In the windy Nederlands...

As I cycled down my street once more it occurred to me, as usual, “why must it always be so bloody windy??”
I am peacefully riding along the Mekelweg, the smooth bicycle lane flying past beneath my wheels. It is a little bit windy; a light breeze whipping my hair into my eyes (time for another haircut). Then comes a point somewhere between the IO faculty and the sports centre, where I must turn right down the scintillatingly named “Cornelis Debbelweg’. I know that TUDelft has a wind tunnel testing facility, and I wonder if this is it. Suddenly I am being faced with the breath of the arctic, blasting so strongly that I can feel my cheeks rippling. As I ride past the petrol station I am overtaken by an old man…walking. And I most dread the little ditch in the cobblestones just beyond the Shell station. Because on a particularly bad day, here my bicycle will roll to a complete halt, and I will have to perform the embarrassing acrobatics of standing on the pedals to try and get enough oomph to get myself out again.
At first I thought perhaps I was exaggerating by saying it is the windiest street in delft. But after three months I am 100% certain.
For a while I wondered why. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it. After speculating aloud I was finally enlightened by a helpful nearby Dutch person.

It’s the tower.

Rivaled in uglification only by the UTS tower building, the electrical engineering tower looms above my house, looking down on me an expression of red and blue distaste. Unfortunately, with a Babel-like irony, the presence of this tower sets up localized hurricanes in its base, in the street that just so happens to be…Cornelis Debbelweg.
What I wonder though is, in a university full of architects, aerospace engineers and aerodynamics specialists…..how did this happen??

Het huisfeest van Marco

I arrived in Bagijnhof, a rabbit warren of student living that used to be a hospital, at 10pm sharp. I thought this a not unreasonable time to start a party, but I was the first to arrive. This had the positive effect that I got three free beers in before they began selling bonnetjes, but apart from that was rather dull.

The theme was L-egance, the room painted the kind of red that makes your eyeballs hurt, and graced with a single impressive chandelier. Upon closer inspection the chandelier proved to be a true Delft student accoutrement; a dead bicycle wheel suspended by $2 strings of plastic beads.

Next to arrive was Thomas, equally bewildered by the extreme lack of guests. I talked to him, but something was disquietingly different. At last I put my finger on it. In the absence of his partner in crime Koen, Thomas was actually talking in a normal voice, rather than the B-grade superhero accent that had plagued my entire trip through Torino. I almost didn’t recognize him without it.

The evening progressed, and the room which had preciously resembled an isolated cell was now a seething discotheque. People were getting less L-egant with every beer consumed. The DJ turned out to be another Torino-er to my surprise (I guess the giant earphones he sports with his mp3 player really should have been a giveaway). I gave Thomas my money to mind, which was on one hand sensible because I had no pockets, but on the other hand exceedingly stupid as
a) an uncounted stream of beers in my direction reduced me to a state of abstracted drunkenness
b) I forgot to get the change back
c) I suspect I funded several beers of Maureen, Thomas and Aranea

There is a rule of thumb I have invented that deals with riding your bicycle home drunk; as follows. If you cannot actually get on the bicycle, then you probably shouldn’t ride it. This rule came into effect that evening, and held me in good stead ever after. Instead, I made best friends with a random student outside the party, and proceeded to let him walk me and my bicycle unsteadily home. Which was very fortunate, as I had forgotten the way… Alas, what at trashbag I have become. But he guided me back to the electrical engineering tower and told me his email address for future drunken reference, which I forgot between Cornelis Drebbelweg and my room. My last words before falling onto my bed that night were to mutter a stream of expletives at my watch, for being so inconsiderate as to read 6am.

Taart in de Markt

Like most traditions, I don’t really remember who started it. I suspect Erik, with his unreasonable need for caffeinated beverages. But soon Elia had hopped on the bandwagon with me, forming the core players in what were to become quite frequent trips to Beestenmarkt.

It was always six o’clock (by which time everybody would hopefully manage to be dressed and showered) and as such, those not of Spanish origin would be somewhat peckish. This led to a gradual sampling of all the appeltaarts available in Beestenmarkt. The first week we found an extremely high quality establishment, Bar “Mij”. So considered because they gave you a cube of chocolate cake with your coffee and had couches. It seems that in the first week we must have overstayed our welcome a couple of times on those couches; because after that they closed and never reopened.

