#7 The day I got placed

Breaking into a run, and sliding on the football field like someone who has scored an emphatic stoppage time winner, with arms outstretched.

That was how I daydreamed about the moment I’ll get a job. Such imagery was a common denominator every time similar moments were in the offing. And despite my actual celebrations consistently failing to even come close to these daydreams, the habit persisted.

After bidding goodbye to my group in Frankfurt, the solitude-seeker in me was punching his fists in excitement and eagerness. With no idea when I would be seeing these friends again, with whom I shared some great European memories, I pulled away my trolleys without looking back once.

From that point on till the end of my sojourn, a friend in Stuttgart graciously allowed me to keep my luggage at her place, from where I could repack when need arose. From Frankfurt, my friends were heading for Amsterdam, a city that held relatively lesser appeal for me. Moreover, the window for a beautiful trek in Norway was expected to close soon. So just a couple of days or so before our parting, I’d decided to go to Norway.

And thus began a long train journey from Stuttgart towards Norway. At the break of dawn next day in Hamburg, I ran into a couple of friends from college. We all were headed in the same direction, and were supposed to take the next train to Copenhagen — through which all trains to Norway go. But to our surprise, our Eurail pass didn’t work its usual magic, and we were told to bugger off by the train attendant, and get reservations like everybody else. The ongoing surge of refugees meant lesser availability of seats, so merely hopping onto trains with a Eurail pass was not an option while changing borders.

Two things were to be considered when all of us reached Copenhagen that afternoon. First, I felt like this was hard-earned solitude which I hoped to carry on throughout Norway. And secondly, if I were to proceed to Norway the same evening, I had to wait from 12 am to 4 am at the interchange in Sweden (Gothenburg). The weather was already quite chilly, and my journey from Stuttgart had been taxing. Unlike me, these friends had sleeping bags, and had no problem continuing their journey towards Norway the same evening. So I looked up Hostelworld for a dorm, and checked into a hostel.

At the first touch of the cosy mattress, I fell into a sleep that was uncharacteristically deep for 6 pm. I woke up around 9.30, and checked my phone. Notifications had swarmed the screen of my phone as if I were some celebrity who just tweeted. Could it be?

'Congratulations to the following students for receiving a pre-placement offer from Axis Bank'

It was the confirmation of an offer, based on a two month internship and an interview. The exultation was obvious but quiet. It was too late to call home back in India, and I didn’t want to alarm my parents with a call after-hours. There were several missed Whatsapp calls on my phone, which I thought I’d call back later but didn’t, save one who was persistent. I sorely regret not calling them back. So it was the other people in the dorm I shared this news with, who gave me lukewarm wishes. 

What could I expect from them, after all? Hugs and kisses? I couldn’t believe my luck. If they’d sent the mail a few hours ago, I’d at least have two people to share this long-awaited incredible moment. The pride I usually took in the ability to be voluntarily alone, took a big hit that day. Throughout my life, I’ve never missed my friends and family as much as I did that day. 

While replying to the wishes I realized it was past ten, and that I’m in Europe: where most restaurants close by 9 pm. So I set out into the night, onto streets I’d little idea about, desperately looking for food. The least I could do to make my night special was to have pizza, which I did finally manage to locate. Dinner cost me a whopping 18 euros, and I tipped 2 more to the waitress, just because I was thankful they were open at that hour. 

“I really liked the food. I got a job a few hours ago, and wanted to celebrate with pizza!”

“Oh, that’s nice. Congratulations.”

Such was my desperate loneliness; like a melodious song with no listeners. Quoting a line from the ‘Up in the Air’, which is a lesson I’m still learning:

The Mumbai Effect

As I lugged around my trolley at Bandra Terminus, I wondered: have I exaggerated my love for Mumbai? Is my eagerness to move here misplaced?

It had been a little over a month since I graduated business school, and the waters of life had been inevitably calm. One might even call it a lull. When you have been conditioned to live with goals and deadlines, the sudden lack of them is baffling.

Ergo, the idea of attending the wedding of a close friend couldn’t have been more refreshing. A week of illness had plateaued this excitement, and I boarded my train to Mumbai still feeling fuzzy. A message issued in interest of public welfare: if you ever happen to be about to buy tickets to a certain Yuva Express, don’t. It’s 500 rupees cheaper than a Rajdhani, and rattles like a bus on a mud road. Add that, my health, and the unfortunate company of twenty loud teenagers: it is remarkable I didn’t scream out in frustration.

