EuroStory 2: Battery & Brains - One percent remaining

Throughout life, we keep on learning – not just about others, but ourselves. Sure, others may not be that obsessive about introspection as I am, but the change before and after a student exchange program is tangible. It might even be true for traveling in general, I don’t know. Everyone I meet seems to be passionate about traveling, as it is with most things nowadays. Things become a fad, and it is hard to tell who speaks with their lips, and who with their hearts.

I agree with the school of thought of putting oneself outside their comfort zones. From whatever I heard from my friends, this is done at varying degrees, and definitely easier said than done.

Traveling alone is one of the ways to do it. I have heard several friends talk about wanting to travel alone. A couple of them, who were going during the same duration as me, shared their fears with me. “I’m afraid I’ll have to travel alone most of the time.” But when push came to shove, neither one of them actually did. Sure, they might have spent the odd day or night by themselves, but I don’t see how that is significant. In what humble little part of the world I’ve witnessed, solo travelling is often spoken of, but seldom done. The nature of year resolutions comes to mind. Sounding high and mighty over people who didn’t travel alone is not my purpose here, tempted as much as I am. I digress.

Coming back to my story, one important thing I learnt about myself was again during the first week.

My friends and I were out drinking, in Copenhagen. Drinking in public gave us a weird sense of satisfaction and independence, as it is prohibited in India. I finished a delicious bottle of wine in no time, and started swaying and over-expressing myself. Not like taking off my clothes or flashing or anything of the sort, but you know. Elevated enthusiasm.

At a supermarket, Copenhagen

Meanwhile, my friends started talking to some locals outside a club. This upset me for a weird reason as I look back in retrospect. Now I take my time to interact with new people. And my introvert-ness stood out in stark contrast to my set of friends there. So watching them talk to those locals was like watching them enjoying a roller coaster while I was standing outside because I wasn’t tall enough for the ride.

So my brilliantly drunk mind told me to get another bottle of wine. And in my temper, I didn’t inform anyone where I was going. It was around midnight, and I slipped away without anyone’s notice.

Twenty minutes later when I came back to the scene, I found myself exchanging loud yells with one of my friends.

Oh and by the way, there was no way for them to contact me as I didn’t have a working SIM card. Neither were we death eaters to be summoned by the dark mark. So really, what I did was pretty stupid.

“WHERE THE F WERE YOU DUDE? ARE YOU INSANE?”

“WHAT? IT WAS JUST 15 MINUTES! AND I’M NOT 5 YEARS OLD!”

Not exactly the wittiest of defenses, but a bottle of wine has a way of its own. And so the yelling continued for a minute or so, and then my friend turned away in disgust. I remember expressing my angst over not wanting to go clubbing and dancing and talking to Europeans and chilling and this and that. You get the picture.

It all ended with me asking for the keys, so that I could go home, to our Airbnb apartment. And I’ve debated this part of the story often, because they gave me the keys in a second. Wait, what? It’s a problem when I’ve disappeared on foot for 15 minutes, but it’s not a problem if I’m going back drunk to my apartment, with a second bottle of wine, which is 6-7 kms away?

I didn’t see how I was in any less danger by merely informing them that I was going home. My phone was still SIM-less, and I was still drunk.

Anyway, I trotted away in anger towards the nearest bus-stop, with the wine bottle under my jacket. It didn’t really need to be concealed, but old habits die hard.

Now I had no idea how to get back home. The direct bus was no longer in service, as it was around 1 am. So I looked over the running routes and looked for any familiar sounding station names. Ridiculously spelled, and even more absurdly pronounced, they are a real pain for the unaccustomed. I did manage to find one vaguely familiar, and took a shot. Once I got off the bus, the task was now to use Google Maps and find my way home. The battery in my phone to my utter dismay was one percent. One. Excellent timing, you useless chunk of trash.

It didn’t however give in, having learnt a thing or two apparently from its stubbornly determined owner, and I found my way home after a mile-long walk or so.

