Off in the distance, people were cheering and honking horns. And in downtown Vancouver there were thousands of Canadian hockey fans starting the evening's celebrations, though it was only 3:30 in the afternoon.

Even before the gold medal match between Canada and the U.S.A., the streets were filled with a spontaneous, constantly-moving party. The undulations of the red and white masses made it difficult to walk, and the co-mingled tunes of street performances and the national anthem made it impossible to converse.

The Olympics have brought a lot of action to Vancouver, from protests to anti-protests to after-parties to pre-parties. And for a lot of students at UBC, they've completely derailed the academic semester.

This year's reading break is two weeks long instead of one, specifically because of the Olympics.

"Reading" break is already a misnomer for many students and informal polling suggests that most of my fellow students are going into March ill-equipped for the next four weeks, as classes draw to a close and exams begin.

There's no doubt that our extra-long break has shaved away class hours for the sake of Vancouver's Winter carnival, but reading break - for many, a fourteen-day binge in a city straining to contain the Olympic enthusiasm of its inhabitants - will have ramifications that stretch beyond a few missed lectures.

Normally, it would be easy to blame a lack of academic effort over a reading break on  the student: a lack of discipline, an inability (or unwillingness) to plan for the long-term and understand the repercussions of actions.

But in this case, the last two weeks of celebration, libation, and wanton cheering have been culturally sanctioned. The emphasis on these Games, from media and peers, has been their historical significance. They were heralded as the first "green" Olympics, and as an opportunity for Vancouver to show itself off to the world. Later, they yielded the first Canadian gold medal ever won on home soil. And, because it's important - a part of history - it needs to be experienced.

Imagine the conflict. On the one hand, you have a semester's worth of school work and studying that can easily be thrown off-kilter by a spring break flushed down the toilet like so many late-night regrets. On the other, you have the opportunity - perhaps the only opportunity you will ever have - to experience the frenzy of the Olympic Games on a local level, and to show support for your nation.

Experiencing the Olympics doesn't necessarily entail getting uncontrollably inebriated every night, but even when it doesn't (though with students, it realistically often does), it doesn't necessarily mean studying.

And when it's officially sanctioned by the university with a two-week break, it shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone involved in the scholastic process when students with respectable averages can't get their game together for this semester's midterms or, worse, exams.

Athletes from around the globe showed us at these Games they were capable of great feats. They drew on years of practice, discipline, and passion in order to enter the Olympics and win a medal.

The fact that the spectacle of their performance could draw so many people away from their own goals for two weeks carries some irony.

It also shows how easily an individual can get caught up in the excitement of peers. Our eyes can slip from the gold when we pause to watch others shine. 

I wandered into the office of the Ubyssey last week, enticed by promises of free snacks. Before I had time to get my bearings, I'd been coerced into drawing an editorial cartoon. I explained that my efforts would never produce something on par with one of the masters of the genre, but staff members - a hardy race of dwarves who dwell in the subterranean bowels of the Student Union Building - assured me that they had the lowest expectations. Literally any two-dimensional figure would do. No Ubysseyan is capable of holding a pencil, their hands having grown knotty and crabbed over years of typing editorials and forging blades of legendary power. Thus the need, occasionally, to steal away mortals from the Realm of Men. I was ready to bolt for the door, until I learned that my labours would be rewarded with taquitos - crisp, savoury pastries prepared by the basement folk on festive occasions. The scent of microwaved bean-paste filled my nostrils. There was no choice but to stay.

It seemed like I stayed there for only an hour. But when I emerged blinking into the daylight, gray whiskers reaching down to my midriff, I realized that nearly a week had passed. Time works differently in the Otherworld than in our mundane universe. That's when I understood, to my horror, the true purpose of the free snacks. I had dined at the table of the Gentry. Never again would I be able to return fully to the human realm. I was destined to become one of the knoll folk.

I'm sure I wasn't the only one to fall prey to such a trap. During these first couple weeks of classes, it seems as though the campus is full of people recruiting. Fraternities set up tents, offering students the opportunity to purchase friends on the go. Clubs (but, disappointingly, no Lodges) try to entice new members. Diverse sects (and, perhaps, some cults) hand out pamphlets and cards. I got one the other day that informed me "God is better than Sex." Turns out I had it wrong all along.

