and three beds into a second area. The cramped space stifled our lifestyles as well as our furnishings--eventually, we all started going to bed at the same time every night, and waking together in the morning. Kind of like summer camp. Or the army.

And it didn't stop with the lack of privacy. By college standards, Hurlbut was sort of a sleeper when it came to parties. There were a few--especially in the six-person suites on the opposite side of the building--but for the most part, things stayed pretty quiet. Lee couldn't have been happier; taking his advice, we agreed to leave the social scene to Pennypacker. it was a PG-rated kind of place.

So my store of bacchanalian lore and Harvard Yard reminiscences is pretty slim. I did have my first boyfriend and my first hangover that year, but I can't frame a piece on my entire first year around those events. No, what distinguishes my first year at Harvard is a rather undistinguishable kind of contentment. I was just plain happy.

I think Hurlbut, despite all its superficial flaws, was the key to the success. First, not living in a "party" atmosphere has decided advantages. I never had the discomfort of asking a rowdy neighbor to shut up at 3 a.m., and living three people to a room meant that I never had to listen to the squeaking bedsprings of a roommate in love. No beer puddles on the floor outside my bedroom, no vomit in the bathroom. I got really good grades that year.

But at the same time, it wasn't like living in a library. Hurlbut did have a preponderance of singles, but it also had "pods," hallwaysturned-common-rooms fully equipped with carpets and couches. There were ten of us living in the rooms around the pod on my floor, and we all got to know each other really well. Lee lived in one of the rooms around the pod on the floor below, so we became close with the guys who hung out there, too; we appropriated their pod as a sort of second common room.

All in all, it ended up like living in arooming group of 20, complete with all the toysand entertainment that 20 roommates bring. Jimcharmingly strung dental floss through his nostriland out of his mouth (feel that burn!) and Marccould be depended upon to say something biting anddry, when he wasn't sleeping and you could hearhim over his stereo (just bust a move). We had aditz and a femme fatale, a musician, a dancer, amovie star's son and a mohawked ex-debutante. Weeven had a kitten.

And I could't leave out Lee.

For many first-years at Harvard, the proctor isa fairly minor player in everyday life. Mine,though, was a central figure--he became thesecurity blanket and quasi-parental figure that,as much as I hate to admit it, I still reallyneed. Lee new about every sidelong glance I gotfrom a guy I liked, got the play-by-play on everyminor roommate tiff, and listened to all mybitching about my parents. He was the first personto know when I found out I was going to appear on"Jeopardy!" in the spring, and when the show airedin May, he was the one I chose to watch it with,even though the entire dorm had congregated towatch it in one of the pods.

Perhaps more than anyone else I've met here atHarvard, Lee knew how to be reassuring. He put alot more faith in me than I could ever put inmyself--and in a place where everyone is obsessedwith their own sense of achievement and "success,"that's no small thing.

Backed by a happy home life and a solidsurrogate dad/brother, I approached each challengethat year with a degree of confidence that I don'tthink I've ever been able to achieve since.Comping The Crimson? No sweat. It meant a place tohang out, new friends, and (what now seems) anembarassing number of dates with older guys. (Iwent on a lot of dates my first year.)

I picked the right concentration, AmericanHistory and Literature, with minimal debate. I hadno amazing fits of self-consciousness when I lostmy "Jeopardy!" game (I bet too little during FinalJeopardy!), and no problems making a decision thata certain guy was not worth my time. I also had noproblem changing my mind when he finally camearound and realized what he was missing.

The proverbial shit didn't hit my fan untilsophomore year, when we happy dormmates split into13 different camps, my courseload began to growunbearably heavy and tedious (you'd be amazed howmuch the Harvard establishment loves its Puritans)and my proctor took off to Connecticut College tobegin what has turned out to be a very successfulstint as an Admissions Dean. Only then did Iexperience the depths of college misery andself-doubt. I had to be more "on my own" before Icould become painfully self-aware and obsessive.

My memory is certainly flawed; my realfirst year at Harvard was doubtless less idyllicthan the revisionist version I've concocted here.But on the other hand, I can't remember feelingvisceral anguish back then. Today--with two moreyears of "wisdom" under my belt--wrenching angstis the primary hue in my emotional palette. Ican't decide whether having such a good first yearwas a blessing or not. Maybe if it had sucked Iwould have been more prepared for what was tocome. Ultimately, maybe that would have beenbetter.

But I don't think so. Essentially, it can neverhurt to have a great year.

When you arrive next fall, don't freak out ifyour living situation doesn't seem ideal atfirst--if it seems, perhaps, a little too quiet ora little too boring. A happy school year does notnecessarily require a view of the Yard, proximityto Store 24 or an entryway that resembles the setof animal House.

Don't think about your new life at all. Take acue from Nike. Just Do It.

Eryn R. Brown '93 is the magazine editor ofThe Crimson.CrimsonDavid E. RosenERYN R. BROWN says first is sometimes thebest.