Tunneling
I'd walk the lit tunnels with detachment; only in the beginning of my second year was I able to appreciate the winding passageways of almost sci-fi underground. It was always the same route--always the same twists and turns, the same doors, the same breaks underneath the dormitories and the same up-and-outs when the -25 degrees would really hit after being in no cooler than 50. I'd walk it with my earbuds in; so many songs have soundtracked those walks to classes, club meetings, the library, lunch dates at the Union, business offices, and other dorms. I never walked the tunnels without seeing someone I knew; the tunnels were perfect for commute chit-chats and kisses in dark stairwells after-hours when the only sounds were the dripping, steam-pumping, hissing pipes.
Sometimes it was wet, slushy--our shoes squeaked on the tiles, echoing off the bare walls. Sometimes lights were out for feet at a time, making the tightness of the tunnels a little more claustrophobic than before. Pipes ran along the ceilings and walls, and always reminded me of the spaceships in the Alien movies. There were staircases, here and there, some older and steeper than others. Some parts of the tunnels didn't extend all the way to where you'd need to go, and they'd just end at a door, forcing either a chilly exit or backtracking to another building. The tunnels under the fitness center always smelled of chlorine, and the newer section of tunnels had high windows along the tops.
Part of the tunnel was above ground, technically not the tunnel, but a trick to staying completely inside and avoiding the 50-foot walk through the "smokers area" right outside the main building's four doors. I knew all these staircases, hallways, doors and passages. Classes after 4 in the autumn evenings became much more pleasant with a lighted, warm walk back to the dorms. Sometimes the tunnels were like rivers, the currents of students flowing every-which-way almost overwhelming. Sometimes people would stop and talk, and in the longest, widest stretch of academic tunnels, several steep declines and well-polished floor made for good--albeit discouraged--skateboarding.
Athletes lived underground, jogging in nothing more than shorts and tanks, dashing from the fitness center tunnel to the farthest end of campus and back. Professors often shuffled through the tunnels after finding a space in their lots, tour groups almost always went through the underground, and the commute of students was a familiar affair in which everyone always saw someone else they knew. Those walks, those encounters, those people, that scenery all became so bleak after a time. . . .
Why is it we recall something so fondly only after we no longer have it?
Sometimes it was wet, slushy--our shoes squeaked on the tiles, echoing off the bare walls. Sometimes lights were out for feet at a time, making the tightness of the tunnels a little more claustrophobic than before. Pipes ran along the ceilings and walls, and always reminded me of the spaceships in the Alien movies. There were staircases, here and there, some older and steeper than others. Some parts of the tunnels didn't extend all the way to where you'd need to go, and they'd just end at a door, forcing either a chilly exit or backtracking to another building. The tunnels under the fitness center always smelled of chlorine, and the newer section of tunnels had high windows along the tops.
Part of the tunnel was above ground, technically not the tunnel, but a trick to staying completely inside and avoiding the 50-foot walk through the "smokers area" right outside the main building's four doors. I knew all these staircases, hallways, doors and passages. Classes after 4 in the autumn evenings became much more pleasant with a lighted, warm walk back to the dorms. Sometimes the tunnels were like rivers, the currents of students flowing every-which-way almost overwhelming. Sometimes people would stop and talk, and in the longest, widest stretch of academic tunnels, several steep declines and well-polished floor made for good--albeit discouraged--skateboarding.
Athletes lived underground, jogging in nothing more than shorts and tanks, dashing from the fitness center tunnel to the farthest end of campus and back. Professors often shuffled through the tunnels after finding a space in their lots, tour groups almost always went through the underground, and the commute of students was a familiar affair in which everyone always saw someone else they knew. Those walks, those encounters, those people, that scenery all became so bleak after a time. . . .
Why is it we recall something so fondly only after we no longer have it?