The brainfart factory

Sometimes you find yourself in a situation which you just know will be a deep and wonderful experience you will remember for the rest of your life, but only if you can find a way of not obliterating the memories with the best beer you ever drank. Such was the experience of combining the best tipple with best company one can imagine, and all in Delft. This is living.

Delft is utterly sweet. It is old, venerable, educated and completely relaxed with itself. So old in fact, that roads seem to be a bit of an afterthought. Swimming was the business in those days, judging by the shear number of carefully positioned canals (they call these things a gracht or a sloot, depending on something or the other). They are right in the middle of what everybody else would consider to be a road! The locals make a spectator sport out of watching people falling into the gracht (try say that properly). The appeal of this form of entertainment increased significantly with the invention of the bicycle in the early 1800’s. As a direct consequence, this handy two wheeled device is now rather popular in Holland. So popular are these things that a bicycle with a rider on it is almost without an opportunity to commit a sin. Really. You are magically protected from cars, riding under the influence of anything is of no legal consequence and you get a gentle workout as a bonus. The only real crime is not to have a light (front and back too). You are not immune, however, from acts of self induced stupidity. Such as riding into the gracht.

Back to drinking. A month ago, I had the joy of visiting my good friends Charl and Stella in Delft. This was a business trip, and I have always believed one should immerse oneself in the culture of the country in which you are doing business. The Dutch are easy going, enjoy good belly laughs and take beer very seriously. So seriously that there is a (hopefully) informal organisation called the Beer Police who ensure that people drink good beer frequently, and in the correct style. With Charl around, there is just no getting around this cultural issue. The company I was vising (Treparel) had kindly invited my colleague Dirk, Charl and myself out to dinner, with the clear understanding that there would be some beer to be had afterwards. Zen indeed. Now this is a March that has been twisted by global warming, so it is a balmy 3 degrees outside. And there is NO PARKING IN DELFT, oh yes, and driving a car under the influence of anything is frowned upon. So Dirk, Charl and myself set off on the Botha family’s collection of bicycles. Dutch bicycles have really missed the revolution that has resulted in the modern carbon fiber wonder that powers up the Cape mountains. Mostly because the Netherlands is flatter than a dead squirrel in the fast lane. OK, so Charl and Dirk grab the “latest models”, and I get an inoffensive but odd looking bicycle (it reminded me of my dear, but sadly deceased grandmother). It owed its oddness to the fact that one could fold and put on a train. Clever. Except that it was given to folding at times of its choosing. Stella is one of its victims…. These bicycles live outside on the street and do not get stolen! Now this is pretty novel for a South African to see. I was quite surprised when Charl produces this massive chain to lock the bikes up in downtown Delft.

We abandon poor Stella with Sophia (the cutest baby ever) and off we ride. Stella, we will make it up to you. About 4km or so, trundling along the more scenic routes to the heart of old Delft. As we pedal along, Charl points out all the dangers on route. Little narrow pedestrian/bicycle bridges with alarming right angle turns in the middle, bars we must not stop at on the way back and “coffee shops” that are a bit freaky, Coffee is not really served there apparently. There are quite a few curbs and bumps which caused me great anxiety about the state of mind of the cycle of violence that I was riding. Just when was it going to fold up on me? Ow, my ears are cold. That cable tie holding the mechanism together was a really optimistic piece of repair….. No need to panic, we made it to the restaurant unfolded and proceeded to chain the bicycles to a post (circa 1328) that was designed to hold a team of oxen. Charl diligently did the maths and declared the chain topologically complete, and explained that this helped to keep the bicycles out of the gracht! Apparently, the bikes get spooked by drunk students and jump into the gracht spontaneously. This duty dispensed with, we were able to sit down to a delicious meal. Me, I don’t eat anything with a face, and they actually had a nice vegetarian selection. The Dutch drink alcohol with their food in merry moderation, so getting out of the restaurant below the legal limit was really out of the question. Especially if you were on a bicycle.

