A tropical location with green grass and sandy beaches was not in store for me last week.

Instead the only sand I saw was the old sandbox in my backyard.

When I decided to actually put on something other than my sweat pants (I wore the same pair all week), I unwillingly relived too many of my teenage weekends by following my good ol' high school friends to their favorite underage party spot --Cornell University's fraternities.

Now I remember why I got the heck out of central New York and didn't stop driving until I found the land of blue and white, far away from the ivy-infested buildings and girls who only date Harvardites and Princetonians.

Standing in line to get into Sigma something or another, I heard two students talking about how they hated Brown's campus and couldn't stand the atmosphere at Dartmouth when they took their college tours. The woman then proceeded to say in her Long Island accent, "My parents wanted me to go to U. Penn, but too many people mistake that with Penn State, and I wouldn't be caught dead going to a state school."

My friend held me back as I screamed, "Our lion could beat up your stupid bear mascot any day."

My dad graduated from Cornell with an engineering degree, I grew up going to Cornell hockey games and like State College, Ithaca, N.Y. would be a bunch of cows without the university. I'll wear my Cornell big red T-shirt with pride and tell you I love the school, but the kids that make up the place truly annoy me.

In high school, I worked at Wegmans grocery store. Most of the Cornell students treated me like I was beneath them and not worth the time of day. But while they were struggling to punch in the numbers on their cell phone calculator, I was the one who quickly divided their order total into thirds when three different people wanted to pay on three different credit cards.

Then they'd say, "My parents are going to kill me; maybe I shouldn't have bought two cases of Evian water." And you think I'm exaggerating.

So on my wonderful spring break night, I walked past the paid bouncers wearing polos embroidered with the fraternity's greek letters and into the larger-than-life mansion.

I was a born-again frat-goer for the night. But it's not as exciting as one would think -- the beer isn't any better at an Ivy League school. The men aren't any more polite. The bathroom isn't any cleaner and the women aren't any wearing any more clothes. Their tube tops just cost more.

Before my friend, who is a guest lecturer on the history of the university and knows the university better than he knows the palm of his hand, disowns me, I want to clarify there are cool, brilliant people there -- they're just really hard to find.

There was only one thing that night that saved me my sanity: the deck on the fraternity mansion. I couldn't even call it a house; this place was enormous, and it had a fabulous view.

I sat down my plastic cup of Natural Light and realized Ithaca really is "gorges." I have never seen anything more beautiful, and that is why I will stop bashing the place right now.

As much as it has been hard to grow up with less-than-courteous Cornell students, being away from Ithaca for almost three years made me finally realize what everyone else sees in this town -- picturesque landscapes, a true melting pot of genius minds and a place I can proudly call my home.

And there was one more thing -- the Mexican-fiesta theme. The fraternity brothers were decked out in elaborate costumes, chili peppers hung from the ceilings and people shook maracas to "Drop it Like it's Hot."

I walked out with an over-sized straw sombrero that will make me jump around with glee instead of swearing off the place forever.