So we tried some others. The tiny place whose name we never managed to learn had the best appeltaart, but lost popularity after we were fumigated out by a group of cigarette-smoking adolescents. There were so many of them they practically had to sit on the tables. The next stop was Kobus Kuch… proclaiming to have “the beste appeltaart van de helemaal Nederlands”. I only tested this proclamation once with Maureen, when we were so starving and blotto that we gobbled down our appeltaart without even tasting it. Although I had the vague impression that there was a little too much cinnamon. Belvedere was always our café of last resort; a place whose only virtue is having the largest amount of seating. We would only set foot in it when all other possibilities had been exhausted (Except for Billy Bear… the name alone ensured we never even tried that place). Their appeltaart was reasonable, but the service so rude that I found myself with steam coming out of my ears, having to be physically restrained from throwing handy objects at the waiter.

They had no table service. But rather than telling you this, the waiter would make a great show of ignoring you, wiping glasses with his back obnoxiously turned to you. Even when you were the only table of people in the whole bar (and I wonder why that is?).

The favourite by far was Vlaanderen. Vlaanderen where they served you excellent appeltaart with a dob of cream bigger than the cake itself. Occasionally they would have a rather overwhelming jazz band, but everybody has their faults. Forgiveness comes as long as they keep the coffee and the cake a’flowing.

The aftermath

A less than salubrious return awaited me. Tumbling from the car of Wilmer’s most accommodating father, with whom I had hitched a lift, I found myself once again be-suitcased in front of the Korvezee. I shuddered as the memories of that first empty-room day returned in a sudden wave of déjà vu.

The day I left they were preparing for a party in the flat above me, “Pirates of the Korvezee”, a celebration for two flatmates who were moving out to go traveling the word. As I had wheeled my suitcase out to take the bus to the station they were unloading a whole truck full of music equipment, to the combined surprised of me and the people organizing the party. “We just asked a friend about the music, and he said he’d take care of it” said a bewildered tenant.

The party had obviously been a success, as there was broken glass littering the area where I park my bike. (The broken-glass scale is a most accurate way to measure this, like the Richter scale). But alas that was not all. When I entered the stairwell my nose informed me that it had been recently used as a urinal. My neighbour later told me the gory details “Yes, they were seeing if they could pee all the way down from the top to the bottom floor without hitting any of the handrails.”
Unfortunately they didn’t succeed. Its three months later now and that staircase still smells despite being mopped twice. Such that I would rather walk the long way around and take the other staircase up (the one that smells like drying linen). What had they been drinking, pure ammonia?

Alas there were some casualties of the Torino trip. Basil and parsley, may you rest in peace. I entered my apartment to see their sad dead leaves drooping over the edges of the pot. But there is always a price to pay for good times.

Seedy Saturday

Someone was banging in the corridor. Not just any old banging, but really hammering. My sleep-drugged mind envisioned a football being kicked around the common room. “Why are they playing football at 4 in the morning?” I thought hazily. But then it came back to me.
It was impossible that they could have woken me up at 4 in the morning by playing football, because I hadn’t gone to sleep until 5:30. Memories returned of endless four-euro beers, a race against the clock to find a pub that wasn’t closing, road-side stall sandwiches, the filthy disco on the river Po, several disoriented taxi rides.

Which made it what time? A glance at the clock revealed to my horror that it was in fact 9:00, and the bus was supposed to be loaded with our luggage at 9:30. Furthermore there never had been any football involved in the proceedings, it was merely our deaf next door neighbors, pounding on each others doors to be heard. The first morning we saw them everyone was commenting on how many gestures the Italian’s used when they talked. But no, they were just deaf. I stumbled from my bed and into another day.

Through a superhuman feat of hungover exertion I managed to be showered, dressed, and packed by 9:35. The bus was parked just around the corner from the hostel. Only ‘just around the corner” has an entirely different meaning when you have a very large suitcase. We dragged our luggage across an endless desert of paved roads, cigarette-filled puddles, and enraged Fiat drivers. Eventually depositing them, with no small amount of relief, in the undercarriage of the bus.

Ten minutes later found me drinking cappuccino in a café, gradually returning to some semblance of wakefulness. To my joy I discovered the phenomenon of breakfast aperitifs, convincing me even more what a civilised culture I had entered. How very considerate of them to provide me with free food.

A second cappuccino and I was ready to rejoin the human race. Aranea and Koen elected to explore medieval torture devices in an old castle. Thomas, Marnix, Maureen, Kirsten and I chose to dodge pickpockets in the market square. For several hours we wedged ourselves between swathes of animated Italians (who seemed to be composed entirely of elbows at rib height), buying cheeses, pastas and anything else that took our fancy. The Porto Palazzo market revealed shoe heaven; rows and rows of Italian leather shoes in all different sizes and configurations. For once the men had as good a selection as the women (love those fashion-conscious Italians).

Soon our stomachs were calling to us, and we split for lunch. Thomas, Marnix, Kirsten and Maureen retired to the park with a large bag of tasty objects. I trundled back to Piazza San Carlo to meet Agnes and Geertje for the long-anticipated lunch at a restaurant we had seen on the first day. We were not disappointed. 16 euros saw our plates piled high with delicious buffet treats, quiche, roast chicken, marinated zucchini, rice salad. Then the dessert, a selection of cakes, pastries and fruit salad. All accompanied by fresh orange juice.

