Cate Roser

It began with a looming deadline — a ten-page paper, one of those soul-crushing, clock-ticking essays due far too soon. I could have barricaded myself in Bass, hunched over a cubicle until my eyes blurred. I could have stared at the same four walls of Trumbull’s seminar room until my soul seeped into the margins of my notes. 

But where was the drama in that? Where was the story? If I was going to endure an academic marathon, I might as well make it one worth telling. And so, the idea sparked: 24 hours, 24 places. A pilgrimage through Yale’s endless study spots, an attempt to outpace my procrastination with sheer, stubborn momentum.

8:00 a.m. Linsly-Chittenden Hall

Shaking off the drowsiness, I made the short walk from Bingham to LC, crossing over puddles and the mini-pond that formed in front of Vanderbilt Hall. Shoes soaked, I headed to the glass room on the second floor overlooking High Street. I settled into a creaky chair, splaying my books open across the table. An hour of emails, readings and half-hearted outlining later, time nudged me onward.

9:00 a.m. Phelps Hall

Phelps 407 was empty, quiet. I opened the windows and listened as Old Campus woke up. I wrote and rewrote my intro paragraph, panicking as I realized I had forgotten to do my German homework. “Geschichte. Morgen. Arbeiten.” As German flooded my mind, I turned my attention to the maps on the walls — easily distracted. Tracing the Roman Empire’s reach, I read the Latin aloud, nostalgia creeping in from when I wanted to be a Classics major. But my paper wasn’t going to write itself.

10:00 a.m. Atticus Cafe

The hum of conversation swelled around me — students debating, professors reading, the clatter of cutlery against ceramic. I let the morning light pool over my notes. I ordered a matcha, an indulgence before diving back into the storm of deadlines. The temptation of books, of fiction, was strong here — too strong. My mind kept wandering, attention fleeting to the loud conversations just a table away. I made a mental note to return, but for now, my paper demanded my focus.

11:00 a.m. Book Trader Cafe

My favorite café, my sanctuary. I ordered a vanilla iced chai — the best in New Haven — and let the spice and sweetness settle on my tongue. Before writing, I wandered through the used books, fingers trailing over spines, pulling out volumes on Yale architecture, dense political treatises, a glossy collection of Monet’s lilies. The scent of old paper mixed with the aroma of coffee, a heady combination that made my academic procrastination feel almost noble. 

12:00 p.m. The Elm

I crossed streets again, through courtyards, past Beinecke Plaza, descending into the depths of Schwarzman. The Elm is my newest favorite study spot — the place I have practically lived in for hours on end most days. It feels like the heart of campus life, a crossroads that everyone eventually passes through. I come here to work, yes, but also to see people — to be surrounded by the ebb and flow of students in and out. Also, The Bow Wow is conveniently nearby for lunch.

1:00 p.m. Silliman Library

Crossing the street, I headed into Silliman College, slipping into its library — the one with the grand piano, the warm wooden walls, the kind of old-timey charm that makes you feel like you should be writing with a quill. Around me, people drifted in and out, some lingering just long enough to press a few tentative notes on the piano before vanishing again. The soft, intermittent music wove itself into the rhythm of my typing.

2:00 p.m. Bass Level 1

I finally gave in. Bass always works. Resistance was futile. I sank into one of the blue chairs near the windows. The steady quiet of focused students pulled me in. I opened my laptop, and somehow, miraculously, I locked in. As much as I wanted to deny it, Bass works. It always works.

3:00 p.m. Sterling L&B Room

I headed up into Sterling’s nave, pausing for a moment to admire the stained glass, the way the light filters through in shifting blues and reds, casting soft, subtle patterns onto the stone floor. I made my way into the Linonia and Brothers Reading Room — always so beautiful, always so incredibly busy. The deep green couches, the warm glow of the lamps, the quiet hum of pages turning: it felt like a world apart. For all the times I’ve been here, I still have yet to figure out where the Gates Classroom is. A mystery for another day, perhaps.

4:00 p.m. Starr Reference Room

I grabbed a quick chai from Common Grounds — my second of the day, but who’s counting? — and made my way to the Starr Reference Room. Grand, quiet, the kind of place that makes you sit up a little straighter. I found a spot and got back to work, but I couldn’t help wondering: how does anyone focus here? Tourists shuffled in and out, their whispers carrying through the vast space, cameras sneaking quick photos of the dark wood, the towering shelves and the students hunched over their readings. I tried to lock in, but it was like writing an essay in a museum — beautiful, but distracting.

5:00 p.m. Slavic Reading Room

I took the elevator up to the Slavic Reading Room, stepping into its quiet, book-lined sanctuary. I sank into a worn leather chair. AirPods in, Sabrina Carpenter playing — a well-earned break. I scrolled through Instagram absentmindedly, double-tapping pictures of café tables and scenes from High Street, before looking up and staring out through the stained glass into the music library.

