Down the rabbit hole, through the looking glass and across a foreboding forest come the guests of Duke students for the long weekend, grossly underprepared for the wonders and the horrors that await them within our world.
There are brothers and sisters; girlfriends, boyfriends and even friends that aren't here just for the sex; there are cousins, second cousins and a wide variety of randos whose origins are still unclear. They come to visit the Gothic Wonderland, to experience the Duke Experience, to see how much effort goes into our perfection.
The visits begin with a quick tour. "Here is my dorm, that is the Chapel, that is where the creepy prayer tent used to be and this is our $10-million plaza. What do you mean, 'Where is the plaza?' You are standing on it. I don't know why it cost $10 million. Who cares? We're rich."
Then perhaps a meal at one of Durham's finest dining establishments-International Delights, anyone? It has the word "delight" built right into the name, so it must be delicious!
Next, after a solid half-hour of vomiting shawarma into a Ninth Street garbage can, it is back to campus to prepare for the evening's festivities. You place calls and text messages to gather the most presentable friends around campus. It is, of course, imperative to show visitors how much more popular and well-adjusted you are since they knew you in high school. Here is the opportunity to misrepresent your position within Duke's social caste system.
The evening begins perhaps with pregaming at your dorm before heading out to Shooters. Everyone is gathered in your room, ready to judge and be judged. If your visitor is female, your guy friends at school will shamelessly hit on her, no matter if she is your girlfriend or sister (actually, that would probably just encourage them).
Your sketchiest friend has been reading a book called "Make Every Girl Want You" that lays out a three-step-plan for wooing the fairer sex. Said sketchball friend tells you about the technique in the book. "CCR, man. Compliments, compassion and reassurance. Chicks needs that stuff man. Chicks!"
He tries to implement CCR. "I really like your necklace. I am sorry about your dog. I still really like your necklace and I am here for you if you want to talk. You know, about your dog and stuff." Your sketchy friend returns to his sketch-cave to work on his CCR technique alone.
With everyone in enough of an altered state to potentially enjoy a night at Shooters, you venture out into the streets of Durham. Because Durham apparently falls between Port-au-Prince and Mogadishu in a list of the world's most dangerous cities, you take great care during your journey.
Your visitor finds herself in the middle of what can described as a Roman orgy or a hyper-hormonal high-school dance, depending on prior experiences with Roman orgies and/or the existence of the "6-inch" rule at high-school dances (i.e. "leave room for Jesus").
When the night ends, with a couple of club rats in tow, you, your friends and your visitor leave the fog (fog machine or condensed sweat in the air?) of the club and cross back through the treacherous streets of Durham back into the Duke Bubble where the rule of law still exists.
To your visitor, Duke is almost unreal. Their weekend has given them more than enough material to write an ethnographic report on us Dukies (shades of Rolling Stone?). An outsider cannot help but notice our bizarre social construct complete with a caste system and people who actually believe the secret woman-seducing philosophical teachings of CCR. The campus itself is an oasis within what I have previously described as a "cultural wasteland" (I retract that assessment now. Gun culture is a type of culture).
When the time arrives, the weary travelers climb out of the rabbit hole, leave the Wonderland and return to the real world.
Jordan Rice is a Trinity sophomore. His column runs every other Friday.
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