The Lush torn between two worlds

This past Sunday night, I found myself in a very unusual situation. After a few drinks in the afternoon sun that has too seldom graced us with its presence this spring, I decided to head into Boston for a night out on Newbury Street.

Given my unsatisfactory performance as the Lush this semester, I was actually quite proud I had given up an evening on my porch for a cab ride downtown and a few drinks at the bar. But as I contemplated patting myself on the back, I realized I had to stop lying to myself. It was not the bar scene that beckoned, but the Massachusetts state liquor laws and my lack of foresight that had drained my beer supply and forced me to head downtown.

Yet, even as I sipped a seven-dollar gin and tonic on the top floor of Bar 33, I pondered my decision to bail out on the Tufts scene and head downtown to the bars. Just weeks away from the end of my undergraduate life, I wondered whether I should be spending my days sipping on expensive drinks at a classy bar or pounding a warm Busch Light in some worn-down basement.

It wasn't Bar 33 that was the problem. After all, there aren't many better places to hit up on a Sunday night. With its unique ability to attract a young crowd on the first day of the new week, Bar 33 offers a great place to celebrate a long weekend or late Monday classes. Located next to the Hard Rock Cafe in Copley square, Bar 33 provides a comfortable blend of bar, lounge, and club atmospheres that will suit even the most varied of interests.

Whether you are sipping delicious mojitos at the circular oasis on the top floor, smoking a hooka in the side lounge ($25 a night -- reservations needed), or dancing to a smooth blend of house, Latin, hip hop, and techno downstairs, this chic but rather exclusive club could keep anyone going late into the wee hours of a Sunday.

In fact, as long as you get there early, manage to impress the rather picky bouncers, who at times seem to weed out their clientele on the basis of physical attributes, and aren't afraid to leave your English at the door (normally a very international crowd), Bar 33 is sure to deliver a good time.

And so there I was, enjoying my cool Caipirina and practicing my rusty Espa?±ol, while I did my best to remember a few salsa moves I had learned years ago in a club in Chile. But despite the attractive atmosphere and my well-known affinity for jumping at the chance to practice my conversational skills in another language, Tufts was tugging at my shoulder and calling my name.

It seemed that if all those times I had once wished that my fake ID was good enough to get me into a respectable Boston bar had faded into the background. All the times I had cursed the campus scene for its lack of vibrancy were long forgotten. With just weeks left to enjoy the undergraduate pastime of cheap beer and packed basements, I wanted nothing more than a game of Beirut or a round of flip cup.

After all, just weeks from now I would no longer be able to legitimize passing up a more "mature" atmosphere for the comfort of a frat or college house party. In addition to a diploma, responsibility, job stress, and our official entrance into the "real world," college graduation also brings along with it the profound reality that weekend social gatherings are shoved violently into the realm of the "young adults" or the "professional twenty-somethings." Dismissing the rare exception, graduation replaces house parties with private gatherings at classy bars, and for as much as I like a night out on the town, there's something to be said for free keg beer and overcrowded common rooms.

So, as I desperately fought the helpless feeling of nostalgia that accompanies the end of our undergraduate educational experience, I decided to fork over the money for a cab ride home and spend what was left of the night bouncing around Somerville and Medford neighborhoods. And when the local police inevitably arrived to break up the house parties, my new Five Star attitude toward the Tufts campus scene refused to let the fluorescent lights dampen my spirits. Even the rather disconcerting experience of finishing off the night watching a VH1 special on the founder of "Girls Gone Wild" seemed good to me at the time. After all, at what other point in my life would searching the local neighborhood for free beer be an acceptable and normal way to spend the weekend? Why not leave the bar scene for when I too will have joined the world of the professional twenty-somethings? After all, the time would come soon enough.

Not to mention the fact that one of our friends had taken one for the team and journeyed up to New Hampshire for a refill on our supplies. A six pack of PBR had my name all over it...