Brownian Motion: A Study of Caltech's Lunch Hour Chaos.

Caltech is, by most accounts, a demanding place. Students work too hard; professors stress too much. Lunchtime should come as the universal comfort blanket to us all. A chance for our basement-ridden folk to remember what Vitamin D feels like; an opportunity for Caltech students to practice a social encounter; a time to sing Katy Perry to both halves of my grilled chicken sandwich. And yet, it is my frequent jaunts into the Browne dining hall that prove the most demanding of all.

I am still not sure what this place is really called. Each day, five minutes to noon, my fingers hover over WhatsApp. ‘B’ first, then ‘R’. Now the panic sets in: knees weak, arms are heavy, please not Red Door’s spaghetti. Sometimes I boldly chance the name, Browne, which gently autocorrects to the colour. Other times I opt for the more robust sounding, Braun. A running track is not such a nice a place for lunch, my friends tell me (it is, however, a good place to play rugby – 6:30 pm Wednesdays). Sometimes my Chen friends will save me the trouble and demand I trip up to Broad. Browne, Braun, Broad– it could be mistaken for an Pokémon evolutionary trio that brings the masses to campus on Sundays.

This nomenclature stress is enough to nullify an appetite. I must plough on however: the frontier of human knowledge depends on it. I march through the Red Door tables and chairs, seeking lively French chatter. But there are only glum faces on show today, no Parisien Immovable Feast on the menu. What Fiesta awaits me beyond the fittingly brown doors? I traverse the Browne terrace, yanking one door then the next - both locked! But how - I just saw a kid exit that door! I freeze, trapped in some perverse Monty Hall Problem. The situation escalates: PS/Ec 172 Game Theory has just finished, and half of Caltech have just flooded through the last remaining set of double doors. I warily follow them in, trying to make steady progress towards the far end. A Nobel but foolish goal at this hour.

It is said that Einstein, upon seeing the completely aimless motion of hundreds of colliding undergrads, gained the incisive insight for his seminal work on Brownian motion. I allow myself a random walk. But by some fate, this journey always terminates at the Comfort Food island, having given a forlorn look back at the empty sushi fridge.

I stare down the predictable enemy: white rice – more grains outside the bowl than in. Green beans and yellow squash are fellow stalwarts under the Veg and Side heaters. I do actually quite enjoy the mains, however. Perhaps my one ask for the new year is the discontinuation of the deeply offensive appropriation of British cuisine. Shepherd’s Pie was built for the misery of an English autumn, not the long, hot summers of Southern California. Plate assembly is automatic. Two heaps of rice, a harvest of beige vegetables, n+1 pieces of meat where n is the allotted portion, apply additional rice to conceal illicit protein (this marathon won’t run itself, you know!).

Now begins the long march. Like Harry at the end of Philosopher’s Stone, an equally scary three headed guard stands between me and freedom. My pace slows, my heart quickens. You might quickly try to head count those in each line. But I’ll tell you now, your petty mental arithmetic means nothing here. People bob and weave from line to the next. A rogue JPLer might get flustered when their Amex card doesn’t work. Someone might throw a wobbly when they get hit with an unfair dose of double-charged…

I meekly start towards the friendliest looking cashier. My head is bowed, my plate is heavy. I race to make the opening move: ‘mighty fine day today,’ being my usual gambit. The automatic ‘ID or credit?’ is launched in return: it’s the question I’ve been fearing the most. I reply ‘credit’ but I mean ID – everyone knows the Caltech bursar is the premier form of credit anyway. I reach into my pocket; which card should find my fingers? I whip it out in a show of false confidence. But no, it’s not my Caltech Card but rather my California ID: ‘McLovin’ today, huh,’ I chuckle. I like to imagine the chuckle is reciprocated, but I know it never is. No, just a long, hard stare at my suspiciously large pile of white rice. I finally hand over my Caltech Card, my fate to be dictated by the subsequent screen bashing. I stare at the green cash register display. The scores are in, the screen refreshes: $10.50 is the charge.

Wahay! Endorphins flood my body, my heart is overjoyed. Another day, another sub-$15 slay. Oh and just when you think it can’t get any better – the price drops again! Tax is out in 2025 – haven’t you heard? I take my Caltech ID back, profess my underlying love, and leap out into the Californian sunshine. I can’t wait to tell my story to whoever will listen! Life is a game of highs and lows, my friends, and now you know that too.