The Week that Was

Otherwise known as the week of the CFD. So, why did I take CFD? The only reason was to get to Madrid and take in the city. Which I did, by the way. The added bonus was all the cool folk I met in class. Lets see if I got the tally right, three Germans, four Belgians, one Austrian, two Frenchmen, a Czech guy and a girl from Morocco. And then of course there was me. The solitary Indian. (What did you say? No, no...I'm not smiling. Honest.)

Anyway, let me first say that the German stereotype I had, etched in my head is all gone. Blown away to bits. Teeny tiny bits. Germans are friendly. Well, friendlier than all the Belgians...put together. Or maybe its just that, these particular mix of Germans and Belgians were a strange batch. Quite possible. But wait, lets just focus on this crowd here. Other hypothetical situations for another time. One of the German guys had a super thick accent. Golly, it was thick. Just like that learn English advertisement with the German coastguard. The Austrian guy also had a thick accent. He was cool too. Been there, done that kinda guy. One of the Belgians hung out with us. One of those serious chaps. He told his jokes in a grave manner and a straight face. That added to the humour. Heh...but you should have been there to actually experience that. The other Belgian guys didn't bother integrating. They kept to themselves and getting into conversation with them was impossible. For me anyway. The Czech guy also kept to himself but I think that was because he was ill. And near the end at the farewell party he asked me questions about India and how we couldn't drink beer and party there. Now, I didn't exactly roll about on the floor and laugh my guts out but I did manage to correct his view. He in turn corrected some myths I had been harboring about beer. Apparently they have a city in the Czech Republic called Pilsen and that's where pils originated. I had a hard time believing that, what with my recent Belgian trip and all, but Wikipedia confirms it all so.....As for the French, they kept to themselves too, but I suspect that was because of the language thing. Yeah, they love their language. But the Moroccan girl probably influenced them and therefore they didn't have a problem with group integration. Cool, eh? An unlikely mix, but a good mix nonetheless.
On day two, we began our cooking escapades. The first time it was just the two German guys without the thick accent, the Planner and me. It was simple stuff, just pasta bolognese, but incredibly well made. And there was enough leftover so we asked around at the crowded hostel kitchen and a French group took it of our hands. That kinda started a buzz. The next day, the Austrian, the Belgian and the thick accented German joined us. More fancy cooking, full stomachs and leftovers (which were gladly accepted by the French) later it was official. The CFD lads could cook. And cook well. This continued for the whole week.
For lunch of course we were at the faculty cafeteria. Have I mentioned how much Spanish folk eat? No? Well, they eat a lot. And everything they eat is soaked in oil. I guess, all that dancing helps keep the weight in check. At one time I was separated from the German/Austrian/Belgian clique and was eating by myself when.....surprise, surprise...I was joined by the French group. Of course, I was glad of it. Always a pleasure to talk with people with different mindsets. The conversations were interesting.
"Hey, I just saw Slumdog Millionaire. Does that stuff really happen in your country?"
Umm.....yep.
"How are you finding the Netherlands? Good? You need to visit the South European countries like France, Italy and Spain......more"
Hahahaha.....they just couldn't resist saying that.
"You're in Spain. You need to drink more wine rather than beer"
You said it dude.
"You need to hang out with the South European people more. Otherwise wherever you go you will see large beer mugs" (I am not making this up.)
At this point I was laughing and pretty much choking on my food. Trust the Frenchies to come up with something like that. Maybe the French translation makes more sense. The lunch and the conversation ended with them urging me to drink more wine, eat paella and indulge in other Spanish delicacies.
This is one of the nifty parts of the EU. They're small as it is, but the differences they have are phenomenally large which makes life all the more interesting. Hope I get to meet all the EU folk before I leave here.
Now, for the Chueca episode. When we first got there, we were all gung ho about wanting to try Spanish food. So we made some inquiries at the hostel reception and the guy told us that the best place for food is Chueca. On our way to the Metro, one of us was looking at the map, when a Spanish man just walked up and asked if he could help. He then proceeded to tell us that Chueca was the best place for food and very kindly pointed it to us on the map. Now this was kind of weird for me, because ...well...I've never seen it been done elsewhere. But apparently, this was normal behavior in Madrid, helping tourists and all. (By the way, all conversations were in Spanish, so t'was only the Spanish speaking folk doing the talking). Ok, so that was two thumbs up for Chueca. So we made it there, stumbled out of the metro station and hunted for a good eating place..of which there were plenty. However, in addition to the numerous tapas joints, there were also an equal number of porno rental shops, sex shops, clubs and other such establishments. Mostly with pictures of semi-nude,big-muscled and well-oiled men on the front. The realization that Chueca was Madrid's gay district wasn't like a hammer blow to the head or anything. More like a mild electric shock. Not that I'm against these chaps or anything, but the sight of men tongue kissing at street corners and penis shaped door knobs shakes the unprepared soul to no small extent. Just wish somebody had warned us. Oh, by the way, food at Cheuca is top notch stuff. Delicious and all, but rather meager in quantity for the amount we paid. That was my only grouse, but perhaps it was only me.
As for the other delicacies we tried in Madrid: First there were churo's. Incredibly sweet, incredibly filling, incredibly tasty. Sadly, the ensuing brain freeze prevents you from ordering more of it. Then there was an deadly mixture of eggs and bacon/fish and oil. Yep, oil. It was like the third ingredient. I forget what this was called, but this was a traditional dish. The eggs and meat were delicious, but the oil killed all appetite. Perhaps it was intentional. Finally, there was Stomach of Cow. Again, I forget the Spanish name, but this was also a traditional dish. It was ok. Pretty bland. And it felt spongy and rubbery on the teeth. Ah, well, an experience is an experience, eh?
The last evening in town was spent with good ol' Loudmouth Lad. Lots of beer and lots of Sangria went down the hatch that night. The good old days were discussed with great back-slapping and hi-fiving. Of course, I must say, that the present days were also discussed with equal camaraderie. I mean, these are good times, aren't they? On this note let me introduce El Tigre to you. Its where we were for the first part of the evening. El Tigre is a tapas bar where you order a beer and you get a plate of free food. How cool is that? Apparently this is common here, but El Tigre was the only place I had been to which actually did this. And just a little heads up, lads. El Tigre was packed with foreigners/tourists.
And that chaps, was The Week that Was. And thus my Madrid narrative comes to an end. Of course, if I remember anything more, I shall pack it in here. So until then.......

