The word ‘spring’ has no meaning in the city of Syracuse. Vernal equinox, you say? I thought this might mean spring was on its way, only to find the next morning that it was snowing. The first day of spring may have some meaning in, say, Kansas, but here in good old Central New York we’ll be lucky to see leaves on the trees by commencement. Or so I’ve been told.

It all starts when the first brochure comes in the mail, filled with bright pictures of smiling undergrads, ivy-covered buildings and trees adorned in fall colors. Nowhere is there the slightest mention of winter weather – or if there is, it’s buried under claims of how accomplished the alumni are and how many treadmills are in the gym. This is how they suck you in.

The real perfection of the craft comes with the tour. It’s interesting how huge the tour groups are in the fall, full of bright-eyed, eager young high school seniors and their less bright-eyed parents who are even more eager to get the kids out of the house. From what I’ve seen, these tours don’t even exist during the winter months. My mom and I were among these foolish many during October of last year.

This is the point at which the guides could have told us the truth, between bragging about how the Hall of Languages was used in the Addams Family movie and the enormous capacity of the Dome. I would have liked to know that you really don’t want to go outside during most of January – not just because it’s cold, but because your face might fall off. But no. When asked about Syracuse winters, guides smile and give the standard ‘Sure, they’re cold, but you get used to it.’ Hah.

Wooed by the prospects of getting out of my Podunk town and attending one of the best journalism schools in the country, I made my last-minute decision to come to Syracuse University. And by last-minute, I mean my dad was screaming at me on April 30 because we hadn’t dug out the right forms to send in with my acceptance letter. I can’t be too bitter about my decision, though, because it’s not really that much warmer in Boston. Or so I’ve been told.

Upon my arrival, I discovered that the freezing Syracuse winters are offset by the disgustingly hot Syracuse summers. This beautiful weather continues through the fall, including the ivy trailing off the buildings and fall colors boasted in the brochures.

But then late November comes. The flakes start to fall. Tube tops are replaced by North Face jackets. And the truth comes out.

‘Yeah, winter here is terrible. We usually get about 120 inches of snow.’

‘I almost didn’t come back after my freshman year, that’s how much I hated winter.’

‘Did you know that your exposed body parts can get frostbite after 10 minutes? My friend lost her left finger last year.’

Thanks, guys. It would have been great to have known that before I got here. But what’s done is done. I’ve adjusted my schedule to allow for five minutes of extra dressing time and learned that a 30-degree day with wind is really just a zero-degree day in disguise. Someday the lies of Syracuse will be exposed to an incoming freshman class. Until then, I hope I can figure out where the grass went.

Published on March 21, 2004 at 12:00 pm