Too often I find myself confined to an East Campus double, replete with converging walls and the many anxieties of a pre-med student. With rapidly approaching due dates and dissected fetal pigs staring me in the face, it comes as no surprise that my daydreams consist of plane rides and car trips all directed away from anything light blue. I can feel my cold, dank carpet softening into loose pink sand, my pen taking the shape of a hand blown glass containing a frozen drink and a mini toothpick umbrella. As a member of the Columbia rowing team, these dreams rarely come to fruition, remaining merely as figments of my belabored imagination. I never find myself more than several miles from a row-able body of water (which never includes the tropical sandy beach for which anyone would gladly trade midterms).

Rather than Caribbean palm trees or frosty beverages, my friends and I search for immediate satisfaction in the form of small trips to local dining establishments. Most recently, when the delusion of reprieve from my physics midterm struck my brain with particular intensity, I rode the one train to seventy-ninth street in search of some culinary relief. This hot spot is one for which many a Columbian’s mouth waters: The Shake Shack.

Half a block away, you can already sense that “the Shack” is the Mecca of its trade, and once you enter your suspicions are confirmed. The line pushes to the door, and the anticipation drives your senses further to insanity. Satisfied customers devour their burgers in front of your eyes, the juices dripping down their chins, and you almost wish you didn’t come hungry. The frozen custards steam in the warm air, and you watch as a well-dressed businessman holds his cup inverted, lapping at the last of his post-closing-bell shake. If you’re still feeling any midterm-induced anxiety at this point, you should probably see a psychiatrist.

“I come for the burgers, but for her, it’s all about the ice cream,” explains Aiden McGregor, gesturing toward his six-year-old daughter, adorned with boundless locks of auburn curls and a flowing white sundress. She’s all smiles and smudges of dark chocolate. “Her mother won’t be happy with those,” Aiden remarks helplessly, eyeing the smears over the straps of her dress. Aiden, a recent divorcee, treks to the Shake Shack from Cherry Hill, NJ, every other Saturday for this father-daughter ritual. He picks his daughter up in midtown, and they talk about their orders all the way until the front of the line. “It’s our favorite place, and we don’t really get to spend much time together. This way she always remembers.” Aiden is watching his daughter’s tiny hands fumbling with the cover to her milkshake, pulling it off to reveal one last mouthful. It occurs to me that the Shake Shack may not be “all about the burgers” for Aiden after all, and suddenly, my midterm-riddled future doesn’t seem so bleak.