The second I slammed the last lock shut on my luggage three years ago, I saw the future. I saw that I wasn't going to spend another summer in South Texas ever again, an area that prompted people to say things like, "You mean that's still the United States? I thought that was Mexico!" when pointed out on a map. I saw that I was going to stay in the Boston/Cambridge/Somerville area every summer, somehow, some way. I saw my future fold out before my eyes.

And I loved it.

For four summers now, I have not been able to leave Harvard Square, or at least not venture more than a few miles away from it. With every painfully un-airconditioned June, I have burst into my temporary new life with enthusiasm, tons of clean underwear and the profound realization that I may have made many stupid mistakes the summer before, but that was a year ago and I know everything now. And with the dawning of every September, I inevitably slink back into the dining hall with a fresh new haircut and a matching set of regrets.

During my first summer here, as part of a small group of entering first-years invited to take summer school classes for free, I spent most of my days wide-eyed and gawking, but happy beyond belief to be rid of my old life. I broke in my first pair of Doc Martens, and nearly broke my smallest toes doing so. For the first (and last) time, I played tag in Harvard Yard, got drenched by the 2 a.m. sprinklers while coming home from the clubs and had a coffee date at Au Bon Pain in which an overhead sparrow pooped on my date. Lounging in the grass for hours after dinner was totally common-place, and napping in the afternoons was a right, not a privilege. I remained convinced that this was how my entire college experience was going to be.

Yeah, right.

A year later, a lifetime's worth of family tragedies (plus several roommate conflicts) left me bitter and exhausted. The last thing I wanted to do was have to deal with people, much less perform community service, but anything was better than going home. So I applied to be the Philip Brooks House (PBH) summer receptionist, and thankfully received the job. It was basically a secretary's position and ranged from calming down campers' irate parents on the phone to fighting daily with the 200-year-old fax machine. While I met an endless number of truly amazing people, developed a classy receptionist's voice and learned to pick up a ringing phone in .25 seconds, living alone in a tiny on-campus room left my wounds unhealed and my body sleeping up to 15 hours a night. I wasn't ready for classes to start again in September, but basking in the warmth of my true friends again helped.

The next summer, however, everything was going to be different. I was on my way to a fancy (though unspeakably boring) publishing internship and felt eons away from the emotional frailties that plagued me during the PBH summer. And once again, I fell victim to many things I didn't know: High heels, cute as they may look, are not comfortable if you're walking in them for more than five minutes. Garbage does not take itself out. Having a T-pass in the summer will get you out of the house like never before. Staying up all night creating a Web page can be unbelievably fun. Never underestimate the value of a restaurant next door that serves both pizza and Indian food.

But something was still missing. I moved back into Winthrop House that September content but empty, feeling as if I had learned everything about everything--except myself.

Which brings me to this summer, the pinnacle of my existence. The copious quantities of knowledge that I've acquired over the last three years should give me total independence over the problems that have baffled me before. Yet I'm still making phone calls like these to south Texas:

"Mom, the washing machine is eating my socks."

"Mom, I think the dishwasher's on fire."

"Mom, the neighborhood skunks are out to get us."

But maybe, just maybe, something has finally clicked. Looking back over the past four summers, I haven't made the astounding emotional advances that I wanted to. But I have made some progressions here and there. I entered my internship this summer at Little, Brown and Co. Publishing with a wary eye but an open mind; I was greeted with a lively job alongside some great people who love books as much as I do and who bring fake dog poo and vomit to work for kicks. I splurged on renting a gorgeous but mildly expensive house near campus with some friends; I have now nearly fallen in love with the quirky place. In short, I tried to learn from my mistakes, but I still took risks; and I've been unabashedly rewarded so far. Not counting the move from home, I haven't physically traveled very far over the past three years, but I have learned more about myself than I ever thought possible, one piece at a time.

Basking in the soft glow of my slowly discovered comfort and confidence, it would be easy to slip back and believe that I Have Arrived and that I have now learned almost everything I will ever need to know in order to survive.

But a lot of my newfound contentment springs not from all the things that have gone right, but from the realization that I will not figure out the meaning of my life this summer and may not for a while. This is a piece of uncertainty I have to throw into my back-pack and carry to work with me every morning, but I'm starting to finally accept it. All the things that I have done right recently feel amazingly good. But the hope that they can get better--and that I can make them better--is more than enough for me.

Sarah A. Rodriguez '99 is an Associate Arts Editor who lives in Winthrop House. For a small fee, she will be glad to examine your dishwasher to see if it's really on fire.