For one night out of the year, the word “Wiener” ceased to be funny (at least for everyone else in the room), as Stanford participated in a nearly 80 year-old tradition that we conveniently appropriated from Austria, the Wiener Opernball, or Viennese Ball.

I was clad in only the finest of footwear, purple tennis shoes, that is. My tuxedo — despite the fact that I kind of had it shipped from home, and that it was originally purchased at a thrift store, and that the pants were roughly 5 sizes too long, and that it had with it the wrong kind of white shirt — looked splendid indeed.

I had prepared heavily for this affair, going to exactly one and a half of the eight dance classes offered, and attempting to learn how to waltz from an online diagram with multicolored shoe outlines. Although I was unable to find the seemingly requisite monocle and top hat, I figured if I assumed a haughty enough air, I could pass for high society.

As we set off on our journey to our glorious destination, in what amounted to a splendid carriage (read: Greyhound Bus), the air was rife with sophistication. The socialites in front of us in the carriage, discussing French philosophers (Borat), only further assured me of the level of elegance and refinement which was to be expected at this affair.

As the ceremonies began, punch and cheese were served. I took more than my fair share, trying to get the most out of the relatively large price tag. I even tried to lick the ice sculpture in the lobby, hearing from a kind upperclassman that it would bring me luck in the upcoming year. When I entered the primary dance floor, however, I really was taken aback.

All the big names were there: Rich Uncle Pennybags (The Monopoly Guy), Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and even Donald Trump. Or at least people who looked enough like the above-mentioned to warrant an elbow jab at my date.

On the dance floor of this ball, even the sketchy grad students suddenly became less sketchy, as we got a look at their softer, more refined, and only slightly less predatory dancing habits. Forced to learn some technique (as opposed to subjecting their target to a torrent of heavy gyrating), these men were cast in a new light.

And, the crowd that I usually see every Friday breaking windows with the intensity of their drunken pelvic thrusting (Ahem, this actually happened...) was, for one night, clad in glorious sequins and tuxedos.

Instead of counting loudly as they stood upside-down to take “hits” from a tube 4-inches in diameter and filled with lukewarm and often expired ale, my fellow Stanfordites were gliding gracefully across the floor, and the past was at least somewhat forgotten.

Everyone looked splendid, and I mean this. Except for one gentleman who painted himself up like the guy from Phantom of the Opera. That was both highly unnecessary and almost comical, in an “I’m taking myself very seriously despite the presence of the right half of a yin-yang on my face” kind of way. I sincerely hope he was part of some performance that I happened to miss.

Being unable to dance, due to a random dizzy spell that happened to last the entire night, my hot date and I were relegated to floor-side viewing, and we caught some pretty snazzy moves. The Swing Room was a nice change, offering a view of what sexually-charged 1930s dancing culture might really have been like.

The “concept-dances” in the middle really caught me off guard, ranging from some pretty rootin’ and/or tootin’ Charleston footwork to a dance in which the men wore fish-like scaly blue tops and the women wore 80s spandex and hopped over the aforementioned fishes.

But overall, for one night, Stanford became civilized beyond words, and with a history of midnight golf cart debauchery and water balloon drive-bys behind us, we celebrated like it was 1939.

I did a bit of research into the Wiener Opernball of Austria, and came up with a very interesting finding. Similar to our own ball, the original has been host to such distinguished guests as Italian opera singer Sophia Loren, Geri Halliwell (That is to say, “Ginger Spice”), Carmen Electra, Pamela Anderson, and, yes, even the fashionable and sophisticated Paris Hilton.

Perhaps at the next Viennese Ball, as we glide across the floor, the train of our dresses following us and the tail of our coats swishing in time to the glorious music of the 19th century, we would do best to think of these society women, the pinnacles of grace and good sense in a world fraught with corruption.

And we would do best to consider the implications of such splendid dancing on our lives at Stanford. As I reflect back, I realize that we are a very sophisticated campus. Perhaps it wasn’t as clear to me as the noble society people behind me in the carriage started making out on the way back, but it is painfully obvious now: we are very chic, urbane, and sophisticated. At least for one night out of the year.

Nat wishes to apologize to Paris Hilton for any unintentional jabs at her integrity. If you are one of her many, many supporters, please drop a line at nat.hillard@stanford.edu to complain.