Vuur!

Finally,today, I got to see the infamous Dutch fire brigade at work. It happened at around 7:30 this evening. The chinese chap's room three doors down from my room was on fire, ....or so we thought.

But, before I launch into this narrative, let me first tell you about our smoke alarms. I remember setting off mine in the first month I got here, frying some...hmmmm..well, I don't really remember. The point is, I was all a'twitter. The lights grew dim ,the room swirled , the shrill beeping resonated in my ears and I bleated weakly about water cannons and fire extinguishers. (It was my first time, my FIRST time). Fortunately, there were no fire trucks barreling down the street and everything was relatively calm. Not a soul stirred. Except, of course, for the noobs who had gotten here around the same time I had. These poor chaps stumbled out of their rooms in their night clothes, muttering imprecations and stood waiting in the corridors for (I think) some fancy fireworks. After hanging around in this zombie like stupor for a while, they returned to their rooms to retire for the night. Err...My bad. Sorry lads.
During the course of the month, we learnt that the damn alarm went off for the slightest excuse. There used to be an incident every two days. The standard procedures to be followed for these cases were as follows: Drag chair under smoke alarm. Climb up. Smartly push the 'hush' button. And that was it. No more shrill annoying sound. After that discovery, everytime we heard that shrill beeping, we ( enlightened now), would shake our head wisely and tut tut and say "That Han (or Jin or Deshpande or whatever the case was), burning the ol' pork chop (or egg or paneer or whatever the case was). When will he learn?" We also discovered that the alarm was just.. well.. an alarm. It wasn't tied in to the police/fire brigade's system or what not. So there was no real danger of our front door getting hacked to bits by a firemans axe. That's what we thought. Until today, anyway.
At about 7:00, this evening, the alarm went off again. "Silly Nitwit!" I muttered, full of righteous indignation. I turned up the volume on the Simpsons episode I was watching and eased back into my chair. I was running out of Simpson episodes, having exhausted another season the previous day, waiting for my UK visa to arrive , which by the way, never did (another story, another day). No way, was I going to let someone's smoke alarm spoil what little pleasure I had in life. Tuning out the alarm's beeping was for me, the work of a moment. Twenty minutes later, new sounds coerced their way into my ears. Wailing sirens. Yep, you read that right."Wailing". This was followed by heavyset footsteps in the vicinity of my door and then the banging and pounding began. Not on my door, of course, but still I had to go check.
Three doors down, five fireman had gathered around a room. Two of them held a battering ram and were trying (unsuccessfully) to break down the door. Now, the average dutch guy is 6 feet tall with a build to match. These, however, were firefighters, not average Dutch guys. So when I say they couldn't break open the door, it says something for the door, eh? (Yeah, that's the ram they used, on the left). Two other guys were standing there with chainsaws on the ready. (Small ones, not the ones lumberjacks use). After the door breaking failed, the chainsaw dudes stepped in. They cut around the lock..and well...that didn't seem to work either. The fifth guy seemed to be giving orders and stuff. He also had some funky instruments that I couldn't, for the life of me, recognize. Ultimately the guys smashed the door clean off its hinges (as you can see in the picture below). As for the cause of the fire, no no..wait, there was no fire. It was just the smoke alarm. Anyway, the cause of the alarms was, yup, you've guessed it. Pork Chop!!! Or at least that's it looked to me. Heh heh heh. And where was the poor sap whose room was missing a door? Well, he was playing tennis apparently. After the whole thing he and the fire chief had a nice talk and that was that. I, unfortunately, wasn't privy to that conversation, but it was probably a juicy one. Also, below are more pics of the firefighters and the 'concerned' crowd.
Like I said before, the alarms were not tied to the system, so how the deuce (the intelligent reader will ask) did the firemen get here? Apparently, someone smelt something burning and called for them.

10 months later

Well, a little over 10 months actually. Yep, that's how long I've been in Delft. (Good ol' Delft). And its been the best 10 months of my life. No question about that. No doubts, no argument. Period. There are a whole bunch of reasons for this being an amazing time, but the best reason is of course the people. To be specific, the good folk from SET. A healthy mix of internationals and Dutch. We finished our exams last Friday and since then its been one big continuous party. So now on Monday (hmm..yes, yes..it is Monday indeed), here I am churning words out on to this blog. And how does it feel? Fabulous, absolutely fabulous. One year of assignments, deadlines, exams...essentially back-breaking labour..and now for the first time since I got here, I was just lying in bed staring vacantly into space. That, lads, is luxury. In Delft,anyway. Siiiiiiigh...Pure bliss.

