Everything about McGill’s campus feels aged to just the right age, like the architectural equivalent of expensive wine. Unlike FATE, which sometimes feels like some Manhattan spaceship, most of the buildings are bricked, coated in frosted snow, with rusty staircases. There are just enough modern steel-and-glass constructs peppered throughout to also see why the school is the academic beacon of Montreal. The cold (because there’s no denying it—it’s a hell of a sting to the face) makes everything feel crisp and new.

After slipping down two separate ice patches in my weather-inappropriate Jordans, I forgo my pride and hold on to a sidewalk railing the whole way up the hill, even if it means getting outpaced by two white-haired men who probably got tenure a century ago.

I manage to make it to the Design School, spine intact and pride devastated. Room 608, where I arrive a good twenty minutes early, is bustling with activity and about forty people in various stages of phone swiping at the moment. I most definitely miscalculated on the attire front.

“Excuse me: is this the waiting room for the Design School interviews?” I whisper to the nearest person by the door, a white university employee with a shaved head in his late thirties. The man nods. He’s sitting away from the pack and wearing a crisp suit and silk scarf far too expensive for an aspiring college student.

“And have they started to call names yet?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m Henri Haltiwanger. H-A-L. Haltiwanger.”

“Good for you, Henri Haltiwanger.”

A moment passes between us and the man frowns.

“Screw me,” he groans. “You think I work here, don’t you?”

“Er . . . No, of course not.”

“I’m not that old!”

“Oh, no . . . I just assumed since you’re, y’know, wearing a suit,” I say, having not yet converted my Smiles to Canadian currency.

“So are you, kid!” he sputters. “Off-the-rack but still.”

He nevertheless removes his bag from the seat next to his, which I take as a reluctant invitation. He introduces himself as Steve, and his handshake is strong and sturdy.

“Henri,” I say. “And sorry about that.”

“Steve. And no worries: I know I’m old as balls. It just stings when other people notice it too,” the man goes on to say, scoping out the room of contenders with a mix of disdain and apprehension. “North America’s design prodigies, if you’ll believe the pamphlet.”