I am one of those few lucky alumnae who found a way to stay in Ithaca after graduating from Cornell. Building a life in Ithaca was certainly not my original plan. Boston born and bred, I always envisioned settling in some city in the Northeast after college and working in a building with fancy elevators and a maze of office space. But plans changed when at the end of my senior year at Cornell I fell in love with a man who was already living a real adult life in the City of Ithaca. Six years later, we are married and I am still in Ithaca and still happy.

My transition from student to graduate never seemed to happen with any sort of obviousness. Ithaca always felt like the same place it was the day my parents pulled up to North Campus with me in the backseat, ready to start my freshman year. Same gorges, same restaurants, same places to go for a run. As I moved from my Collegetown apartment to a house with my boyfriend, I never felt sad about graduating thinking there was nothing I was really leaving. For years after, when my college friends would recollect that bar, that library, that sandwich at Collegetown Bagels, I brushed it off with no sense of reminiscence. How could I miss that stuff when I never left it? Though after graduating I stopped going to that bar, that library, and rarely ordered that sandwich, I knew I could anytime I wanted. I was immune to whatever sense of longing my fellow Cornell alumni experienced.

Last week, a friend asked me to sit in on a lecture she was giving for a class at the Hotel School. I hadn’t spent any significant time on campus in years, other than the occasional quick drive through to show it off to visitors. I arrived ten minutes early with a fierce need for a pack of gum. I got off the bus at the Johnson School and ran across the street thinking I could snatch a pack at Mac's Cafe in the Statler basement. Immediately entering, fluorescent red lights from under the circulation desk at the Nestle library were beaming into the hallways. It looked more like a disco hall than a library.

After pushing through a mass of students dressed as chefs and girls with Greek lettered bags, I managed to find myself facing a familiar shelf of strawberry Nutri-Grain bars, bags of Skittles, and chocolate-chip cookies the size of a young child's head. No gum.

I shifted gears to the next closest possibility: Terrace. It was in between classes and close to lunchtime, so emerging from the hallway I was up against a challenging line of ladies in what used to be the burrito line but was OBVIOUSLY now the salad line. I knew from experience that I could make a clean break up the middle to hit where the gum might be, though I couldn't get away without hearing a handful of calls for "just a half" with "sesame ginger on the side." Nothing had changed.

And to my disappointment, there was no gum at the registers. I had five minutes to go and knew I'd find what I was looking for across the road at the campus store. There, the market had moved upstairs and the bulk candy section was gone. Bummer. I grabbed a pack of spearmint Orbitz and headed to the register.

"Cornell ID for the raffle?" The cashier asked me.  "Uhhh....that raffle is STILL going on...?" I responded. (Wow. Six years later and still a daily giveaway.) She looked at me confused. I hesitated. Why not, I thought. "A-W-G-2-2."

"And the last two digits?" She asked. I almost questioned what she meant and then it hit me. And it hit me hard. Of course, Cornell IDs have FOUR numbers now. What was I doing here? Who did I think I was? Suddenly all I wanted to do was to pay and get out, back into the other Ithaca world I lived in. I handed her a five dollar bill (which caught her off guard as she was expecting Cornell Card), took my change and left.

I crossed the street back to the Statler to head into the lecture. The outdoor Terrace seating was standing room only, packed with aviator glasses, North Face backpacks and smiling faces soaking in the first sunny day that Ithaca had seen in months. I noted the shocking number of salad containers overflowing with iceberg lettuce and I started wondering how many of those had moved through my gut during my days there. A student walking in front of me debated with her friend whether she should take a class Pass-Fail instead of for a grade, while another on the phone was panicking over next year’s housing situation.

I couldn't believe the outfits that passed by me. Bra straps, cleavage and short shorts everywhere. Is this what they wear to class these days? I couldn't get over it. Then I felt old because I couldn't get over it.

Once in the lecture, I couldn’t shake this strange sense of irritation. Everything was so familiar, yet there I was feeling so uncomfortable and out of place. What was it about being dropped back into this setting that put me on edge? What was it about the library, the salads, the Cornell IDs, some of which were exactly as I’d left them only six years ago and others that had changed by only two digits? I lived seven miles down the road but felt light years away from where I was.

And then I realized that this must be what everyone was talking about. This was the reminiscence I thought I was so immune to. These material markers of our college experience—the buildings, the lunch spots, the bars, etc.—all just artifacts of the world we were once so embedded in for four years. It didn’t matter that I’d stayed in Ithaca. There were some pieces of my Cornell experience that I’d never truly get back. It wasn’t really the sandwich that everyone missed (well, maybe for some). It was the people, the atmosphere and all that went with it. It didn’t matter that I had access to these things at any given moment. They were vehicles for memories.

