La Jolla — how fabulous! The sun, the surf, the fog, the sand in your bathing suit — it’s close to paradise, isn’t it?
Except the city of La Jolla hates us, and when they’re tired of hating us, they pretend we don’t exist. They cringe at our youthful good looks, sneer at our backpacks and Honda Civics, and make violent stabbing motions whenever we venture within 10 feet of them. Most of all, they hate our freedom. Don’t have five month’s worth of rent in your bank account, Sonny? Get the hell out.
And why shouldn’t they feel this way? We tutor their kids, wait on them at restaurants and rent their apartment buildings. By golly, we’re damn near useless. We hang like a miasma over the city, surfing their waves and quietly studying in their coffee shops. Sometimes we make their lattes a little too hot, tailgate them in their BMWs, or buy the last package of baby organic spinach at Trader Joe’s — all on purpose, of course, because we’re little shits.
Little shits or not, UCSD students deserve some serious credit for subjecting themselves to four years of going to college in a non-college town. Hell, “”cheap rent,”” “”frat row”” and “”football games”” are all foreign concepts in La Jolla — plus, I’m pretty sure that even mentioning the word “”kegger”” is a criminal offense here. It’s a tough life for anyone who wants to have fun and can’t make it out to Pacific Beach or Tijuana every night.
But wait! We’re not so downtrodden after all — our neighbors down the hill teach us a very important lesson: Maybe, just maybe, if we work hard enough, we too can be rich, Botoxed, snobby pricks, just like them. Want to skip grad school? Fine — just be prepared to be a restaurant server forever. Willing to keep on with your education, exploit every connection you have and kiss some serious ass? Fantastic — get ready, son, because you’re going to be that Gucci-suited restaurant patron who snaps his fingers and asks for a better table and low-carb bread.
Ok, ok, I’ll stop. I know I’m not helping the situation by poking fun at our host city, which, even if it detest us, has at least refrained from leveling our campus and building a golf course.
But isn’t it odd that even after 45 years of UCSD, the city of La Jolla still refuses to adapt to us — and, adding insult to injury, acts like we’re a liability? All we ask for is acceptance, La Jolla. Our clothes might be from Target and our hair might be disheveled, but we can do your taxes. We can design a nice vacation home for you. At the very least, we can carry your bags up to your hotel room. Is everything in your suite to your liking, sir?
La Jolla is a beautiful place to have a university, but it simply isn’t welcoming to anyone who doesn’t scream “New Money”. Maybe it’ll take another 45 years for La Jolla to realize that we’re not a leper colony, but a university, and bumping into a student while waiting in line at Saks is not going to leave anyone permanently tainted by the cooties of public-school students.
La Jolla is the non-college-town college town, while the best college towns resemble the best party hosts: willing to relax some rules and sacrifice a little class and cleanliness for a raging good time. Just look at Santa Cruz or Berkeley: a little kooky, a little smelly and a lot friendly — not the type to gasp with disgust at anyone wearing pajama pants at the grocery store because it taints the city’s squeaky-clean, highly polished image.
La Jolla is the nun of the country’s college towns. She’s got a ruler, and she’s not afraid to put students back in their place.
In the end, something’s gotta give. To save La Jolla the embarrassment of lightening the hell up, UCSD students have done their best to shed all the hallmarks of being young and in college. Who needs a Greek row, football games or an active student nightlife when you can enjoy a Porsche, an au pair for your kids and a luxury resort overlooking the beach that blocks ocean views for ERC students?
Indeed, who needs it? Not us, apparently.