Madrid: Sights and Sounds

Well, the first weekend in Madrid was devoted to mostly the sightseeing stuff. The whole thing was organized by the University. They split us up into groups, assigned a couple of Spanish students to each group and off we went. But before that they gave us a lunch. My gosh! I stuffed myself with so much ham sandwiches and the tortilla stuff, that I'm pretty sure I presented a ghastly spectacle of myself. I would have felt bad, but my fellow students kept 1-uping me, so by the end of the whole ordeal we were sprawled all over the place finding it difficult to move. In retrospect it was a good move because the tramping-about-the-city thing lasted quite a while.
So, about this walking thing....they gave us a piece of paper in which there were a bunch of locations and a bunch of questions relating to the locations, the general idea being that once we got to the location we would prance around, looking for Spanish folk to help us with the questions. The Spanish students of course weren't allowed to help. They just stared with a bemused expression on their faces. I'm not sure what the object of the exercise was but I learnt that most Spanish folk don't speak English. Darn frustrating it was. After a while, I pretty much gave up and let things be. The penalty for not finishing the exercise led to some weird activities (including me dancing the Macarena in the street along with some other chaps), but the Spanish students with us ensured that a fun time was had by all. On one occasion though, an old lady lost it and started yelling about how university students were ruining her life and what not. So, while the rest of us foreigners were huddled together, the Spanish students swung into action and placated her and sent her off. Apart from this, they were super enthusiastic and also were incredibly helpful.
"Hands on your wallets in this part of town. There's thieving afoot"
"In this area too"
"Also, in this area"
and other such information. After I heard reports of various student folk getting their pockets picked (during the course of the week), I was pretty glad that these guys were assigned to us.
They also taught us the alcol song, in Spanish. I don't remember the Spanish words but the gist of it was "Alcol, alcol, alcol. We're here to get drunk. we don't care about the outcome. Alcol, alcol, alcol....". We sounded it out in one of the city squares, and then sang it again as we were walking around. The locals gave us some strange looks, but that was it. None of the "Cease that infernal racket!" stuff.

Typical scene in downtown Madrid. Old buildings, busy streets, the works...

King Neptune. Why? Probably roman heritage stuff.

Madrid's coat of arms. Bear helping himself to strawberries. (I don't know. So before you ask...don't ask.)

The center of Madrid, also probably Spain, from the looks of it. (Yep, that's my shoe.)

The scene as we were leaving Sol. Sol means sun, and the name was given to the gate that used to be there. The gate apparently faced east and you could see the sun as it rose (in the old days, in the old days!!). But as you have cleverly figured out, this view faces the west. Quite a good view actually.

One of the fancier (and probably the oldest) squares in Madrid. It had seven entrances which for some reason was a big deal back in the old days. Also, I think its still a big deal. Hmmm...perhaps I should have payed more attention during the explanation.

This sort of thing is common everywhere. This and street musicians. Wonder if they make enough.

Mercado san Miguel. A market place/drinking place/eating place. Don't know if all mercado's are like this.

Old fancy cathedral. While we had to pay one Euro to enter, the interior was dimly lit. Paintings and sculptures could be lit up on deposit of additional Euro's in conveniently placed boxes. Good idea, sure. Only I ain't that well off. And by the looks of it, neither were the other tourists with me. The other cool thing inside was the occasional voice booming through the speakers, in response to the buzz of the rabble. "SILENCIO.....por favor." That would silence then for a while, but then the muted conversations would start again. Heh heh heh...

The palace. Since, there was some sort of (large) entry fee, we didn't go in. The Planner was livid. "In my country its free, completely free" he said, shaking his head sadly. Ach well....

The temple of Debod. Very fancy stuff this. 'Twas donated by the Egyptian government to Spain for help received during the construction of the Aswan dam. Look up Wikipedia for more details. Also visit this place when you get to Madrid.

The highlight of the weekend was, of course, meeting up with Loudmouth Lad. Why Loudmouth? Well, if you'd met him, you wouldn't be asking the question. Suffice to say he had a reputation for vociferousness right back from the old days. I hadn't met this chappie in a long, long time. Lets see now. We graduated in 2005 after which he took off to Canada. Then, there was this one meeting in Bangalore, sometime before I came to Holland with the usual beer quaffing. Apart from that....nothing. So, now, here he was for some fancy MBA program. Had he changed? Hahaha...not a chance. Sure, we'd ribbed him back then about the Canadian accent, but now that was slowly giving way to a normal one and before soon, probably, a Spanglish accent. Heh. Anyway, bear-hugs were exchanged, general craziness ensued, comments were made about my weight, the usual stuff. And then we hung out at Mercado san Miguel with his clique. Quite an interesting crowd. Folk from all over the world and all that. Guess that's the cool part about an MBA program. Some wine, a little beer, plenty of good conversation and heaps of tortilla later it was time to go. (Metro service shuts down at 1:30. Unfortunate, yes, but what are you gonna do?)
On Sunday, us student folk went to the Prado and Reine Sofia museums. The Prado had all the fancy stuff, colourful masterpieces and all that while the Reine Sofia has modern art. Now, I'm not a fan of this modern art stuff, so if you ask me I'd say skip this one and go straight to the Prado. That way, you'll have more time there. I could stick some pictures here but really, there would be no end to it. Best if you did the trip yourself.
That's it for now lads. Till later.

Maximum City (Dos)

Well, I wouldn't want to call Madrid Maximum city, the original title being taken and all, but I must say the city is alive, pulsing with life and bursting at the seams with all sorts of activity. But, before all that, let me start at the beginning. The flight was uneventful, no mishaps, nothing. I expected the typical crap, so I did the usual split-underwear-between-bags trick. But...nothing. I was traveling with one of my friends, the Planner, but blow me down if there weren't a whole bunch of characters from Delft. All of 'em heading to Madrid, some for the exchange program and others for vacation. A nice little reunion was had before we boarded the craft.
The landing at Madrid was smooth. Have I ever mentioned how much I like smooth landings? Our hostel was situated in downtown Madrid. The old historical downtown, not the new downtown with all fancy buildings. And the best way to travel in Madrid? Metro, baby. Sheer pleasure, if you ask me. That was officially the best metro network I've seen. Criss-crossed the whole city and made every location accessible. We bought the one week tourist pass which means you can use the metro innumerable times for one week. A pretty nifty deal if you plan to do plenty of touristy stuff. But since we were here for a course it would have made more sense (economically) to pick up the ten-rides ticket. But heck, not that I'm complaining. Just telling you.
With all the pickpocket stories I heard before I got here, I went into India mode as soon as I stepped out the airport. My wallet was in my front pocket of my scraggly jeans and the thumb of my hand was hooked nonchalantly into the same pocket. Of course, a professional would have ripped out my pockets without me knowing it. Still, we all gotta do what we all gotta do.
At the hostel we got to our room and it was occupied...by a Greek girl no less. One of those 'holy-moly' moments. The worst part was the rooms had some sort of annoying electronic lock system so we were trying to open the door for a good five minutes before we finally got in. Making a ruckus the whole "what's-wrong-with-this-door?" time, I might add. Wonder what she was thinking, on the inside. Because she sure didn't come and open the door for us. Anyway after we popped in, we all adopted the customary shocked-frozen-statue pose, then we exchanged mutually confused looks before we launched into introductions. Of course we didn't stay long there. The Planner and me took off to explore the surroundings. Before you all die of curiosity, let me tell you, we were moved from that room to another room. Presumably the girl told the hostel chappie about the situation and everything was resolved. Darn awkward it would have been otherwise.
The first night out in Madrid was pretty interesting, mostly because the place was bustling with activity. Buildings were lit up and city squares were chock full with middle aged diners.
We tried the fancy Spanish wines. Brilliant stuff, absolutely brilliant. You've got to do it. Don't leave Spain without trying them wines.
With the wines we also had Jamon Serrano, which is a sort of ham, typical of Spain. Apparently the pigs are fed one specific type of nut the whole time. No normal pig food, just this nut. Ay caramba!! To be honest I wasn't so gung-ho on the ham. It had large bits of fat on it and I don't like fat. Uuugh!!! To top it off we had Tortilla Espanola, which is a pie type thingy with potatoes and egg. (Yeah, yeah, I know its called a Spanish omlette, but I still can't get myself to call it that.)I was instantly hooked and over the coming days I would be shoveling large chunks of the stuff down the hatch with nary a care for my arteries.
After all that, we strolled here and there but nothing else blog-worthy happened except of course for the bikes being hauled to impound. Heh heh....whaddya know, it happens here as well.
That's it for now. Adios!

