When prospective students visit Yale, they undoubtedly learn about the residential college system: before arriving at Yale for orientation, every freshman is randomly assigned to one of Yale's twelve residential colleges, where they will live, eat, sleep, and study for the next four years. The colleges are quite different from one another: some have movie theaters, some have pottery studios, and others have amazing gyms; they range in size from huge Silliman, which occupies an entire block to petite Trumbull; they're all built in different architectural styles.

It’s Wednesday, twelve thirty six to be exact, and I’ve just bolted out of class and into a bright green sweet shop. Crammed amongst forty five other undergraduates, all carrying monstrous backpacks that make reaching that spicy California roll virtually impossible, I find myself glancing nervously at my watch every five seconds. I have come to consider this, grabbing a Durfee’s lunch, a Yale tradition.

As the world transforms into a cloud-computing world, humanity has grown increasingly more digitized, more captivated by technology, and more enamored by the beauty of the instantaneous. Don’t get me wrong: I am just as infatuated as any other nineteen-year-old college student. But what if none of it ever existed? What if you could stop sending every digitized piece of your life into the cloud? What if you could touch the clouds?

I've always had a fascination with defying gravity.

One of the best parts about traveling is the food. (As my friend, Uzra, points out, food explains the world.) I am never disappointed by the discovery of a completely different palate, a new array of tastes and textures and smells and ways of eating.