Together we returned to Porto Palazzo, and after engaging in a brief screaming match with an Italian market-owner who didn’t like us trying on clothes before we bought them, found ourselves for the umpteenth time in Hafa Café. Finally joining another half of our group, just as they were leaving.

The last few hours passed in a haze, as the endless tiredness once again took hold of my mind. I remember a cup of mint tea (tasting rather like toothpaste), a marching band suddenly and unexpectedly stampeding past, and then later a rather watery spinach and ricotta pizza. But soon we were back on the bus, ready to endure another fifteen hours of sleep deprivation.

Bus rides are a peculiar kind of torture. Allowing you to go to sleep for just long enough to be really relaxing after finally getting comfortable, and then waking you up for rest breaks “HAHA! It’s time to stop again! Bet you didn’t see that one coming?” Fortunately, due to my carefully planned sleepless night of the previous day (or course, I did it on purpose), I slept like a log for 10 of the 15 hours. It didn’t seem that long before we were pulling up at the bus station in Delft.

And saying what was, for me at least, a sad goodbye. Knowing that the clock is ticking onwards, its only another three months, and then I might never again see these people that I have gotten to know so well in the last week. Goodbye Torino, the city I fell in love with.

F***ing awesome Friday!

Oh to wake up refreshed for once…. I keenly felt the loss of my 8 hours sleep.

But Today was THE day. Today was the day that anyone with testosterone had anticipated throughout the week. Today was the visit to the Fiat Factory. The hub of car production, the global giant of imposing car-dom, the master of car-iness. I tried all day to remember what the acronym actually stood for, but could only think of “Fix It Again Tony”.

I couldn’t keep my eyes open on the bus there, and it was with desperate disappointment that I discovered we had arrived and I would have to remove myself from the uncharacteristically comfortable seat. Then to my joy we were moved into another smaller bus, and I had a blissful five more minutes of sleep while we trundled through the enormous grounds of the “Millefiori” factory. Actually, I think Millefiori is a type of pastry? But the word was similar…. I was asleep so I have an excuse for not remembering.

First up an amazing tour of the production line. The kind of thing I used to draw large and complicated pictures of when I was about five. The kind of pictures that required multiple pieces of paper sticky-taped together along the edges. A machine that presses the metal, a machine that stamps the plastic, a machine that rivets everything together. Men with power tools, sparks flying as they performed painfully dental looking operations on the suspended cars. All while the cars go trundling by hanging from conveyer belt hooks.
But it was very warm in the factory. Oh so very warm. And once again I was seated, in a little cart that went trunding by all the assembly lines. The rocking motion of the cart was rather soothing. “I CAN”T BELIEVE YOU FELL ASLEEP IN FIAT!!”. I suffered much abuse from a flabbergasted Nico upon exiting the factory. Astonished that I had the gall to do such a sacrilegious thing as fall asleep inside the holy of holies.

It wasn’t the first time though. Later we were ushered into a dark theatre, where the worlds most amazing CAD system reposed. From a view of an entire car you could zoom in to just one detail, for example the locking mechanism. Backlit so that you could walk up to the screen and point things out without doing something so heinous as casting a shadow on it. Just looking at it was enough to inspire terror, as I imagined what would happen if it was my Solidworks model. I would change one thing, say the texture of the tyre, and that little box would pop up on the screen “You have one or more rebuild errors”. The little box of doom. Suddenly half my solidworks model would be sucked into some kind of black hole and no longer exist. In my panic I would somehow save over all my backup versions. Parts that previously were connected together would instead float by themselves in a bemused manner. A car seat, entirely purposeless as the rest of the car vanishes.

The theatre was really very dark… and much much to warm. And I was sitting behind Guido, who is very tall and was conveniently blocking the direct line of site between me and the company representative. I allowed my eyes to shut and spent the next twenty minutes dreaming about endless lists of rebuild errors.

The next room held yet more FIAT treasures. Some ‘models’. It seems the definition of a car model differs somewhat from the pathetic wood block thingies I have to endlessly produce in my degree. I opened the door and got inside, did up my seatbelt. All it was missing was an engine. A nice little ‘model’ to the tune of 10,000 euros. I’ve driven real cars that cost half of that. Fortunately this room was better lit, and I didn’t have to endure the ultimate embarrassment of falling asleep inside the car model, although the seats were tremendously comfortable.

