I’d been home in Rochester, NY for two days and I was out with my friend Joe at Nick Tahou’s Diner. I responded to the familiar face at the counter with my usual order: “garbage plate … white hot … mac salad, home fries.” He tipped his signature Buffalo Bills cap and headed to the fryer. Back turned, he asked “Onions, mustard and hot sauce?” knowing my answer before it left my lips: “of course.”
Some translation: “White Hot” is a spicy, sausage-like hot dog, and a “Garbage Plate” is some sort of low quality meat over barely thawed macaroni salad and fries smothered under onions and various sauces. Despite the name, it’s the most delicious meal $2.50 can buy.
Sitting at Tahou’s with my best friend and gorging myself on one of Rochester’s few claims to fame, I felt comfort in the knowledge that, after a hectic semester, certain aspects of home had remained concrete. With no papers to write and no meetings to attend, I could simply sit and enjoy my meal.
But my sentimental moment only lasted about 20 seconds. Halfway into my mac salad, I noticed that an obese man wearing a stained shirt and trucker hat was glaring at me. I looked down at myself. In a diner frequented nearly exclusively by blue-collar workers, I had branded myself an upper-middle class metrosexual. At Nick Tahou’s, and really anywhere within a 20 mile radius of home, a collared shirt and jeans from Express Men was not the style of choice. On campus, the outfit would have received, if any reaction, a small compliment or smile. I left slightly perturbed at the thought that I would be putting away my usual clothing until I returned to school.
That night, my high school basketball team played its crosstown rival. Crammed into the back seat of my friend’s Cavalier, downing cheap beer and smoking cigarettes, I was already bored. I wanted to give one guy a medal for how many times he slipped “pre-game” into casual conversation. I dramatically wondered if things could get worse.
Then I sat through a high school basketball game in a minuscule gym. Not only was the team much worse than I remembered, but even the cheering section had lost its rowdy appeal. I walked out puzzled that these games could have thrilled me a year ago.
That evening set the tone for the rest of my break. After an unbelievable semester, I had been hurled back into a life both restrained and uneventful. I did nothing new or interesting. Friends in Rochester called to ask if I had anything in mind, but the standard pastimes of catching up and retelling chuckle-worthy anecdotes can only be dragged out for so long. Although I was still having fun at home, I was already preoccupied with returning to Georgetown.
It was not until New Year’s Eve that I officially snapped. Against my better judgment, I attended a party hosted by an old friend. It was packed with high school couples and other people I could not deal with while sober. After remedying that situation, I was managing to enjoy myself when, suddenly, caught in the throes of her newfound, free-spirited collegiate sexuality, an old friend started hitting on me. The situation wasn’t awkward; it was simply dull.
Riding home, I recalled spending all week in high school looking forward to a Friday night party, where the goal was to drink until I couldn’t see straight and then hook up with someone. At the time, I thought nothing could be more thrilling. Ironically, just months later, the most exciting and enjoyable days of my break were spent on a ski trip with two friends, not from home, but from Georgetown.
I had let nostalgia get the best of me. At Georgetown, I remembered home as the place I belonged, where my best friends were and where I would be unquestionably accepted. But neither my home nor my friends had changed. In truth, neither had I. Now that I’ve seen the wonders of Lauinger and O’Donovan, though, going back to Rochester will never be the same. Looking back, I’m not sure what there was to be so homesick about.
