My wife and I live in Morningside Heights, a very special nexus of education, privilege and the occasional triple murder. It’s a zone of the Upper West Side in which half the residents are signing petitions to halt Columbia University’s campus creep and the other half already work for Columbia in some capacity. It’s a fine if uneasy equilibrium—or so we always think, until summer ends and the students show up, their parents’ station wagons packed with the cheap furniture they’ll be cheerfully dumping on our curb come May.
And, my god, what an awful difference they make. Firstly, we’re across the street from the Manhattan School of Music, which means that for any given hour you’ll be treated to a tuba player practicing his scales or a would-be opera star singing arias with the sort of vibrato that makes you thankful for autotune. Giant cello cases take up space on the train. A cappella groups roam the corners, crooning at each other.
Then there’s the Union Theological Seminary. You’d like to think of these students as monkish and polite, unwilling to mix with the broader social scene. In fact, they’re always going on first dates that turn into heated arguments about the finer points of the Book of Revelation. And I am always sitting right next to them at the Italian restaurant when they do. (This is still preferable to hearing a dude explain what “indie” music is to a most unfortunate woman in a tone so pedantic I thought there’d be a PowerPoint display behind him.)
Oh, and let’s not forget the graduate students who live at the International House. Far be it from me to sling unfounded accusations at our guests from the other side of the globe, but it’s hard to imagine that non-Eurotrash individuals are responsible for the shattered bottles of SKYY Vodka on the steps leading up to Sakura Park. Take your brand-conscious hooliganism back to Cyprus, you wankers—here in America we drink out of paper bags. And recycle.
This weekend, of course, was also the beginning of freshman orientation. There were a Matt & Kim songs blaring from a sparsely attended Barnard lawn event and approximately four hundred undergrads blocking the sidewalk around 116th Street due to some kind of free empanada promotion at Havana Central. Here’s to nine months of hibernation!