I’m from Boston, where the day celebrating the landing of the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria—along with Patriot’s Day (no connection to the football team), Bunker Hill Day, Evacuation Day, and Make-Your-Own-Holiday Day—is a sacred day of rest, reserved for enjoying the fall foliage, recovering from a 10-hour football-watching marathon, and talking about how Boston is better than all other cities (because it is, asshole).
Here at Columbia, though, we have arrived at the second Monday in October, and, dare I say it, the revelry is all but forgotten. Indeed, when I woke up this morning, at the holiday-unreasonable hour of 8 am, not a thought of Columbus Day passed through my mind, even though my parents had been gloating about their upcoming day off for weeks—but that all changed around noon.