Long time no see

I've been terribly remiss about this blog, now haven't I? Well, its been a real busy month, this. I finally got back to Delft last Sunday after a solid 9 days in Madrid. Yep, Madrid. Eat your heart out, chaps. But seriously, now that I'm back I need to tie up all loose ends related to academia. About time I started to churn out those results and things, otherwise I'll end up spending more time at the university and that's not so light on the ol' wallet. Settling back into the Delft routine wasn't tough. In fact it rained while I was on the way home from the station and soaked me to my socks. Not that I'm ticked off or anything. It was the most appropriate Welcome-Back gesture. Holland, baby.

In other news, the sixty Euro running-the-red-light fine arrived. Only it came with a six Euro administrative fee. I feel the pinch lads. Ouch.
Also, I've got to add, Family Guy is officially on my crap list. I mean, did you watch that recent episode? An absolute travesty lads. Totally disgusting. What are they trying to do? Test viewer loyalty? Well, they've lost me for sure. Or did the talent all get up and walk away? Even Stewie and Brian don't seem to be doing anything remotely funny. In fact, the only thing I was doing while watching the last episode was desperately clenching my fists and restraining myself from rushing to the sink and scooping my brains out with a soup ladle. Gaaah!!

Anyway, the next few posts are going to be about Madrid, the one week exchange program (of course, why else do you think I went to Madrid? Holiday?) and other general student madness. Just thought I'd let you know.

'Day of the dead' or 'El dia de los Muertos'

Or rather, the day of the dead party. But lets face it, that title caught your eye didn't it? Have I mentioned how good Latin American parties are? No? Well, take it from me, they sure know how to have a good time. The day of the dead is officially on November 2nd, but the Latin American crowd in Delft decided to kick it off this weekend. What happens on the day of the dead? Apparently its something like All Souls Day, where people remember the dead folk. Just wiki it or google it. You'll get all the gory details. But, as a good Mexican friend of mine aptly put it, yelling in my ear over the loud music, "Its just another reason to party". No reason to argue with her.
Anyway, the scene at the place was complete with the altar and skulls and candy and poems and the works. No Catrinas though. Latin American lasses with jet black tresses mingled with shiny-shirted Latin American chaps, laughing and yelling the whole time. Too stereotypical, you think? You don't hear me complaining now, do you? Of course, no Latin American party would be complete without the fancy salsa stuff and it was there, all right. Oodles of it. This dancing stuff is in their genes. Their hips move fluidly with the music and their feet are ever so light. Even their foot tapping is amazing. Gosh, its times like this that makes you think about the unfairness of it all. I mean look at us Indians. All we've got is some movie-esq, vulgar pelvic thrusting. Sensual, forsooth!! Its only a matter of time before some poor viewer gets his eyes poked out.
This time I resolved not to be a party wallflower. I dove resolutely into the crowd and tried shaking a leg. The end result was predictably unfortunate. As patient and as nice as my good Latin American amigo's were, I ended up looking like there was a two by four stuck in my butt. Ach, well, always a next time, I suppose. The music alternated between the fancy salsa stuff and anti-establishment songs. Anti-establishment songs are good in the sense that I can at least tap my foot to it. Of course when you feel the frost-bite in your toes mere foot tapping will not help. In which case there's nothing to beat jumping about in a crowd, pumping the air with your fists and repeatedly yelling Puto! in tune with Molotov's song of the same name. And before you go bananas let be repeat here what a Mexican chappie told me. Puto is apparently a very common thing to say in those parts of the world. It doesn't mean any offense and apparently blends seamlessly with the local language. So there. But now that I've told you this don't go spouting the stuff at meetings and other social occasions. I won't be held responsible if you get the stuffing kicked out of you because of some clever Puto related joke you cracked at the last party you went to.
The other highlight of the evening was the chappies coming up to me and speaking Spanish. And when I say "Sorry, nada espanol" (I know, i know, its bad Spanish), they do a double take and go "Ah, sorry, how was I to know? You looked like you were from our parts." The grin on my face on these particular occasions nearly split my head in half. I typically respond with a "No problemo. Gracias." And if you think that total strangers are doing this to make me happy, well, then I'm just going to have to ignore you. Although this does make me wish I'd learnt some Spanish by now. All in all a good time, lads.
Enjoy the official 'Day of the dead'. While you're at it polish some gravestones. Also, whack some stuff from the altars. It makes the good folk believe that the spirits of the dead people came back for some of their favorite thingys. Go on, now. Quick, while no one is looking.

Some R & R? No, not really.

Have you ever had these mind numbing headaches at times? Coupled with an accelerated heartbeat? And then the vein in your forehead does this weird dance, shifting and sliding everywhere to the point where you have to use one finger (or two) to hold it in place? Yes? Me too. And has it happened that one day while you were at the supermarket, Angelina Joile meets you at the check-out counter and explains that this is because you are a gifted person, with a heightened sense of perception, one of the very few in this world, and that she needs your help? And then she takes you in and trains you to be a deadly assassin, teaching you fancy skills like train-jumping, bullet-curving, getaway car-driving and the like? No? Me neither. Siiiiiigh. I guess until that happens I'd better find a way to deal with these blasted migraines and the bulging forehead vein.
In other news, I just finished the toughest three credit course I have ever taken. (Of course every three-credit course I take is the toughest....until the next three-credit course comes along). But this course was a nifty one. It involved camping out at the University, eating food out of vending machines, drinking gallons of coffee and working with the Perfectionist. All in all, a good experience. The Perfectionist had to do everything incredibly....well...perfectly. Don't know how he does it or where he finds the time. He says he's Dutch, but I'm pretty sure there's a connection between his birthday and the day planet Krypton exploded. And I'm too bushed to do any investigative journalism, so the only thing you can expect from me are these tabloid like statements. A perfectionist in the team is a pretty neat thing actually. The only problem is, it makes my work look very sloppy. Ah well, can't win 'em all. I'm just hoping for a decent grade. The course ended with drinks at the Waag, the unofficial haunt of the Offshore Wind Turbine group (as I like to call them). This is one of their traditions, and a darn good one if I may say so. As one of the profs explained to me over a glass of frosty beer "As important as it is to finish assignments and meet deadlines, its just as important to make contacts and develop a good network. Also, the perfect way to unwind after a stressful course" Pearls of wisdom, lads, pearls of wisdom. If only I could import some of this back home....
Now, all I have left to look forward to are the upcoming exams, my project report submission, my thesis proposal submission, the actual thesis work, Dutch lessons...good grief. The list just doesn't stop. I guess its still not time to wean myself away from my caffeine addiction. That and my cravings for heavily salted snacks. The legacy of my camping-out-at-the-university days.
Anyway, gotto go. Maxwell's equations beckon. Take care now.