And so there I was, still shaken from my journey, doubting my Mumbai; my good old Mumbai. The humidity announced itself, ‘Remember me, bro?’ The clock was approaching half past nine in the morning, and I thought a good breakfast would knock back sense into me. I told the auto-driver to take me to Linking Road, which he heard as Hill Road. So when my longer-than-required trip ended, I asked for the fare. 

“30 would be fine. It was my fault I misheard.” The meter read 40 Rs.

Both the admittance and the tone took me off guard. What was it that I felt, apart from the obvious appreciation of the importance of fairness to him?

The answer came to me an hour later, when I was buying a ticket for the local. An elderly bespectacled lady printed it for me, and replied my queries with a surprising earnestness. I thanked her, and she returned a warm smile. That feeling again.

And then I remembered. It was the Mumbai feeling. It took so long to remember, because I hadn’t felt it for a year. Long ago were the days where fairness and humility were a familiar aroma in the air. From that moment, it grew stronger every minute. Especially after I met my old friends, I could see the contrast from my life in B-school, in the pain my jaw felt from smiling and laughing. How could it not, when it hadn’t seen this much activity in a long time? The sickness in my body and mind went running for its life, because it knows a lost fight when it sees one. I am reminded of the strength Superman can only feel in the Sun. Every part of your body recognizes its home, embraces life around, and rejoices. When such is the resonance one feels, surprises are often in store. Like dancing unabashedly to the songs you profusely dislike, and enjoying the company of groups, without a drop of alcohol.

People ask me why, despite the crowds, rains and expenses, do you want to live there? This then would be my answer: the people make it all worth it, strangers and friends alike. Not everyone would agree of course, just as everyone doesn’t wear the same sized pants. But this is where I fit in.

It was all so effortless, and right. As the train departed from Mumbai, I smiled at my apprehension about the city three days ago. No shadow of doubt remains now. I know that moving to Mumbai a couple of months later, wouldn’t be a lot different than going home.

#6 Bend it like Barcelona

Barcelona. The name itself has a ring to it. When you say it out loud, you get that exotic image in your head, even though you may know nothing about it. A friend of mine who’s been there pronounces it like a dreamy-eyed girl thinking of George Clooney.

Naturally once you step into a city with that mindset, you expect to be blown away with the innate Barcelona-ness of the city. You’d imagine people don’t just walk on the pavement, they’d dribble past you and scream ‘Gooaaaaaaal!’ (Okay, that might be specific to people who know FC Barcelona better than the city)

What I mean is that one expects a full tilt cultural blast in every aspect. Reality was different as Barcelona turned out to be quite metropolitan. The roads are spacious and pristine enough for a flight to land comfortably. And being predominantly full of tourists at every hour, you’d find it hard to spot locals. In fact streets next to my hostel brimming with Indians & Pakistanis, and the rich aroma of their delicious food.

Like with any other city, Barcelona comes with a must-visit list of places. From TripAdvisor to the receptionists of the hostels you check-in, they all sing the same tune. A normal routine for backpackers is to start their experience of the city with a free walking tour, and then one by one ticking off the suggested hit list.

Now I had given a walking tour a try in Granada, and it was clear that I wasn’t interested in listening to stories, walking and stopping as instructed. In fact, throughout my three months in Europe, I didn’t join any other walking tours – free or not. Thanks, but I’d rather sing my own tune. I may miss a few notes, but hey at least it’d be original. It would be mine.

Day 1:

All other things aside, the one single thing I was looking forward to in Barcelona was watching my first ever live football match at the incomparable Camp Nou. Three of our company had booked tickets for Barcelona vs Levante, and we could hardly wait.

The day of the match, I showed up an hour early at the metro station next to the stadium and skipped the pre-drinking session with my friends, because really, isn’t it for evenings like this that God gave us adrenaline? Together we walked a road that gradually tapers down, and at the end of which the contours of the stadium were visible, with noisy crowds in sixteen million colors sifting in gradually. Inside the stadium, we are all now on our heels to our seats, with the announcer creating goosebumps with every word he uttered.

“Alves. Mascherano. Bartra.”

“Neymar”

“Messi!”

