When Dartmouth Paid for My Weekend in New York
- Stella Beckmann
- Dec 23, 2024
- 4 min read
Updated: Oct 21
The Ache
My phone buzzed.
“This email is regarding the Allen House New York Trip. Your current status is: Waitlisted.”
My shoulders slumped.
The house committee was organising a weekend trip to New York for forty students — a trip everyone wanted in on — and I’d been wishing so hard I might bend luck in my favour.
“I’m an exchange student here just for the fall, so I’d love the chance to go!” I’d written in my application.
Now I was on the waitlist. Who would ever decline an all-paid New York weekend?
Manifestation
A few days later, I went to an Allen x West House lunch with the writer Pico Iyer. He’d recently visited my English class, and I’d been so inspired that I arrived early, hoping for a chance to speak with him again.
The room was filled with round wooden tables and soft chatter. I tried to guess where Pico might sit and chose a table accordingly — but he ended up across the room, alone by the windows.
Gradually, others filled my table, including a woman in her late twenties with brown hair pinned into a bun. Her name tag read Beatrice.
“Are you Beatrice — as in on the Allen House committee?”
She smiled, eyes kind behind her glasses.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“You’re helping organise the New York trip, right? I was so excited, but I didn’t make it on.”
“Oh yes — you’re on the waitlist. I remember seeing your name.”
My eyebrows shot up with hope, “How likely do you think it is that a spot might open?”
“It’s hard to say. We’ll have to see,” she said with a glint in her eye.
We continued to make small talk and had a sweet interaction. “Thanks so much for coming to this event,” she told me, as we parted ways.
A few days later, a new email arrived:
Update — you’re on the Allen Trip to New York!
I let out a small shriek of joy. Later on, I found out only two people had made it off the waitlist — and I was one of them. Pure luck, or something else?
The Trip
The Bus-Ride
I woke at 5:30 a.m. for a 5:45 meeting and a 6:30 departure. Some students queued early in case someone slept in — which one or two did. Only Dartmouth students could afford to do that, I thought.
The cold bit my face as we stepped into the pre-dawn dark. On the bus, I sat beside a freshman named Astrid — Swedish, golden curls, on the dive team — who cheerfully Snapchatted her crush while the rest of us dozed.
As the bus sped south, I worked on assignments and a newspaper article, typing furiously. Outside, New Hampshire’s foliage blurred past — gold and amber leaves catching the first light of dawn. Soon we merged onto the long stretch of highway. Six hours later, with nausea creeping up on many, we lurched into Manhattan traffic. Groans rippled through the coach. Someone half-joked, “Are we theeeere yet?”
When we finally arrived, I stepped out desperate for air — only to be met by the smell of weed, exhaust, and gum-stained concrete. Sirens blared, engines roared. A man crouched beside another on a pile of cushions, a golden retriever curled at their feet. Welcome to New York, I thought.
Up on the 38th floor of the Marriott, I opened the curtains to a skyline of glass and haze. My own room — desk, bath, a bed I may or may not have jumped on to release excitement.
Saturday: Art, Dinner, & Juliet
That afternoon we toured MoMA. I joined the Women in Modern Art group. We passed Frida Kahlo’s Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair, Dalí’s Persistence of Memory, Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon. For once, an art gallery made sense; context turned the paintings into stories. Maybe this was how Ivy League students became so sophisticated.
Dinner at The Smith felt warm and golden — wooden ceilings, shelves of lit liqueur bottles bottles, candles flickering along a long table. Over multiple courses, talk turned to job hunts and visas. Even with Ivy League degrees, international students found doors half-shut.
After dinner, we watched & Juliet on Broadway — spectacular, self-aware, bursting with pop anthems. I left buzzing.
Later, a small group of us wandered through Times Square, neon light reflecting in puddles. I fell into conversation with Taz, a debate-team junior with restless energy. We sparred over nihilism, pretending to argue like teammates at a tournament. He told me about his travels, his competitions, a few wild New York stories. His candour caught me off guard — that unfiltered honesty strangers sometimes share in transient friendships.
Sunday: Fifth Avenue
The next morning we explored Fifth Avenue. Astrid and I wandered into a boutique, trying on lingerie for future Halloween costumes. “That looks adorable on you!” she squealed as I examined a white bralette trimmed in frilly mesh in the mirror. I blushed; she tried it on too and bought it.
Later, Emma and I combed through vintage stores — 2nd Street, Adidas, a thrift shop where I found a denim zip dress. By the time we reunited at the subway, our arms were full of shopping bags and our heads light with chatter.
Driving Back
We boarded the coach and headed back to campus. The weekend had felt a little like a sleepover in a strange city — the kind of closeness that forms when you explore, get lost, and notice the world’s quirks and charms. It had allowed me to connect with people in a deeper way than the fragmented rhythm of classes, assignments, and frat parties naturally did. The conversations stretching past midnight, the shared laughter, the feeling of discovering a city together… Those were the real gifts of the trip. And that, I realised, is what Dartmouth does best: creating space for curiosity, connection, and the kind of shared experiences that quietly expand your sense of the world.
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