Cops

A singularly uneventful week, except for the usual mounds of unfinished work. That, and a sixty Euro fine for running a red light. Another dent in the ol' college fund. Siiiiiigh!
It happened on the way to the swimming pool. We were cycling , a nice quiet ride at 7:30 in the morning, the Swim Buddy and me. The sun was just about kicking in and doing its stuff. At about this time there is hardly anyone in the streets. Pretty sparse, if you get my drift. So, there we were biking along, engaged in some intense conversation when suddenly there was this blue blur and this lady cop is riding along side us. "Jongen", she said "Met de politie...". At these words, my heart slowly slid down and reached my stomach region. Quite possibly, the ol' stomach acids got to work on the cardiac tissue. I'm not too sure about this last bit though. I was feeling quite numb. The reasons for this were quite varied. One, I had no identification whatsoever, this being my usual practice when I go to the pool. I leave my stuff in the general area of the swimming complex and it is safe, but still, I never take my wallet and other unnecessary things there. Two, my bike lamps were off. It should have been on because it was still kind of dark. Bikes with dynamo's being such a pain and all that. The Swim Buddy was also feeling the same way as his predicament was pretty similar to mine. Except that his front light was on, but this tail light was off.
So, she directed us to the side and the Swim Buddy and me resigned to our individual fates slowly mounted the kerb, parked and dismounted. The Policewoman, zig-zagged around with her fancy bike and parked strategically in front of us, doubtless to prevent any hastily thought up escape plan. Not that we'd stand a chance against that sleek 18-gear monster she was riding.
She calmly let us know that we'd jumped a red light. The two of us simultaneously whipped around to check out the lights. But we couldn't really see the lights. (I mean, we just passed them). Besides, I don't really remember checking out the lights before we crossed the intersection, so she was most probably right. Once the Policewoman realized that I was a foreigner she spoke to me in English. Rather nice of her. She spoke to the Swim Buddy in Dutch and then said the same thing to me in English. Cops, this polite, back home? Forget it. I could have told her that I did understand a little Dutch, but I thought it prudent to clam up and let the Swim Buddy handle the conversation. She told us that she'd have to fine us sixty Euro's each and then asked for some identification. Increased stomach acid activity at this point. The Swim Buddy explained that we were on our way to the pool and therefore didn't have any identification. This is it, I recall telling myself, She's going to call for backup, we'll get hauled to jail and then I get deported. Bye Bye Holland. Well, she didn't do any of that, but she did tell us that the fine for not carrying an proper ID was fifty Euros. The stomach acids were having a party. I could hear the drums. We madly scrambled around in our bags for some form of identification, but really, there was no hope. I just had my sports card and that wasn't much. I think she noticed the condition of our bike lights, but she probably decided to give that a miss. Just as well. My stomach wouldn't have handled the strain.
She started to write the fine down and then paused, looked at us and asked us what time we had to be at the swimming pool. One of those "Whaaaaaat???" moments. The Swim Buddy said that we generally stayed there for three quarters of an hour. She promptly closed the book, took out her note book and asked for our names and addresses so that the police department could mail us the fines. Good Grief, I was thinking We don't have ID's and proof of address. Are you really going to trust us? Well, she did trust us. No idea why. Perhaps the honest face of.......Never mind, never mind.
Anyway, we gave her our names and addresses. Our real names and addresses. She told us we were being fined just for the red light bloomer and to expect the bill in six weeks. She also told us to carry a proper ID at all times. And you've got to keep in mind, the whole time she was talking in Dutch to the Swim Buddy and then repeating the same thing in English for my benefit. The whole time. Can cops get nicer than this? I think not.
Not bad for my first experience with Dutch cops. Ok, my second experience. The first time was when I was biking in a pedestrian zone, when presto, this cop comes out of nowhere and lays the law down. I escaped, unscathed, that time by pulling the dumb foreigner act. I sorry. Engels? Engels? It worked that time partly because he was a guy. You know what I mean. Guys tend to ignore these little things. Women, on the other hand will go to great lengths to make sure you pay for every tiny thing you did. In retrospect, I suppose, the Policewoman could have let us off with a warning, what with it being a deserted street at daybreak and all that. But that would have gone against every instinct of Womanhood. Still, she fined us just sixty Euros. Just. I guess I should be grateful, eh?
Like I was saying, Dutch cops are ...well...nice. Lots of other people have also told me this, based on their experiences. Lets just hope it stays this way.

The Art Of Social Kissing

I suppose its about time I tackled this subject. This Social Kissing thingy is quite common here in Delft. The first time it happened to me? Well, it was a little weird. Downright ghastly actually. But it was totally my fault. Honest. Anyway, the procedure is pretty simple. You greet the girl, then lean forward and tilt your head to the right. In the meantime, the girl also does the same thing, but she tilts her head to the left. This direction of the tilting head is not really a hard and fast rule. But its got to be mutual. So if the girl tilts right you have to tilt left. Eventually, your heads should meet (unless one of you is doing it wrong) and at this time you land a kiss on her cheek while she lands one on yours. That's about it. Pretty simple, eh?
Nope. Not for me anyway.
I still remember the first time. The only time. I was in a crowded pub, with a bunch of friends. This Greek girl comes along and goes "Hiiiiii" with a customary big smile. (For Greeks, big smiles and "Hiiiiii's" are customary.) Then she leans forward. My super fast brain goes into smart mode. "Ah" I think, "She wants to tell me something. Obviously, she doesn't want to strain her vocal cords in this racket". She tilts her head and I tilt mine....... positioning my ear perfectly for her to speak her piece.
I tell you lads, I've never seen a smile drop so fast and a look of abject confusion come up in its place. But being Greek and being sweet she valiantly tries to land a peck on my cheek...and succeeds. My super fast brain finally gets it. I try to return the greeting, but by now its a clumsy and gawky movement. By the time the whole awkward scene is over she looks at me, the surprise in her eyes and face slowly giving way to enlightenment "Ahh..You don't kiiiisss." This said in a matter-of-fact voice.
That was one of them painful, squirming moments. Now, when girls see me, they stretch out their hand, keep maximal distance and then shake my hand. Thinly veiled sarcasm if you ask me. Well, at least they have a sense of humor.
Almost everyone here does the social kissing thingy. Can't think of anyone who doesn't. But not everyone gets it right. This gives me some evil satisfaction, knowing that I'm not the only socially inept chump in Delft. The best of the lot are the Greeks. They make sure its a warm and friendly gesture and there's got to be lip-to-cheek contact, otherwise it doesn't count. Chalk up another notch for the Greeks. The worst of the lot are the air kissers. Flamboyant, pretentious, (dare I say, Indian?) and what not. An air kiss is totally annoying to watch and those loud 'mwah's are an assault on the senses. But interestingly, I find out that air kisses are meant to be fake and are reserved for people who can't be tolerated. Does that explain the Indian connection? Hmm...let me mulch over that.