Roaring with the rest, we settled into our seats and enjoyed the 4-1 spectacle, with Messi scoring twice and gliding off the turf as if from an entirely different planet. We screamed, waved, chanted and soaked in the electric evening. It is incredible when nearly a hundred thousand supporters across borders and boundaries toast their lives to football as one.

Day 2:

The next day was unwisely planned by us for a stadium tour of Camp Nou. Being Barcelona fans, perhaps my two friends would’ve still thoroughly enjoyed it, but my excitement had peaked at the match obviously. How psyched can you get for visiting the same stadium again the very next day? Still, the tickets had been previously purchased, and the experience stood dim in contrast to my stadium tour at Santiago Bernabeu in Madrid. While Real Madrid allows to you practically walk anywhere you want, the access is highly restricted in Barcelona. They don’t even allow you to walk through their dressing rooms, which really was a let-down.

At this juncture, I parted from my friends for the day and went back to my hostel for quick nap. Once evening had set in, I fancied the beach all of a sudden. And the way I looked for the beach was by observing the blue on the map. Yep. In my earnestness to find the beach through such an indirect method, I ended up walking a lot and came across what looked like a port. Upon crossing a bridge with silvery-white sinew, I ended up in front of a shopping mall, right on the edge of the sea. The real sight of the evening however, was waiting right behind me. An empty bench invited me to savor in the view for a while. Such is the beauty of randomness, and the evening was evidence that it’s okay to not know where you’re going.

Rambla De Mar, Barcelona

Day 3:

The next day my companions all went to scuba dive in Costa Brava, so it was just me and Barcelona that day. So I got dressed, packed a few things like my Kindle and camera into my backpack, and set off to the beach. It was bright, sunny, crowded, and teeming with sunbathing folk, most of whom were topless. (I don’t know whether there’s a nice way to say that) Of course being from India this isn’t your typical beach, but still you have to act all cool and be like, ‘Oh you are naked? I didn’t even notice.’ I found a grocery store nearby and got myself a big bag of Lays Paprika chips, and a one liter tetra pack of Sangria, which to my disbelief cost about the same as a Tropicana Tetra pack in India.

And so it was me facing the sea, amidst a sea of tourists, reading Walden by Henry David Thoreau, munching Paprika and sipping Sangria. A fine way to spend the morning. An hour and a half later, the sangria was kicking in, and I headed off to the Sagrada Familia, the famous then-unfinished Church by the well acclaimed Antoni Gaudi (by well acclaimed I mean a name I first heard when I set foot in Barcelona). And this is where I must stop to make an important revelation I had.

Beauty is not something you can see with sheer force of will, and a face screwed up in concentration. You can look at the greatest works of art in the world, and not be overwhelmed. It’s okay, really. Remember how I was talking earlier about everyone singing the same tune? Well the same people will tell you to visit this church and admire its inexplicable beauty. But you know what? I’m not really into art, and especially medieval and renaissance art forms. So the fact of the matter is my reaction to most churches across the world would be similar – beautiful, peaceful, places of worship. Same is the case with museums. And reading a couple of wiki pages does not make anyone an art connoisseur.

So I stood in front of the church for a few minutes, and kept walking. There was a small park, and a pond next to it. I took a siesta there, while other tourists bustled to get inside the church and take pictures. A daughter was plucking flowers from a bush and bringing one by one to her doting mother. A delightful bunch of old-timers were playing a game on the street together, their joy as obvious as the white of their hair. The message could not be clearer. 

Follow your heart, because no one else knows the way. Not even TripAdvisor.

Busy doing what they love.

#5 - I did NOT take a pill in Ibiza

The red and gold shades of dawn were shining through our flight’s window, and all I could think about was my lost wallet. I did however take a few pictures.

Before I let my personal experience tarnish it, let me begin by saying that Ibiza is a beautiful island. Unfortunately for me it turned out to be a case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. How you feel about any place, especially when you’re tumbling from one European city to another in a matter of days, depends a lot on your state of mind.

After landing, I frantically searched for a sign of my wallet, but fruitlessly. No one helped me connect to the Barcelona airport, where I suspected having forgotten it during the security check. Fortunately, my dad had made sure I distribute my valuables well across my luggage, and all my wallet contained was my Forex Card and about twenty euros. Four thousand miles away, and still getting schooled by dad.