Next came my own long-awaited Torino event. The Salone del Gusto… a world of endless eating. What could be better than a world food fair, hosted in Italy? Perhaps a world food fair hosted in France would be a close competitor… but nothing else could even hope to rival it. We paid our 12 euros and, brandishing our toothpicks, perused the fair like vultures. If something looked edible, in went the toothpick, and a quick plate-to-mouth transfer took place. Salami, parmesan cheese, fresh bread, breadsticks, fish, olive tapenade, jams, chocolates, ham. Soon I had also gained possession of a little cup. So then came the wine, spirits, and ciocolatto (worlds most indulgent drink). I’m afraid the salone del gusto didn’t really make their money’s worth out of me that day. I was too flabbergasted by the endless range of delicious foods to decide what I wanted, so instead didn’t buy anything save a little tub of the world’s most orgasmic hazelnut gelato, which I ate on the spot.

As the sun set we retired to the roof of the complex, where the former FIAT testing track was, and basked in the warmth of the evening. A tremendous open space, with a beautiful view over those jagged mountains of Torino, between which the sun carefully descended so as not to impale itself on their peaks.

For me Salone del Gusto counted for lunch and dinner. And possibly the next days worth of meals as well. So I sat idly by in the restaurant while all those who hadn’t over-greedied at the festival ate a light dinner. Wilmer ordered a breathing calzone. Whenever he poked one end with his knife, the other end sighed with despair. Meanwhile I amused myself by stealing noodles off Bart’s plate, and attempting to arm-wrestle Thomas (losing miserably).

After everyone was adequately fed we returned once again to quadrilatero romano, somehow avoiding the cruel clutches of fate and going to a bar other than 5km. We lost two in the struggle however… Agnes and Bart were drawn inexorably to 5km to meet the Italians, while I optimistically said I would join them later.

But several hours and a numble of drinks later I still hadn’t moved out of my chair. Even to the point where I decided it would be a good idea to change out of my pants and into my stockings without getting up. The time to meet Bart and Agnes had been and gone, and the clock was approaching two. Eventually half the group lost the battle against sleep, and returned to the hostel. We gained some substitute party-goers, as Bart gave up on my joining them in 5km. Instead he returned, with the white-haired Italian Swede Par in tow.

The bar was closing and we had to move on. With only the five die-hards remained, Par, Thomas, Marco, Bart and myself. The fortunate addition of Par allowed us to find a nice little Irish pub, several blocks away, winding after him through the narrow streets of Torino while he rode ahead on his bike. It was empty but for us and an Italian couple, who were smooching in a booth while their dog sat regally on the couch beside them. Apart from that my defining memories are mainly of telling Irish jokes whilst wearing a bicycle helmet, and encountering yet another unfortunate Torino toilet. Alas our stint in the Irish pub was all too short, as they too decided to close at around 3:30.

It is testament to our inebriation that we then decided it would be a good idea to return to the discos on the river Po. But one more beer and a pancetta sandwich later, the weakest link had begun to break, and the night was wearing thin. At 5am it was time to say goodbye to those mojito-strewn evenings, once and for all. We took our last taxi of the week, zooming with true Italian chaos through the cobbled streets and back to our beds.

Tireder Thursday

On Thursday the unthinkable happened. The nutella ran out. No longer could I disguise my stale crust beneath a thick later of chocolately goodness, it lay entirely bare and obstinate on my plate. At length I tried to cover its nakedness with a thin smear of butter, but to no avail. I consoled myself with an extra soup bowl of coffee, and tried not to think of the coming two days of nutella deprivation.

That day we were to exit Torino for the first time, driving out of the city to investigate the intriguing combination of a design agency and a brick factory. The bus ascended endlessly up the mountain, providing an excellent view over Torino that was unfortunately obscured by a thick layer of mist. Someone, who may or may not have been me, began humming the Lord of the Rings theme. This planted the thought that several of my friends do, in fact, look like hobbits. The jokes continued all day to the subjects’ distinct lack of amusement.

We exited the bus upon arrival, returning the hobbits to what was for them a more natural environment in the misty mountains, and tromped through a kind of gauntlet of brick-sculptures and into the brick factory. So this is what happens when creative people get access to unlimited bricks… they build endless variations of lego-esque structures.

The Italians from the company wanted to show us the clay pit where the raw materials come from, and the brick production line. Suddenly everyone was rolling up their trousers, revealing hairy hobbit-like legs or embarrassing socks. All very warmly dressed with nice coats and scarfs on top, but then with thin ankles poking out the bottom. The reason for this rolling fest soon became apparent, as we started to traipse through the stickiest, slipperiest, gunkiest nature walk of my life. The ground was formed entirely of clay, none of the other stuff that you learn about when you study soil composition. We were standing on embryo bricks.