6:00 p.m. Saybrook Dining Hall

Grabbing dinner in Saybrook dining hall, I crammed into one of the small wooden tables with a friend. The whole space felt like a puzzle of people, voices overlapping, chairs scraping against the floor. We squeezed into a corner, elbows knocking, trying to carve out a little room in the cramped chaos. Between bites of whatever the dining hall had deemed dinner-worthy, we caught up on the day — half complaining about work, half avoiding it entirely.

7:00 p.m. Stacks

After a hug and a few goodbyes, I made the pilgrimage back to Sterling; this time heading up into the infamous Stacks. Some people find them eerie, but honestly, I love the dark shadows, the maze-like corridors, tucking myself away into one of the study carrels. As a break, I ran my fingers over the wooden desk, tracing the carved initials, the half-faded notes of past students — fragments of stress, inside jokes, tiny rebellions etched into history.

8:00 p.m. Periodical Reading Room

I made my way to the Periodical Room — Starr’s lesser-known cousin. The pressure had fully set in. I pulled out my laptop and just started typing. By the time I surfaced, six pages were done. A small victory, but no time to celebrate yet.

9:00 p.m. Digital Humanities Lab

I wandered into the Digital Humanities Lab next, a place whose actual purpose remains a mystery to me. What is digital humanities, exactly? No clue. What happens in this room? Also unclear. But none of that matters, because I don’t come here for the academic intrigue — I come for the orange chairs.

10:00 p.m. Law Library

I then retreated to the Law Library, the one place that rivals the News building for the most hours I’ve spent in a single space. It is, without question, the quietest library on campus — eerily silent, as if sound itself is afraid to echo here. As always, my mind drifted: this is where Bill and Hillary met. I think about it every time I’m here. Did they sit at one of these tables, poring over legal texts, glancing up at each other across the pages?

11:00 p.m. Law Library – Reference Room

In the reference room, I found myself still thinking about Bill and Hillary meeting here, picturing them in the same quiet corners, maybe exchanging glances over stacks of property law. I’d always loved the fact that the library kept a letter from Bill Clinton himself, confirming the story back when he ran for president. But when I reached the glass case where it should have been, I stopped short. The letter was gone — replaced by another exhibit, something newer, something far less romantic. It felt like a tiny rupture in my imagined history, a missing piece. I stood there for a moment, wondering where it had gone, before shaking it off and getting back to work. Deadlines, after all, don’t wait for nostalgia.

12:00 a.m. Lower East Side

I then descended into the Yale Law School’s Lower East Side — an underground library that sits beneath a corner of Beinecke Plaza. It always feels like entering a hidden world, a space just slightly removed from the Yale I know above. I found a spot in front of my favorite painting, a seascape of blues and whites, a quiet rush of motion in an otherwise still room.

1:00 a.m. Upper East Side

I wandered around, eventually making my way to YLS’s Upper East Side, where the famous aquarium sat waiting, the soft glow of the tank lighting up the dim space. I counted at least twenty fish. I still had three pages of my essay left.

2:00 a.m. GHeav

I finally left the law school — nearly empty — making my way down York Street. Hunger finally caught up to me, and there was only one place to go: GHeav. Technically, I was still working there. Realistically, I was scrolling through Instagram, refreshing my inbox as if something urgent would appear at this hour.

3:00 a.m. WLH 001

I took a second to admire an empty Cross Campus, almost slipping on the ice in front of Sterling as I headed to WLH. Cracking open a can of Celsius, I returned to my paper.

4:00 a.m. WLH 112

The need for sleep was beginning to claw at me, heavy-lidded and insistent. In a half-hearted attempt to stick to the spirit of my “24 hours, 24 Study Spots” marathon, I relocated to another room in WLH. It might have been bending the rules, but at least I moved.

5:00 a.m. Trumbull Library

At last, I returned to Trumbull: home. Empty and quiet. I tried to push through, but exhaustion won. Wandering into the computer room, I snuck in a quick nap between fixing my citations.

6:00 a.m. Trumbull Common Room

In a burst of delirium, I found myself at the Trumbull common room’s piano, playing badly with no one to hear. The notes clashed, but it didn’t matter — moving my hands shook off the exhaustion. Exhausted, I finally polished up my essay, staring at the screen until the words blurred.

7:00 a.m. Trumbull Buttery

As the sun came up, I headed to the buttery, exhausted. I read through my essay a few more times, barely processing the words. Finally, I gave up, crashed on the couch and fell asleep momentarily.

8:00 a.m. Bingham

I crossed Old Campus as the world stirred awake. I felt myself giving up, unraveling into sleep, the trudge to Bingham feeling endless. Back in my dorm, I sank into my chair, opened my laptop and with one final breath, clicked submit. The weight of the night lifted. I was done.