Written by Rucha Desai, Columnist
There are 90 days left until graduation. For some, that means only 90 more days of searching for old outlines, of posting political tirades on Coases, and of running late to class because the Monday schedule is arbitrarily moved up ten minutes. For others, it means only 90 days of ignoring the loud Mamoun’s consumption in the library and racing to The Cave for a spot on the couch.
For me, this means there are only 90 days left to be a student. That is, 90 days of discoveries and rediscoveries, of expected unemployment and unexpected audacity, of embracing and cherishing and being energized by this beautiful city. There are 90 days of unbilled, unmeasured time in a race against the clock.
So, instead of #3LOL, I am #3MonthsLeft. I will chronicle one experience—old or new—every week, for three months, to uncover the little treasures this city has to offer (outside of Vanderbilt Hall).
Last Saturday, I discovered wintertime Hamptons. To celebrate my friend’s 30th birthday, we took a party bus tour of the Hamptons through First Glass Wine Tours. The bus was stocked with water bottles, ice buckets, and red solo cups filled with nostalgia. We unapologetically blasted Justin Bieber’s new album on a loop as we rode from Midtown East to our first stop, Raphael. The winery had a wooden, warm tasting room with high ceilings, live music, and a view of untouched, snow-covered vineyards that reached the horizon. For $11, I tasted four Long Island wines, ate a thick grilled cheese sandwich with hot tomato soup, and took selfies against the immaculate terrain (after aggressively judging girls who take selfies).
Everything was clean, white, and simple.
Excitement levels heightened, our next stop was Baiting Hollow, where older blond women were dancing in celebration of each other and the winery’s live band played 90s pop covers. In the midst of a fierce debate about boy bands (Backstreet Boys versus *NSYNC), we had one bottle of Riesling and one bottle of cabernet franc, with a creamy spinach artichoke dip that was grossly lacking in salt. We finished our bus tour at LIV – not the club in Miami, but the distillery on Long Island. For $10, we tasted potato vodkas infused with sweet fruits, with espresso, and with nothing. We swished, we clinked, and we sipped.
And the clock struck midnight (6 p.m.), so we had to run back to our coach (mini party bus) before it turned back into a pumpkin (charged us a penalty).
Our souvenir tasting glasses in our pockets, we climbed back onto the bus. Disco lights blaring, we rode back into Manhattan, playing aggressive rounds of Heads Up and eating the complimentary cheese from Raphael that we stuffed into take-out containers. We reached Manhattan, and the crew dispersed – to the DL, to Caliente Cab, and to respective studios, where the jubilance and freshness of the day’s events allowed a deep, untroubled sleep. A familiar dread about Sunday’s activities began to creep over me—the antitrust reading, the dishwashing, the weight training—but I was able to fend it off for just a few more hours, nibbling on my last bits of cheese and swiping through my selfies against that untouched, white, immaculate terrain.