So.
The time has come.
The die is cast.
I know where I am going to go next year.
But, no one else but me and my best friend the Subcontinent get to know until tomorrow night.
Hee hee hee.

See, we have a great and evil plan. Back at the beginning of April, when Subcontinent and I found out where we were accepted, our loving parents wrote down their predictions (on where each of us would wind up) on little scraps of paper and subsequently hid them from us. Well, turnabout is fair play we decided, and after a hasty phone conference yesterday afternoon we formulated our plan. Tomorrow, after Subcontinent performs in the wonderful Kander & Ebb musical Chicago at her high school (such family friendly fare for 13-18 year olds--at least Cole Porter loads up on innuendo and not scantily clad women killing people. Don't be fooled, though. I love Chicago) the two families will gather in an as yet to be determined location and divulge all.
We will let our parents know where to send the checks next year and they will let us know where they had envisioned themselves getting hotel rooms and showing up for parents' weekends.

But I am not all torture this weekend. I will therefore relieve you with rollicking tales of my adventures up and down the east coast:

Day One
Dad and I arrive in Baltimore at ten thirty p.m. ET and proceed to stand in the Dollar Rent-A-Car line for another half hour. Oh well. At least we didn't check any luggage and had the satisfaction of seeing those people arrive in line after us with looks of dread on their faces. After being given a mini-van instead of a compact car, we then drive to Uncle J and Aunt J's house where we intend to sneak in quietly and not wake anyone. Uncle J, however, is already awake and welcomes us heartily on the stairs. I go to bed and dream of strange goings on in a field next to a castle painted purple. (Never read anything by Dorothy Dunnett before sleeping).
Day Two
I awake to the sounds of Cousin J and Aunt J (seeing a pattern with the first names here?) talking. Cousin J is dropping her large and friendly dog off for the day. Aunt J is saying something about lacrosse. Or maybe I made that part up. I was still a little groggy at this point.
Dad comes to officially wake me up and I roll out of bed to put on my new clothes Mom generously bought for me at Express. Those pants are great. I want to be buried in those pants, and then reincarnated so I can wear them again. I discover that my eyes are itchy and my contacts won't stay in unless I an constantly crying. I put my glasses on instead. Then I put on lipstick so I don't look like a man. Downstairs, I talk to Aunt J about something while eating a bagel until it is time for Dad and I to make our way to Johns Hopkins.
The admitted students day is great. We are welcomed by an a capella group that sings "How to Save a Life" and I revel in how much better male undergraduates are than The Fray. Then several uninspired administrators speak and we are let loose.
The English department presentation is cozy and nice, and the professor presenting reminds me and another student of Professor Trelawney, of spacey Harry Potter fame. The Writing Seminars presentation later on is more fun, and is held in the tower room of Gilman Hall, which gives us a great 360 degree view of the campus and the rolling grey clouds massing. (Last time I was at Johns Hopkins it was 109 F. This time it was 49F. Yeah.) Dad is suitably lost by all the style and form jargon. I am pleased. Most of the time, I'm the one who's lost, listening to my Calculus friends talking about integrals and stuff.
We proceed to the meeting for students who have been given a Woodrow Wilson Research Grant. This goes well, although the two presenters failed to check ahead of time what each person was proposing to work on, and are forced to make up examples on the spur of the moment. Since I am the only humanities person in the room, they turn to me and say, "And, of course, you wouldn't be buying lab equipment. You would be...umm...buying a plane ticket to France to research medieval manuscripts." AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!! The fact that my mother was at that point on an airplane and unable to call these people and bribe them to turn me into an art historian made his pulling that out of his hat even more disturbing. I love that they're giving me money, truly, but please don't turn me into my mother in exchange. At least not until you get a chance to get to know me.
The day ends well. Dad and I return to Uncle and Aunt J's to find the house full. Cousin J is there with her husband, Cousin B, and their kids Cousin-Once-Removed R and Cousin-Once Removed D. Male Cousin J is there with his wife Cousin S and their kids Cousin-Once-Removed J and Cousin-Once-Removed S. We all eat The Best Cheeseburgers In The World and engage in family banter. At one point I am summoned to the basement by Cousin-Once-Removed J who entreats me to play a computer game called "Virtual Villagers: The Island of Lost Children." I make the mistake of calling it "The Village People" and am stuck with "In the Navy" in my head for the remainder of the week. We play the game. He names one character Ninagirl and one character IPooALot. Ahhh, youth.
Everyone leaves for their respective homes.
I put on my pajamas and watch House in the basement. This week he is sending Wilson flowers. Mmmm, the sweet smell of subtext.
I go to bed.
The toilet starts running and won't stop in the bathroom next to my room. I get up and play the plumber. It stops.
I go to sleep.
Day Three
We leave for Princeton in our mini-van. We arrive in Princeton in our mini-van. The campus is still beautiful. Dad tells me about the two ancient debating clubs. I start laughing hysterically at having been admitted somewhere with ancient debating clubs.
I brave the hallways of McCosh Hall--seemingly constructed by a mouse on LSD--and meet with an English professor. She is awesome, and so are the other two random women sitting in her office. One of them is another English professor, and one is a rock critic guest lecturer with a cool name, which I immediately forget, and an even cooler head wrap. The two of them sit in the corner and eat lunch while I talk with my professor about English and a line forms outside her office. Apparently students really like to talk to her. Or her classes are so impossible that everyone needs help. Either way, she seems nice and I leave very content.
Dad and I go to a dining hall to eat with out food vouchers and he gets the misty eyes of an alum back with his daughter. We sit and eat at a table full of jocks. I observe the Day of Silence by shushing them with my brain.
We tool around Princeton and go to our hotel to unload before eating dinner at the Triumph Brewing Company and going to see The Namesake at the movie theater. My dad mists again at its message of family. I too get a little moist.
We return to the hotel and go to bed. No one snores, or coughs, and no toilets require my plumbing superpowers. It's like the Miracle of Christmas.
Day Four
We eat breakfast at the Frist Campus Center and I go on alone to meet with a professor in the Creative Writing program. He, too, is awesome and we talk about a variety of subjects ranging from theater in Ireland to living in Paris to the merits of Princeton's location next to NYC, which, according to the professor, are great. He commutes every morning and knows what he's talking about. Despite seeming to be half-asleep throughout the entire interview (which he most assuredly was not) he gave me some very frank nuggets of wisdom(?). According to him, "Baltimore is boring," and Brown has "an atmosphere that is morbid and neurotic." Yes, well, I'm not sure I agree with him, but regardless it was a relief to get advice other than, "Oh, Nom de Plume, you are so lucky. Whatever choice you make, you won't go wrong."
After returning to Baltimore for dinner before flying out, I am dragged once again to the basement, this time by Cousin-Once-Removed S who uses pattern books to design my hypothetical house, and gives me fifty dollars of play money as change for a twenty. When I ask him whether I can buy anything else at his store besides home furnishings, he offers me "a package of Canadian Ham." I like this kid.
Everyone says goodbye to us after dinner and we drive our mini-van for one last hurrah down the highway to the rental car return.
Winging our way back to Chicago later, I reflect on the trip, and find that unless I write all the college stuff down, all I will remember is crouching in a Baltimore basement, humming the Village People and buying plastic Canadian ham. Such, as The Namesake points out, is the power of family.