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.

Things I learnt from 'G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra'

1. Nanobots are green.
2. In the army, babysitting your girlfriend's brother becomes top priority. Everything else is secondary.
3. Computer graphics can never compensate for bad acting. No matter how badly you wish it were so.
4. To weaponize nanobots you need a particle accelerator.
5. Destroying European cities are cool. (Culture? Who needs that?)
6. Army people have large motorcycles.
7. Nanobots heal snake bites. They force the venom out of the puncture wounds. Really.
8. Even though evil henchmen are devoid of all fear and pain, they can still scream in anticipation of the killing blow.
9. If you really, really want a girl to like you all you have to do is program nanobots, inject them into her and watch as the dear little things control her emotions.
10. "The mission is a go. I repeat, the mission is a go" is still a very, very cool thing to say.
11. An underwater base beneath the polar ice caps is easy to build without anyone noticing. Ditto for an underground base in the desert.
12. If your face burns away, you can use nanobots to reconstruct it. Also,after facial reconstruction your skin shines radiantly.
13. If you don't have any flying experience, its ok, because most modern aircraft are voice operated. Just make sure you take those language courses they offer in flying school.
14. If you manage to kill the president and three of his bodyguards in an underground vault with only one entrance/exit, disposing of the evidence is vital. I think flesh-eating (what else?) nanobots are the only answer.
15. Having sculpted muscles is more important that good dialogue.
16. Nanobots can do anything except, of course, survive in the upper atmosphere. (And, oh yeah, true love. True love can triumph over nanobots. Big-time.)

Use this information well.
Now, my stock portfolio consists mostly of shares of companies that manufacture nanobots.

The tragic case of the delayed visa.

June 30th. That was the date on which I presented myself to the British Consulate in Amsterdam as part of the process to obtain a visa to enter the United Kingdom. August 11th. Today. The date my passport finally reached me. Forty two days of nail-biting, hair-pulling, sitting-on-the-edge-of-my-seat stuff. Most harrowing, I tell you. An experience I won't be repeating. Not voluntarily, anyway. June 30th was a nice day. One of those sunny ones with no ominous winds blowing. The walk to the Consulate was uneventful. I arrived fifteen minutes early as consulate chaps advised on the website. I was herded inside with some other Asian , African and South American looking folk with a token that indicated my priority in the waiting room.
Two hours later, I was still sitting, clutching my token. The consulate louses were taking their own sweet time with no concern for anyone/anything. That should have been my first portent. I should have picked up my stuff and scooted. Unfortunately, I'm only good at second-guessing these things after the momentous event has already occurred. Ah well....The story of my entire life.
Anyway, after the interview with an Eric Clapton wannabe (you know the type, a chap with shoulder length hair and fuzzy beard, complete with the rolled up shirt sleeves) I was done. A full three hours after I had arrived. Two weeks tops, the Eric Clapton chap assured me, when I asked him when I would get the visa. In the three hours I spent in the consulate, I had finished studying the floor, the ceiling and various other architectural features of the waiting room. Sickening.
A Nigerian friend had also applied for his visa at around the same time. He was a seasoned veteran of the whole process, having been to London on previous occasions. So, he would get his visa first and then a week later I would get mine,or so I figured. Oh, by the way, the reason the Brits take so long to process the visa is because they send it over to Dusseldorf, in neighboring Germany, to get the lousy visa stamp. Why? I have no clue. Apparently, the Brits measure efficiency in mysterious ways.
The second portent: My Nigerian friend didn't get his visa in the time promised to him. Understandably, he was hoping mad. What would happen to me?, I wondered at that time. My tickets to London were already booked for the sixth of August. I got them at a neat price. Twenty Euro's. Good ol' Ryan Air. I was smirking confidently at the time I closed that deal. Or rather when my friend ,with whom I was supposed to stay with, closed the deal. I'm pretty sure he was smirking as well. Now, I wasn't so confident. In fact, I wasn't smirking at all.
Time went by. The nail-biting began. My Nigerian friend got his visa and he was off like a shot, like a bullet from a gun. Ok, I reasoned, soon my visa will be here. More time went by. The hair-pulling started. I locked myself in my box and didn't step out, because I feared I would miss the postman's knock. The silence was eerie. This was how people went crazy, I realized. Soon, I would hear voices in my head, coaxing me into performing violent, despicable acts. And I did hear voices..... But they were all in Chinese. So I didn't understand them anyway. Spacebox acoustics are not exactly amazing. (For the uninformed, Spacebox=overpriced box in which university students live. I think, its one of those attempts at Dutch humour, but I don't believe I'll figure it out completely).
At around this time, I began writing to the chaps at the Consulate. Numerous times. At first I was polite, but soon I realized that being mildly sarcastic got me faster responses. Attached below are some of those responses.
Response 1

Dear Applicant,

Thank you for contacting WorldBridge Service, The UK Border Agency's Commercial Partner. We appreciate your patience regarding the response to your enquiry, as WorldBridge strives to provide the most accurate responses to all enquiries. Below you will find the response to that enquiry.