We walked through marvelous scenery (the parts that we could see), with an exaggerated gait born of having an extra inch on the bottom of your shoe. There was no point trying to remove the clay as it gradually built up, so instead we decided to see who could get the most stuck to their feet. The girls with the high heels had the most luck, turning their stilettos into wedges. Following this came the discovery that if you made a fast enough kicking motion you could projectile the clay from your shoe at other people. Guido became the main target of this, by virtue of being the tallest and easiest to hit.

On the way back Geertje made friends with the world’s ugliest but most charming sheep. It had an exaggerated Roman nose that made it look like some kind of alien from the furthest reaches of the galaxy. But you couldn’t hold that against it when it was gnawing so endearingly on the fence. Maybe that’s just what comes from living on a diet of clay-infested grass.

Eventually we shed our feet of clay and regained the indoors; inside to take a tour of the brick factory. The poor girl from the company was saying things like “Please don’t touch the machinery, don’t go over there” but no one could hear her over the whirring machinery. So instead we wandered aimlessly like the sheep we had so recently passed, gawking at the production line. Maarten had picked up some clay from outside and sculpted it into a small and somewhat lopsided head. For most of the factory tour he and Marc were engaged very seriously in the task of trying to photograph this miniature head such that it gave the impression of being on Sanne’s shoulders. Important business indeed.

Then we got down to the important (?) stuff. Designing something out of raw bricks that fulfilled one of the areas of work, sleep, eat, play or love. Our fivesome elected play and then spent a dysfunctional hour arguing over what creative techniques we were going to use, such that our group split down the middle and the two halves did different things. It was like a horrible nightmarish re-enactment of the IAAD forum, only this time the participants didn’t have the excuse of not sharing a common language. Personally I couldn’t care which technique we used, so I sat aimlessly sketching and eating cookies.

Soon the agony was over and it was lunchtime. The sun had come out of the mist, and all the students sat like lizards draped over the warm brick fence, absorbing what precious sunlight they could get. I had been lazy and recycled my sandwich from the day before, and as a result it was so disgusting that I didn’t want it. I subsisted on cookies and tea instead. Maureen’s sandwich had fared even worse, the peanut butter somehow reacting with the bread to dissolve the inside of the sandwich into a cavernous mess. She took one look at it and it joined mine in the bin.

Some people began kicking around a football (astonishingly not the usual culprits) and in a moment of madness I decided to join in. It was ok, when my foot actually made contact with the ball. This little adventure into the sporting life came to an end when the football made a beeline for an elaborate domino-like structure of bricks that had been set up. It hit one, which teetered, oh so teasingly, for one moment before it regained its upright posture. The domino bricks had survived this time…. but we picked up the football and slunk quietly away.

Eventually the people from the company managed to peel the students off the sun-soaked brick wall and get us back to work. I conveniently offered to make the presentation for our group while they made the model, thus allowing me the opportunity to remain in the sun for the rest of the afternoon (and make a wonderful presentation of course!)
We had some rather varied results in the end…. A marble maze, a jewellery box, a tabletop oven, a briefcase shaped desk caddy and…. A shower interior.

Soon we were heading back to Torino. I made the mistake of sitting in front of Koen and Thomas, and as such my chair was continually shaking and I had the constant prattle of superhero accents in my ears. However adversity leads to creativity and as a result I assembled my first bastardized Dutch sentence “CAN YOU MY SITTING PLACE NOT KICK!” After a while I became aware that the bus had stopped. It had gotten a little bit too long for just a traffic light, and so I looked to the front to see what was happening. Some Italian delivery man had wandered off, leaving their truck with its back doors open and lights flashing, completely blocking the bus lane. Judging by the duration of this state, they were probably inside the nearest cafe, drinking teeny tiny espressos and arguing about politics. At least five minutes had passed, and we were now approaching the big Ten. Thon, got out of the bus and calmly climbed into the drivers seat of the van, while Marc and Sanne pushed from behind. They gently nudged the van up onto the kerb, and steered it inwards so it was facing the nearest wall. With this obstacle removed we continued on our way, the whole bus cheering.

Not soon after we stood wedged against the door of a pizza place, waiting for it to open. It was hugely popular, but alas also very small, and we had been told if we didn’t arrive early enough our booking would be given away. So we stood shoulder to shoulder (or elbow to shoulder when some small Italian ladies tried to wedge their way to the front of the queue) for 20 minutes until at last they opened their doors. Even as we were eating the food (which was nice, but I don’t see what all the fuss was about) there was a whole string of disenchanted Italians watching us solemnly from the chairs near the door, waiting for us to finish so they could move in. They waited for an hour. I just don’t understand it… when there are so many nice places to eat in Torino why would you wait for just one? Was there some secret about which we did not know? Do they smuggle diamonds, baked inside the pizzas?

