Within three hours of getting back to campus this spring, I found myself at Late Night at the Class of 1953 Commons.
It felt like a fitting re-entry. I’d spent the first two weeks of my off-term away from Hanover, but there I was again, bathed in the dim, warm glow of Foco. The air was thick with fryer oil and the little plastic cups next to the soda machines were stacked in their jagged towers. The four-person tables by the window were packed. The empty ones bore sticky smears of ketchup or ranch or that sauce people make that’s a mix of the two.
But as I scanned the room, Lucky Charms in hand, something felt off. I didn’t recognize anyone.
If I search “late night” in my Messages app, the results date back to Orientation Week. Inactive group chats. Misspelled texts. Plans made, canceled and made again. Late Night has always been a fixture — the place you end up after a night out or a night buried in the library. I’ve had group project debriefs turn into late-night therapy sessions over bags of Tru Fru. I’ve sprinted there, soaked by the rain, still wearing bunny ears or a tennis outfit or even my Lady Bird costume. I’ve walked in post-midterm, brain fried, only to run into three friends who insisted I eat chicken tenders until I felt human again.
Late Night hasn’t disappeared — it’s still there, same tables, same food, same hours — but this year, I realized its place in my Dartmouth experience has shifted.
This wasn’t always the case, or maybe I just didn’t notice it when I was a freshman. Back then, Late Night was everything: the destination, the debrief, the unofficial extension of wherever we’d just been. It was where we celebrated pong wins and swapped stories from the library stacks. You could arrive alone and leave with an entire booth of people, bringing with you mozzarella sticks and a vague new sense of purpose. Late Night was a chance to delay the night’s end.
I twirled my spoon through the cereal before turning to my friend.
“Remember when this was, like, the spot?” I asked.
To be sure I wasn’t imagining it, I went back three nights in a row — purely for research purposes, of course. Same result: a few familiar faces here and there, but mostly new ones. Freshman groups I didn’t recognize. Conversations I wasn’t part of. Strangers.
Am I washed-up? It feels a little early to be washed-up. I haven’t stopped going to Late Night, but it has quietly shifted its place from a space to see everyone you know to a space to just be with the people you walked in with.
Last Saturday night, I didn’t really feel like going out. After attending my sorority’s semi-formal and accepting that enough people had seen my outfit to warrant an exit, my friend and I ventured into Late Night around 11 p.m.. We ran into two other friends, who also cut the night short. We pulled up two chairs at their high top table and ordered food. We talked and ate fries and pickles for over an hour.
“If you could redesign this place to be more comfortable, what would you change?”
“Maybe add those diner-style booths.”
“Or a giant chandelier in the middle.”
There was no watching the door, no waiting for someone interesting to walk by, no angling for more plans, no expectation. Just four people sharing fries and swapping thoughts, without needing the moment to become anything more. Somewhere along the way, Late Night became less about the crowd and more about the company.
Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Late Night doesn’t need to be a reunion anymore. Maybe it’s enough that it’s still here — for the ones who stay in, bow out early or just need a pause.
Who’s going to Late Night these days? Me, and anyone else who’s looking for a place to land.