October

The cold and rain are here. Time to trade in my loafers for shoes, use heavy jackets and gloves and things. I've forgotten how cold it can get because of that uncharacteristically warm (or so my Dutch friends tell me) summer we had. The heating in my room is now on, another reminder that winter is near. Soon we'll be resetting our clocks as Daylight Savings comes to an end. It'll become darker earlier and that means I can jog in the dark. Well, its the only pleasure that I derive during this time, so don't begrudge me that.
The spaceboxes are full of new folk. Not that I've met them or anything. Its just that the high pitched whining of the smoke alarms assault my ears every five minutes. Guess, they'll learn how to deal with it. Just like we did. I also overheard an interesting conversation where this fresher was telling some other freshers about how 'it seems impossible to complete this course in two years'. Lousy kid. This is just the beginning. Wait until you get to the sleepless nights and eat-food-out-of-the-vending-machines phase.
When I got here last year, I was thinking of the honours track and a cum laude and extra credit and the whole works. But now (suitably humbled by the course), all I'm thinking off is finishing with a decent grade. Unfortunately, this quarter,I think I bit off a tad more that I can chew.I'm loaded up to the eyeballs with work. Unnecessary work, I might add, because I had obtained all the credits I was supposed to have obtained the previous year. All this with the sole purpose of concentrating on my thesis for the whole of the second year. I guess I'm a glutton for punishment. If I get out of this mess unscathed, I'm not going to do any more hero stuff. I promise.
Dutch classes are picking up. Yep, I now take Dutch at the university. We're a diverse bunch -Chinese, Iranian, Colombian, Spanish, Australian, Bangladeshi, Greek, Mexican and Brazilian. Wonder if I've missed any nationality. Nope, don't think so. I'm the only Indian in class. And in case you're wondering, there are only about fifteen of us in the room. Couple that with an incredibly enthusiastic Dutch woman, who enjoys imparting knowledge, and you get some amazing dynamics. Apart from the course, meeting all these folk is interesting. A Chinese girl actually talked with me. I mean, imagine that. Normally they shuffle their feet, avoid all eye contact and steer clear of my path. Guess I should stop stereotyping, eh? Ok, wait, that's just one Chinese person out of the many in Delft. If there are three others who have a normal, relaxed conversation with me, then I'll stop stereotyping for sure. This one even got my name right. Most Chinese and Korean people (to my knowledge, anyway) can't pronounce 'n' properly when it is in the middle of a word. It comes out sounding like an 'r'. So, instead of going "Anish" they go "Arrish". I gave up trying to correct that a long time ago. Quite a scene it used to cause.

Me: Err...It's Anish, by the way.
Random Chinese Person: Ok, Arrish
Me: No, no...Annish.
Random Chinese Person: Ok, I know, Arrish.
Me (with exaggerated lip movement): Annnnish.
Random Chinese Person (with exaggerated lip movement): Arrrrish.
Me: Siiiiiiigh.

Coming back to Dutch, I must reiterate, progress is good. At the beginning of my tenure in Delft, I used to say "Ik kan niet spreek Nederlands (I can't speak Dutch)". Now I've upgraded to "Ik kan spreek Nederlands maar niet zo vloeiend (I can speak Dutch but not so fluently)". Hopefully, the next time, someone asks me for directions or whatever, I can launch into a nice soliloquy without making excuses.
Tot later.

Brussels

Brussels. Well, the main reason I wanted to go to Brussels was because of its association with Herge. Who is Herge, you ask? Good Grief!! Go look it up on Wikipedia. Now. That Saturday chanced to be my birthday. A word about birthdays. For starters, I'm not a birthday person. I get depressed on my birthday. I know, I know, I'm weird, freaky, blah, blah..But the truth is, birthdays remind me of how much time I've spent on the planet and how old I've become and how little time I have to do the things that I've always wanted to do. Last year was different, though. I was in Delft. I mean, I was in Europe. That was quite something. At least I wasn't griping. But that old feeling of uselessness and un-accomplishment was still present somewhere at the back of my head. So this year, I resolved, it was going to be different. And what better way to celebrate than in Brussels, comic city. Around twenty years ago (I'm old, lads, I'm old), I started my journey into the world of comics. Haven't looked back since and its been a blast thus far. The reason I bring this up is because my first Tintin comic (twenty years ago) was Explorers on the Moon. (I know, I know, I should have read Destination Moon first and then read Explorers on the Moon. But I was a kid and the cover of Explorers on the Moon was ..well, you remember, those cheesy Orange spacesuits and the even cheesier red and white checkered moon rocket in the background...How could I resist? For that matter, how could you?). And now here I was..in Herge's town.

