Once a week, every week, a hundred pairs of feet stampede the spotless wooden floor. A hundred hands dip into bowls brimming with baked goodies, and from a hundred mouths spill crumbs and comfy conversation.
Professor Carol Flath simply wouldn't have it any other way. The official founder of Monday Cookie Night, Wilson's Faculty In Residence has for years cordially welcomed freshmen and upperclassmen alike into her home.
Clearly, she is not among the faint of heart and hearth.
In fact, she is positively ruthless. Should you feel inclined to visit, beware. She will force hot cookies onto your plate and cold milk into your cup. She may insist you take a well-cushioned seat and refill your drink before you have a chance to take a sip. She won't stand for any help in cleaning up.
Take the main stairs and turn port.
Now a sophisticated sophomore, I thought perhaps the simple joys of Cookie Night were behind me. But two nights ago, the clock struck eight, and a nostalgic cookie craving surged through my veins. Within an hour, with minimal persuasion from a lovely friend, I found myself in a familiar dorm on East, lost in a gaggle of first-time fans and longtime Cookie Night buffs. I helped myself to some gingerbread (that happens) and let Cookie Bliss warm my stomach and soul.
Then I felt a pang. I ruled out hunger, and since seven pieces of gingerbread never hurt a body, I eliminated indigestion almost as quickly. Having already followed my nose, I chose to follow my feet, out the door and down the wide halls that formed my home just a summer ago.
And thus I explored. I frolicked about the second floor, my arms spread wide like airplane wings, my laughter giddy when my fingertips failed to so much as brush the hall walls. Like a small child, I peered curiously around corners, scaring the wits out of the newbies living in my old room. I admired the neat rows of hallway windows and caressed the plastic sides of the relatively fragrant hallway garbage cans.
Relative it was, and I don't deny I was comparing. Having spent my first week on West Campus hopelessly navigating Few's inappropriately named halls, my appreciation for the freshman experience has reached a higher plane.
So far I've used the word "halls" or some variation of it no less than five times. This is no accident.
Who knew a hallway could mean so much? If you had asked me four months ago my criteria in choosing my dorm dwelling, I would have listed the obvious: room size, room structure, proximity to the main quad, perhaps air conditioning and, of course, room size.
But living the week like a mouse in a maze has forced me to accept a simple fact: our Gothic Wonderland of housing options constitutes an extreme case of form over function. Everything looks picture perfect from the pretty quads, and with enough care and creativity, your room may look pretty, too. But making the trek from the quad to your room can be a depressing experience.
As is my habit, I deliberately walked into an arbitrarily-located commons the other day. I jumped out of my skin when I realized someone was already there. It was more than unexpected; in my time on West, it was unprecedented. For here, hallways do not open up to friendly living space. Because gone are the days of the busy, bustling, entirely findable commons, where strangers become friends and hallmates become homies. Because no longer do dorms lounge united behind Laguna Beach screenings and midnight, pizza-fueled stem cell debates.
Even open-door policies have not survived the big move from freshman East to world-weary West. One look at the standard hallway reveals why. I can count the number of times I've run into a human in the hallway. Other living organisms, I won't count. As far as I can't tell, every constricted, winding hall leads to a wrong exit. The halls do not suggest that we get access, but only ask that we get out.
It's unlikely that a large-scale solution is on its way. A mighty sweep, a massive renovation is probably not high on the list of the University's things to do, nor should it be. But aware of the structural changes that accompany the shift from East to West, perhaps we can make up for it with the appropriate mental adjustments. My New Duke Year's resolution number one: know the names and faces of the people down my hall.
Freshmen complain about East sometimes; I'm sure I was guilty of the same. I loved my dorm nevertheless, but now I wish I had spent even more time twirling through the halls and gleaning wisdom from the commons. Cookie Night remains my means of visiting the ghosts of Freshman Past. This year's batch: live it up on East and leave no ghosts behind.
Jane Chong is a Trinity sophomore. Her column runs every Wednesday.
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