All other things aside, I was pretty impressed with making my way home in the predicament I described. I have since then realized that alcohol cannot affect me beyond a point. That once my fierce urge for control takes over, alcohol cowers like an animal from fire.

What is this, if not discovering yourself? Wandering drunk on unknown streets in a new city takes courage. And that day I knew I’m made of stronger stuff than I thought, and when such situations and worse presented themselves later, I knew I could take it.

EuroStory 1: Malmö

It's an exciting feeling to wake up and know you're doing something for the first time that day; which in my case was exploring a new city on my own.

There was no ground work I did before I left. I had no agenda for the day. I just googled for a minute, and saw that there was a huge park called Kungsparken, and I made a mental note to visit that place.

 

As I passed silently by the rest of my party deep in sleep, into the Copenhagen railway station, exchanged euros for some Swedish currency and activated my Eurail pass – there was an obvious tingling of excitement. In fact I was so pumped when I sat in my first European train, that I took out my notepad, wrote:

“I’m sitting on my first Eurail, and good lord am I excited! The moment has finally come!”

There was a 20 minute delay, so the moment didn’t come quite then.

The first Eurail!

 From that moment on, every breath, sight and step was a song that did not end till the return journey that evening. In a parallel universe, a dog would’ve smiled at the sight of me leaning against, and staring out the window with such wonder in my eyes. 

The moment I stepped out of the Malmö central station into the city, I was hit by a ferocious wind. You’d never expect a geography to change much within half an hour of train travel, but it was a strong, biting cold wind. And it was clear by the general unfazed nature of people’s walk that this wasn’t exactly new to them.

Kungsparken was the only destination in my mind for starters, and it was at a walkable distance. The term walkable is interesting actually, going by what it means to different people. Back in India, the tendency is to think of those going to Europe as wealthy folk. If they saw the way most of us spend in Europe, they’d take back their words in a heartbeat. Let me explain.

Usually, public transport is quite efficient and convenient throughout Europe. Of course, it was designed for the average European, who happens to have a heavier wallet than the average Indian. So when 2 or 3 euros are to be shelled out for a single point to point journey, we start to think – “Hmm, I could have a slice of margarita and/or a coffee for that much. Is 3 kilometers really that much? If I start paying for every 3 km walk, I’m going to be broke pretty soon.”

This of course is the conversation in my head, and I can’t really speak for other heads. But as far as I’ve observed, our definition of walkable is quite adaptable to the cost of a single journey.

Let this not however tarnish my love for walking at all. There is a definite sense of pleasure, and somewhat of achievement, when I reach my destination on foot. It feels like you’ve earned the sight at the end of a long walk. This is something I’ve realized gradually over the length of the trip.

So with a somewhat empty stomach and a backpack, I stand on the edge of Kungsparken. A few steps in and my jaw dropped. A seemingly never ending canopy of trees lay ahead on each side of a plush brown pathway laid out like a red carpet for its visitors. The trees weren’t as thick as I expected; they were tall, thin and looked to have withstood the torment of the winds for many a year.

The beauty called Kungsparken

 A picture I had in my head was of me walking amidst such a dreamy setting. People often think of loneliness as a bad thing. But in the lap of nature, I have never felt alone. The rustling of the leaves, the chirping of birds, the sound of ripples from the lake – as clichéd as they all might sound, rarely are we ever in an environment where these sounds can be isolated.

I spent hours walking around, taking pictures. There were a couple of lakes I came across, such was the size of the park. For a while I sat by the lake, with ducks swimming as well as sitting by my side – they couldn’t care less about my presence, which was new and comforting. I recall an Indian woman who was passing by at that time on her own, clicking away. Our eyes met for a couple of seconds, in which we both became conscious of the fact that we are both, well…Indian. Before I could consider saying hi, or making any kind of decision, she continued walking ahead, much like the ducks in the lake.

