“Would you like to share your dreams today?” A waiter greeted me as I stepped into the tiny restaurant. A couple of friends and I had Ubered over to Porter Square’s hole-in-the-wall ramen restaraunt, Yume Wo Katare.
It’s 10:30 a.m. on Friday, December 4th, and the Science Center is already mobbed. People sit on fold-up chairs and on the ground. Others lean against the wall. The crowd was for entrance to the IGP’s annual “Player of The Year” show, featuring special guest Nick Offerman.
This is the Boston Book Festival. Obviously, Boston likes to read—the place is packed. Festival-goers fall neatly into two categories. The first is a subset of curious tourists, whose confusion suggests that they may have happened upon the festival by chance. The second is a horde of eclectic book-lovers, easy to pick out of the crowd thanks to their tortoise-shell glasses, strange piercings, colored hair, and beanies. Some rush through the square, clutching armloads of books and scanning for more. Others linger.
Hey, get your mind out of the gutter! It’s not what you’re thinking. The busts we’re talking about are the ones mounted on the walls of Annenberg. As freshmen, rarely do we look up from our heaping piles of curly fries and carnival cookies to notice the many stern men staring down at us. Covering almost every inch of Annenberg’s walls, these devilishly handsome fellows are forever immortalized in smooth marble. While their busts are accompanied by a gold plaque detailing their major accomplishments and contributions to the University, we know you’ll never actually get around to reading them. Let us be your one and only source into the scandalous lives of Harvard’s elite.