Well, anyway, we started from Leuven, the school chum and me. Leuven was where he stayed and that was the base of operations, so to speak. We breakfasted at small joint. Chocolate soaked pancakes and good coffee. I ask you, how can a day go bad when you start off like that? Eh?
A twenty minute train ride and we were there. A short walk and we were at the city center. The tourist office is situated at the city center and we needed to pick up the 'Comic Strip Trail'. The center itself is quite quaint.The Comic Strip Trail leads you through Brussels showing you all the murals painted by famous Belgian cartoonists. There are about thirty murals in all, but I didn't need to see them all, just the ones belonging to the cartoonists whose comics I'd read. There was a beer festival at the center. "Best to try the exotic stuff", the school chum told me. Seemed like a good idea indeed, but unfortunately, we didn't try anything because by the time we got back it was too late. Drink the stuff in the morning? Then, lads, we would have been staggering through the Comic Strip Trail, and that, wouldn't have been very nice.We did the Trail, and a darn good trail it was. The best murals were the Herge murals. Brought all those pleasant memories of bright colors and New-Comic-Book smell flooding back. That's right, I'm a book-sniffer. And a proud one too. Of the Herge murals the best one is in Brussels Zuid Station. You can't miss it. Its enormous.
We visited other spots as well. The flea market which featured in Secret of the Unicorn was exactly like I remembered from the comic, right down to the models of ships. Or, maybe these flea market chaps were keeping it that way.
We missed Herge's inspiration for the house in The Seven Crystal Balls and we also couldn't dine at the Tintin themed restuarant. Also missed the Herge mural at the underground station. Ah well, another time.
Another thing which you can give a miss in Brussels is the Mannekin Pis. But you'll feel compelled to see it anyway, because of all the legend surrounding it and because of everyone telling you that it represents the spirit of Belgium. Big hype, if you ask me.
The best stop was the Belgium Comic strip museum. I took a gazillion photographs. I also forced the hapless School Chum to take a bunch of pictures with me in them. Very uncharacteristic of me, but heck, I needed this. I posed with Herge's bust, with Herge's potrait, with the cheesy orange spacesuits, with the Moon Rocket, with my favourite characters, the whole works basically. There were replica's from some Tintin books. King Ottokars scepter was there, so was the fetish with the Broken Ear, and The Cigars of the Pharoah. Didn't find the Castafiore Emerald though. Heh heh heh.....
The souvenir shop attached to the museum had some delightful stuff as well. But expensive, lads, very expensive.We spent the rest of the day finding and admiring the other murals. The Bob and Bobette mural was good. Very typical of Willy Vandersteen and the comic, of course. Just flip to the first page of any Bob and Bobette comic. You'll know what I mean. The Lucky Luke mural was colossal. So was the Asterix mural, but the cruddy part of the Asterix mural was that it was inside a locked courtyard. I mean, why?? Jeez.....After the trail was done, we headed back to the centre and picked up some Belgium chocolates. Belgium chocolates are exquisite. Absolutely fabulous stuff. Put 'em on your must-taste-before-I die list. And when the lass at the counter asks you what kind of chocolates you want, say you want pralines. Ok, ok, say what you want, but make sure you try a praline or two. At least. So t'was a memorable end to a memorable day. The tickets to the Belgium Comic Strip Museum make nice souvenirs. They're pinned up over my desk right next to the unused Italian stamps.

Leuven

The fourth of September, 2009. I found myself on the train to Leuven , Belgium to visit a friend from the old days. Its been a year since I first arrived in the Netherlands and I should have made the trip sooner. But things like assignments and examinations kept popping up. Ah, better late then never.

I reached Leuven in the evening and the School Chum met me at the station. Leuven is a pretty small town. "The railway station is on one end of the town and my place is at the other end. It's just a twenty minute walk", the School Chum informs me. And indeed that's how small it is. Leuven is quaint, calm almost rustic. But no countryside. At least none that I saw. Unfortunately at that time, the student population were just returning to the university, so it was quiet. Not that it was a damper or anything. The evening was spent in Metafoor, one of Leuven's many pubs. Probably the roomiest pub I've been to in Europe. This time I don't worry myself with all those difficult beer-related questions. ("Hmm...I had a dark beer last time, maybe I'll have a blond one this time. Hmm...Do I have a triple or a dubbel? Hmm...a fruit based beer?") I let the School Chum and his friends do the ordering. The beers didn't disappoint. Pretty good stuff. Let me reiterate what I read somewhere. Belgium is to beer, what France is to wine. Quite true, that statement. But you needn't take my word for it. Best if you visit and find out for yourself. The company at the table included an Indian who had studied a bunch of languages. It was his actual study, not a hobby or something. Quite refreshing, eh? I mean, nice to see that not all Indians fall into the doctor/engineer stereotype. But this chap was brought up in Leuven. That probably helped. Also, at the table was a Greek girl, although I scarcely could believe it, for she was the quietest Greek that I had come across. So very different from the Greeks in Delft. But, she did roll a nifty cigarette...and at light speed. That was enough to convince me. Its in their genes, I tell you, its in their genes.

Another mighty fine pub to visit in Leuven is the Blauwe Kater. It translates to Blue Cat. They serve a fabulous house beer called (what else?) the Blauwe Kater. But the atmosphere is the best. A place very similar to Pecos (except for the Beer Menu, of course). A dimly lit place where ancient posters adorn the walls. (Its more like the posters are holding up the wall.) The place is packed with patrons. A yellowed A-2 sized sheet of paper (read: makeshift poster) announces a Jazz concert. August, 1997, the date on the poster announces. The patrons chatter away like the world's going to end tomorrow. Getting to the bar to order a drink is an exercise in itself. Stepping on empty chairs and squeezing between tightly packed tables is perfectly acceptable. Heh heh heh....totally loved this place. The School Chum and me did a bit of catching up. It had been a while, after all and my whetted curiosity in regards to various other old school chums was satisfied. I returned the courtesy and we get back to quaffing our beers.

As for Leuven itself, well, its really nice. The city hall in the center is quite majestic and the flower carpet in front of it was elaborate.

I don't know how often they do this flower carpet thing. Guess, I was lucky it was there when I was there. The School Chum also took me through the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven, by Castle Arenberg (which is on the university grounds), to University Library, to Begijnhof (Leuven), which is like a monastery for women whose husbands were claimed by war in the old days, and to the site of the Giant Upside-Down Impaled Beetle, which apparently is the symbol of knowledge in Leuven. I was also privy to a cycle race. Pretty good that was, unfortunately my camera didn't do such a good job capturing the moment. (Or perhaps it was me. Hmmm...).
Food in Leuven is pretty impressive, I must say. A tad injurious to the ol' wallet though. I didn't try out any of the typical Leuvenese fare simply because I couldn't. Most establishments are closed during the summer months because there are no students in town. Did I mention that Leuven is entirely a student town? Well, there are some other 'normal' people as well, but really, Leuven is probably the best embodiment of a student town. The best one that I've come across, anyway. I'm sure the good folk from Leuven will agree with me.
As for drink, O yeah......I've already covered that. Belgium=Beer Capital of the world. (I don't care what anyone else says.)
A damn good weekend if I say so myself. Also, the eve of my birthday , (the day I arrived) was spent in Metafoor with good company and my birthday itself was spent in Brussels. So, being an anti-birthday person and all that, really, I couldn't have asked for more. But tales of Brussels will follow in another post.
Take care.