After the lecture, I boarded the bus thinking about the fragility and sacredness of time and place. Perhaps places like Cornell, where we experience such profound intellectual, social and emotional growth, will always be physical places we can return to when we need to remember how wonderfully vulnerable we are to the memories how we once were.

Once downtown, I headed back into my other Ithaca world with a fresh pack of gum and an even fresher perspective on the true meaning of nostalgia.

— Alyssa Goldman '07

Alyssa Goldman '07 works at Concept Systems Inc., a research, planning, and evaluation consulting firm located in downtown Ithaca. She lives in Ithaca with her husband, Jesse.

I like Cornell. I mean, I really like Cornell. When I see campus tour groups, I want to shout at them all to come here (though I refrain, because that would probably scare them away). My friends back home have called me out for constantly talking about Cornell; my sister has heard so much about it that she’s ready to apply—even though she’s only a sophomore in high school. Recently, I decided to share my enthusiasm in a more tangible way: by hosting a prospective freshman (or “prefrosh”) during Cornell Days, when admitted students visit campus.

As it turned out, my prefrosh, Amanda, had applied early decision and was therefore bound to attend Cornell. But living in Florida, she had never visited; she still wasn’t sure she had made the right choice. Going into Cornell Days, I was nervous about being matched with someone shy or otherwise incompatible with me—and, as I soon found out, she had exactly the same fears. Luckily, our personalities clicked and there wasn’t a single awkward moment. I even let her sleep in the bed while I took the floor, turning my triple into a quad.

It felt strange—but great—to teach her things that I’d been equally curious and clueless about just a year ago, when I came for my own prefrosh visit. I showed her around, took her to a dining hall, gave her tours of a few dorms, and talked about how to get involved on campus. She got along with all of my friends (a few of whom were ILR majors, just like she’ll be next fall), and by the time she left, she had no more doubts about her decision to come to Cornell.

I’ve never felt like such a college student before. Amanda told me she couldn’t believe how many people I know; even I didn’t realize how many friends I’ve made until I said “hi” to almost everyone we passed on North Campus. One of the most rewarding parts of her visit came when I was saying goodbye to her and her parents the next morning. Her father asked me, “Are you always this happy?” Well, yes, I am—give or take a few prelims.

— Alexandra Clement ’16

Before college, I never really took public transportation. My town in suburban Maryland didn’t have a bus system, and I was lucky enough to have reliable access to cars—either a friend’s, my parents’, or the one I shared with my brother. At Cornell, I don’t have that luxury. Here, I have Tompkins County Area Transit (TCAT), the local bus system.

Most students have heard the horror stories: you try to go shopping and end up at the airport, or you find yourself in Collegetown instead of in class. Last semester, I relied on my friends to help me navigate the bus routes. But once second semester began and we all had different schedules, I realized I needed to figure out the bus system for myself or end up walking miles in the snow. After a few stressful experiences, I finally feel like a regular commuter—but I can’t forget the mishaps it took to get me here.

The first time I took the bus by myself, I didn’t understand how to ask the driver to let me off; I missed many a stop before I learned you have to pull the cord. (However, don’t pull it unless you’re 100 percent positive you’re where you want to be; I’ve gotten plenty of lectures from annoyed drivers.)

Another challenge was that I only knew my way around campus according to the quickest walking route. On my first solo ride, I checked with the driver to make sure we’d stop at Robert Purcell Community Center on North Campus. We drove around roads I still can’t name until we stopped and the driver turned around and looked at me expectantly; I had no idea we were behind RPCC. After an uncomfortably long minute, I realized where I was. As I ran off the bus, I tried to explain that I was just a confused freshman.

Most recently, some friends and I ventured way off campus to go thrift shopping at the Salvation Army. The TCAT app on my phone told me to take the 75 from campus to the Commons, then get off and board the 15. The first part went easily enough. Then we stood at the downtown stop for a few minutes before realizing the number on the bus we had just exited had changed—it was now the 15. We got back on. Still relying on my phone, we looked for the “Elmira and Southwest Park” stop. It never came. Once we realized we were going back toward campus, my friend pulled the cord (we remembered this time) and got off in an unfamiliar neighborhood. Forty minutes and three map apps later, we figured out where the Salvation Army was.

We took a cab home.

— Alexandra Clement ’16 

Blonde is a stereotype; fake blonde is a lifestyle. To dye your hair blonde is to commit to a persona. Blondes are seen as outgoing, engaging, and even bubbly. (Of course, committing to the blonde way of life also has its struggles; many people still cling to the stereotype of the “dumb blonde.”) I chose to become a fake blonde because blonde stands out; blonde is bright; blonde is happy.

