Princeton’s drug culture is like a moon. Once a month it is full, lustrous and can be seen from all over campus. For some, this metaphorical moon is perpetually full and bright while for others the sky above is eternally dark.
“We definitely weren’t the favorites going into this,” senior and captain Casey Riley said. “But we pulled it out.” Riley wasn’t exaggerating. The women’s squash team, by many counts, was not the favorite to win this year’s Howe Cup.
“Although neither of us is particularly loud, I guess you could say I’ve always been a little bit more introverted, a little quieter,” Castro said, describing his relationship with his twin brother, Joaquin. “But Joaquin and I have different ideas about politics and how to serve the people. I felt that I could help more people on a day-to-day basis in the city government. And so,” he finished, a quiet determination in his voice. “Here I am.”
What happens to your vomit? Which magical little elves comes and clean it up, so when you groan your way out of bed, you don’t step in it on your way to class? The singularly important responsibility of cleaning up vomit belongs not to elves but regular people—the Princeton Grounds and Maintenance Crew.
But, with the surge in oil prices and the resultant focus on the Middle East, Cairo and Egypt (along with pre-bombed Beirut) became virtual Meccas of Western culture. And, of course, with the Gucci and the McDonald’s came the fitness clubs. Appearing like empty candy wrappers after a night of THC-induced debauchery, these clubs came complete with ellipticals, aerobics classes and muscle-bound personal trainers. Catering to the Cairene elite, the gyms cover all the bases: massage parlors, multiple steam rooms, kickboxing and hip-hop classes and, of course, the smoothie bar