The apartment we had booked with Airbnb made us all feel like millionaires. From the bottle of wine left by the host, to the interiors, to the sheer size of the balcony and the hills it overlooked, we felt the classiness wash all over us. You’d expect celebrities to walk out of the cars that were parked there. Of course, only a few minutes after soaking in all this, my mind was like – “Hey you know what? Your wallet is still lost.” In the process of getting my card blocked, my bank blocked my India Debit card as well, since it was associated to the same phone number. Nice algorithm, ICICI. Telling my parents was hard, though the loss wasn’t substantial. Being parents, they consider it their moral responsibility to panic of course. And among all things, I felt I’d let down my Dad. That for me is the worst feeling I can feel – letting your parents down - and it affects me more than any other thought in the world. It was this thought that stopped me smoking, weeks into having started it.

Without any money, I was at the mercy of my friends, and their plan was to relax during the day, and head for a club in the evening. They upped my spirits literally and metaphorically, but oh wait let me get to the part where he get to the club, called ‘Space’. Whoa.

Since there isn’t any public transport in that terrain, cabs are the only way you can commute, and boy were they all amazing. The same classiness extended to the cabbies and the way they talked and drove their swanky SUVs.

Outside the club, some of my circle – which was now bigger, with others joining the party – were looking for drugs. As if their minds were read, a black man approached us and offered us Ecstasy. This was somewhat of a custom on those streets as we found out over the next couple of days. The seekers obliged, and I watched on, anxious to see what it was about Ibiza that made it the biggest party place on the planet.

The first thing that really hits you in the face about an Ibiza club is how underdressed visitors look, clad in shorts and slippers. The odd club will have a dress code, but usually no. It was around ten pm, and the place was nearly empty, because parties there heat up after midnight. We saved about twenty euros by going in early. Big whoop, because the second thing that hits you is when you go for a pint of beer. Twelve euros, please. It’s hard to sink in the fact that you are probably going to spend all night in a club without getting drunk. The teetotalers will disagree here, saying they’ve grooved all their life drinking Mirinda, but wait, there’s more! The price of 300 ml of water is ten euros. There are a very few places in Europe where you cannot drink tap water, and guess which place is one of them. Yep, Ibiza – which explains the water prices.

Inside Space

Now you have a dry couple of hours to kill, with nothing to drink/eat, with nobody to look at except your friends who’re trying to gauge whether the drugs are genuine. By quarter to midnight, the place started filling up. Now all your hopes, and I’m speaking for the sober folk, are pinned onto the club itself and the music. And that my friends is the actual suckerpunch. From 10 pm to 3 am, there are only two or three distinct sounds I heard in the music. They were all on infinite loop. Now some of you might by laughing, “Ha! What an EDM noob.” You got me. The likes of Avicii, David Guetta, Pitbull, Calvin Harris and songs like Lean On are as far as my interest goes. I would have preferred a million repetitions of the polyphonic ringtones on my old Nokia to whatever these guys played.

The drugs, as my friends described, help tolerate this music and make you Popeye for all night, with energy coming out of nowhere. So basically you have to take a special flight to this island, go to a special club, ingest a drug the side effects of which include clicking jaws and inability to pee – all in order to tolerate the night life in the hippest party place ever. Great plan. And I’m not even counting the money involved.

“Abe sab experience karna chahiye! (Translation: You have to experience everything!)” What kind of screwed up logic is that? Exactly who decided it is important to experience everything? Please go expensively defile yourself in whatever way you wish, but don’t rationalize it to others by saying that. In fact, there is no rationalization you owe to anyone for doing what you want. Live and let live.  

I do think there were better alternatives for my night. My number one tip to like-minded anti-smoke/drug middle-class people is – get pre-drunk, as much as you can. And note that when an Artist like Carl Cox is scheduled to perform at a club, he won’t show up before 4 am. If the music is not a problem for you, the ambience is actually pretty awesome, and you might have a good time.

Considering the fact that I never liked clubs much, it is not a surprise I was disappointed. If you don’t like spinach, it won’t matter whether your mom is cooking or some seven star hotel’s chef. The fact will remain – you hate spinach.

The one silver lining from that night was quite unexpected. As I looked around in despair, I started talking with one of my friends from the group. And while the loud craziness swirled all around us, we both were discussing human psychology and why people do this. The joy of discovering a like-minded person is incredible, and his sanity that night went on to be a shining beacon in my life later on. I did not take a pill in Ibiza, and I was not alone.