University reunion: non-defining relatives (B2)

Twenty years had passed since I last walked across the campus quadrangle, and the reunion committee promised a weekend of memories, lectures, and awkward name recognition. I booked a train ticket in May because hotels near the city fill quickly whenever alumni return in large groups.

The campus itself had changed more than I expected. A science building, which did not exist during my degree, now dominates the eastern edge where car parks once stood. The library, which underwent renovation in 2019, combines original stone facades with glass additions that divide opinion among older graduates. Walking paths, which we crossed daily between halls, follow the same routes though benches and planting have updated.

Registration took place in the student union, which smelled identically of coffee and floor polish. Volunteers, who wore coloured lanyards by graduation year, directed arrivals toward badge collection and orientation packs. I received a nametag that included my former department, which prompted immediate comments from strangers who shared tutors or rooms.

The opening reception filled a marquee on the lawn behind the chapel. Conversations began with cautious questions about careers and families before loosening into laughter about shared disasters we survived. I spoke with Rachel, who studied literature alongside me, and learned she now directs a publishing imprint specialising in translated fiction. Her work, which involves travel to Frankfurt and Bologna each year, sounds exhausting and enviable in equal measure.

Tom appeared near the bar, unchanged in manner though heavier around the shoulders. He married another coursemate, which several people mentioned before he did, and they raise twins in a market town I have never visited. We discussed the economic policy module, which we both failed first time, and the lecturer whose eccentricities became departmental legend.

Saturday morning offered faculty talks in restored lecture theatres. Professor Walsh, who retired three years ago, delivered a survey of political changes since our graduation that felt more balanced than student debates ever were. Attendance, which organisers worried might be thin, exceeded seating capacity and forced latecomers to stand at the back.

Afternoon tours, which groups divided by college, included access to rooms normally closed to visitors. Our guide, a current doctoral student, explained research projects with enthusiasm that reminded me why I once considered academic life. The chapel choir, which performed briefly in the nave, demonstrated skills that rehearsals I overheard twenty years ago never hinted would reach.

The formal dinner required gowns, which many alumni hired rather than preserved from graduation day. Photographs, which a professional circulated online afterward, capture expressions ranging from solemn to mischievous. Speeches, which the master of ceremonies kept mercifully short, included a fundraising appeal for scholarships targeting first-generation students.

Sunday brunch, which concluded official events, felt quieter and more sincere. People exchanged contact details they might actually use rather than polite promises destined for neglect. I walked alone afterward through the botanical garden, which remains my favourite corner of the estate, and sat on a bench overlooking greenhouses whose glass glinted in unexpected sun.

Returning to University for a Reunion, Which Felt Like Time Travel

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