Cruising for Colleges

The idea is to pack a tour bus with some of Southern California’s best and brightest high school juniors for a sampling of East Coast universities. It’s expensive, but many parents consider such trips a worthwhile investment, especially with private school tuition reaching $25,000 a year and more. Campus visits reveal far more than college brochures, and can help high school students decide whether they want to spend their first years of adulthood a couple of thousand miles away from home. Brentwood School junior Judy Coleman kept a log of her group’s six days on the road to making--yes, they know--The Most Important Decision of Their Lives.

SUNDAY: Somewhere Over America

I’ve been on this plane for hours, and I can’t decide what’s worse--trying to sleep in an airline seat or being on the ground in Boston, where the captain says it’s windy and 30 degrees.

When we left Los Angeles, my classmates had been clapping, shouting and laughing hysterically. But slowly, somewhere over the Midwest, they dropped off into fitful airplane sleep.

Our trip started immediately after the end of third quarter. Over the past 48 hours we had been up until all hours, photocopying English research papers at Kinko’s at 3 a.m. and rising early to complete independent study projects--the usual crunch.

Now we are on our way to see the payoff of hard work and sleepless nights: college.

Everyone had been looking forward to the college trip, Brentwood’s annual spring break tour of 15 or so East Coast schools. There were 43 students selected, about evenly split between boys and girls. The school’s three college counselors came to keep order.

The college trip is the perfect opportunity to see some of the great schools in the Ivy League, as well as some of the less famous campuses. Some of us also came to escape parents, and to party.

Somebody asked me my school of choice. I don’t know yet. But judging by the weather down there, I’m going with Stanford right about now.

We left Logan Airport in a luxury bus equipped with TV monitors and a VCR. Only a few students could muster the energy to talk. We were on California time--where it was still the middle of the night. Heads nodding and legs cramped, we watched the snowy Boston landscape out the window.

We had breakfast in Harvard Square at the Au Bon Pain, better known as that place in “Good Will Hunting.” Then nine girls and I headed to Brandeis University via subway and train, while the others went to Boston University and Boston College.

The neighborhood around Brandeis made me think of the Edith Wharton novel “Ethan Frome,” with its ultra-depressing depictions of New England winter. Our guide was a premed major named Amanda. For someone from New York, she didn’t seem very energetic, but claimed she and her roommate were the loudest in their dorm. Maybe it was the weather or the early hour.

For 45 minutes, Amanda navigated our group through Brandeis’ unusually designed buildings. Juliet and Erica asked questions about the theater department. I asked Amanda about being premed.

I knew Brandeis is a good school. So I felt a little guilty for dismissing the campus because it looked barren in the snow. I was there less than an hour, in ugly weather, with no students around--was I really going to eliminate it as a contender in the most important decision of my life?

Well, maybe.

We ate pizza at Mike’s in Somerville, then met the rest of our group and drove to Tufts University.

Even from the bus, everybody seemed to like Tufts. The school’s quads and traditional brick buildings resembled what most of us expected an East Coast college to look like.

While the admissions director spoke, I was feeling the jet lag. I thought my eyes were the only ones closing, but I looked around and everyone else was nodding off too.

Our tour guide, Kevin, was a nice guy who really wanted us to like his school. He is studying to be a meteorologist and is president of the ballroom dancing club. As West L.A. teenagers--with ambitions to be businessmen, actors, filmmakers or diplomats--we didn’t much relate to him.

One of the main problems I’m having is separating the tour guide from the school. If Kevin had been an attractive philosophy major who ran varsity track, maybe I would have loved Tufts.

We stayed at the Harvard Square Hotel that night. Some kids took the train into Boston, while others, including myself and some friends, roamed Harvard Square until we found a Tower Records store.

After returning to our hotel, kids congregated in the second-floor hallway until one of the counselors yelled, “Get in your rooms NOW. We’ve had complaints from other guests!”

MONDAY: Intimidated by Harvard

We walked over melting snow to Harvard, and everybody was stunned. Harvard is intimidating in the way you’d expect from a centuries-old Ivy League school. Our tour guide, Virginia, was not the sort of student we expected: a down-to-earth cheerleader from Georgia.

