Love’s first impression

Despite having been let down on numerous occasions in the past, these romantic notions come to me every time I travel, and so it was again for me when I started planning on coming to the Netherlands for my PhD.

I remember when I went to the UK to pursue my Masters; I found I didn’t have the time, money or energy to experience the various things that I’d envisioned, barely surviving as I was in the quicksand of numerous academic assignments and laborious odd jobs. I would’ve thought my experience in the UK would’ve cured me, but foolish idealist that I am, my store of romantic notions hadn’t dried up just yet.

So, for the Netherlands too, I developed many romantic notions, the kind wherein I envisioned myself spending entire days sitting in the shadows of windmills, reveling in Van Gogh’s paintings, rereading and reanalyzing Spinoza in the light of my unique experience of Dutch culture, and all kinds of other wildly exciting and romantic stuff!

Upon inquiring whether I’d see any windmills on the way to Delft, the taxi driver who drove me from Schiphol to Delft replied that although I’d see only a couple old windmills on the way, plenty of new ones would be on view. Upon seeing these ‘new’ windmills, however, I felt the first sharp pangs of disappointment in the pit of my stomach. How dare anyone call those pointy modern gray metal monstrosities a windmill!

Upon arriving in Delft and interacting with Dutch people, I discovered that while most people spoke English fluently, there was an inevitable gap that communication in an alien language creates. So things weren’t going exactly hunky dory on my first day, but as I was making my way back from the university to my room at Roland Holstlaan, I found myself passing the lovely Anne (that’s what she later told me her name was) near the underpass.

“You walk fast don’t you?” she called after me.

Looking back at her beautiful but tired face, I didn’t realize her question’s significance and replied in an irritated tone: “Actually, I’m walking pretty slowly. I’ve been walking all day long….”

She gave a shrill laugh and said, “Oh all right”. I looked back to see that she’d stopped to catch her breath. It was only then that I truly looked at her and realized how callous my earlier remark had been. Her beautiful silver hair, her wrinkled face and her open way of laughing reminded me of my own grandmother.

“Are you going back to your home?” I asked her in a gentler tone.

“No” she replied, and then said a few words in Dutch.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak any Dutch,” I said.

“Oh…and I don’t speak much English. Learned when I was three years old…about seventy…two years ago. But still remember,” she said, laughing. “Doctor order me to walk three kilometers every day.”

“What for?” I asked.

“My vandervalft….” Or so it sounded like to me, and she uttered some more words in Dutch. Moving towards the wall, already covered with beautiful graffiti, she began drawing imaginary pictures on it. “You see, this is my heart,” and she began drawing small wave signs with her finger. “And doctor order walk to make it like this,” and this time she made firmer, bigger waves.

“Ah, I get it,” I said. We continued walking till we finally arrived at a crossroad.

“Okay I go there, now. You can come to my home if you want someday…”, and she gave me her address and laughed. I now realize that meeting Anne had made my day; in fact, perhaps it made my whole long stay in Delft. I vowed then and there that I’d bring back to life each and every one of my so-called romantic, idealistic notions. This time I won’t go back home empty handed!

Rameez Rahman, from Pakistan, is a first-year PhD student in computer science.

Dreamers like me, whenever we visit a new place, always arrive with a bagful of preconceived romantic notions about the place and all the exciting things that we will experience when we are there. Despite having been let down on numerous occasions in the past, these romantic notions come to me every time I travel, and so it was again for me when I started planning on coming to the Netherlands for my PhD.

I remember when I went to the UK to pursue my Masters; I found I didn’t have the time, money or energy to experience the various things that I’d envisioned, barely surviving as I was in the quicksand of numerous academic assignments and laborious odd jobs. I would’ve thought my experience in the UK would’ve cured me, but foolish idealist that I am, my store of romantic notions hadn’t dried up just yet.

So, for the Netherlands too, I developed many romantic notions, the kind wherein I envisioned myself spending entire days sitting in the shadows of windmills, reveling in Van Gogh’s paintings, rereading and reanalyzing Spinoza in the light of my unique experience of Dutch culture, and all kinds of other wildly exciting and romantic stuff!

Upon inquiring whether I’d see any windmills on the way to Delft, the taxi driver who drove me from Schiphol to Delft replied that although I’d see only a couple old windmills on the way, plenty of new ones would be on view. Upon seeing these ‘new’ windmills, however, I felt the first sharp pangs of disappointment in the pit of my stomach. How dare anyone call those pointy modern gray metal monstrosities a windmill!

Upon arriving in Delft and interacting with Dutch people, I discovered that while most people spoke English fluently, there was an inevitable gap that communication in an alien language creates. So things weren’t going exactly hunky dory on my first day, but as I was making my way back from the university to my room at Roland Holstlaan, I found myself passing the lovely Anne (that’s what she later told me her name was) near the underpass.

“You walk fast don’t you?” she called after me.

Looking back at her beautiful but tired face, I didn’t realize her question’s significance and replied in an irritated tone: “Actually, I’m walking pretty slowly. I’ve been walking all day long….”

She gave a shrill laugh and said, “Oh all right”. I looked back to see that she’d stopped to catch her breath. It was only then that I truly looked at her and realized how callous my earlier remark had been. Her beautiful silver hair, her wrinkled face and her open way of laughing reminded me of my own grandmother.

“Are you going back to your home?” I asked her in a gentler tone.

“No” she replied, and then said a few words in Dutch.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak any Dutch,” I said.

“Oh…and I don’t speak much English. Learned when I was three years old…about seventy…two years ago. But still remember,” she said, laughing. “Doctor order me to walk three kilometers every day.”

“What for?” I asked.

“My vandervalft….” Or so it sounded like to me, and she uttered some more words in Dutch. Moving towards the wall, already covered with beautiful graffiti, she began drawing imaginary pictures on it. “You see, this is my heart,” and she began drawing small wave signs with her finger. “And doctor order walk to make it like this,” and this time she made firmer, bigger waves.

“Ah, I get it,” I said. We continued walking till we finally arrived at a crossroad.

“Okay I go there, now. You can come to my home if you want someday…”, and she gave me her address and laughed. I now realize that meeting Anne had made my day; in fact, perhaps it made my whole long stay in Delft. I vowed then and there that I’d bring back to life each and every one of my so-called romantic, idealistic notions. This time I won’t go back home empty handed!

Rameez Rahman, from Pakistan, is a first-year PhD student in computer science.