In a post-dinner stupor I stretched, leaning backwards over the chair. My head came to rest conveniently on Marc’s shoulder, who was sitting behind me and performing the same stretching routine. He borrowed my shoulder also. I could have fallen asleep like that, but then the waiting Italians might have gotten a little bit cross.

Determined to find a different hangout this night we walked halfway across Torino, in search of an elusive bar. It wasn’t until we had walked 40 minutes and reached the edge of the map that our guides realised that in fact the bar wasn’t even on the map, because it was so far away from the centre of Torino.

Another 40 minutes and we were back in 5km.

Wobbly Wednesday

Was it really daylight already? Oh God, why?

At the sound of the alarm clock I wedged one eye open. Shuffled to the shower where a mistake with the tap brought on a jet of ice-cold water, that brought me into a state of somewhat greater wakefulness. Then I continued with my morning rituals, shuffling into the common room to make a sandwich, with fare that was somewhat diminished compared to the previous days. Only yesterday’s stale bread was left; and the Dutch students had done what the Dutch do best and consumed the trips whole cheese budget in the first three days.

Our stop of the day, Supermaxistudio was a small dynamic studio not far from the centre of Torino. Run by the very capable but unfortunately not English-speaking manager/owner, Max. They had prepared a wonderful inspiring presentation…and that single presentation made every company visit worth it, because I had my first viable idea for my graduate project. Stay tuned for maddy’s top secret project…. Coming next year. They ran through designs of everything from seatbelts to shoes to porcelain video projectors. I sat enthralled, mouth watering as they passed around their flashy prototypes.

This was followed by a patchily translated Q & A session; Max to us via one of his many gorgeous Italian assistants. I didn’t ask many questions, but instead spent the whole time trying not to laugh out loud. Sitting next to Max; where he could not have failed to notice, was Thomas, head rolling from side to side. I watched, interested, to see if he would or wouldn’t fall off his chair. Every so often he would jerk awake and nod intelligently, but a couple of seconds later the eyes would roll back into the head and his head would lurch off in some new direction. Fortunately such entertainment had the effect of stopping me from falling asleep.

There is mercy in this world, and I didn’t have to eat my horrible sandwich. Apart from their excellent presentation Supermaxistudio had also provided us with a bountiful lunch. Three different types of foccacias, all amazing, fresh grapes and a choice between red and white wine I could have kissed them, but instead (with some subterfuge) ate four slices of foccacia.

We celebrated our leisurely morning by going shopping on the via Garibaldi in the afternoon. I was with indecisive Agnes. In the first store we entered she found the perfect coat. Red, flattering and perfectly suited to her. Naturally, this good luck made her immediately suspicious. So instead we walked all the way down to the end of via Garibaldi, where she had a sudden change of heart. Meanwhile she must have thought me a mad shopping beast, as I bought something in every shop we entered. I don’t know what came across me….perhaps the previous months of shopping deprivation had finally built up to breaking point. I was suddenly unable to control myself in this land of chip chic clothing and leather shoes. Within the hour I was the proud owner of new gloves, shirts, belt and boots.

Fortunately we had time for Agnes last minute coat-foray, as we were meeting Geertje. And if you can rely on Geertje for one thing, it is that she will be late. Coat and all, we still beat her to the Hafa Café, our meeting place.

Torino had been characterized thus far by a certain herd mentality. Everyone moving around I a large pack, completely incapable of making any decisions that could satisfy everyone, or at least someone. To escape this we had attempted to go out with just a few of us to Hafa Café. Of course, the Quadrilatero Romano is not such a large place, and soon half of the tour group had mysteriously joined us. Oh well.

Having gained the permanent addition of Bart, the original three of us retired to a small restaurant “The three hens”. Here we found all members of the group who we hadn’t already found in the Hafa Café. Don’t ask me what I ate, because it was too good for mere mortals like me to comprehend. It involved a lot of cheese, mixed in an indecipherable way with pasta to achieve a gustatory orgasm. This was followed by a chocolate pudding for which, the menu gravely warned us, there was a 12 minute wait. 12 minutes! What shocking service indeed.

The evening was characterized by an endless procession of flower sellers. They had obviously decided that Bart was some kind of Mormon who would like nothing better than to buy roses for all three of his lady friends. At the tenth flower seller I lost count. One of them came back twice, but the second time remembered our steely glances of hate-filled warning and scurried off. Back to the flower seller depot.

The night could not have ended better than it did….I went to bed at 12:30. My only early night of the week, and sorely needed.

Tired Tuesday

By Tuesday morning the truculent breakfast room woman had finally caught on to the whole “milk in the coffee” concept. I celebrated by having two soup bowls full. Which was fortunate, because this was the morning of the endless walk. Despite our possession of a bus, we had for some reason decided to walk to “Belissimo” (“It looked much closer on the map…”). Perhaps they couldn’t decide whether group A or group B should get the bus, so instead it was more egalitarian to make both groups suffer.

