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.