Last Saturday night I went behind enemy lines at Krzyzewskiville, the tent village outside of Cameron Indoor Stadium, for the final night of tenting.
I told my editors I was looking for a story about the living conditions faced by the 1,200 students who spent the past month sleeping in the blistering cold and sidestepping a moat of mud and discarded beer cans. But really, I went because I was curious.
After a month of wear and tear, most tents were ramshackle at best, with one being nothing more than a tarp held up by duct tape and a pole. But students made the best of things, throwing together makeshift beer pong tables and turning a long table and speakers into Players on a fundraiser night. It was a giant party at the world’s wealthiest refugee village, and one I am sad to report I thoroughly enjoyed.
To clarify, I love UNC dearly and the past four years have been, without question, the best of my life.
And yet, in many ways I am a walking, talking Duke stereotype. I grew up in a Jewish household on Long Island, a breeding ground for Duke students. I wear glasses and often forget to unbutton my top shirt button. I once failed a field sobriety test while stone-cold sober.