Flashback to May 2008. I was back at home, wondering if it would all work out, wondering if anything would work out. But, I guess you lads know all about that. Heh heh heh.. God's been kind to me. Extremely kind. By June it was certain that I would be going to Delft. By July I was done with the essential stuff and in August there I was at Bangalore International boarding the Air-France flight to Schiphol, Amsterdam (via Paris, of course).

For the flight, I carefully segregated my clothes and split them evenly between my cabin baggage and my check in baggage. Now, for the chaps who know me and the weird things that happen to me it is not necessary to explain why I did this. These are the chaps who, when traveling with me, will bring along a fold up chair just so that they have can sit down comfortably to watch the entertainment. By entertainment, I mean all the thingummy's that keep happening to me. By the way, if you're still wondering why I split up my clothes..hang on, it will become apparent pretty soon.

Air France had these lousy luggage restrictions, so I was dressed in some fancy winter wear right from home. Needless to say, I was puffing and sweating like crazy by the time I got to security check. Of course, the cops at the airport had to wave their hands around and do they security thing. But I suppose that beats getting blown up in mid air. So I obliged. They frisked me and then they frisked my jacket. (Yep, that's how thick my jacket was). Then they scanned me with the metal detector after which they did my jacket. Convinced that I was a harmless dweeb, they let me pass over to the immigration clearance post. Now, I'd heard some scary stories about this post where students were harassed. I had built up in my mind a ghastly picture of a laughing cop dangling my passport over my head with the immigration seal in his other hand, shaking his head nastily, his potbelly jiggling away while my whining pleas were being ignored. But apparently this was not to be. The chap at the counter was skinny and had sharp piercing eyes. He gave me the once over, asked for my student papers, gave them the once over and stamped my passport without a fuss. "Nice going, Anish" I said to myself "Should be smooth sailing from here" Little did I know.

The flight to Paris was uneventful. Standard issue inedible food, lousy in-flight entertainment and loudmouth Indian folk. I stepped off the flight at Charles de Gaulle. I had to change craft here to get to Schiphol, which meant another round of security checks and immigration clearance. At security check, there were extremely thorough. I had to take of shoes and socks as well. They checked my jacket (again). They also asked for the handkerchief that was in my hands. It was totally drenched in sweat because of all the running around in a winter jacket (which I was wearing in August. Jeez! What was I thinking!). The security chap looked me carefully, looked at the kerchief and then dutifully ran his metal detector over it. I could never, for the life of me, figure out what he intended to accomplish, but I wasn't going to ask now, was I? Heh heh...

Then there was the immigration check. When I got to the post, I seemed to be the only one there. There were two booths. A guy manning one and a woman at the other one. For some reason I ended up at the womans counter. So there I was handing in my passport to the lady, when the guy stands up and peers at me through the glass. I look back at him. "Do you think, my colleague is beautiful?" he asks in a thick french accent. I was befuddled, to say the least. It must have shown on my face, because he repeated the question again, a tad irritated. The woman was smiling, now. "Don't worry" she said absently, flipping through my passport "He's crazy". Of course I didn't listen. I worried. Then I worried more. After which I cleared my throat and mumbled something. "What?" the guy at the counter said, leaning forward, the irritation a little more apparent. "Well" I said, "Yes, I think she is very beautiful". "Really?" the guy said. And then he screams "Thats my wife you're talking about". I tell you lads, I'm not sure what I was supposed to feel at that moment, but everything became a little surreal. I do remember collecting my passport and stumbling clumsily to the exit. And then, of course, there was loud laughter at the booth where the "couple" were joined by their other immigration buddies. Dang! In retrospect, it was a good joke to play on a nervous student chappie (Nervous, you ask? Did you not read the security check part?) . My first taste of French humour. Hmm..perhaps I'd get more later.

The rest of my journey was pretty uneventful. And, Oh yeah, the airline misplaced my luggage. Heh heh heh...I found out at Schiphol, while I was waiting at the baggage conveyor that never had my bags. So now you know why I split up my clothes. But the airline delivered my baggage to my new place the next day, with a discount coupon. Nice incentive, eh? I was picked up at Schiphol by the university and the ride to Delft was uneventful as well, except for the student co-ordinator asking me where my luggage was. They dropped me off at my "box" and now here I am. Settling in is another story. And that we shall keep for another time. Adios lads.