When I first arrived at Loyola I wasn’t sure what to expect. I had met a few people through the Internet and my two days at Lagniappe back in June, but I was still a little overwhelmed by the hundreds of new people I was suddenly meeting.
Remembering names is not my forte in the least. Over the first few days someone would call out to me “Hey Nolan!” and in reply I’d say “Hey … you.” Occasionally when a girl said “Hey Nolan.” I would take a stab at her name, and many times fail, sometimes in an epic fashion.
It could be assumed that girls like to have their names remembered. But I have actually read, well not so much “read” as “just now made up,” that girls actually enjoy being asked where they’re from several times, sometimes three or four times in the same conversation. And what better new student experience than the instance of asking a senior if he or she is a freshman?
It was one of my first days, just before class, probably about 8 a.m., when I entered the Orleans Room for breakfast. I grabbed a plate of food and looked around to see if I recognized anyone. I did not, so I proceeded to sit down at a table with three girls who I figured were freshmen. Like the smooth guy that I am, I promptly said, “Hey, I’m Nolan, y’all are freshmen, too?”
At this they looked at me and replied, “We’re seniors” and promptly turned back to their previous conversation. After eating, I reflected on how smooth I was, and decided that it would be best to ask “What year are you?” in the future.
Another fun experience I had as a freshman was buying a used bike. My friend was driving me down Magazine Street when we passed a little white shack. We stopped and I wound up buying a salmon pink street bike. I decided to name her Isabella.
One day. I was riding Isabella down St. Charles Avenue towards the French Quarter. I thought I was looking cool, this college kid on his pink street bike.
I was feeling pretty good as I neared the Columns Hotel about two miles away from campus, but that’s when I made my fatal mistake.
I decided that it would be smart to try and jump the curb so I would not have to get off my bike and lift it over. I jumped and landed but did not keep rolling. I heard a soft hissing sound and looked down to realize I had landed on broken glass.
The ride down St. Charles Avenue was significantly more fun than the walk back. As I carried my salmon pink street bike back to campus, I decided that from then on, I wouldn’t hop curbs anymore. I would just get off my bike and lift it.
