Thirteen hours at UCA

It's pretty nice only having school two days a week. I head down to class Tuesday, then Wednesday, and then I'm off to enjoy a five-day weekend. Some might say I have a lucky schedule, however, no luck was involved, my friend. I spent two full weeks tinkering my schedule, collecting syllabi, even going to class on my birthday until I found the perfect equilibrium between easiness of classes and perfectness of timing.

What I ended up with was a Wednesday with three classes, each of which lasts between three and four hours, and keeps me at UCA from 9:30 a.m. until 10:15 p.m.

So, what goes down on a typical Wednesday in my world? Let’s start from the beginning:

I arrive at school at 9:22 a.m. I notice a five-foot statue of the Virgin Mary in UCA's front garden. I realize that this was the new "image" of Mary we were informed of via email, which was not in fact referring to that thing when someone says they see the Virgin's face on a potato chip or something as I had previously imagined.

I walk to my marketing class to find the room empty and locked. I assume class is canceled, meaning I'll be thinking about marketing today as much as I do any other Wednesday (read: none). I have no idea how I'm doing in this class; all I know is I achieved my goal of not failing the midterm.

How should I spend my four hours of newfound free time? I head over to the broadcast studio, where my film teacher said he'd be posting grades. He didn’t. The grading system in this class is one of the more ambiguous and convoluted I've seen in my years: According to our syllabus, if we have an average of 80 on our weekly quizzes, we are exempt from the final. Midway through the semester, he explained that we in fact needed to log an average of at least 80 percent of the top student's average. And last time he lowered it to 40, and said it's been that way the whole time. No one really knows, but sharing our confusion of the grading system has proven to be a great conversation starter among classmates.

I walk upstairs to the computer lab, which was inexplicably closed. It's always been open this early, so I camp out at the nearest table and wait for someone to open it. No one does, but I enjoy a few minutes of good-natured schadenfreude as I watch student after student approach the door and walk away frustrated.

I give up waiting and head to the computer lab two stories down, which I usually try to avoid at all costs because the computers were made in like 2004 and you have to wait twelve and a half minutes every time you click something. I go back upstairs for some more 'freude, when the attendant finally shows up and I snag a computer.

At 1:15 I head upstairs for the written part of my Spanish final exam. The final section required us to write our own ending the Spanish version of this story. I got a little carried away, exceeding the 250-word requirement by 500 words or so, and staying well after the last student had exited the room. I don't want to ruin the story in case it gets picked up by a publisher, but it involves witch doctors, one conquistador's dream to open a cookie factory and the apparently fictional Jamaican Space Program.

After a short break we shuffle back in to Spanish class for the presentation portion of the exam. One Italian student mentioned Raphael in her presentation, which got me thinking about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and how my favorite was always Donatello. My mind drifted to other childhood memories. Remember Legends of the Hidden Temple? I always rooted for the Purple Parrots. Ha, Donatello and the Parrots both wear purple. Wait a second. What was my favorite flavor popsicle/Gusher/Skittle flavor growing up? Grape. Holy shit. I realize, in this moment, that perhaps my affection for each entity might not hinge on the desirable qualities of each individual entity themselves (flavor, personality) but on a previously unknown childhood obsession with the color purple.

At this point I experience somewhat of an existential crisis in which I contemplate the nature of free will and the role of decision-making during my formative years. I don't recall being obsessed with purple as a child. But could something have happened in my childhood that predisposed me to being subconsciously attracted to all things purple? (Mom: seriously, please answer this.) Was will or intellect the ultimate determinant of my choices?

My metaphysical Quest for Reason was momentarily interrupted when I was called upon to give a five-minute presentation about the Super Bowl, which was the aspect of American culture I had chosen to discuss. I explained the history of the game, talked about the tradition of Super Bowl parties and gave statistics on the famously expensive Super Bowl commercials to little fanfare. I mention halftime shows and my teacher immediately asks about the 2004 "wardrobe malfunction."

We exit class as our teacher reminds us of the party next week, the last day of class. My classmates and I are unsure as to whether she means like a fernet and Coke kinda party or a tortilla chips kinda party. I say: best of both worlds.

It's back to the computer lab at 5 p.m. for the hours before my final class, philosophy of religion. I spend much of my time commenting up a storm on Deadspin in an effort to get my discussions featured on the main page, which I inexplicably need. Occasionally I write a sentence of my "midterm" philosophy essay, whose due date has been pushed to Friday, a week before class ends.

I suddenly realize that, while writing my story during my Spanish exam, I had described a space shuttle's metal wing as "una pata de metal." I cringe as I recall learning the word pata just minutes before taking the exam — while reading the story of The Monkey's Paw. I despondently type pata into Word Reference, click enter, and watch the page load ever so slowly, delaying the inevitable. Yep, pata means paw. My stomach turns. A metal paw.

In philosophy, I sit down next to my friend Ian, the only other non-porteño in the class, and notice he's playing Jewel Quest on his "I'm a foreigner"-brand Samsung phone. That game kicks ass. He wasn't aware that pressing 7 allows you to use your coins to turn a square gold so I dropped some knowledge on him.

Much of philosophy class each week is spent pondering on which side of the 75 percent attendance cutoff I will be at semester's end. I'm hoping it's the side that lets me pass. If I fall one class short, however, I will have no regrets. I wasn't about stop watching Roy Halladay's no-hitter. You don't do that.

I notice the girl in front of me typing an essay rather than paying attention in class. She is reading a document in English, and makes frequent visits to Wordreference.com.

Any remaining time in the first half of class is spent hoping there are free medialunas in the hallway. Every week a café worker sits in the lobby of our floor and controls the distribution of medialunas and coffee that my class are not privy to. A few weeks ago, the guy left out a few on the abandoned tray, which members of my class promptly destroyed. The prospect of free medialunas is now my main motivation to go to class.

Break time. I head down five flights of stairs to the broadcast center to look for my film grade again. Still have no idea where I'm looking. I meet up with Ian and head upstairs, when I see the ultimate reward to a tiring, draining day: free medialunas. I take two. Ian takes three. Back to class. I scarf down the 'lunas. Now I'm bored and class hasn't resumed yet. I go back outside: free medialunas! It's like the gift that keeps on giving. I take the remaining two fluffy ones, leaving only the two bullshit scrawny ones that no one would accept even if they were free.

The professor lets us out at 9:42 p.m., a whopping 33 minutes ahead of schedule. This gives me enough time to take the Subte home before it closes at around 10:30 p.m. I arrive at the station, start walking down the stairs and see the train. At any other station I would hustle, because the trains stay at each station for like 5 seconds tops before leaving. However, I was at the first station on the line, so the trains tend to stay there for a minute or two before departing. 

Of course, as I'm casually nearing the bottom third of the stairs I hear the train siren. I get my game face on: I've been waiting for a chance to show what I've got. I leap down the rest of the stairs, sprint the 10 meters to the open train door in about one second and squeeze through the closing doors like Indiana Jones sliding under the temple wall, but horizontal. My best Subte-catching performance yet. Everyone on board saw it. I nod my head and say "What up" to the passengers. There was a guy who was sprinting right behind me who didn't make it. That's unfortunate for him, because while he was waiting for the next train to come, I was already enjoying the ride home.