So now, my Dutch has improved with my blood alcohol level (it is not a linear relationship). Meal complete, we move on to the bar. The bikes were quite happy to see us, so we took them to get some cash (you are going to need this), hoping that the bikes would not see a drunk student. At this stage, I realised that without Charl, Dirk and I would never ever find our way home. Lucky for us, the two pubs we planned to crawl were really close to each other. Separated only by a gracht. We will cross that when we get to it. No matter, now we drink. The bar is dark and smoky and tiny and old and wonderful. The barman is the best barman in the world. Zen! Trapiste beer is made by monks. Do not underestimate what a bunch of sex starved men can do when they stop thinking about women and think about beer. Oh man, this stuff is spectacular (more Zen). You really do not have much choice other than drink like a fish. There are rules. First, you have to find the stuff. Not so easy as it is scarce and there are a few million other Dutch folk after the case you are drinking. Secondly, the beer police are adamant that you must drink it from the weakest version (a paltry 8% or so) to the strongest (a more robust 14%) which happens 4 or 6 beers later. Numbers just seem so mundane. But I am getting ahead of myself. Dirk is already looking a bit wobbly, but he just flew in from Cape Town and cannot recall sleeping ever, but the show must go on. After the first beer, I am starting to feel good looking, and my Dutch is fluent. I will admit to a brief moment of fear when the vodka shots arrive. These punctuate the beers. The beer police instruct us to drink, and one vodka later, all fear is overcome. I am feeling remarkably intelligent now. Even Dirk looks alive. Charl just looks like Charl. Complete control. The man has been here before. Whoops, more of that stunning beer (10% who gives a f*&k). It slips down.

OK, something is afoot. Whispers, secret handshakes and a knowing nod. The bar on the other side of the gracht has the really good stuff. Man, can it get better than this? Well getting over the gracht turned out to be really easy. There was a bridge. This bar is smaller, older and smokier than the previous one. Charl is greeted like a family member! He used to live two doors down from this place, so it figures. And the beer was spectacular. It dribbles like honey down your throat. Dark, mysterious, sexy….. no, that is the woman sitting at the next table. Focus now for the sambuca. This is done in the traditional way with coffee beans, matches and ultimately burning people. Dirk has reached cruising level, Charl’s pose is almost intact, except for the broken glass caused by poor fire control on his part, and I am bullet proof. Dutch is now passe, and I am working on my Italian with Ranieri. More beer. Almost religious. That famous dinner scene from “When Harry met Sally”. Except you don’t have to fake it. It is 3am, and we are not as think as you drunk we are.

OK, OK, so we are pretty wrecked. I am invisible, my Italian is unneeded and we all hungry. Lucky, someone has thought this thing through in Delft, and there are a pair of greasy food outlets serving doner kebabs and falafel (veggies get the munchies also). I die a little as the oily falafel ball destroys the aftertaste of that precious beer. Now you know that nagging little voice? Well, mine was asking “How did I get from the bar to here?” Not sure, but I remember a bicycle that folds spontaneously, and a 4km ride back passed unfenced canals, all in the wee hours of a chilly March night. Dirk has a surprisingly firm look in his eye, Charl is just looking infectiously maniac like, and I am invincible. Off we go. Wow! Lights, canals, no cold, that narrow bridge, too easy, refreshing, trippy. And most importantly, no drunk students caused the bikes to jump into the canal. Home. Warm bed. Bicycle did not fold up. Remembered to drink water. Zen indeed.

Well, you are probably wondering how heavy the hangover was. If the Zen is good, you get out of gaol free! Delft, Charl, Dirk, Stella and all the wonderful people we met from Treparel and TU Delft: Thanks for this treasured memory.

Disclaimer: This story is actually two different nights of drinking merged into one tale. Both evenings were spectacular, and we all stayed out of the canals.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, April 18th, 2007 at 9:20 pm and is filed under This is living. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.