Please note that it is not possible to obtain an entry clearance on the same day. In many cases the straight forward, non-settlement visa process not requiring an interview takes 5-15 working days. However, the consideration of the application is entirely up to the UK embassy, and the processing times can vary based on the difficulty of the case and other factors. The processing times are measured from the appointment date.

90% of non-settlement applications requiring interview or further enquiries are decided within 15 working days.

90% of settlement visas are interviewed or decided within 12 weeks.

Worldbridge centers have absolutely no input or participation in the consideration process, so we cannot guarantee consideration times.

Please note that you will not be able to respond to this email. If you have additional questions submit your enquiry via email free of charge by visiting the WorldBridge website

When submitting a new enquiry, please reference the case number from this particular email to ensure thorough processing. Note the case number can be found in the subject line of this email, EX: Reply from WorldBridge Services for CaseNumber :00000123.

Thank you again for contacting WorldBridge.

Very sincerely yours,

WorldBridge Service

Response 2
Dear Applicant,
Blah Blah Blah.....

Please be informed that due to the nature of your issue your information is being forwarded to the British Mission and you will be contacted as soon as possible.
Blah Blah Blah.....

Very sincerely yours,

Blah Blah

Response 3
Dear Applicant,
Blah Blah Blah.....

WorldBridge Service has contacted UK Border Agency visa application centre on your behalf and received the following response that your passport was returned to Amsterdam on 21/07/2009.
Blah Blah Blah.....

Very sincerely yours,

Blah Blah

Response 4
Dear Applicant,
Blah Blah Blah.....

In regards to your question, we would like to let you know that due to the nature of your request it is being escalated for detailed research. Please be informed that we understand the importance of your issue, and we strive to respond as quickly and thoroughly as possible.

Blah Blah Blah.....

Very sincerely yours,

Blah Blah

Response 5
Dear Applicant,
Blah Blah Blah.....

WorldBridge Service has contacted UK Border Agency visa application centre on your behalf and received the following response that if the postage fee was paid then the passport would have been sent to you, if you were not at home then the passport will still be either at the post office waiting for collection, if not collected after a certain amount of days then returned the to Amsterdam Consulate General.
Blah Blah Blah.....

Very sincerely yours,

Blah Blah

Response 6
Dear Applicant,
Blah Blah Blah.....

In regards to your question, we would like to let you know that due to the nature of your request it is being escalated for detailed research. Please be informed that we understand the importance of your issue, and we strive to respond as quickly and thoroughly as possible.
Blah Blah Blah.....

Very sincerely yours,

Blah Blah

Anyway, the sixth of August sailed by and I was still in Delft. A suitable message on facebook informed my concerened friends that the London trip wasn't happening after all. I had resigned myself to this after July came to an end. These things happen, I calmly philosophised outwardly, while seething inside.
But it was the fifth response that sent me to the post office. Perhaps my passport was lying there after all. I made my way to the counter and explained the situation to the lady. "Ah" said she, "But then there should have been an acknowledgement slip in your mail box, telling you to come pick it up at the post office". "But, the people who sent it are sure its at the post office", I spluttered. "They're British", I added helpfully, hoping that, that would be self-explanatory. She looked at me strangely. I guess, she hadn't dealt with the British before. Lucky woman.
"Lets have a look then, shall we?" she said, after obtaining my house number. She then went through some envelopes in a box, picked up one and asked "Is this it?". Shooting stars burst forth from my peripheral vision and my knees grew weak as I recognized my name on the envelope. "Yes", I managed. "Its been here for a long time" she said, pointing to the date at the corner. 23-July-2009. All the aforementioned shooting stars changed course and slammed into my forehead. One by one. There were seventeen in all, I think. "There, there" she said in a matronly way, noticing my dazed expression. "These things happen." Yeah, I thought, only to me. But my heart warmed to her. A kindly spirit, this one.
"I'll need to see some identification", she said. "And not your student ID". My heart sank drearily, for it was all I had. "Well", I said (and I think I might have sighed) "If you open the package, you'll see my passport". I wasn't hoping for much at this point. Life was swinging away with those haymakers and good ol' Anish was pretty much through. "Well" she hesitated, "Ok, but only because this is a special case". I could have reached out and kissed her. On both cheeks. Such was my emotion. My admiration for Dutch practicality soared to new heights. I could picture a similar scenario in India. A pot-bellied troll behind the counter asking for my ID.
Me:Look, just open the envelope.
Troll: No saar, show me passport. I'll give envelope.
Me: No, no..really, just open th...
Troll: No saar. Sorry saar. Bring passport.
Me: But..
Troll: Aye, Hogelaai.
Me: .......
Anyway, the kind lady checked out the passport, saw that everything was in order. I signed for it and she handed it over. She sympathized some more and I gratefully exited the post office. And that was that. Now to tell the Consulate chaps about this. Not that they'll rejoice with me or anything. But still......
The aftermath? Well...I'm still in Delft. A nice vacation completely ruined. I guess I'll do the only thing that cheers me up on these occasions. Shopping. For crossbows.

