mihir

I arrived at half past 11 in the morning, on three hours of sleep, owing to my jetlag  —  courtesy of the nine hours time difference between the States and the Netherlands. The city was Amsterdam, and the first stop, Dam Square. I normally don't indulge in street performances, but here I was embarking on a three week trip, alone. So I wanted to give in to everything touristy, and local, alike. And so I signed up to watch a Londoner, or so he claimed, dance by fitting into a hula hoop.  I'm going to tell you what followed, on the basis of memory alone, for I don't have any pictures, not anymore at least.  The romance with her began immediately. It's almost impossible for it to happen any other way. If you're in Amsterdam, keeping your eyes closed is the only way to stay clear of the canals; and your heart closed, to avoid falling in love with them. And I'm no different, not in this regard at least. I started walking along the canals, and turned directions when an...

545PM, the local time in Netherlands. I'm on a train journey to Eindhoven, where an uncle of mine stays. It's an hour away, adding to the miles I've already clocked so far. The last month has been a race against time to lose weight in the bulk, to look presentable (by my standards) by the time this trip began. Every day I'd track the steps I had taken, as a result of the running and badminton I was so extensively involved in. For a change, today I'm making a mental note of the miles I've accrued, as I sat stationary in one place, for hours at a stretch.  The immigration was easy today, unlike the drilling I'm so accustomed to in the place from which I'm traveling. It was quick too. No sooner had I stepped out of the flight at 445PM, that I started walking briskly, knowing well enough that if I don't complete the formalities that each nation has made us used to, in time, I'd have to take the train at 545, instead of 515. I don't even know why ...

it's the 4th of May, and well as they say, may the fourth be with you (me in this case). I'm at the Centurion Lounge at the San Francisco Airport, about an hour before I start boarding my flight, to embark on a journey that will take me to Europe, for three weeks. That's one loaded statement, filled with achievements, that in the moment feel very small, or rather insignificant. But if I look back to any point in time, where my younger self was told that he'd one day be in a lounge at an airport, I'd accept it with a blink of an eye. It was always fascinating when I saw people do it, or talk about it. And today, here I am. To add to this, i'm traveling solo (for most of it) to Europe, no mean task in itself, and although I haven't successfully (we'll get to what success of a trip would mean in a bit) begun, let alone complete, the trip, I ought to take a step back and appreciate the intent, and the action to undertake this in the first place!  To say that...