At different universities, certain traits come to mind that
separate one area of higher learning from another.
At
Angeles
lawns and ripe palm trees dot the campus landscape. At
nation’s most beautiful campuses, ocean breezes sweep in from the beaches and
into the university’s park-like ambiance.
Of course, wickedly coarse universities exist, and must
somehow contribute to feelings of learning in wantonly aggregated pestilence.
Chief among these laggards are (in no particular order):
somewhere in the middle of these extremes resides our own campus.
Two weeks ago, I met one of my close friends at Harry’s
Coffee Shop on La Jolla’s Girard Avenue where, dining on bacon and eggs, we
spoke on topics ranging from the rate of iceberg depletion in Alert, Nunavut to
how best to navigate incoming calls while in class. As a
Diego
student, she had never been to UCSD. And as she was celebrating her spring
break that week, I thought it well to invite the Aztec over to my haunts to
check out where “the smart ones” intermingle.
We spent some time around forest-y
that a good conversation could develop around the serene, old, curiously droopy
eucalyptus trees. Yet after this initial venture, I was at a loss. Should we
head south to historic
where a student burnt himself in the name of peace, or might we instead
traverse the newer portions that constitute
I was at an impasse at that moment, but I mustered enough
foresight to consider that perhaps my guest would like an authentic UCSD beverage.
And so, we headed east, passing the singing trees and the dirt that surrounded
them while we followed the concrete path.
Nearing
I offered a sit-down at the Roma Cafe but Jamba Juice seemed to be the better
deal. After all, winding through UCSD’s various plateaus could exhaust even the
fittest guest, and my own agreed with my position that that a cold drink would
prove more satisfying.
It was there, at that moment, that I realized that all of my
talents could not substitute my inadequacy as a personal campus tour guide.
After some mumbo jumbo about heels hurting the legs, I came across a comment
that made me feel rather sub-conscious inside: “This is an ugly place, Aleks.”
In turn, no degree of her casual smile could alleviate the
anxiety that I felt upon realizing that, to foreign eyes, my campus really is
an ugly place. Yet, I persisted. I offered a tour of the engineering buildings,
the Snake Path, a view from atop Geisel Library.
I offered UCSD trivia, Dr. Seuss’ collections, a place called
But I soon realized that I had lost my guest’s interest altogether. And in an
effort to avoid rambling even more, I dropped the issue.
But, I could not help but wonder what could possibly be so
disdainful about the scenery in and around my fair campus. I managed to reason
that the prison-like facade of the biology department couldn’t attract an
aesthetic thumbs up. Nor could the creaky eucalyptus trees necessarily
substitute the lush tropical aura of the grand palms over at SDSU.
Then again, coming up with overly ambitious words to cover
the acronym CLICS may also be viewed upon as a geeky move to an outsider. Yet,
I can also see why there is a problem with naming a college “Sixth,” for the
poor place doesn’t appear to belong anywhere.
Interestingly, it would seem like I have gotten nowhere with
this bit of shared experience. In turn, what I have discovered is that I am in
fact at a draw if I were to proclaim UCSD a genuinely beautiful area in which
to pursue a higher education. Perhaps stimulating the environment by bulldozing
a portion of the sad eucalyptus grove and inserting bright and cheery palm
trees may do the trick.
Or maybe adding an escalator to connect Geisel library to
the summit of that bluff where the top half of UCSD resides would not dissuade
otherwise level-ground-loving individuals. Alas, I am again at an impasse.
As best I could decipher, however, UCSD is not ugly nor
particularly beautiful. Somehow, it’s neither.