After exiting the park I also remembered that Malmo is the name of a football club, and was respectable because it was playing in the Champions League that year. Again, the distance was walkable. And upon reaching there, words cannot express how thrilled I was feeling to witness a football club stadium for real, even though it was one I’d never seen on TV. The eagerness is visible in the selfies I’ve taken.

So, selfies – this is how they began. After sending my mom the first batch of pictures from Europe on Whatsapp, her reaction was – “But where are you? You are not in these pictures.” Gee, thanks mom. I thought you had seen enough of me for 26 years, so had a crazy thought of sending pictures from Europe for a change. Mothers.

And so started a series of pictures with my giant head loosely sprawled across Europe’s finest sceneries. And with the sheer amount of solo travel I did, you can imagine how evolved my selfie powers must be now.

The stadium was closed, but I got a glimpse inside through the fences, and also saw a couple of training grounds for kids.

Evening was setting in, and it was time to walk back to the train station. It wasn’t a walkable distance, but I had no interest in making the effort to figure out the easier way. And with earphones plugged in, I had a chance to walk on the periphery of another park, littered beautifully with autumn leaves. A moment stands out here, when a track from Lord of the Rings was playing – and it resonated with how happily tired I was feeling, and tears welled up in my eyes. It’s hard to describe that feeling. 

Everything from the morning that day was perfect. I felt as if I’d found a long lost treasure within me, this creature with an incredible power to keep on moving, walking, exploring. Despite my many layers of clothing to protect against that wind, I felt vulnerable and naked. My legs were close to giving in. My body was in submission, to nature.

In the middle of my walk back to the station, there was a green pasture – right in the middle of an intersection. It seemed to be strategically placed for me to rest, like that lone restaurant on highways for buses to stop. The ground was strewn with the golden hue of autumn leaves. The trees here had thick, deep-rooted trunks. An accomplished writer or someone with above-average knowledge of trees would’ve given a more sophisticated description, but I specialize in second-grade level descriptions, it seems.

When you see such a place with the Lord of the Rings soundtrack playing, the Shire comes to mind effortlessly. One of my umpteen favorite shots from the movie is of Frodo’s first in the movie, where he is sitting by a tree with his back to its trunk, reading. I call it the quintessential Frodo Baggins shot. And so I whipped out my camera, set the timer on it, and took out the next best thing to a book – a kindle.

It took ten shots and about half an hour at least I think, but I was able to successfully reproduce it – a 21^st century tall Indian Frodo Baggins.

The funny and unfortunate part here is that I didn’t actually sit and read there. I just posed for the picture, and set sail soon after for the station. I don’t think I actually read a page on my kindle for the first couple of weeks, though I did fall asleep on trains with a kindle in my hands.

The act of reading is not as simple as I thought it is. With the sheer amount of distractions that our species has manufactured, it is little wonder that fewer and fewer people are found with a book in their hands. “I love books”, and “Reading is my passion” are more loosely thrown around than cigarette butts in Delhi.

As the sun set on my magical first solo sojourn, it became clear to me that I needed to do this a lot more in the next three months.

Have you ever seen an autumn leaf fall? The trajectory they follow before they hit the ground is most wondrous. Every leaf falls differently. Some will fall like a baby being rocked from side to side, and others get carried with the wind.

I felt like a golden autumn leaf that day, caressed by a breeze, dancing into the sunset.

The Europe Story: Prologue

"So how was your exchange?"

I give a moderately humble head-bob, nod, smile, and answer - yeah, it was good.

This is a question every student is asked by dozens. I can't speak for the others, but it really stumps me. For even if it were a 3 hour movie, I'd barely manage a crisp answer. How can I even begin to answer for an experience that lasted 3 months?

Fortunately, I do have a slightly more sophisticated answer than 'It was good'.

And so it begins.

The student exchange program was one of the reasons I wanted to be an MBA student, and helped me decide which college to go to. Of course you ask the same question in an interview to an aspiring MBA or even the so called successful one, they'll go: "I'm a natural at managing. Even when I was a baby I made other babies arrange their toys the way I wanted, as that way I could look at the big picture."