For the very first week, the Student Union Building was a sort of bazaar. Every time I passed through, phonemongers would try desperately to sell me a new three-year plan. Wizened women in brightly-coloured scarves proffered student lines of credit. Portly, loquacious merchants hawked UBC t-shirts to passersby. It was a gaudy and frantic scene, filled with the sort of crass consumerism that would have disgusted me in my teenage punk days. I've long since surrendered my pride and liberty to the mighty dollar, however, and the spectacle of thousands of my peers lapping up the excretions of Moloch seems only natural - comforting, almost. I myself plan on visiting the Imaginus poster sale this afternoon, and buying decorations for my room. Something "fresh," like a poster of Bob Marley, or a print of "Crazy Stairs."

It's not all buying and selling, though. There have been numerous opportunities to indulge in free hot dogs, hamburgers, and other delights. Last week a man showed up in my neighbourhood and began grilling. Within minutes, denizens of the area were lined up around the block, each patiently waiting their turn for delicious charred meat. Even in the 21st century, we're ruled by a mead-hall mentality straight out of Beowulf, a hunger for the communal carnivorous experience. If you grill it, they will come. I didn't realize how many people lived in Fairview Place until the free barbeque. I haven't seen most of them since. I can only hope for their sakes that the meat wasn't tainted with the same fairy magic that has made me a slave to the Ubysseyan Underlords.

The start-of-school fervour is dying down now. Already life is becoming routine. I'm more sleep-deprived than I have been in ages. Most of my classes start in the morning, and most of my drinking starts in the afternoon. Sleep usually happens very late at night, sometimes suddenly and without warning. Pretty soon I'll have to break the pattern and start behaving like something closer to an adult. Sleep deprivation leads to physical and emotional stress, and do you know what those lead to? The dread Pig Virus, that squealing plague that threatens to swallow our civilization whole. Everywhere there are hand sanitizers and posters warning about associating with the wrong microbes. My irresponsible behaviour could give the plague a toehold, allow it access to the delicate microsystem of the UBC campus. Soon, students will trot about on all fours, rooting behind trash bins for scraps, bathing in mud and feces as protection against flies and the hot sun. Spoiler warning: It will be Animal Farm reversed. Next year, maybe they'll serve pork chops at the first week barbeques.

At some point the other night I realized I was slightly buzzed and very lost. (Or it may have been vice versa.) In broad daylight, the campus had been laid out in a logical manner. A friend had shown me around earlier, pointing out the major landmarks and intersections. That was easy, I thought. It's only been a day, and I understand the entire layout of the campus. What a breeze. I was filled to the brim with confidence and vigour.

All that disappeared with the onset of night and a post-party mental state. Half way between taking my friend to the bus and returning home, I wandered into a netherworld of sinister dream-visions. I understand now how Dante felt lost in the dark wood. At some point I had the impression that I'd entered the first circle of Hell, but I think it may only have been Wesbrook Place. Cyclopean structures loomed on every side, their walls dripping ichor. Night-gaunts haunted the shadows, and occasionally I could glimpse huge membranous wings unfolding in the darkness, accompanied by chanting in a forgotten tongue. A once-comprehensible street plan turned into a phantasmagoria of non-Euclidean geometry. I was paralyzed by the sudden realization of my ignorance in the face of unimaginable cosmic horrors.

Even more than afraid, I felt ashamed. I had made a resolution earlier this year that I wouldn't get hopelessly lost at UBC, and already it was broken. I have the complete opposite of whatever it is that directs Canadian geese south in the winter. It's difficult finding the bathroom in my own house. It shouldn't be a surprise that I got lost on my second night at UBC - it should be a surprise that I didn't somehow end up at the American border.

