At my high school, when seniors became restless during second semester, the condition was called "senioritis." Now that I'm in my final semester, I sometimes think I'm experiencing something similar. I love my classes, but I'm tired of late nights in the basement of Van Pelt. My quality bonding time in the Harnwell elevators leaves me feeling cold. Even Judy Rodin has moved on. I still enjoy Penn, but I lack the fervor I felt as a freshman. I think I'm ready to graduate.
This past Saturday morning, however, I was awakened by something unexpected: silence. I crept out of bed, put on my glasses, and peered out my 12th-floor window. The whole campus was coated in a thick blanket of snow. Even Walnut Street could have passed for a wintry rural path or a frozen, snow-covered river. The parked cars and retail stores had all been transformed into sparkling white sculptures, as though they had been encrusted with sugar.
I was entranced.
I think my love affair with snow started during my childhood in Southern California. Snow was something I heard about in Christmas carols, or read about in Little House in the Big Woods, but hadn't seen in real life. Despite this, I had a large collection of stuffed polar bears with names like Snowflake, Icicle and Snowball. My brother thought that was weird. He named his polar bear Ian.
I saw snow for the first time in kindergarten when there was a freak storm in Los Angeles. It snowed a half inch, and it stuck for about an hour, but school was canceled. My neighbor, who was 82, said it was the first time she had seen snow in 77 years. I collected some in a baggie to save in the freezer.
In fact, however, I did experience snow again. At my elementary school, it was a popular fundraiser in December to bring in a special machine to manufacture a heap of snow in the parking lot. Then, children were charged $5 apiece to play on the heap. Moms would sit on the sides, bundling up their children in ridiculous layers before permitting them to waddle over to the heap. This was despite the fact that it was 80 degrees outside.
When I applied to college, I actually wrote my entire college essay about my love of rain and snow. Now that I know how much it rains in Philadelphia, I realize how ridiculous that must have sounded. "Well, if that's what she likes," the admissions officer must have said, "then she'll looove it here!" In some strange way, though, I maintain this fascination.
At Penn, my weather discoveries continued. First, I experienced my first snow day. Back home, I had enjoyed earthquake days and fire days and flash-flood days and mudslide days, but never a snow day. Furthermore, I decided snow days were much better than their California equivalents, because snow is less lethal.
Second, apparently, scarves serve a purpose, and are not merely an affectation. Back home, individuals who wore scarves were somewhat suspect, much like people who wear sunglasses indoors at night during an eclipse. Sometime around November of my freshman year, however, I observed that my neck was cold. My friend, who was from (yep) New Jersey, kindly suggested that I consider wearing a scarf. I've never looked back since.
Last week, I drove in snow for the first time. I don't have a car, so I borrowed my boyfriend's to travel downtown. Our conversation went something like this:
"So, you've driven in snow before, right?"
"No."
"Have you ever driven on an icy road?"
"Two years ago I drove while it was raining."
Pause.
"Please don't kill my car."
"Okay."
The car and I both survived the experience. I skidded slowly around the city, narrowing missing parked cars and school buses, listening to classical music on the radio. It was awesome -- like driving on a conveyor belt.
The snowstorm this past Saturday brought back memories of everything I love about Penn -- the beautiful, intricate city, my cozy Harnwellian dorm, the vibrant community and especially the adventurous students who sled down the 38th Street bridge on cafeteria trays. Ultimately, I think enjoying college isn't about being a freshman or a senior, or feeling jaded or having senioritis. It's about the things you do, the people you meet and the memories you make.
Jennifer Weiss is a senior Linguistics and Theatre Arts major from Los Angeles. War On Error appears on Wednesdays.