We arrived at the ironically named Belissimo after miles of pavement spaghetti. It was in the middle of an industrial estate, with nothing Belle about it. To get inside we climbed up onto the roof of the building, feeling momentarily like catburglers, and entered the paper-overflowing studio. I’m not really sure how the business stayed running. The owner hadn’t bothered to prepare us any info about his company, and answered sleepily any questions that came his way (can’t you guys just let me go back to bed?). Eventually he begrudgingly handed us some brief sheets so we could discuss the various clients of his company. We discussed meaninglessly for an hour or more and then escaped to have lunch on the catburgler roof terrace. The building had one virtue; the roof was black. The vitamin deprived Dutch students lounged happily, taking the rare opportunity to photosynthesize while we gnawed on our sandwiches.

At length a wasp arrived, and dying of starvation in this barren industrial wasteland, decided it wanted Maureen’s sandwich. It circled around her head on and off for the next 30 minutes, taking every opportunity when she relaxed her defenses to land, triumphant, on her salami. She snapped at it like a terrier, snarling and shaking her head from side to side while she waved her sandwich around like a wizard gone mad. I was laughing so hard I was crying, but still the performance went on. At last she finished sandwich and Maureen, the wasp and I all had some reprieve.

Belissimo thanked us with a gift of a Bombay Sapphire Inspirational Box. This contained an inspirational tape measure, an inspirational notebook, inspirational pins, inspirational ink and brush, inspirational pencil, and most inspirational of all, a miniature bottle of gin. My gratitude alas, was tempered by the long walk through the city carrying the heavy bag which was trying its best to sever my fingers.

Our next point of arrival was with the same hopeless Belissimo manager, with whom we were supposed to be discussing a scheme of how to promote Torino as a design city. The presentation once again consisted of him apologizing repeatedly that he hadn’t had any time to prepare a presentation, while his audience fell into coma, one at a time.

Koen’s brilliant plan to liven things up backfired catastrophically. “Why don’t we split up and do some workshops to come up with some more ideas? “ Luca glanced at his watch “Well actually, I have to leave early (after arriving late), but maybe you can come back again tomorrow and do some more workshops at Belissimo.
Guido: “well actually, we have a rather tight schedule”
Luca: “you don’t have time free in the afternoons and evenings?”
Guido: “well yes….we have FREE time”
Luca: “well maybe some people will like to come back to Belissimo in the free time and we can do some more workshops and have some coffee.”
Inside everyone was screaming “no…No….NO!”, but despite everyone best intentions an appointment somehow got tentatively scheduled for the next afternoon, so Luca could drain our souls with some more of his apathy. Fortunately, Guido saved the day by ringing up and canceling as soon as we were out of Luca’s general vicinity.

At last we escaped to a small bar, which amazed everybody by shutting before dinner so we ended up in a fish restaurant instead. I dined on an amazing fish risotto accompanied of course by the obligatory carafe of wine. During the evening I experienced despair, exhilaration and all shades of emotion in between, in the refreshingly short space of three minutes. I thought I had accidentally deleted all my photographs from the past three days in Torino, but then made the miraculous discovery that my memory card had popped out of its slot and wasn’t being registered. Oh astronomical, heady delight!

Somewhere around the vicinity of 10 o’clock we tumbled out of the restaurant and started fencing on the street with Grissini bread sticks. I’m not quite sure how it began, it just seemed like a natural progression of the evening. They made excellent foils, breaking shorter and shorter until it was easy to determine the winner as being the one who had something left to hold onto at the end. This diversion continued until the breadsticks, alas, ran out.

Later on found us back in 5km. Rejoicing in the comparative warmth of Italy, we basked outdoors in the evening stillness, ordering round after round of Mojitos. After the first couple people started making them stronger, digging out their bottles of gin and adding a little more fortification. Suddenly I noticed to my horror that a breach of security had occurred. Somebody had removed the plastic wrap on my inspirational Bombay Sapphire Box. I had carried it around all day, largely to retain possession of the gin and here…..I opened the box with bated breath….shock horror! My gin was gone!

All hell broke loose.

“Who took it! Was it you! Was it you?!” More aghast than anything that someone had taken it without my noticing, when my foot was practically resting inside the bag Eventually I thought I had established the identity of the culprit, when Thomas meekly handed me a bottle. My wrath calmed, I settled back into my former state of relaxation.

But the mystery will never be solved. Later rumours and whisperings informed me that Thomas had been in possession of two bags from the beginning, and had only given me his spare in order to pacify the raging Madeleine gin-monster. The new suspect became Guido….but he denies it fervently. Like Bermuda triangle or the Roswell incident…. No one will ever know what really happened that night.