The only significant preparation I've seen an exchange student before going to Europe is dream. Oh sure attempts will be made at planning - "We'll do Eastern, then France, then Italy." Like they are household chores waiting to be done. In the end all you are left with is a tiny bucket list of things, and a head full of dreams.

You know how sometimes when too many good thoughts occur altogether, we sense an anticlimactic end? Like you’re expected to pay tax for all your happiness? The time taken to reach that threshold differs with people's estimate of their self-worth, but eventually you get there. Things seem to be so good you can't believe it. Sometime before my flight, I reached that point as well, which led me to ask my friends about their experiences.

 

"Don't worry, Kishore, it’ll be amazing!"

"Is every exchange experience that great?"

 "Yes!"

"Every one of them?"

"Yes!"

"But there's gotta be one that's shitty, right?"

"No. You'll see what I mean pretty soon."

Without question, the experience overall has defied every expectation. My intention is to give an honest account of this unraveling - the good, the bad, and the ugly. It would be delusional to say that I see silver unicorns galloping across rainbows when I look back at my time abroad.

Otherwise, my narration will be no different from most Facebook feeds; an endless chain of bright moments, masking darker times.

Secondly, reviewing and rating every place I went to like I’m the prodigal son of TripAdvisor isn’t really a priority. There are certain moments and times though, that stand out. It could be for many a reason; the place, my state of mind, the road I walked, the woman I met.

Europe is an experience that is unique to each traveler, though they may walk similar paths. I have never known two separately brewed cups of tea to taste the same despite following one recipe.

Even a long, sleepless, and tiring flight couldn’t dampen our spirits in the slightest, as we gazed wide-eyed at the streets of Copenhagen after landing.

During the first week’s stay in Copenhagen – you know, the city where I was supposed to study but didn’t because I’m an exchange student – one day outshines. This was the day I went to Malmo, a city in southern Sweden.

Everything felt surreal initially. We were utterly overwhelmed by the feeling: Oh my God, I’m in Europe! It was just me and a friend from college, walking all over the city, relishing pizza and beer on the streets, and what not. Discovering new items in the kitchen of our rented apartment was like finding treasure, and even doing the dishes was done ungrudgingly.

A shot of Copenhagen, from my MotoX

But the day we were joined by other friends, and the two became a group, it went downhill faster than my graduation grades. Individually, they are all good company, and good friends of mine. Not so much as a group. Though being an introvert induces group aversion, the problem isn’t all groups – it was this one, for whom all salvation is obtained by drink and smoke. (I drink too, this isn't about saintliness) If you would ask them about Maslow’s hierarchy, they are likely to say “let’s grab a beer, get self-actualized, and then roll. It’ll be awesome.”

I had heard about Malmo in some obscure conversation. There were no specifics as such that intrigued me about it, except that it was just half an hour away from Copenhagen. That’s when two impulses took over me – the first was to cross international borders, the second was to travel alone.

I have never really traveled alone before this. Spending hours on Bandstand and Marine Drive with a camera capturing crows and sunsets barely counts. But the idea always had some appeal in my head. Often I wanted to get away from work and daily life into the woods and mountains on my own. And I wasn’t alien to living that way – I shop alone, go to movies alone, sometimes even drink alone. It isn’t a big deal, unless the waiter at a restaurant remarks – ‘Table for one, sir? Just one?’

My parents can recall how this isn’t an instinct I suddenly developed. Apparently I used to wander off away from home for a couple of blocks, when I was yay high. It’s difficult to say what has held me back since. But the stage was finally set. Here lay the canvas, waiting for me to paint my life on it. All one needs is a Eurail Pass - the holy grail of all exchange students – and a heart that’s willing to explore.

So while my company was exploring higher realms of the universe one fine evening, it was hence decided that I’m going to Malmo next morning.