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.

Venice

Venice. City of Love? Well, I'd remember it more as the City-of-James-Bond-and-other-movie-boat-chases. But seriously, Venice is just an over hyped tourist trap. If you're going there, hold on to the ol' wallet firmly. Unless of course, you're the typical touristy-type. In which case, you should just splurge away. Eat fancy overpriced food, sail down tiny smelly canals in gondolas and do other touristy things. But if you want to do some fun stuff, grab a map of Venice at the railway station and do some navigation. Venice is one of those packed, narrow alleyed cites with old buildings and plenty of dead ends. A clasutophobe's nightmare. When we got off at the station we headed to San Marco's Piazza stopping only for gelato's. Apparently, the Piazza is one of the main hubs of the city and has some old, decrepit buildings of historic interest. As you have (accurately) noted, I'm not a fan of old buildings. But, I've got to say, the walk to the Piazza was neat. Plenty of opportunity to get lost and end up in an alley with no exit or better yet, an alley leading to one of the canals.

"Hey dude, I know where we have to go. Its over there, yonder"
"Reeeally?? I know that, you dolt. There's this smelly canal in the way"
Heh heh heh....But if you've got a map, there's really no way to get lost. Venice is a bunch of islands connected by a bunch of bridges. Plenty fun, if you have a day long treasure hunt planned.
At San Marco Piazza, we wandered around looking at this and that. Like I said, plenty of old architecture around. Also, at the waterfront, there are these carts and shops that sell touristy things- masks, souvenirs and things-but if you really want to buy stuff you should walk away from the Piazza. The further away you get from the Piazza, the cheaper stuff gets. (Don't forget your map). Well, nothing else to say, 'cause I didn't do any other touristy stuff. We lunched at a restaurant somewhere away from the Piazza (tourist trap alert: Food is overpriced and crappy). This was so different from Verona. Verona was quaint, pleasant and good food was the norm. Anyway, we did more wandering around after lunch.
An interesting and funny thing at the waterfront. These Indian looking folk (well, they were Indian for sure. Its just that they were speaking fluent Italian) were selling these trinkets and hand bags and other things on the sidewalks. Interesting, because they had their merchandise spread out on bedsheets, pretty much like what the chaps in Shivajinagar and Majestic do. This was one of those chin-scratching moments of deep reflection for me. Signs around the place prohibited people from buying "stolen/fake" stuff. But there were no signs prohibiting people from selling them. (Yeah, I know. Weird). I know what you're thinking because I thought the same thing back then "What if the cops came along.....just like in Shivajinagar and Majestic?". Five minutes later, I quit the chin scratching stuff.....because the cops did come along. My gosh! This took me right back to the good ol' days. These Indian looking folk wrapped up their bedsheets in an instant, a heartbeat, a flicker (ok, ok...you get it) and took off like bats out of hell. You should have seen them fly! Its been a while since I chuckled evilly, but chuckle evilly is precisely what I did at that moment. Unlike Indian cops though, Italian cops don't chase the guys. They just appear, give these guys a fairly decent scare and then disappear into the crowd....and then they repeat the process every half an hour or so. Well, they have to, 'cause these trinket seller chaps reappear and do their thing again. Fun to watch, but you get bored pretty soon.
Soon, it was time to head back to the station. And we had to make it back in good time because trains to Verona didn't run so often. The trail blazing from San Marco Piazza to the Station was more fun because we got lost quite a bit. Apparently my map reading skills are not so amazing.

