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.
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.
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