'Hey guys, we're in college....'

Some places are only truly themselves in moments of exception. London is alive on December evenings, when the glow of open pub doors somehow warms the raw slush and draws in thawing drinkers. On late fall nights, when subway exhaust mingles with burnt pretzel smell, the color of the sky matches that of the skyscrapers, and New York is silver. In Tel Aviv, it's the peach-toned hour spent at cafes between the close of business and dinner on quiet August evenings. Florence is best after a rainfall, when people burst out of markets and stores to smell the clean streets.

And Duke? Idyllic late-March admissions tour weather may be enticing, but it seems far too ordinary to define this place. The fall days when everyone dons light jackets but lingers outside, watching dry leaves swirling around the Chapel steps, are far more precious. Students on the way to class pause, stay outside a little longer, recognizing the transience of these moments on the days when Duke is most itself. Nobody wants to let the warmth slip away unappreciated.

During a year in Israel before coming to Duke, I volunteered as a maid in kibbutz guest houses and studied Hebrew in Jerusalem. Every now and then, on a bus ride through the desert or at a hippie-filled beach concert, I would stop, pause and remind: "Hey guys, we're in Israel...." This refrain became one of several things my friends would find to make fun of (collecting T-shirts, a multi-volume journal, big hair, etc.). But I always stood my ground, insisting that if this was the time we would so fondly remember, we'd better damn well enjoy it while it was happening.

Back then, eating fresh tangerines on a kibbutz lawn, barefoot for days at a time, I felt pity for my friends who went straight to the regimented days and library-bound nights of college. It seemed so far.

And now, that phase for me too is about to pass. There were certainly days in October I would have given anything to graduate early-I won't miss some Duke students' spectacular self-exceptionalism; the widespread commitment to numerical markers of success; smiling, nodding and agreeing to a lunch you and the other person both know will never happen; overhearing strings of conversations start with "Dude!"; people who think their business is more urgent or significant than yours and tell you how busy they are, incessantly.

Yet none of those seem as terrible as being the object of the mildly resentful, pitying air that students reserve for young alumni (What are they doing back here? Don't they know they graduated?). They'll look at us and have no idea that we had those moments, too. Overnight drives to Destin and Panama City. Collecting redneck souvenirs on those drives. Bid nights freshman year. Face-painting in the line to the Duke-UNC game. Theme parties when every theme dealt with the '80s. WaDuke on food points. Filling our fridge with jello shots. B-day parties. Jumping off the pier in Charleston. Wordless library flirting. Cheap European airline flights to visit friends. Running into people I know everywhere, from a cheesy Prague nightclub to the walkway in front of Perkins.

In recent weeks I've marked the passing of time with "lasts" in all the things I do: my last marathon night at The Chronicle, the last Nasher Board co-chair responsibilities in the form of the Nashquerade, one last Chronicle semi-formal (yes, they have those) and a last senior send-off from Theta, goody bag and all. Senior Week, besides attempting to get us all to donate some money, serves to ease us into the fact of our leaving. The University zips us into our sensible coats of experience and credentials, spins us around and pushes us into the snow.

And I thought I was ready.

Emily Rotberg is a Trinity senior. She is managing editor of Towerview and general Chronicle cheerleader. She would like to thank LAP, KWK, LBP, TGL, DJK, MKS, SCP, LR, RW, AOTA, the 301, and especially JMC. See you at home.