I was a natural blonde for my first fifteen or so years. But by high school, I was walking a thin line between “dirty blonde” and “brunette.” Despite what my genes wanted to say, I knew I was a blonde trapped in a brunette’s body. (My friends and family, by the way, were savvy enough never to utter the word “brunette” in my presence.)

Days before I enrolled at Cornell, a friend at a beauty school asked to use my hair for a competition; she wanted me to go almost platinum. I agreed, and after six hours of sitting in the salon having my long hair lightened, toned, and highlighted, it was official: I was a fake blonde. Since then, my wardrobe has changed; blues and greens that complimented my dirty blonde have been traded in for pinks and blacks that play up the Barbie or Vogue side, respectively, of my new hair.

I am a salon blonde—my hair has been dyed twice professionally—but since I let my friend color my hair for projects, I have yet to pay for it. Personally, I’m not fond of the idea of spending upwards of $100 on my hair every eight weeks, so I am considering switching to store-bought dye. I’ve been warned of the possible consequences: orange or damaged hair, looking too fake, or not matching my previous color. Even though I have no shame in dying my hair, the awkward halo of brown that borders my scalp is becoming a bit too conspicuous for my taste. I could get away with wearing hats in Ithaca for a few more months, but sooner or later, I’ll have to make a decision.

I’m sure there are people who don’t view hair color the same way I do, as a defining characteristic, but being blonde is an integral part of who I am. I know blondes aren’t the only ones who have more fun—but I have more fun being blonde.

— Alexandra Clement ’16

Rushing a sorority at Cornell is a strictly organized and controlled process—especially compared to the party atmosphere of rushing a fraternity. But even though the traditional series of house visits is scheduled and monitored, there’s no way to calm more than 800 excited girls running around campus in the middle of an Ithaca winter, wearing winter boots and carrying high heels, with layers of sweatpants and jackets covering their formal dresses. With twenty-five minutes to walk between houses spread from West Campus to parts of North Campus that I didn’t even know existed, girls visit each sorority house in the hope of becoming a “sister.”

This year, I was part of the frenzy called formal recruitment. Through four rounds, underclassmen got acquainted with the members and ideals of each sorority. Each sorority has its own reputation, but it was up to potential new members to decide for ourselves what the houses were really like and how well we'd fit in. For me, there were some pleasant surprises. I originally didn’t give much thought to Kappa Kappa Gamma, a house stereotyped as athletic, because I haven’t attempted a team sport since second grade—but I was so impressed by Kappa that I returned throughout the week. I learned that Sigma Delta Tau, historically a Jewish sorority, made girls from all backgrounds feel welcome. Delta Gamma was rumored to be the exclusive home of wealthy blondes, but I was so pleased by the down-to-earth attitudes and diversity of its members that I visited DG up to the last day.

The first couple of days were easy; through a mutual selection process, we reduced the number of houses we visited from twelve to eight, then from five down to a final three. Members carried on the tradition of screaming and banging on doors and windows to share their enthusiasm with the potential new sisters lined up outside. Unfortunately, though, the excitement was cut short for many girls. Stress throughout the week was high, as we knew that space was limited; only 640 of the 851 girls registered for recruitment would receive a bid, the formal invitation to be in a sorority.

Thankfully, I was one of the lucky ones—I not only got a bid, but I came out of rush with a greater understanding of the girls on campus. I now belong to Alpha Phi, a sorority that I believe holds values of genuineness, sisterhood, intellect, and fun. Even as a new member, I’m already experiencing what it’s like to belong to such a community. I have not eaten a single meal by myself; I know at least one girl in every one of my classes; I always have a place to go to study or nap. And next year, when it’s time for rush 2014, I get to see it all from the other side.

— Alexandra Clement ’16

Don’t get me wrong: I like relaxing as much as the next college student. And I know I’m supposed to relish every break my school (Ithaca College) gives me, but I don’t. I’ll even say something that sounds like heresy: I think Winter Break drags on too long.

Christmas presents, New Year's Eve parties, Mom and Dad cleaning up after you, not having to set an alarm, free food—Winter Break sounds like paradise (and for most students, it probably is). However, I’ve found after the holidays are over, I fall into an unfortunate, lazy pattern of lounging on my parents' couch, streaming Netflix.

But I love college! And I’ll admit it, I’m a little addicted to the stress: balancing classes with work, student organizations, and social life while managing to stay (mostly) sane and sleeping once in a while. I don’t want—or need—nearly five weeks of free time. By the second week of break I'm rested and refreshed, ready to get off the couch and write a paper or cram for an exam. I want to work toward getting my degree and maybe learn a few things, not just stay home and lounge around for three more weeks.

