{shortcode-95ac4ca6715aabd6b305d2a604db915fcb64dbab}
{shortcode-471488a28f98f055581c84571bdaf7c7378242a3}ix hours, 33 minutes, and 22 seconds spent under chandeliers and stained glass. Fifty-one possible tables to eat at. In the sea of undergraduate chatter sits one freshman, who, throughout this weirdly long amount of time, downs a total of nine cucumber-infused drinks, and sits at 12 of these tables. That freshman is a budding Crimson reporter.
That freshman is me.
Annenberg Hall, the Hogwarts-esque dining hall for Harvard freshmen, offers a picture of Harvard students in their natural habitat. I want to know: Does it provide a glimpse of our true personalities, or do we treat it as a performance to show our best angles? And one month in, are people still open to sharing a meal with a stranger?
To answer this question, I take a page from the book of former Magazine Editor Maya M.F. Wilson ’24: I embark on a whole day in Annenberg. An Annenberg stakeout, if you will. For as long as possible on this unremarkable Thursday, I decide to stay inside of Berg’s halls to observe, converse, and record what I can.
I’m prepared. I’m equipped with my backpack, a phone timer, and a long list of beverages I would like to put cucumbers in. To orient my reporting (and force myself to go to new tables) I’ve filled out an online wheel spinner with letters from A to C and numbers from one to 17. I’ve already been here for a month and spoken to my fair share of strangers. Still — maybe it’s the social anxiety, maybe it’s those paintings — there’s something about those upper B and C tables that push me away. But today, freshman fears won’t hold me back. I will follow my journalistic instincts (and my online wheel spinner).
***
{shortcode-be29865d8a9c7908fa05930b7f2d42574eaa573c} walk into Annenberg’s first set of doors at 9:25 a.m. As I open the second set of doors, so annoyingly close to the first, I notice that most people sit alone at breakfast, a sort of quiet peace filling in the gaps.
Tray in hand, I sit one seat away from the least scary-looking group straight ahead: five footballers in row A. The guy across from me nods and I nod back. Without an introduction, it seems I’ve missed my chance at a deeper conversation. I eat my waffle adjacent to them as they exchange their high school football stories from back in Philly. I’m leaving to put my food away when I hear them say, “They renamed New Jersey to Baby Gronk.” I look it up, and I still don’t get what they mean.
A figure at the table across from me, B12, catches my eye. We trade Harvard intros, and that’s when I realize Samuel Hwang ’26 is not a freshman. Samuel explains, to my surprise, that upperclassmen come to Annenberg for hot breakfast. “Do I really look that much like a freshman?” he says, seeming worried. “I’m 21. I thought I’d look older.”
It’s 10:25, and I have a class to get to. As I pass by C15, I hear someone say “I don’t think freshmen realize—”. How I wish I knew how that sentence ended.
***
{shortcode-be29865d8a9c7908fa05930b7f2d42574eaa573c}t’s 11:56 a.m. and I’m back at Annenberg, this time with friends from class.
My lunch table complains about the servings. “Y’know, the halal line always serves raw chicken,” says Shakira Ali ’28, the first of three to complain about the meat today, while Edward H. Gao ’28 cuts into his meatballs checking for any sign of pink meat. As my friends leave me to my reporting, I decide it's time to make use of my online wheel spinner.
B11 finds me across from a guy who exudes the kind of cool you’d see in a coming of age story. Headphones around his neck and dressed in all black, Yurui Zi ’28 introduces himself with another comment about Berg’s dry chicken.
When I tell him I’m a Crimson writer, he gets nervous. “I’m thinking of the gravity of everything now,” he says. “I was gonna shit on the housing or dining but I really can’t. I’m just fucking grateful to be here. Don’t add the ‘fucking’ though. Actually, you can, it's fine.”
Second roll: C13. On my way there, I pass Kate Y. Lee ’28 clenching her phone. She’s worried that her Datamatch lunch date won’t show.
At C13 I meet Emily M.J. Bronckers ’28. She’s from the Netherlands and plays field hockey. Soon enough, our conversation attracts Connor G. Khoury ’28. It’s here where I introduce myself as a Crimson reporter, followed by an “Ohh, so that’s why you’re here,” from Emily. (These reporting rules I’m learning in the Crimson comp are making it hard to have a natural conversation.)
A half hour passes and I’m sitting alone when Antonino J. Libarnes ’28 shows up and asks me why I’ve been in Annenberg since class ended. I tell him, and he begs to help me out. The first victim of this newly founded duo is Runyi Liu ’28. Pressured into giving a comment, we got a “National Boyfriend Day makes me feel so single. I can’t go on Instagram without feeling lonely.”
We roll a B5, and sit next to a group of guys. Antonino and I stare at each other awkwardly as we try to break into a conversation we don’t seem to be welcome in.
At A8, the same fate greets us once more. At this point it’s 2:12 p.m., and we’ve tried our best. “Everyone says it’s acceptable to sit with people all first semester, but it’s not true. It’s kinda weird,” Antonino tells me as we leave Annenberg.
***
{shortcode-21cc3534b02e5a90dd1b6e61be0fe28423896a7e}t 5:08 p.m., I’ve returned to my stakeout. I’m on my seventh signature cucumber lemonade I’ve made for the day — or has it been eight? — and my tablemate Parnitha S. Bandla ’28 is pressuring me to start a mixology business right in the eatery. “Everyone’s like startup, startup, startup, bruh, you show them,” she says.
Still, I can’t have business on my mind while I’m focused on my very serious reporting. The wheel spinner brings me to C7.
I think Thalia Stavropoulos ’28 perspective that “India is like the Texas of Asia” best sums up what happens at C7.
***
{shortcode-d5fa0bc60f1c18f4de1d2fd2c5343f21300fe072}
{shortcode-94eb72a004011d7c49a15590d1d8fe33fbc5a9e2}ow for brain break. The people are most transient at this hour. They’re no longer stuck to tables, instead moving freely.
The group of friends psetting next to me worry that it’s already 11 p.m. (somehow they’re also finding time to plan for Glowell). Random cheers erupt from a table nearby.
The guy across from me is making a PB&J. I try to start a conversation but it goes nowhere. It’s this feeling that ultimately characterizes brain break. The people seem open and free, but are really most comfortable around the personalities they already know.
So I do the same, moving towards C-9, a table filled with people from my entryway. We watch a girl enter in a sequined dress, and Emily C. Igwike ’28 says, “Are people going out on a Thursday? Pause. Hold the fucking music. There’s a pset due tomorrow.” We all laugh. At this point, the only plans we have are for our beds.
At 11:27 p.m., I roll a B2, just one more to end the night. I look back and the table is empty. Maybe I’ll sit there tomorrow. Perhaps someone will be brave enough to randomly sit next to me.