After exhausting all other possible locations on campus, I ended up at the one where I live. The purple haze had cleared by then, and it was a relief to recognize my surroundings. I share a townhouse in Fairview Crescent with three others. It's a few Hummel figures short of coziness, but already it's starting to feel like a home. Our furnishings are basic, almost utilitarian, but they have their own charm. The kitchen cupboards are a comforting shade of puce, and the toke burns on the couch bring a warm, shabby chic sensibility to an otherwise stark living room.

The three other guys are from Sweden, Indonesia and Japan. As a born and bred British Columbian raised in the WASP hives of Vancouver Island, I suddenly find myself in the minority. Most of the people I've spent time (read: drank) with here come from places I've never visited and can speak languages other than English. Surrounded by such a cosmopolitan blend, I feel like a backwoods country boy - wandering around barefoot, a chicken tucked under my arm, an imbecilic grin plastered on my face. "Howdy, fellas!" I say by way of introduction. "Where y'all from?"

I've re-met a lot of people I went to high school with. (One of the benefits of going to school close to home.) They've all got the leg up on me. During my long, personal stagnation at home, they travelled, went to school, and somehow managed to forget what a jerk I was as a teenager. I'm glad they're here, and even gladder they're willing to spend time with me because, even though "small fish in a big sea," is a cliché, I've been feeling distinctly minnow-esque. There are about 45,000 other people on campus, and the anonymity this grants is both liberating and a little scary. A familiar face does wonders to clear up first-week angst. 

Classes aren't properly under way yet. Once I have to start using my grey matter on a regular basis, maybe I'll experience some of that academic "stress" people are always talking about. Some seem eager for classes to start, others are filled with dread. I'm not sure where I stand. I woke up with a grimace yesterday because I had a single, hour-long morning class. Oh horrors! To have to leave the house, to endure intermittent rain, to walk almost twenty minutes on even terrain carrying a light shoulder bag - I almost wept. The unfairness of it all! I was wrapped in a warm cocoon of self-pity, ready to endure the ordeal, until I remembered that, a few weeks ago, I would have been waking up at 7 o'clock to trudge around in knee-deep mud. It made my book bag feel a little lighter.

Over reading week*, I had the opportunity to visit six First Nations communities in Central Ontario. I met with Chiefs, listened to Elders and spoke with youth. Along with 18 other university students from across Ontario, I was one of the first participants in a new initiative called the Canadian Roots Exchange program.

The program, led by student-run charity Operation Groundswell, aims to break the traditional stereotypes that so often surround Native communities. Stereotypes that either generate pity or hate and certainly inhibit dialogue and understanding.

In every community we were welcomed with potlatches and stories - some traditional, others modern - relating social challenges, especially disparities in funding between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal schools.

The experience was difficult for most participants, not because of what we saw in the communities but what we saw in ourselves: a fundamental ignorance of indigenous people and the way the Canadian government (and Canadians) treat them.

We were angry that our education on Indian Residential Schools did not mention the last one closed in 1996, or of the enormous intergenerational impacts the schools continue to have. Or that the schools were established, as one head of Indian Affairs put it, to "kill the Indian in the child."

We were angry how in every school we visited, administrators like Principal Steve Styres of Wausuaksing School explained how they received between two-thirds and half the funding for their students than students in the non-reserve school in Parry Sound.

How come our country continues to employ systems like that, which promote discrimination? How come stereotypes continue to impede understanding in a country that places an enormous value on truth and education? (This sets some of the myths straight.)

On our last day, we visited the Museum of Civilization in Ottawa. In what was an ironic conclusion to the past seven days, we noticed the museum had dedicated only a few lines to residential schools: a footnote and an afterthought that framed the schools in a largely positive light. The paragraph mentioned "good intentions and practices"  (like forcibly removing children from their families, I suppose) and some unfortunate instances of abuse and murder.

Seeing that written in Canada's national museum reminded me of what Chief Isadore Day of Serpent River said on our first day, that we learn in silos. Far from broadening our minds, the institutions created for our education can trap us into patterns of thinking. We must challenge our beliefs and the institutions that shape them. That's a message every university student should hear.

*Reading Week, for those who don't know, is a mid-term break instituted by universities to prevent students from going loony in the long second semester.