Those who were seriously considering applying--cough, cough--were not talking about it.

My English teacher likes to use Emerson’s quote about how wrong it is to obsess over “badges and names” to crack our illusions about the Ivy League. But it’s difficult to deny Harvard once you see it.

Next stop, Brown University.

During the one-hour trip to Providence, nearly everyone slept. The lively bunch who had prompted complaints at the hotel the night before were now slumped in their seats, some asleep still strapped to their Walkmans.

While driving through the city, we passed by a Roger Williams monument. About half the bus shouted, “Hey! He’s that guy!” reminded by the AP History kids that he founded Rhode Island.

I found Brown appealing because of its liberal philosophy and lack of core curriculum. But the admissions representative made it sound like a student’s academic record counted less than a student’s personality. Suddenly, I felt like I had a better chance of getting into Harvard.

We left Brown for a two-hour bus ride to Saratoga Springs, N.Y. To pass the time, Aaron, the son of a former TV celebrity, put his father’s Academy-issued copy of “Good Will Hunting” on the bus’ VCR system. I had already seen the movie, and liked it, so I took frequent breaks to watch the beautiful scenery of the Massachusetts Turnpike.

The hills were covered in forests of leafless trees. I thought I would hate the cold when I left L.A., but now I was in awe of the beauty here.

Exhausted, we prepared for another night of hotel living at the Sheraton in Saratoga Springs. We got to stay up late for the Oscars, so most of the group gathered in one room to watch.

Even after spending the entire day together, people still want to socialize at night. Our class, notorious for its cliquishness, was finally starting to bond. We knew that Omri wanted to know about international business and Juliet and Erica would ask about theater and dance, and Marcel cared about diversity.

TUESDAY: Small-College Overload

After breakfast, we boarded the bus for Skidmore College. But before we even reached the school, most of the group was turned off. Saratoga Springs, which is supposed to be a college town, didn’t look like one.

Our tour guide, Sarah, raced us through the college, which seemed very artsy. Sarah studies dance and showed us the dance studios. Many of the girls on the trip are interested in theater and dance, but only one or two said they could put up with the isolation here.

We drove an hour to Union College, which is in Schenectady. The campus has some pretty architecture, but it seems kind of plastic. Union has been around as long if not longer than some of the Ivies, but it doesn’t seem to resound with the same prestige as the big universities.

The dean of admissions gave us a free pizza lunch. He really wanted to make Union stand out. So, instead of a regular tour, we have a scavenger hunt game: What color was the statue in front of the gym? It felt kind of juvenile, but at least it wasn’t boring. We left happy.

Next stop, Poughkeepsie, N.Y. Everyone was instantly impressed by the Vassar campus, but we were getting sick of the small-liberal-arts-college thing. We split into three tour groups to walk around the huge campus. My group’s guide, a senior, was very intelligent and sold the college well. The students seemed mellow and unconcerned with image. At some schools, the image is to be trendy and at others it is to be anti-trendy. Here was a mix of both.

In the library, the guide pointed out a stained-glass window portraying the first woman to receive her doctorate, defending herself against her male superiors. That window helped me decide to apply to Vassar.

Meanwhile, the boys in my group instigated a snowball fight in front of the tour guide.

On the drive to Hartford, we finished watching “Swingers,” one of my favorite movies, and then started to watch “The Full Monty.” Some of the students didn’t go for the gritty, working-class look of the film.

Hartford looked cold and barren. The night’s only excitement was when we learned the Harlem Globetrotters were staying at our Holiday Inn.

I heard that a group of kids had gone out to eat and that several had smoked. Risking expulsion by smoking on a school trip seems just plain dumb.

WEDNESDAY: Now-Familiar Routine

The day started with our now-familiar routine: wake up around 7, eat at the hotel, pack the bus, drive to the college--today it is Trinity College--and get told to behave.

The best word to describe Trinity is sanitary. I got no sense of the school’s personality because the only student there was our tour guide. The admissions representative tried to drum up some enthusiasm for the school, but I think I am now suffering from the “this is the fourth small liberal arts college I’ve seen in a row” syndrome.

