The bewildering days of Freshman Week teach one a few things about College life. Most important of all, one recalls the continuous warnings about sexual assault, followed in one’s mind by a definite feeling that plagiarism is not acceptable here. Somewhere in there is also a confused message about diversity and respect, but it’s lost in the general cacophony of “Fight fiercely, Harvard” and other notions of dubious utility with which one was equipped. Something, however, which would have helped greatly in adapting to life at this unusual University—and would have made one much more confident as a first year—was completely lacking. If only one had been warned of the perils one is exposed to by simply crossing the Yard!

It starts early on in the semester. Somebody walks up to one and asks for the Littauer building. One is green enough not to know—---or even to be aware—that there are in fact two Littauer buildings on campus, and that the visitor could mean either one. Thereafter one makes sure to memorize the names of all the Boston Brahmins associated with the various faux Colonial structures one encounters. When one can safely direct anyone to the George Edward Woodberry Poetry Room, the Godfrey Lowell Cabot Science Library or the Arthur and Elisabeth Schlesinger Library one feels a little less insecure about being here. Unfortunately, then begin the questions of a more abstract nature.

Two young men from Missouri, standing at the Gate between the old Yard and Memorial Hall, ask one: “Where is the pretty part of campus?” Astonished and offended, one tries to argue that our surroundings are hardly displeasing. But these friends wish for ivy-covered walls and grasses of perfect British green. They are not content with anything one has to offer. One leaves feeling disconcerted, but the visitors from the Show-Me state are just the first to cast one in the role one was to fill ever after, each time one crossed the Yard: one has become a host trying hard to please, and, in spite of one’s better instinct, has developed a cheerleading spirit about this University.

High school students in pea coats and loafers dragged around by their mothers one directs straight to 8 Garden Street without blinking; and even their requests for somewhere good but not too expensive to eat one is slowly able to fulfill. Are they vegetarian? Do they want hearty American fare, or are they willing to try something more exotic? Then one’s interlocutors start becoming more esoteric. Without even a greeting, a young German girl stops one in front of Lamont to ask: “What famous people went here?” After replying with what one believes to be an impressing array of notables, to one’s startled reaction, she replies that surely many celebrities have gone to this University, since it’s so famous. To one’s shame only T.S. Eliot and one or two U.S. presidents come to mind. Thereafter, one makes sure to go over the list in one’s head while speeding about the Yard.

One catches oneself tuning in to the tour guide’s statements as one rushes in and out of historic buildings. One always catches a useful tidbit or other. The statue of the three lies? Can do. The reason Memorial Hall looks like a cathedral? Ditto. Not only is one aware of Harry Elkins Widener’s whole sorry story, but also of the artist who painted the murals inside Widener Library (Sargent), of the reason the third, poignant condition Harry’s mother laid down for the construction of the library (all students must take a swim test to graduate) has been cancelled (the Disabilities Act). This information is only being shared in case the reader, too, is subjected to a terrorizing pop quiz while running to class. Before college, none of us ever believed they had a particularly trustworthy face, but one starts to think it might be the case.

One’s deepest fear is the day the questions will turn truly transcendent. The day someone asks one what the meaning of life is, one will pass out on Quincy Street. Although, on second thought, there is doubt that day will ever come. As much as one now knows the perils of studying at one of this country’s foremost tourist attractions, one still doesn’t think that anyone expects these hallowed halls to be churning out the answer to the secret of life. Until that happens, one’s understanding of the phrase inscribed on Dexter Gate (“Enter to grow in wisdom/Depart to better serve thy country and thy kind”) is pretty straightforward: Enter to expand your knowledge of useless trivia. Depart to better promote the wonders of this University to the world. Seriously, this place owes one a stipend as a tour guide.

Alex Bevilacqua ’07, a Crimson editorial editor, lives in Canaday Hall.