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Steve and I | Integrity has no need for rules

Besides just residing in Madrid, as a proper celebrator of life, travelling should be and has been one of my core occupations in the past months. In this blogpost, a collection of strange/funny/remarkable stories. Don’t try to find a connection or overarching plot between the stories. There is none.

Steve and I

One of my good friends in Tilburg, Thijs, has been studying in Rome for half a year and as flights from Madrid to Rome are ridiculously cheap, about 4 weeks ago, I set out to grasp some sense of what some call the most beautiful city in the world. This story however, is not about Rome.

Admitted, Rome was nice, beautiful, interesting, slightly drunk and the like but no. This story is about Steve Jobs. Steve and his biography accompanied me to Rome and back to Madrid and even from his deathbed, Steve still seems to influence mere mortals like myself.

The story about me and Steve starts when I set out to go back to Madrid. As I am a notorious absentminded person, I took extra care to leave in time which resulted in me sitting at the airport, gate 8, about 2,5 hours before departure. Luckily, the wait did not bother me. I had Steve and his stories about the Macintosh, the Ipod and the Iphone.

Unfortunately, I found out that the following equation seems to be as true as Newton’s laws of gravitation:

Luuk + Steve = absentmindness²

So, when I finally managed to release my thoughts from Steve, I looked up and… gone was my plane. I just had been sitting at the gate for 2,5 hours reading, not noticing that the boarding had commenced and thus had I missed my flight.

Consequences:

1. buying a new ticket with money I did not really have. 2. Spending a night outside in the rain/cold 3. Finishing my relationship with Steve by finishing the book.

Final conclusion:

Absentmindness² = Loss of money + miserable experiences.

Loss of money + miserable experiences = Disaster

Luuk + Steve = Disaster.

And so, Steve and I are done with.

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Integrity has no need for rules

Everything is for sale, or so I have heard. Well, news-flash: NOT TRUE.

I was in Rome. With my good friend Thijs. He and me like to chat, we chat a lot, about bullshit, profound bullshit or sometimes, even the meaning of life. This time, we were discussing one of our favorite profound bullshit topics: girls.

As it turned out, we needed to go to the toilet while still heaviliy engaged in profound bullshitness. On top of that, all toilets were occupied both girls and men’s while only the disabled toilet was free to use. So then, what do you do?

Exactly.

You enter the disabled-toilet together, continue your conversation and take turns in pie-ing while conversating. Sadly, we were barely in, until 2 firm knocks hit the toilet door.

After some initial hesitation, I opened the door and in he came: A typical Italian bouncer with too much muscles and too little brain. Mister Bouncer must have suspected us from engaging in homosexual activities which is why we were both fully dressed. Mister Bouncer probably also increased his level of angriness when he notices my pathetic attempt to hide behind the door.

Anyway, Mister Bouncer took us out with the clear message not to the entire the premises again. Luckily for me , Thijs has friends with money. A lot of money. And so the bribing started..

First attempt: blinking with eyes while make sure the female front men normally like to see was fully visible. Second attempt: All the above and a bottle of Wodka. Third attempt: All the above and another bottle of Wodka. Fourth attempt: All the above and threatening to leave with a rather large group of people.

All failed.

Mister no-brains Bouncer is unbribable. He was not for sale. An honest, honorable man.

Just like the beggar I encountered on the streets on New York barely a week ago. He did not supposedly lose his job or have 5 children starving to death. No. He was holding a sign saying:

‘Need money to buy weed. Why Lie?’

I gave him 5 dollars.

After all: ‘Integrity has no need for rules’

The Small-talk King

The Small-Talk king

3 months, I have been living in Madrid now. 3 awesome, interesting, tiring, gruesome months. While in the first 2 months I only got to see one side of the coin. The other side is slowly being revealed to me lately.

Erasmus-life is indeed full of the clichés you expect it to be about. Partying, drinking, international encounters, travelling and a bit of studying. It is, indeed, a lot of fun. Its sometimes bad for my wallet and my health (especially my liver), but still, it’s fun. I have however, come to find out that Erasmus-life (paradoxically) is also about learning to be alone.

I know a lot of people. Really, a lot. I can arrive at parties saying hi to at least 20 or 30 people. But how many of them do I really know? How many of them really know me? The answer has to be: little or none. It’s funny how, surrounded by people, one can still feel alone. We have all become kings and queens of small-talk. Most people know how I am doing that day, if I am going out tonight or tomorrow night, if I have been with some girls recently, but, that’s it. We know nothing more. The overwhelming amount of people, impressions, buildings, discos and activities blend in, to result into a life which can (at times) be very superficial.

No depth, no true friends. Just a lot of small talk.

I realize I come across now as a rather depressed individual. In case you would worry: don’t, I am not. This blog was once intended to give short impressions of (funny) events or states of mind. Well, this is one of them. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a current reflection.

Luckily, I am not the only one who once had these thoughts:

“We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.” (Orson Welles).

Erasmus-life is great. I would recommend it to all even though I know by now it is about much more than partying, drinking, international encounters, travelling and a bit of studying. It’s also about learning to be surrounded by people, while, at times, still being alone.

“Soy Abuelo no se permiterimos que se coman nuestras flores”

The world is angry. The occupy wall street-movement finds its supporters everywhere, also in Madrid. I was there as a silent observer to see what angriness looks like, in its many shapes and what it actually leads to: nothing.