Connecticut College, also on spring break, looked like a typical liberal arts college. I’ve heard it is funky and artsy, but, once again, it’s hard to tell without students around.

Everybody’s spirits picked up for Yale. I saw two Brentwood alums, Jackie and Guy, who worked with me on the school newspaper. Both had been top students at Brentwood, then found Yale a humbling experience.

Yale put me off for some reason. Maybe it was the odd combination of gothic architecture and the Berkeley-esque neighborhood that surrounds the campus. But I decided to keep it in mind because my dad had gone there.

The tour guide was a political science major who looked like he should have been in drama. Loren was loud and funny, dressed in a Beastie Boys shirt and a rainbow-striped wool coat. He entertained the girls and annoyed the boys. Some of the boys tried to provoke him by asking purposely stupid questions.

We stayed later than planned and were antsy to get to our next stop, New York City. I’m sure the primary motivation to go on this trip for at least a third of the group was the stay in New York. Most of us had been there before.

We checked into the Marriott Marquis, and our curfew was extended to 10 p.m. I went to dinner at a place on West 68th called Empire Szechwan, and later fell asleep with the lights of Times Square flashing in my window.

THURSDAY: A ‘Seinfeld’ Moment

On the way to Columbia, we passed by Tom’s Restaurant, cast as the restaurant Monk’s on “Seinfeld,” and everybody on the bus went wild. We met some Brentwood alumni at Columbia and hung out in Lowe Memorial Library.

The guide for my group, with a steaming cup of coffee in hand, had a get-down-to-business attitude that instantly turned off many in the group. I think the students who thought they were destined to live in New York loved it, and the rest found their own reasons to shy away. I didn’t like the strict core curriculum that doesn’t allow for much scheduling flexibility.

After Columbia, we drove down Broadway to New York University, where we met more Brentwood alums. I wasn’t thrilled by the slice of the student body I saw. Then again, NYU has more than 10,000 undergrads. I’m sure I could find someone. The Gallatin School of Independent Study interested me, but design-your-own-major programs exist at most colleges.

During the three-hour ride to Princeton, we watched most of the movie “Titanic.” We jeered at the vacant dialogue and mocked the corny love story.

FRIDAY: Like a Giant Party

We walked to Princeton from the hotel. The weather had gotten much warmer since our arrival in Boston.

We had our information session in Nassau Hall, a historic landmark. We sat in pews in a giant wood-paneled room. I was immediately reminded of history book pictures of the Founding Fathers drafting the Constitution. The walls were covered with portraits of regal-looking, long-dead historical figures.

Our tour guide was tall and pudgy, with beginnings of a double chin, blond curly hair and beady blue eyes. He was wearing a black Princeton shirt and khakis. The campus is gorgeous, but the students I saw did nothing to contradict the school’s conservative image.

We finished “Titanic” on the way to the University of Pennsylvania.

The weather had grown oppressively hot, and Penn’s main quad looked like an outdoor concert. Students were out on the grass, music blaring out of giant speakers.

Naturally, everyone liked Penn, our last stop. Who wouldn’t like a prestigious school that looked like a giant spring break party? What if we had seen Brandeis on a day like this? Or Skidmore? What if Penn had been buried under a foot of snow instead?

I realized that maybe I had been making some pretty hasty judgments. Every East Coast college has its hot days and freezing days, its weird students and its charismatic students, its bustling moments and its quiet moments. How could I possibly decide when I saw each college for at maximum two hours and, in most cases, with no students there?

BACK HOME: More Questions

I got to see most of the colleges I am interested in, but the trip raised even more questions: Wouldn’t I be able to do well anywhere? Why exactly hadn’t I liked certain schools? Where could I really see myself?

My parents asked which colleges I was applying to. I rattled off a list of four or five Ivies, Vassar and NYU. I was starting to see more reasons to attend Yale.

Maybe the truth is I would do just fine at any of these schools. Junior year is a little early to be making these kinds of decisions, but too late not to have started at all.