Okay, to be fair: I didn’t actually have to do nothing. I could have tried to earn some money, volunteered at an animal shelter, or pursued a new hobby. But my first two years of college I fell into what I call “the lazy trap”: I start sleeping in and bumming around the house . . . and before I know it, I can’t stop sleeping in and bumming around the house. (Although I did manage to complete a few 1,000-piece puzzles last Winter Break, my proudest and only accomplishments.)

This year, though, I resisted. I came back to Ithaca and spent the second half of my break interning at CAM. Goodbye, Winter Break. Hello, life.

— Harmony Wright

My childhood ballet teacher, a strict vegan, used to show us graphic PETA videos in an attempt to convert us to her meatless ways. In my case, it worked—and at thirteen, I vowed to change my eating habits.

My dietary transition wasn’t easy. Like many kids who tell their mother they’ve given up meat, I found that my decision wasn’t well received. I cooked many of my own meatless dinners—and stayed in my room with the door closed to avoid the tempting aroma of a chicken baking in the oven. My friends couldn’t understand how I could resist bacon at breakfast; Thanksgiving became less satisfying when I had to pass on many of the dishes on the table. But I was determined to stick to my ideals, and seven years later I’ve mastered the lifestyle of a pescatarian: someone who abstains from eating all animal flesh, except fish.

I know what you’re thinking: “You’re not even a real vegetarian!” I’ve heard it countless times. No, I am not technically a vegetarian since I consume fish, but I am doing better than most of the red-meat and poultry eaters of the world.

Everyone has their own reason for avoiding meat. For some, it’s about animal rights. For others, it’s health reasons. My own motivations are a combination of both. I do believe in animal rights and think that the slaughtering process is disgusting. Also, the decrease in animal products is keeping my cholesterol down, which is helpful since heart disease is common in my family.

But the fact that I am not a real vegetarian does plague me at times. Am I really doing enough for animal rights if I’m eating seafood? How healthy am I really being if I still chow down on salmon and shrimp every week? But staying away from seafood seems impossible for me. One of my favorite meals in Collegetown is the teriyaki salmon at Plum Tree. And every now and then I still crave—but don’t eat—a juicy burger. if I give up fish, what will I eat instead?

Through it all, I keep wondering: why can’t we all just get along? Vegans, vegetarians, and pescatarians all contribute to animal rights by restricting our food choices—just in different ways. We all deserve respect—well, except for a certain group I like to call “convenient vegetarians.” These are the people who claim they are vegetarians “except on Thanksgiving, during the Superbowl . . . and whenever there is bacon around.”

— Jillian Knowles ’15

In first grade, I was required to wear a polo shirt with “St. Elizabeth Catholic School” emblazoned on it. Starting in fifth grade, the dress code required a white button-down shirt and a red-and-navy plaid tie. (A clip-on, though not preferred, was allowed.) When I got to high school, the rules were looser; any type of chinos, polo shirt, and dress shoes were allowed. But I still felt that a dress code restricted my personal style, so I was eager to get to college, where every day was “free dress” day.

I started with what I had: a graphic tee from Hot Topic, skinny jeans from H&M, and a pair of Nikes. At the time, my wardrobe still mostly consisted of minor rebellions against my private school background. Nothing needed ironing. I even owned a studded belt, which I sometimes paired with a hardcore heavy metal band T-shirt and wore to my freshman writing seminar if I was feeling particularly disgruntled. More or less, this style became my collegiate uniform over the next couple of years. You’d see me at Libe Café looking like I was waiting in line for an Iron Maiden concert.

But around my junior year I started to feel there was something incongruous or unacademic about dressing that way at an Ivy League institution. Many of my peers looked like future lawyers, professors, and businessmen, while I apparently owned the only studded belt in a ten-mile radius. Cornell’s inherent preppiness started to rub off on me, and I found myself choosing the sweater over the hoodie, the boat shoe over the sneaker. I went home for winter break and came back with my old button-downs. Last spring, I fell in love with a blue plaid flannel shirt my mother bought me ages ago, but I’d hardly ever worn. Before I knew it, my closet was again filled with L.L. Bean and J. Crew.

I had come full circle—but this time around my private school attire was voluntary. Perhaps it was the desire to fit in . . . or the realization that I am not, in fact, a rock star. Or maybe it’s just growing up. How many adults still dress the way they did when they were teenagers? At any rate, today you’ll find me in clothing that even my high school dean of students would approve of.

— Daniel Tsoy ’13