Education

Love and cheese

What is it about a glass of rosé and a sunny terrace that can make one wax poetic about life in general (and men in specifics)? Ever since the strangely-celebrated Koninginnedag, I’ve been humming to myself various tunes —yet all with putridly similar lyrics: ‘la di dee da oh I’m in love la la la I know it’s true.’

Yes, we’ve long since passed the point of ridiculous. This is verging on disgusting. And I’m not the only one, though this, admittedly, may not be the best defense. In any case, thousands of young Delft students are humming a similar song these days: and you can blame it on our animal instincts if you want; but there’s no doubt about it, darlings — it’s summer and love is in the air.

On a recent bike ride through the Markt in Delft, a friend of mine found himself watching what appeared to be an angel descending from the heavens. (In reality, this angel was a cheese-seller stepping down from a ladder where she had climbed in order to raise a new sign: jonge kaas: 1€/kg). But these are details. What he saw, in the golden afternoon sunlight, was a blond beauty with a smile that could melt… well, it could melt cheese, probably. So what does this young man do in the face of so much Botticellian splendour? He farts. Seriously.

The sudden rush of adrenalin, or whatever hormones were coursing through his young veins, combined with the burrito he’d (unfortunately) eaten for lunch, proved too much for the gastric controls of our young hero. Despite quickly turning three shades of purple, he salvaged as much pride as he could from the embarrassing situation. In an act of gallantry, he bought as much cheese as he could realistically transport with a bike, and proceeded to grin shyly at the blond ‘meisje‘ handing him his prize. Apparently, (and it must be said that no reliable witnesses could be found to verify this story, but our faith is great in our gallant young conqueror), the young woman had completely missed the untimely flatulence of her suitor (blame it on the already pungent odors of a cheese market stall) and was indeed quite taken with the somewhat exotic attentions of this man hell-bent on cycling home with 20kg of cheese.

Lo and behold, she actually (according to myth) revealed the time at which she would be off cheese-duty and the place at which she ‘just might’ be waiting for him. Encouraged by this new development, our young warrior merrily rode home; neatly avoiding about thirty life-threatening accidents involving Gouda. At the appointed time, he rode swiftly back to the meeting place (i.e. the Nieuwe Kerk: our damsel was lacking creativity, perhaps, but certainly not gusto). There, beneath the soaring tower stood the young woman, resplendent in a fresh t-shirt and jeans. The two met in a somewhat awkward re-enactment of a Hollywood rendezvous: she, running forward, then stopping, looking up at him shyly. He, dropping his bike to the pavement in distraction, then quickly bending to pick it up after being yelled at by a passerby.

In the end, they crossed the five meters of space between them and smiled expectantly into each other’s eyes. The beauty of the story is that, although threatened by events as diverse and insurmountable as cheese, gastric discomfort and fellow market-goers, in the end their attraction for each other proved strong enough to overcome even the strangest of opponents. They have since had three successful dates, and are planning another for Thursday.

On the other hand, while drinking far too many beers in a café that shall remain nameless, a friend and I had the good fortune to be among the last patrons in the bar. She, (having grown bold and ambivalent on the nectar of the gods) proceeded to sit down next to the young man at the bar. Without introduction she poked his shoulder and asked, ‘Do you want to have sex?’ The moral of the story, ladies and gentlemen: they’re getting married in November.

So whether your romance follows the traditional path, or something a bit saucier, summer is the time to celebrate life, love and sitting in the sun. And if you don’t have a date, take yourself out. Go sit in the grass and do nothing. Doing nothing, I find, is the best remedy in the world for a sunny afternoon. But don’t forget the rosé, darling.

Dorothy Parker, MSc Architecture, is from the United States. She can be emailed at: onbezorgd@gmail.com

What is it about a glass of rosé and a sunny terrace that can make one wax poetic about life in general (and men in specifics)? Ever since the strangely-celebrated Koninginnedag, I’ve been humming to myself various tunes —yet all with putridly similar lyrics: ‘la di dee da oh I’m in love la la la I know it’s true.’ Yes, we’ve long since passed the point of ridiculous. This is verging on disgusting. And I’m not the only one, though this, admittedly, may not be the best defense. In any case, thousands of young Delft students are humming a similar song these days: and you can blame it on our animal instincts if you want; but there’s no doubt about it, darlings — it’s summer and love is in the air.

On a recent bike ride through the Markt in Delft, a friend of mine found himself watching what appeared to be an angel descending from the heavens. (In reality, this angel was a cheese-seller stepping down from a ladder where she had climbed in order to raise a new sign: jonge kaas: 1€/kg). But these are details. What he saw, in the golden afternoon sunlight, was a blond beauty with a smile that could melt… well, it could melt cheese, probably. So what does this young man do in the face of so much Botticellian splendour? He farts. Seriously.

The sudden rush of adrenalin, or whatever hormones were coursing through his young veins, combined with the burrito he’d (unfortunately) eaten for lunch, proved too much for the gastric controls of our young hero. Despite quickly turning three shades of purple, he salvaged as much pride as he could from the embarrassing situation. In an act of gallantry, he bought as much cheese as he could realistically transport with a bike, and proceeded to grin shyly at the blond ‘meisje‘ handing him his prize. Apparently, (and it must be said that no reliable witnesses could be found to verify this story, but our faith is great in our gallant young conqueror), the young woman had completely missed the untimely flatulence of her suitor (blame it on the already pungent odors of a cheese market stall) and was indeed quite taken with the somewhat exotic attentions of this man hell-bent on cycling home with 20kg of cheese.

Lo and behold, she actually (according to myth) revealed the time at which she would be off cheese-duty and the place at which she ‘just might’ be waiting for him. Encouraged by this new development, our young warrior merrily rode home; neatly avoiding about thirty life-threatening accidents involving Gouda. At the appointed time, he rode swiftly back to the meeting place (i.e. the Nieuwe Kerk: our damsel was lacking creativity, perhaps, but certainly not gusto). There, beneath the soaring tower stood the young woman, resplendent in a fresh t-shirt and jeans. The two met in a somewhat awkward re-enactment of a Hollywood rendezvous: she, running forward, then stopping, looking up at him shyly. He, dropping his bike to the pavement in distraction, then quickly bending to pick it up after being yelled at by a passerby.

In the end, they crossed the five meters of space between them and smiled expectantly into each other’s eyes. The beauty of the story is that, although threatened by events as diverse and insurmountable as cheese, gastric discomfort and fellow market-goers, in the end their attraction for each other proved strong enough to overcome even the strangest of opponents. They have since had three successful dates, and are planning another for Thursday.

On the other hand, while drinking far too many beers in a café that shall remain nameless, a friend and I had the good fortune to be among the last patrons in the bar. She, (having grown bold and ambivalent on the nectar of the gods) proceeded to sit down next to the young man at the bar. Without introduction she poked his shoulder and asked, ‘Do you want to have sex?’ The moral of the story, ladies and gentlemen: they’re getting married in November.

So whether your romance follows the traditional path, or something a bit saucier, summer is the time to celebrate life, love and sitting in the sun. And if you don’t have a date, take yourself out. Go sit in the grass and do nothing. Doing nothing, I find, is the best remedy in the world for a sunny afternoon. But don’t forget the rosé, darling.

Dorothy Parker, MSc Architecture, is from the United States. She can be emailed at: onbezorgd@gmail.com

Editor Redactie

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