Iwas having lunch a few weeks ago in Loker Commons when one of my lunch companions interrupted the conversation abruptly: "Did you see who that was?"

"No" I replied casually and a bit alarmed--"Who was that?"

"It was Chelsea Clinton!" he cried. "She just walked by!"

"Really?" another said. "Where'd she go?"

"She just went up the stairs to Annenberg!"

It was a mild surprise in an otherwise predictable day, but it passed quickly--the First Daughter had gone in a flash, and the normal pace of lunch resumed. I doubted that he had really seen her; there didn't seem to be a security entourage any-where. But it started me thinking--the last I had heard of Chelsea Clinton, she was just a little child about to embark on her adolescent adventures in the public eye. I remembered the ugly things that had been written and said about her in the press, all those phrases with the words 'pubescent' and 'awk-ward' in them. Was she nearing college age? What would she be doing at Harvard? Surely she--

No sooner had I thought this when there, four feet away from me, was Hillary Clinton--standing starkly in the offensive, hypnotic glare of the LED electronic message board, scanning the menu of Loker's "bohemian-style coffeehouse." She had come downstairs to meet her daughter for lunch. With her appearance, an underground furtiveness crept into the air as lunch companions quickly hushed and murmured; eyes darted and honed in; people strained to look casual and turn their necks, owl-like, 180 degrees. A collective concentration fixed in on Hillary, as she stood there painfully aware of her own aura in an airy pale purple suit. She must not have been very pleased with the luncheon options, judging by the frown on her face--and I must say that I agreed with her: a chunky, dry ham and cheese sandwich and a bottle of pulpy juice just don't cut it on a humid, 90-degree day.

Chelsea followed, accompanied by some of her friends from home and a couple of Crimson Key guides. The First Daughter looked up cheerfully at the menu, ordered a sandwich and a drink, and then sat down in one of the polished wood coves with her friends. Probably not wanting to cramp her daughter's style, the First Lady and another woman sat at a neighboring cove. It only took a few moments before the Commons was abuzz with speculation, and only a few moments before the group I was eating with--some 'representative' students lunching with a candidate for an administrative position--decided to act as ambassadors. The Undergraduate Council member, naturally, led the charge.

We approached the table with trepidation. An awkward-looking man and woman dressed in clashing pastel 'Miami-Vice' jackets looked increasingly agitated in their seats. One of them looked ready to leave her tuna melt and giant chocolate chip cookie and pounce on me, the would-be assassin. So there's the Secret Service, I thought. They seemed invisible until you actually looked at them. I smiled a nice innocent smile and slid past, following our menacing bee-line towards the First Daughter and her luncheon companions. Having passed the security barrier, Chelsea looked up at us in an encouraging way and waited for our greeting.

"Hey there," began the Undergraduate Council member, we're a bunch of Harvard students and we just wanted to welcome you to the place and say that we really think you'll love it here and we hope you'll come!" He was a stellar representative.

"Thank you," she replied graciously. It was all a bit awkward.

We hovered around the table and chatted a bit. Sometime when no-one noticed, Hillary snuck out. We asked where else she was considering applying; she replied shyly, "Everywhere you can imagine." We asked how she liked Harvard so far. She told us "I like it a lot." We smiled and gawked and fidgeted and tried to look like Harvard students. She must have thought we were the most ill-adjusted group she'd ever encountered. Starved for interesting things to say, I even offered to take her on a tour of University Hall. That offer was politely declined--she had an appointment at the Admissions Office in a few minutes.

She and her friends polished off their lunches (what healthy appetites!), walked unknowingly by the campus press who had descended on the Commons, and were whisked away to Byerly Hall by Don Johnson and his female counterpart. On the way out we bumped into the Crimson photographer who had taken a bizarre photo of Chelsea that would make the front page the next day. It made poor Chelsea look like a cat-cornered mouse, and it earned the eager photographer a kind escort outside and a request not to re-enter. Funny, she seemed all too happy to smile effervescently with me while a Crimson editor friend captured the moment on Kodak Gold. Here's the moment.

Afew weeks later, Chelsea's bright, beaming face would be broadcast on a jumbotron at the Democratic convention, and a new era of press coverage for Chelsea would begin. Stories of how she had "finally blos-somed into womanhood" and "come out of her well-protected shell" would mark the beginning of an image makeover for the First Daughter, and her reentry into public life. Even Hillary would tantalize the press with the statement that "Chelsea is dating."

But for that brief moment in Loker, Chelsea was--and still is--just one of the hundreds of thousands of talented and hopeful high school seniors who visit campuses across the country looking for a place to fit in and to explore. She moved cautiously and curiously, trying hard to imagine what it would be like spend four years in this wonderful place--worrying about Cores and blocking groups, going to freshman mixers and spring break getaways, cheering loudly in Tercentenary Theatre on Commencement Day four years from now.

Would she do well at a third-ranked college like Harvard? I'm willing to bet that she would. Its elite cachet taken down a few notches to sell magazines, Harvard still overwhelms and excites; it is an extraordinary collection of people and events that is much deeper than any name can conjure, and something that will last much longer than the flow and ebb of reputation and trend. On that day, she must have sensed a warmth from the awkwardness and earnestness of our visit, our forthright goodwill and our best wishes for her future. Detached from the trappings of life in the White House, the bullets in New Haven and the general flakiness that envelops Brown, she would prosper here-and perhaps one day be just as excited as we were about selling Harvard to a prospective undergraduate.

Patrick S. Chung '96 was Associate Editorial Chair in 1995. He heads to Oxford this Wednesday to begin life as a graduate student.