Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Twenty years ago I became a college graduate. It’s still hard to wrap my head around that. Even harder to believe: I’ve not been back to Dickinson College since. Through the years, alumni weekends have proved eminently resistible. Up until now, that is. Maybe it’s the severity of a generation passing – or maybe it was the endless harping of my friend Amy to go revisit the scene of our feckless, formative youth; for some reason this weekend I drank the Kool-Aid and made the trip back.
Carlisle and the college are as gorgeous as I remember. (Founded in 1773, the school is grey limestone mix of colonial and federal architecture) What I didn’t remember so well was the pungent smell of the dorms – or the skill set required for a session of beer pong. Since I waited til the last minute to find a room, I ended up having to spend the night on campus in the old Phi Delt frathouse, where I was quickly reacquainted with both of those long forgotten memories.
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