At around 3 o’clock this Saturday afternoon, Madrilenian streets were slowly flushed with people. People not having a job, people angry with the banking-system, people angry at politicians, people angry about injustice all around the world, people angry at Greece, anarchists, socialists, communists; they were all there.

My modest estimation is that there were at least 500.000 protestors on Madrilenian streets collectively showing their distrust and unease with current affairs. As life in Spain is like a ‘fiesta’, even at demonstration in which anger is the binding factor, the demonstration is slowly turning into a party. Loud music, people dancing, people singing. Some spontaneously arising shops selling beer and chips are doing great business: capitalism at its height in a demonstration refuting capitalism.

Being angry is easy, very easy. Feeling unity in this anger is even easier. When however, 500.000 people with different ideals would start to discuss solutions, unity vanishes as if it never existed. And when I roamed the same streets the next day, scanning for trails of what once was. I found some empty Heineken cans, some trampled cigarette butt and total silence. 500.000 people, showing a glimpse of unity before we all woke up the next morning, realizing that the unity did not really exist.

One man did struck me though.

Amongst, all the young, drinking, blowing, partying angry crowd. I spotted one old man. Not smiling, not dancing, just walking and holding on to his protest-sign. ‘Soy Abuelo no se permiterimos que se coman nuestras flores’, I am a grandfather, we cannot permit them to eat our new flowers.

I wonder how he woke up.

The writer for reader blog: part 1

There are several ways to write a blog.

Most people attempt to write a blog in which they describe their day-to-day activities (usually leaving out the bad and exaggerating the worst). This is fine. It especially nice when the writer (me in this case) is back home and looks back on an awesome experience. When reading back his/her blog, the awesomeness seems to be even better than remembered. These kind of blogs, are blogs of writers for writers.

The problem is: there is only one writer.

I will consequently try to do something else (hoping that I haven't lost my dear reader up untill this point). A blog writen by a writer for readers. The aim is not to make you jealous, be too detailed or elaborate. The aim is purely and solely plain entertainment.

Having said this, sit back, relax and enjoy my miserable attempts towards entertainment. This month, my entertainment will consist of two short stories. One to be published later and the second one to be read below. t describes a rather peculair situation I found myself in, during the depths of the night.

Reeling in the big fish

I am not alone in my view that going out is nothing more than a modern form of mating. If the latter is true, than Madrid is the matting-apex. As I am single, a free spirit, young, outgoing, sociable ...... (fill in all the cliches you can think off): I go out; Quite a lot actually; Maybe too much.

Anyway, the opening Erasmus-party was one of those occasions. In an attempt to inevitably reel in all the floating friendships that exist when a lot of people just meet, I decided to throw a party at my house. As I live with Spanish people whose second nature is to party, this was no problem. So, I enthousiasticly invited 5 or 6 or 7 or 8 people, or maybe more. Frankly, I don't remember. The problem was, that by 12 o' clock in the night our house was packed with about 20, 21,22 or 23 people. Frankly, I don't remember.

What I do remember, is that we left the house in an absolute mess. Total chaos, anarchy, bottles of alcohol everyway, chips everywhere, etc.

What I don't remember is that yours truly forgot to close the door while leaving the premises. As my housemates were not at home at the time, they found our lovely house, left ready to be emptied by robbers/burglars and the like. And when they would feel like a strong liquor to overthink their sins, that would be absolutely no problem.

On top of that I lost my keys as well. In 1 night, after living in Madrid for less than a week. I managed to mess up the house, loose my keys and drink too much.

It will come as no suprise that the arrival back home, around 8 in the morning was not very pleasant.

Luckily, I did manage to reel in some big fish. Both on the friendship and the mate-side of the equation......

Story number 2:

1. Lousy layziness

While being here, yours truly has an outstanding opportunity to study, the once so mighty Spain. The result is unambigous: Spain is the country for and of the sluggard.

I encountered a slighty chubby. No, skip the slightly. I encountered a chubby, well-tanned, bearded Spaniard whose occupation was to sit on a chair to, when necessary, open a gate by pressing a button.

I have christened him "buttonpresser".

A rinkly, grumpy old woman spends her days by handing plastic bags to shopping customers. This bag-giver is luckily being acompanied by a shopping-packer (It is obviously impossible for both tasks to be executed by one person, just image the stress). Me, being a environmental consious Dutchmen, took my own bag upon which I received some rather odd looks from both women. The oldest of the two, feeling uneasy with the whole situation was, just for a few seconds, considering to help me anyway, but finally decided to accept her superfluousness.

Without questioning their own existence, the woman resided to chatter.

Finally, I offer you a black men (yes I say black because he was black, that is his colour people, there is nothing wrong with a colour). Anyway, his job was to stand on his feet, the entire day at the entrance of the metrostation, to point bypassers on the fact that they were supposed to buy a ticket. Those same bypassers could find approximately 100 metres later, gates on their way which tell them the exact same thing. The gates just don't need words.

Buttonpresser, bag-giver, shopping-packer & ticket-signaler are important, very important. They prevent me from pressing a button or considering to buy a ticket myself. No, I am happy here. No need for unnecessary effort. Their jobs teach me the meaning of laziness.

It's lovely, absolutely nothing and even that is too much.