I had deliberately avoided my itinerary for a month, ignoring words like “Harvard,” “Yale,” and “Swarthmore” like minor cavities that you forget not to tongue, and cringe when you do. College talk makes me catty on my best days, murderous on my worst, and my dad has learned to speak quickly whenever we’re on the topic; too many minutes at a time produces in me a strange kind of minor hysteria.

Here’s how it usually goes: the most vulnerable part of the house is the kitchen, where anyone can potentially creep up upon an unwitting 17-year-old girl spreading jam onto a bagel and ambush her with a barrage of college talk. If my dad stays behind the sort of imaginary threshold that separates the kitchen from the rest of the house, there is still a viable chance of escape. However, if he sits down on the red, “artdeco” bar stool, crossing his right ankle over his left knee like he does and folding his arms, I know I don’t have a chance. It will take more than a bagel to sustain me for the conversation ahead

“So, Pookie,” he’ll say, about to rip my own young heart out (he also calls me “Lamb-head” and his “Little Sack of Potatoes,” as if these darling pet names will soften the blow). “If you’re not busy I thought we could talk a little about school.” “Oh, I’m quite happy at Cate.”

“I meant next year.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Well, I suppose we could talk about it later.”

“No, I mean I’d rather not go at all.”

This banter’s just a curtain warmer.

“Have you given any more thought about Princeton?”

“I don’t think I’d like it there.”

“You say that now, wait till we visit it.”

“Nah, I’m not attracted to an institution where they seem to be more interested in eating than academics.”

“Well don’t worry, we’ll only see Princeton if we have time.” I start to sweat a little when he says this, but instead take a big bite of bagel to hide my anxiety. Why is it that college talk always results in the same kind of panic that claustrophobia produces?

“How many colleges are we seeing, anyway?”

“Well let’s see, we start in New York, see Barnard, Columbia, Sarah Lawrence, NYU, then go north to Boston, and we’ve got Yale, Tufts, Wesleyan, Boston College, ooh--- and Smith if you want to… oh right, right, you don’t want a women’s college, don’t give me that look, Hallie, for godsakes, women’s colleges have reputations for great—okay, okay. After Wesleyan and skipping Smith we’ll see Williams, then Midd lebury— they’re pretty isolated, but who knows? New York’s a mere train ride away, m’dear… oh and Amherst, then we’ll swoop and loop on back down to New York again, spend the night there, and the next day drive on down to Vassar and last but not least, Swarthmore, right outside of Philly, founded by our friends the Quakers…”

I would like to take a moment to point out that this itinerary is by no means fabricated, but actual. In nine days (and I so desperately wanted to remain oblivious to my schedule that it was not until halfway through the trip that I actually realized we were staying for nine days) my father and I drove a big thousand mile donut from New York, to Boston, to Philadelphia, and back to New York in order to see twelve colleges.

Thus, I have sat in twelve college admission offices. I have drunk instant coffee out of twelve little Styrofoam cups, while listening to an admissions representative drone on about the unique program of _____ (insert generic liberal-artsy Ivy League-esque name here), the importance of the mission statement, the revolutionary approach to learning, etcetera, etcetera. Twelve times has Dad hissed in my ear, “Now go introduce yourself, Hallie,” and I’ve earned myself twelve discreet smacks on the head for chewing gum or fiddling with my split-ends during information sessions. Emilie Griffin encouraged everyone from the beginning to take notes, a piece of advice that retrospectively seems sage, for now I can’t remember which college emphasized the internship program or which one seemed too science-y.

The things I do remember about each individual college could hardly be deemed decisive factors in my imminent choice. For example, I remember very little about anything academic regarding Tufts, but definitely recall what I refer to as the “naked culture” there. Apparently some students “bond” in the first few weeks of school by going on various camping trips in small groups: clothing is optional. Students say this non-sexualizes their bodies and allows for more intimate friendships. (I honestly think they just like being naked.)

I learned that Vassar was once famous for holding the Guinness world record for the tree with the single longest unsupported branch. Their reputation was tainted, however, when an official Guinness “measurer” arrived early on campus one winter day to see a student removing an illegal supporting cable from the tree that ensured the branch’s safety on the 364 days it was not being measured. Vassar was thereby banned from participating in any Guinness records again (a fact that subsequently sealed the college as my own number one choice).

Swarthmore was founded by Quakers, and has over 3000 species of labeled plants on the campus. Amherst has the largest collection of fossilized dinosaur tracks in the world. Boston College is way into its “rah-rah” football team (I was also invited to mass.) Williams is way into itself (since it’s in the middle of the freakin’ boonies), Barnard is struggling, it seems, to maintain its identity (in proximity to Columbia), and Yale is tres Harry Potter (sans broomsticks, anyway).

Bottom line (and I hate to be repeating something that my dad keeps insisting on, since I’ve been so difficult regarding the “college process”): we’re going to get an exceptional education at any one of these schools. We’re going to take classes that interest us, and more likely than not, be with teachers passionate about their subject and students as equally bright and interested. So, in the end, arbitrary as some of the above tidbits may seem, it may be the fact that the only team to keep Vassar’s original “feminine” pink and gray jerseys is the men’s lacrosse team that influenced my decision to apply early, when I’d been so seduced by Columbia before (FYI: all Columbia students must take a mandatory swim test, so factor that into your decision, fellow students).

College tripping was mostly painful, tedious, and exhausting, and on more than one occasion my dad and I simply left the campus within five minutes of our arrival (sorry Wesleyan, so long Middlebury!) And yes, the autumn leaves were lovely, thank you, but I still found it necessary to threaten my dad bodily the twentieth time he mentioned Vermont’s spectacular foliage. There’s nothing quite like one thousand miles in a car to really solidify any paternal bond, and old Dad and I got in some real heartto- hearts in between the griping, touring, Starbucks-ing, and ogling the leaves. (An especially fond memory I have is the day we forgot where we parked the car, and scoured New Haven for an hour by foot in search of it.) What iota of Eastern culture I did glean, though, has turned out to be immensely helpful (bad driving, good leaves). That said, I’m talking to my advisor about requesting an extended high school tenure: perhaps another year at Cate would sort out all this college talk.