The first day of classes.

So I got more or less a full night's sleep and awoke to clear white morning light. My first class didn't start until 8:30, so I poured my cereal leisurely and listened to NPR as I ate it. One of the joys of a big city is radio sans static- everything comes in, no matter what you turn the dial to. Moreover, there are two separate public broadcasting stations whose programming often differs, giving me a choice! Imagine that.

My first class was Spanish. My professor showed an impressive depth of understanding of the finer points of linguistics, demonstrating the essential differences between key pronunciations in English and Spanish. She alternated effortlessly between a straightforward Anglo "buenos dias" and an authentic "BWAY-nos DEE-ahs," and made clear which one she expects us to speak in class.

Afterward I headed to chapel, which we are required to attend three days a week. After that, I made my way to World Civilizations I, a class I can already tell I am going to love. We're learning straight out of the ancient texts themselves- no historian's commentary on what was written, but the figures of history talking to us directly. All sorts of things I always felt I should have read to be educated I'll now actually get to, and what's more, I'll have an expert's guided discussions to enhance the process.

The highlight of my day was the meeting for the school's newspaper, The Point Weekly. I talked to the faculty advisor and he accepted my offer of another pair of copy editing eyes enthusiastically. Most everyone there was enrolled in the course to get credit, but as I've done the reporter thing and hated it more than you'd think someone who loves language would, I don't want to be a staff writer. Generating ideas- sure, I can do that; putting an article together- slightly stifling creatively but I am willing to if it's needed; photography- given the right equipment I can make something passable. But when it comes to tracking down sources and interviewing, I balk. Talking to strangers revolts me like nothing else. And when you realize that I've done little else but that the past few days, you can imagine my state of mind and congratulate me for still functioning.

In that vein, I approached the advisor with trepidation, but after I sold myself briefly with my high school newspaper experience and Press-Enterprise stint, he welcomed me to ask the copy editor if she'd like help. I did so, and hope to hear from her soon. It would be an entirely voluntary position, but, let's face it, I'd be sitting in the dining hall with a red pen every week either way. It's certainly what I did at Hemet High: whenever a new issue of The Bulldog appeared, I'd rapidly, rabidly, cross and circle and underline and revise, obviously acting on my repressed frustration at being stuck in a building with an aliterate journalism department.

Satisfied with getting my foot in the door, I went to dinner with a happy heart, and even lingered at a table of new acquaintances to participate in their pleasant, trifling chatter.