If I had my way, college would be more academic and intellectual. Weeks wouldn’t be lived for the weekends. Classes would be engaged rather than daydreamed. On Friday nights, everyone would be in the library, meeting in study groups and people would discuss how they were going to change the world. The university would supply snacks for these occasions, rows of wide tables with panini sandwiches and freshly baked croissants. A tea station would be located in each corner and everyone would have the same hair cut.
Yes, if I had my way, college would consist of courtyards surrounded by prestigious brick buildings, with dark plaid blazers and worn, leather courier bags. Passing by students one might hear, “Oh man, that’s library where they house Kafka’s journal” or “Meeting under the senior arch tonight – we have to decide once and for all how we’re going to stop on campus womanizing.” It’s an earthy world, in which every morning is filled with a coastal fog that lightly blankets the campus. Some classrooms have views of the ocean but students are too captivated in class discussions to steal a peak.
I often think of myself going to a school like this one, my first class being unforgettable. I picture myself three rows back, ready, biting my finger nails in anticipation. A bird is chirping outside, awake. It’s only 9am but, like the bird, I have been up for three hours. I’ve been up long enough for my drowsiness to disappear naturally. I’m too nervous for coffee. Not one of the other students is talking but there seems to be a noise coming from somewhere. The earth seems to be telling me that it is alive and that so am I. With a sudden creak, the classroom door opens and my professor walks in. He has wild, salt and pepper hair and gold, wire thin glasses. He appears rushed, like he has hurried here in order not to lose his train of thought.
“Are you ready to learn?” he asks and everyone in the class bar non responds, yes. “Good. So am I.”
******
It’s scientifically impossible not to encounter a party bus in Boston on a Friday night. If you don’t see the thing, driving down streets like they’re the Vegas strip, then you’ve undoubtably heard them. Not the bus itself, but the passengers. If you’re the type of person who scoffs at cars with rolled down windows and a stereo system on full volume, a party bus is your worse nightmare. If you’re the type of person who despises people yelling in public, hooting and hollering like it‘s Mardi Gras, you may want to stay inside on the weekends because you may be prompt to commit a crime.
That’s an extreme. For most, party buses are just a constant reminder that there are people out having more fun than us. These are our classmates who don’t care about the class material, who shop online via their laptop while the professor drones on, loving the sound of his or her own voice. But then, these seemingly uninterested students get better grades than me and I am left wondering if there is some ancient Islamic code, subtly hidden on AmericanApparel.com. There’s no motivation to care when the system itself appears ill equipped to reward the intellects.
Maybe this is the appeal of party buses: to escape from a world that is backwards and unfair. One gets the sense that the same rules that govern everyday life don’t apply in party buses. Reality is forgotten. It is as if, party buses are their own island countries, floating aimlessly down the ocean of Boston’s pavement. The political climate is a rough one. While the pub crawl party may rule one day, the next it may be the bachelorettes. I get the feeling riding in a party bus is like going to Canada without the border control – all the ridiculous laws of America are left behind once you’ve boarded, rather than once you’re bag has been searched. No passport necessary. The drinking age might as well be 16 in the country of party bus. While they bounce provocatively amidst flashing red and blue lights, who knows how old those silhouettes really are?
After a party bus passes, and a guy whose hair is more oily than the bus’s engine tricks me into thinking my shoes are untied, I’m always left wondering, “Are there hangovers in the country of party bus?” “Does what happens in the party bus, stay in the party bus?” or “Would I need to bring a sleeping bag?” These are questions that will probably be left unanswered. I don’t think I’ll ever be invited onto a party bus and I think studying abroad in one is out of the question. Even if I wanted to hire a party bus myself, I don’t think I would be able to list 15-30 people that would want to come with me. Perhaps I could drive it, reserve it for myself alone and take the wheel.
This way, I would be the prime minister of the party bus. I could drive down Boston streets, looking to pick up dark plaid blazers. I could put a hot water dispenser in the back with a couple of different kinds of tea. For just one night, I could drive under the city lights, driving till the tank emptied, sputtering to a stop facing the harbor so that in the morning I could wake up at 6, turn on a fog machine, and see the ocean.
