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They came in bathing suits and flowing white gowns, with palm fronds in their hair and leis around their necks. For one brief evening, they left behind the snowstorms of November and the mountains of untouched course reading. It was Dunster House's way of paying homage to the great sun god of the west and to a lifestyle all of them envied but few of them enjoyed: it was California Night.
The menu featured California grapes and orange julius drinks. Slides of the Golden Gate and of Big Sur flashed on a screen in the middle of the dining hall, and from the speakers blared, who else?, the Beach Boys. The old Harvard dark wood-panelled dining hall walls were plastered with airline odes to the joys of the sun.
A mock version of "The Dating Game" capped the evening's festivities, and even Dunster Master Raoul Bott joined in.
But after the freeways and frisbees went back into the minds of the Dunsterites, the urge to don the string bikini was just too great to stay repressed and it bubbled back to the surface, and so two weeks later Hawaiian Night was born. This time around it was Mauai and Mauna Kea over Monterrey, and pineapple juice instead of orange drink. And the sweet strains of "Hawaiian Love Song" drowned out the bleating screams of "Help Me, Rhonda."
But the evening nightlight was clearly the tribute the Hawaiian club paid to its native state. From the club's opening "ALOHA" to the warrior dance to the final hula, the audience watched spellbound. After it ended, everyone joined in a heart-warming, if stomach-turning, rendition of the Samoan National Anthem.
Not everyone was won over to the beauties of the 50th state, however. The Dunster House weekly calendar listed a Long Island table [to which Westchesterites would also be invited] for the next night, and in the wings were vague rumblings of an all-out East Coast scum night--complete with baggy pants, down jackets and attache cases. They talked of acting out a Bronx street mugging.
How about Kansas, anyone? Come along, Toto.
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