Zwemmen

Today was the day I was supposed to beat all odds at the swimming pool. Today was the day I was supposed to complete one entire length of the pool without pausing or floundering. Today was the day I was supposed to shift from the slow lane to the fast lane. But, today was also the day I saw the still body of a swimmer by the side of the pool. Dang!
Before your heart rate crawls to a dull pace, let me assure you that they got the chap out breathing and moving and all that. All thanks to well trained emergency personnel.
I remember entering the pool complex, with my heart thumping with gusto and adrenaline pumping through my veins. All pumped up, is the feeling I am trying to convey. But, one look at that near lifeless body lying there, curled up in a fetal position, with uniformed folk peering at it, and that was enough to knock the wind out of me. My thoughts at this point were "Anish, ol' boy. No laps today. No frontier conquering bravado. Stick to the usual swim-to-the-start-of-the-deep-side-and-come-back." Geez, I was so sick of that. Anyway, it was a man. I couldn't make out at first, because he was all wrapped up in silver foil. Yeah, you read it right. Silver foil. It's the first time I've seen that been used. I suppose its better than blankets, though I'm really not sure. He stirred about while the emergency personnel hoisted him onto the stretcher and wheeled him away. The good Dutch folk in the pool waved and said their good-bye's. Something that I found weird but familiar at the same time. Dutch folk always make it a point to say 'Hello' and 'Goodbye'. No matter what. The poor chappie blinked twice, looked around hazily and tried to return the greeting as the stretcher rolled out of sight. Needless to say, swimming was forgotten and everyone in the pool was engaged in curious chatter. The dutch friend I was with picked up some of the conversation and he informed me later that it seemed like the poor guy had a brain hemorrhage.
But we did swim that day. I, to the slow lane with my cautious swimming style and he to the fast lane with his own brand of swimming. I still remember coming here the first time. It was a tad weird being the only brown skinned chap in a pool with all the white folk. But I wasn't hassled or anything. Being dutch, all the folk in the pool decided to adopt their typical NIMBY attitude. Don't know what NIMBY is? Well, it stands for Not In My Back Yard. Thus far it seems to have served the Dutch people well and I think (personally) this is what has led to general tolerance in the Netherlands (tolerance for soft drugs, the innumerable foreigners, that sort of thing). I mean, its nice and all that, but after a while you begin to wonder if that's the way things should be done. But that's a discussion for another time. In this case of the pool, Back Yard would mean "small space where I(=dutch person) can perform my swimming moves" By the way, Back Yard is kind of a metaphor. What's that? You've figured that part out yourself? Ok, smarty-pants.
My reputation quickly dropped from foreigner-in-the-pool to floundering-foreigner-in-the-shallow-end-of-the-pool. Kinda humiliating. Indeed, I've had people come to me and ask gentle questions such as "What are you doing?", "Do you know how to float?" and other such queries. But apart from that there was no typical Anish-esq incident designed to bring the house down with laughter. I generally stayed out of people's way and they in turn appreciated it. It was, of course, the right thing to do. I mean, you wouldn't like it if some noob swimmer started splashing around while you were doing some serious laps now, would you? This brings to mind a typical stunt a good friend of mine from Bangalore used to pull when he was surrounded by noobs in the pool. He'd switch to the breast stroke while passing the noob he'd decided to punish and then use the frog kick to inflict maximum damage to the hapless victim. Obviously, the whole thing is meant to look like an accident.

Noob Swimmer: Owww!Hey, that hurt!
Evil Friend: Eh? How do you mean? I'm just swimming here.
Noob Swimmer: Oh, ah. Carry on then.
Evil Friend: (Swims away, chuckling evilly underwater.)

Of course, a frog kick to the crotch would mean manslaughter/attempted murder charges. Ghastly we Indians are, eh? Well, nothing like this happens here but still, I'm wary of these frog kicker swimmers.
But there was actually one time when I did the entire pool length. It was the second time I visited the pool, I think. I bucked myself up no end and took off like a shark. The thing with these shark-like starts are that their pace generally slows down to that of a middle aged crayfish. So I floundered on bravely...until I decided to grab some air. Now, I'm one of these heavy chaps, whose floating equilibrium in water is incredibly delicate. You know the - head comes up, feet go down - type. So my head went up and..... Gosh, the sheer panic that rippled through me was one for the memoirs. And the crappy part was, all my floundering wasn't helping in any way. I was stuck, my head bobbing just below the water's surface. I couldn't go up to grab some much needed air, nor could I go down to the bottom and do the Superman lift off trick. Just frigging stuck. It would have been a lousy way to go. But I did make it to the side of the pool and did pull myself up just in time to grab some sweet, sweet Oxygen.
Well, I guess, the only thing to do is wait for the next time. And the next time I'm gonna touch the opposite wall of the pool.

Ctrl+Alt+Delete

Thus begins a new academic year. Mixed feelings, lads, mixed feelings.
On one hand, sweet summer is all but over. Occasionally, the sun peeps in between gray clouds, but really, there's no hope. The sky is overcast most of the time and the rains threaten to fall. In fact, it should be starting anytime now. I see quite a number of dead leaves in the parking lot. Autumn heralds her arrival.("One more month, one more month",I yell."Autumn starts in October". But no one seems to be listening).The cold wind has already started to pick up and pretty soon we'll be shifting to the winter hours. That means shorter days and longer nights. Ah, well. I guess there's nothing to do but bite the bullet and plunge on till June next year. Good Grief!!! That is a long time indeed. Why June? Well, that's when the weather becomes nicer and everything is bright and sunny again, with longer days and shorter nights, and fun times and less stress and....siiiiiiiigh. You get the picture.
On the other hand, academics should bring some order and discipline into my life. My brains have pretty much turned into tapioca. I remember my examination for a Aerodynamics related course last month. It was a one-on-one with the professor. I knew I was in for it. I just didn't know how bad. I spent forty five minutes in there with the good professor, the gears in my head spinning weakly as he fired away with his questions. It was obvious to him as well that I hadn't prepared. But he was a really nice guy. He gave me some easy ones, shook his head sadly, gave me the passing grade and said that he hoped that I would try again. (Oh yeah, I definitely am.)
Apart from this, its the standard fare in Delft at this time of the year. New folk moving in , old folk moving out. Departments getting spruced up and the campus teeming with students. Good ol' Delft is back to normal.
Just thought I'd sneak a quick post in here, before I scoot back to the books.