The evening ended insalubriously as I rolled meekly down via Garibaldi, wedged between Koen and Thomas for support, and we bundled into a taxi. Remarkably, we found ourselves in back in front of the hostel. Arriving in the common room I discovered that Greg and Maarten were still awake. Well I thought, I’ll spend a little time relaxing with them before I head off to bed. It was the work of a few seconds to reveal that they were in fact, far too drunk to communicate. Instead, they were now only capable of taking turns to slap each other in the face. I decided not to be involved.

Mad Monday

We awoke bright and early for our first day of “real work” in Torino. Not that we had to do a great deal, swanning around and being presented to by various companies. First up we experienced “Experientia”, a couple of Dutch/Belgian guys who were bringing the revolutionary concept of ‘designing for the users’ to Italy.

They had scored themselves a very nice little piece of Torino. An old apartment overlooking one of the endless beautiful courtyards in the heart of the city. Lavishing in the cheaper rental prices that Italy allows after the overcrowded Benelux. Unfortunately this lovely view meant four flights of stairs… we arrived sweating. Schmick and polished in his suit, in stark contrast to us, Mr. Nederlands began the presentation, while his audience tried desperately not to be lulled to sleep by his dulcet tones. Fortunately My Belgium came in after a while and hi-jacked the presentation with his scatterbrained but more effervescent manner of speech.

For some reason, Experientia was hungry for interns. “Please come and be our interns! We pay! We’ll help you find a house in Torino! We’ll massage your feet”. Secretly I wondered if perhaps they were design vampires, who relied on interns as their only food source. I tried to warn the Italianophile Dutch students… “No, it’s a trap!”, but still they seemed attracted by the prospect
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The problem about having such a swanky piece of real estate was that they only had room for half of us at once. So after we left, the other half battled the stairs while we cooled our heels for an hour. I made it my mission to find a bathroom. We were drinking coffee in a rather pleasant café in a rather pleasant arcade, but for some reason bathrooms seemed to be entirely lacking. I asked the pleasant tuxedoed young man through a series of noises and gestures that I hoped sounded vaguely Italian. He appeared to respond that the bathroom was around the corner and to the right. Following these directions brought me, bewildered, into a small handbag shop.

I tried again, and this time returned with the essential ingredient: the key. First I had to find the giant riot-proof wooden door, cleverly hidden between two shops. Inside was a staircase which I hopefully climbed until directed back down by an irate tenant. The only option left was a rubbish filled alleyway, which I circled grandly until I eventually found another secret door. They key fitted! Success! My treasure hunt over, I had arrived at yet another delightful hole-in-the-ground toilet.

Our hour long wait stretched into an hour and a half. There is only so long you can sit and drink coffee, so instead Agnes and I wandered off and found, completely unheralded, a huge and opulent museum courtyard. It was apparently deserted and disregarded by the overly history-saturated Italians. So we had a few snap-happy minutes until at last the rest of our group emerged.

For the afternoon a forum with IAAD, the Italian school of design was scheduled. The secret agenda of course, was to wring the Italian students for all they were worth in terms of knowledge about the local bars. In this much it was a success, in many other aspects, painful. Together we did some workshops, designing new solutions based on different food products and how to incorporate them into the ‘slow food’ movement. Our group was me, Nico, Kirsten and two Italians. One was so horrifically bored by the entire proceedings that he chose instead to spend the whole time texting other Italians. The other one had very strong ideas, and passion about his design. Unfortunately he didn’t speak a word of English. It was not the most functional design team, alas.

Mercifully the torture was short, and soon we were happily eating aperitifs in one of the bars that had previously been so mysteriously hidden away. This was followed by a rather chaotic dinner, as we were joined by a group of Italian students… who we had not entirely planned for, including the Italian version of Ali G. The committee and the waiters of course had a mild conniption, but in the end things sorted themselves out and we were all happily eating pizza and drinking fizzy red wine (well….putting up with fizzy red wine). The evening culminated with a waiter spilling coffee all over Maarten, for which he got another glass of free red wine, which I quite happily relieved him of.

We trundled off after the Italians to yet another secret Quadrilatero Romano bar; 5KM, that mysteriously appeared out of its external dimension in the presence of the gatekeeper Italians. The bar was endearing in terms of its vast cocktail menu and Turkish style seating of cushions on the floor, but also boasted another of the world’s worst toilets. They had neglected to put locks on the door, but compensated for this by making the doors transparent, so you could see if there was someone inside of not. Brilliant! I believe this was designed to sell more drinks as you had to have enough Mojitos so that you no longer cared if anyone saw you or not.