"Hey dude, I know where we have to go. Its over there, yonder"
"Gaaaaahh. Will you cut that out. Why can't they build a bridge over this smelly canal?"
Curses rent the air that evening. But it is indeed frustrating when you're trying to make your way to the station which is on Island A and you find yourself on Island C, when all the while you thought you were on Island B which is close to Island A. Pretty annoying at the time, but when we made it back to the station, that smirk of accomplishment on my face was pretty obvious. If you go through that same experience then you should reward yourself with a gelato. Oh heck, you should have a gelato anyway. There's one right next to the station. Pretty good stuff. I give you my word.

P.S. Venice is sinking. If you're going, you should go now...before it becomes more expensive. Heh heh heh. What? You really think they'll let a cash cow like that sink?

Verona

A month since my first post. So, you think I'm lazy,eh? Well, you're right. But that wasn't the reason for my complete inactivity. The last month was packed, I tell ya, packed. We, SET students made a trip to Italy which was sheer brilliance. Add to that, a bunch of parties, a barbecue, Quakelive and lots of assignments. Now you get the picture. You'll notice that 'assignments' was keyed in last. That was intentional, because that's precisely what's been happening. I guess its time to pick up the slack and continue plowing forward. But, before I scoot, a brief word on the trip to Italy.

We drove down to Verona on 13th of May, via Germany and Austria (now that's a story for later). We spent 2 days in Verona and 1 in Venice. Lads, the place is amazing. Put it on your to-do-before-I-die list. Verona is a quaint charming little city. Its got old cathedrals, an arena and other touristy things. But since I'm not a fan of the touristy things, I'm gonna take you straight to the traveller stuff. The city was pretty safe (We were wandering around at eleven in the night without being hassled). But still leave your valuables and passport and things at home base. The Piazza Bra in the city centre serves thick, hot chocolate. Pretty neat stuff (read: you need to try it). Beer is expensive, but who needs beer when you're in wine country, heh heh. Apparently Verona is known for its horsemeat. Cavallo is a local speciality. Well, I hunted around for the stuff, but didn't find any, so I settled for the standard issue pasta and pizza. There's something about eating Italian food in Italy. Its..its.. authentic. (Heh heh heh...precisely the word I was looking for). So when you get there, make sure you stock up on the food and wine.
Now, like I said before plenty of tourist traps in this place. Romeo and Juliet lived here (the original pre-Shakespeare Romeo and Juliet), so their houses and tombs and what not are scattered about in various locations in the city. But, if you want my opinion, you should skip all this, pick up a map and go to the main Piazza's, where the good Italian folk congregate. The scenes that greet your eyes are more or less like that you saw in Hannibal. Remember? The scenes in Florence? Ha ha..of course you do. But Florence (I'm told) has got more of the fancy medieval stuff. Italian folk are also interesting. Everyone dresses up to impress. Some dress to kill. I felt pretty inadequate there, with my jeans and T-shirt (but, only for a little while). So just walk down marble lined streets, take in the sights, enjoy a refereshing Gelato....... What’s that? You don't know what a Gelato is? Its ice-cream laddie, Italian ice-cream. I was hooked on the stuff. There are Gelateria's at every street corner, by the way. Italians are hooked on the stuff as well.
Want a panoramic view of the city? Walk up to San Pietro's Castel. It’s located on a hill. The views from the top are mind boggling. Watch out for couples who make out, though. They're all over the place, exchanging deep kisses, only disengaging momentarily to come up for fresh air. Italians are passionate, all right; you don't need to tell me twice.
Also, plenty of students in Verona. No idea why. I didn't see a University, but there they were anyway. On our second night in Verona, we went to a student pub. The place was chock full. Even the stairwell was crowded. The air conditioning had kicked the bucket before we walked in. So picture the scene: Musty, dim lit, hot with sweaty students dancing to some cheesy Italian rock band. We stayed there until closing time. Well, nothing fancy about this place, just a typical student rat-hole....something like Pecos, back home. But, of course, Pecos is no rat-hole. Heh heh heh....
Before I end, a couple of memorable quotes from some memorable (unnamed) folk:
“What do you think I am, a junkie?????” and
“Hey, are you a smart-ass or are you just trying to be a smart-ass?”
Hahahahahahaha……
Ok, enough for now.
Next time: Venice.