My Social Life

Zero. Nada. Zilch. Zip. There you have it. That's the gist of it. My social life is non existent. So I guess you'd better get back to your wonderful social life. With bells and whistles and things...
But seriously, its not my fault. I'm not anti-social or anything. (Ok, maybe just a little). Its just that its pretty darn difficult in Delft. Sure, you can argue, that Delft is chock full of students and pubs and all that, but really, its not that simple. I wish it were. But its not.
Take for instance the last time I went out on a social binge. We were quite a crowd. Half of it consisted of Greeks and the other half were Spanish speaking folk (from Mexico, South America and, of course, Spain). This, by the way, is the average cross section of the party folk in Delft. Ah, yes, I see you've recoiled back in your chair a tad bewildered. Dazed and confused as well, I might add. 'But, this is Europe, right?', you ask, your brain warming up,'Where is everybody else?'. Truth be told, I really have no idea.....But wait, let me finish.
So, anyway, there we are. At the pub. A couple of Indians in the troupe (self included). And an Irish chap as well. The beers arrive. And in Delft, this is what inevitably happens. The Greeks sit together and the Spanish speaking folk sit together. The other minority nationalities get scattered around the table. The conversation starts of with the normal stuff. (You know, Dutch weather, university, courses, blah, blah....the normal stuff). Then it switches to better stuff. (Chappie A took a high dive from his bicycle at 20 kmph and landed on his face, Chappie B got busted while biking in a pedestrian zone and had to shell out 40 bucks, Chappie C....well you get the idea). Then, there's a lull in the conversation and before you know it, Greeks start speaking to other Greeks in Greek and Spanish speaking folk to other Spanish speaking folk in...well...Spanish. Its almost like a sleight-of-hand trick. If you're not paying attention, you'll totally miss it. If you were paying attention, you'll notice that this happens during these dangerous lulls in the conversation.
If you think I'm being resentful or anything, can that line of thought. That is not the case. While the Greeks and the Spanish speaking folk are speaking, you'll notice that the conversation is a great deal more lively. Especially with the Greeks. They use a lot of hand motions and their jocular laughter resonates through the entire establishment. Oh, this happens with Greek women as well. They're just as jocular and loud as their male counterparts. Now, if only I could understand what they were saying. Gosh-darn-it. Its the same with the Spanish speaking folk. Ok, ok, they're not as lively as the Greeks, but they have their own relaxed way of talking. No gesturing, though. Their hands are occupied with the chalice. Occasionally, you'll hear a burst of boisterous laughter, which will usually cause a few heads at the bar to spin around. Meanwhile, minority nationals like myself will sit tight and observe the troupe. Its a dicey situation. Bursting in and stating that English is the spoken language at the table is a bad idea. In fact, its not an idea at all. And even if you did want to interrupt and gently ease the speak-English ploy into the minds of the folk via some devious strategy...well...its kinda criminal. I mean, have you seen these people? They look like they're having the time of their life. So sitting tight and being the party wallflower is more my style. Its not by choice, mind you. Whats that? You don't know what a party wallflower is? Ah..Ahem, he's the guy at the party who stands against the wall with a drink in his hand. He's dressed, more often that not, in black. That's because he believes it makes him look cool. More often than not, he's wrong. He nods at people passing by and tilts his drink at them to complete the greeting. Occasionally, a 'Hi' or 'Hey' will ensue from his lips. Yep, that's what most party wallflowers do. Siiiiiiigh...
I see you frothing at the mouth. 'Where are the other Europeans?' you splutter, 'What of them?' you continue. 'And where are all the Chinese and more important, where are all the Indians?' Ok,ok. I guess I owe you some kind of explanation regarding the social scene in Delft.
The Europeans students here comprise mostly of the Dutch. Then come the Greeks (in number). Then the Spaniards. A decidedly smaller number. After which there's a smattering of other European nationalities-French, Belgian, Portuguese and some from Eastern Europe. No one from Germany. Guess they like their universities too much. There's a tiny number from the UK. (Oh yeah, there was an Irish guy with us the other day......Wait, I already said that, didn't I?) Apart from the Europeans, there is a sizable population from South America and Mexico. The largest foreign student group are the Chinese. A fairly large group of Indians and quite a number of Indonesians complete the Asian picture.
Now, as for why the Dutch don't hang out with international students, I have no clue really. They're pretty aloof and have their own clique. I mean, sure, I have some really good Dutch friends and so do most of the internationals. But breaking into their social circle and hanging out? Perish the thought. Or rather, if you can pull that off, you'd have pulled off the most amazing feat ever known to.....the International Community in Delft. The rest of the European students get along very well with each other and the South Americans, Mexicans and the Spaniards form a nice triad. As for the Chinese, I....well...hmmmm...lets just say they don't give a damn about what happens outside their community. Ahem.Passing on now to the Indonesians, well, these guys have their own clique too and they're are a very closeted group. They band together very well and will most probably give up their lives for each other. (Not that its come to that.) But they are very open and will accept pretty much anyone into their fold, at least from what I've seen. As for the Indians, well, how do I even start? This subject requires a post (well, a rant actually) devoted entirely to itself. For now, I'll just echo the words of a Spanish friend: "There are two types of Indians. One type mixes with the international community, while the other type prefers to stick with their own community". Pretty good stuff, eh? For those of you who know what I truly think and feel about our Indians.............stop smirking. Yeah, you. That's right. You. Stop. But I shall oblige you chaps with a rant some other time. A nice roast it shall be.
So there you have it. The international student scene in Delft. And now, back to our setting. We're in the pub having us some refreshment. Spanish speaking folk do their thing and the Greeks do their thing. Us minority nationalities forming our own (separate) islands. The Irish chap I told you about was pretty much seeing stars. But it was his first time and I don't blame him. I suppose I was looking pretty lost myself, when it happened to me the first time. Occasionally, though, one of the Spanish speaking folk will turn to one of us and pose a question. Not a mind numbing question or anything, just a normal, lets-not-leave-you-out-in-the-cold thingy. Like, for example, the Irish chappie was asked about whisky and how it all began. Or something like that. You get what I mean? Well, anyway, the Irish chappie, glad of the question, launched into a little soliloquy about whisky and brewing and what not. I don't recall the details, but I think it ended with Guinness, something about it being the national drink and the correct way to pour the darn thing. Of course, I get these questions too. "Hey Anish, how do you like the weather here. I bet its warmer in India, eh? Hahaha.....". And of course I have to pick up the ball and run with it. Very nice of them and all that, but still the time wasted on me could have been better spent doing their thing. With the animated conversations and and all that. Sometimes, its like some personality disorder symptom. The greek chappie will be yakking animatedly about something (something funny, because his mates are all smiles. Its always something funny, by the way). He'd be using his hands and balancing his drink on his elbow or something. He'd also try a cartwheel if in the mood. Pausing, just in time to see me, he'd quickly wrap up his story, leaving his mates rolling on the floor, convulsed with laughter and come to me. Hey, Presto! Instant change. Now he's all somber and stuff. "So, Anish, how's everything? Great party,eh?". Yeah man, it sure is. But what were you telling your friends there? Why are they choking and gasping for breath? Gosh-darn it. If only I could understand.
Its pretty much the same with the Spanish speaking folk. Only the energy levels are a little low. But they're spirited all the same. Its quite possible to break into these circles. Then everyone makes the switch to English. But now the coversations sputters on. Something boring. Like the Mechanics class at the university. Blast! See what I mean? It makes me feel extremely guilty. It isn't right for me to suck the fun out of these social gatherings. To make matters worse, some chappie will tumble in from another circle, pause and then yell "Why the f*** are you speaking in English?" Someone will solemnly point at me and say in a hushed voice "Anish is with us". Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!!
Occasionally, I do get to score some bonus points. As someone passes me the beer, I say "Muchos Gracias". I'm rewarded with a grin and a resounding thump on the back. And for the toast everyone yells "Salud" and "Yamas" which is "Cheers" and "Our Health" respectively, in Spanish and Greek,....respectively. Keep that in mind, just in case you plan to visit those parts of the world
The only respite is when the Spanish speaking folk and the Greek speaking folk get together to discuss something of mutual importance. Like the next social gathering. Or a beach party. Or simply to bitch about the weather. This is when chappies like me jump in to participate. Ah well, make ye the best of every situation.
Now, I've decided to study Spanish. Purely to participate in these above mentioned social excursions. Why Spanish, you ask. I looked up the Greek alphabet. All those letters rose up and brought Engineering to life. Omega for Resistance. Epsilon for Electric Field. Pi for ...errr...Pi. A tad confusing for me. Makes you wonder how the Greeks studied Engineering, don't it?. Well anyway, lets see how it goes.
Buenas Noches.