Applying to Yale
Feverish notes from a coffee shop conversation between the rich
Is this blog still on?
Anyone there?
I don’t blame you if you’ve tuned out, unsubscribed, and discarded Thought Dumpling into the dust bin.
My last post was in mid-March. For a fortnightly blog, that’s a lot of missed deadlines.
A few people have asked when the next post is coming, and some have asked if Thought Dumpling is no more.
I could use any number of excuses for my lack of writing—work, life, travel, and all the stress and time-sucking tasks associated with each.
But when you boil it down, it’s the familiar foe—Laziness. A seductive temptress with a nasty habit of pulling one away from the computer for more thrilling escapes, like sleep and watching NBA basketball.
The real problem with Lady Laziness is that she breeds laziness elsewhere. She’s like bacteria in that way. When you don’t sit down to write, inevitably the ideas don’t come as freely, the words stop flowing, and the whole process of publishing this blog falls apart like a new year’s resolution.
So when we were sat in a dainty coffee shop amid the billionaire Barrons and posh upstarts in Belgravia London a few weeks back, I was relieved to notice a young woman opposite us who had all the hallmarks of a good story worthy of this blog.
She was dressed richly—not in an audacious way but in a clean, understated, and perfectly pressed kinda way. White button-up and cream pants with a crisp crease line running the pant legs. Make-up, hair, and accessories for a job interview.
She had a jittery look on her like she was expecting someone important and she asked to change tables twice. This is what piqued my interest.
She wanted somewhere quiet, not too drafty. Somewhere not too busy either. Somewhere deemed appropriate in this tiny corner coffeeshop for her presumably fussy guest.
When she finally found a suitable place at the end of the communal dining table, the servers opened the door behind her to help circulate the air as the morning sun matured.
“Will you all be walking in and out of here?” She asked, gesturing to the open door.
“No, we just want some air...”
She nodded and then waited for the servers to resume their duties before taking the liberty to close the door herself.
Here we go, I thought. We have a live one! I’m zeroed in on this woman like a 5-year-old to a hot pocket.
Who is she? Where does her sense of entitlement stem from? Why is she only drinking room temperature water in a coffee shop?
I have one eye and ear focused on her, the others on my dear wife and daughter because despite my endless search for writing fodder, I’m still a family man at heart.
I play trucks and cars with Maala to trick myself into believing I’m an attentive father.
Finally, the woman’s guest arrives and the scene comes into full view.
“I’m so incredibly honored you’ve made the time to meet me,” she says. “The fact that you can take time out of your busy schedule AND you find a coffee shop that’s so close to me, I mean, it just really speaks to the caliber of the people and the Yale institution.”
I nearly choke on my coffee
The man she’s pandering to is much older, overweight, and carries the scent of cigarettes. It’s like the start of some cheap porn scene.
“Oh stop it,” he says in the kind of tone that implies one to not stop but to carry on. His gold Yale pin shines from his lapel.
She orders a regular latte but then swiftly changes it to Chai after he orders one.
“Oh, Chai? That sounds delicious. SUCH a good choice, I may try that, too!” She says.
Part of me wants to crawl up in the corner of the coffee shop, fold over myself and expire like a carton of old milk. The cringe is too much. The other part of me wants to order another coffee and settle in for the show.
The latter part wins and I order a second flat white.
I’m courtside for an NBA playoff game, ringside for Tyson fight, front row at the Rolling Stones.
By now, Mel has noticed the conversation, too. But I have no time to share at the moment with her as I’m scribbling the conversation into my notes app.
I’m one part high on caffeine, two parts high on this cringe-fest, and three parts high on finally having something worth thought dumpling about.
The man, presumably a Yale professor, loosens his necktie and begins rambling to his thirsty audience of one.
“There’s never been a better time to go to university…”
“…I’m catching up with some alumni later.”
“You’ve given yourself the best chance of getting in…”
“You know, the curriculum is just better than ever…”
With each navel-gazing statement, the woman nods in complete agreement, repeats what he says back to him, and adds her own flavor to the circle jerk.
“I’m still so honored that you decided to come all the way from Heathrow and take time out of your busy schedule to meet with me…”
“From everything I’ve heard about Yale, I just know that it’s the right fit for me…”
“It’s the caliber of people that go to Yale, the professors, everyone. It’s everything that I need…”
“...I feel like a lot of people don’t even think about what university they apply to, they just apply. Those people certainly aren’t thinking about fit when it comes to their education.”
“...hahaha yes!”
“My dad told me I’d really appreciate meeting you. I’m playing golf with him later…”
“...Hahahahahahah YES! OF COURSE!”
The conversation resembles a forced 60-minute video call from the corporate world. The kind of call with only 5-10 minutes of substance, but dammit we booked the hour minutes so what else can we ramble about? The website?
The non-speak continues.
He says: “You can improve your chances by sending any additional reports or essays that you’ve worked on.”
She replies: “Did you get that one thing I sent to you?”
He says: “Ah yes, good job. You know, the school really needs young students like you.”
She says: “Oh, I’m so honored you said that.”
And on and on and on and on it goes.
I finally look up from my phone, notes filling the screen from the privileged and pretentious discussion.
Mel whispers a crude joke about the conversation to me. We laugh quietly and pack Maala’s toys away. I fold up the Financial Times newspaper I was pretending to read, and we leave.
The sun is high in the sky, we stroll home past luxury cars in the street and bodyguards guarding bodies in their mansions.
With Maala on my shoulders, all I can think about is how the interaction ended.
Did she get into Yale?
Did they order another Chai latte?
How long did they keep up the charade?
Did she make it to her golf game with Dad?
I’ll never know.
So neither will you.
Realised you’ve been busy Al, but great to see you’re back. Good luck with the Yale interview. Ha ha.
Brilliant hahah. Welcome back! Can’t believe she switched to chai latte….