If you think you can escape the infamous “Harvard Bubble,” take it from me—you can’t. Growing up in Cambridge, I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with Harvard affiliates. From crossing paths with undergraduates as they oscillated between Harvard’s libraries on a typical Tuesday to finding myself behind Michael Sandel in line for coffee last spring, I thought I’d seen it all.
Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what happened this past winter recess when I visited my roommate in California.
When I boarded the plane at Logan International Airport, I wore my beloved Harvard sweatshirt—a necessary layer against the biting Boston cold. But when I landed, it was a dazzlingly warm, sunny day in December—an oxymoron offensive to my New England instincts. This was California, where winter apparently meant rolling down the windows, letting the ocean breeze whip through your hair, and pretending seasons don’t exist.
My roommate, an L.A. native, had promised me the full California tour, which she delivered—long drives down the Pacific Coast Highway, In-N-Out burgers in the front seat, and an obligatory pilgrimage to Universal Studios.
We did it all. We strolled through the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, butterbeer in hand, as fake snow sparkled under the very real 75-degree sun. We screamed our way through simulated disasters—dinosaurs lunging, menacing mummies chasing us.
No matter what, I lugged my Harvard sweatshirt around, even though it was ridiculously hot. My roommate’s mother had insisted I’d be cold later.
Then, at one point, we found ourselves standing in the middle of a set designed to look like Boston—brick buildings and cobblestone streets. For a brief, fleeting moment, I thought I was home. Part of me felt like if I kept walking through the brick streets, I would reach the comforts of my dorm room. Of course, no one was power-walking aggressively to class, and there was a distinct lack of overpriced Sweetgreen salads, but still. The illusion held.
By the time we reached the parking garage, exhaustion had settled deep in our bones. The sun had set, and a chill had crept in—the kind that makes you wish you’d bought an extra layer. We stepped into the crowded elevator, the doors sliding shut quietly. My roommate sighed, shivering slightly, and mumbled, “I should have brought my Harvard sweatshirt too.”
That was when we heard it.
“Wait—do you two go to Harvard?”
We turned. A young couple stood beside us, dressed casually. He wore a Patagonia fleece; she wore a sundress and sandals. But their faces caught my attention: that familiar mix of shock, curiosity, and amusement that all Harvard alums seem to wear when the universe throws an unexpected connection their way.
We nodded. “Yeah, we do—we’re freshmen.”
Their faces lit up. “No way! I lived in Thayer,” the man said.
My roommate and I exchanged glances. “We live in Thayer.”
A pause. Then, the slow realization dawned on all of us at once. My roommate and I said in unison:
“What room?”
They said the number. Our number.
The elevator hummed, and the air buzzed with absurdity. The other park-goers looked confused, not understanding why living in the same Thayer dorm room, years apart, felt like an unreal stroke of luck.
“No way,” my roommate breathed.
The doors began to slide open. Then we stepped out, still grinning, still stunned. And just as the elevator doors started to close, the man displayed his true Harvard colors when he yelled,
“Connect with me on LinkedIn! My name is Joel!”
And then—just like that—they were gone.
Of all the elevators in all the parking garages in all of Los Angeles, we had stepped into this one. Out of the 3.8 million people living in the Los Angeles area, we met the person who had once occupied the tiny, questionably ventilated dorm room we now call home.
As I stood there, processing the sheer absurdity of it, I thought about the couple. Harvard had brought them together, too, just like it did with me and my roommate. They may have met in the dining hall, debating the merits of HUDS. Maybe they sat next to each other in Lamont, both desperately trying to ignore the fact that they hadn’t started their papers yet. And now, here they were, casually chatting about Thayer. They’d found each other out of luck, and now, they were bound by the same thread that tied us all to Thayer.
It was one of those ‘small world’ stories you hear and immediately dismiss—that’ll never happen to me. But there we were, stuck in an elevator with them—Harvard alumni who had managed to find each other, and us, in the most random place.
It was luck—plain, ridiculous, one-in-a-million luck. Or maybe it was just the Harvard network doing what it does best. Carrying a piece of yourself—my well-worn Harvard crewneck, in my case—can lead to the most unexpected connections. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, you don’t have to chase after the moments that shape your world. Sometimes, they find you. Sometimes, they happen, like a random elevator ride turning into a bizarre mini-reunion. It’s about being in the right place at the right time—and listening to mothers when they tell you to bring an extra layer.
Natalie Cooper ’28 ( ncooper@college.harvard.edu ) is still glad she brought her Harvard sweater on that hot day.