Valentine's Day

Woke up to the sound of rain drops on my window. Only had the luxury of four hours sleep, as I was up almost all night studying and filling in this application for an internship. I really didn't have to get up this early, but since my parents are arriving in less than 48hrs, the fridge cannot be empty.

So... sleepy and drowsy, I dragged myself out of bed, and headed to the market at 8am. It was drizzling all the way, and cold, and nothing seemed to be going well. Because of this new light-railway system that's being tested in the city, lots of trams were rediverted or simply didn't go where they usually went... which meant lots of waiting and delays.

I bought really a lot of food and fruits this time, since it's lunar new year, which for us is sort of the equivalent of Christmas. In the end, I was carrying a huge bag and backpack full of groceries, whereas my monthly loan had pretty much emptied. To save time (and energy, since I was pretty much sleepy still) I left the groceries in a storage locker at the station, and rushed off to work. Pretty funny thinking back on it... storing all these fruits and vegetables in a locker at the busy station... security people were probably scrutinising my every move, wondering what I was up to.

As usual, it was 'gezellig'... it's this wonderful Dutch feeling and word of which there doesn't seem to be an English equivalent... it's sort of a mixture of something or someone being fun, cosy, warm all at the same time. And we, bacherloretes and bachelors, sat around chatting, gossiping, sipping hot tea over apple pies and chocolates, while it rained and rained outside. Oh yeah, we worked too.

The pompous gala event is this Saturday, so we were talking about what to wear. I burst out laughing when I heard in detail what was expected. It's a basically a day of celebrations and lectures at the Peace Palace, to be rounded off with a 'white bow' dinner party. Ladies are expected to wear a formal evening dress, whereas for men it's more complicated. Everything is down to the detail, because what you wear is who you are. So the formal attire consists of a:

• Black tailcoat with silk (ribbed or satin) facings, sharply cut-away at the front
• Black trousers with a single stripe of satin or braid in the US or two stripes in Europe
• White stiff-fronted shirt, with cotton pique dickie, boiled or heavily starched)
• White stiff wing collar (attached to the shirt with collar buttons)
• White bow tie (usually cotton pique)
• White low-cut waistcoat (usually cotton pique, matching the bow tie and dickie)
• Black silk stockings
• Black patent leather pumps or shoes

Of course, to look especially posh and elegant, a top-hat (rabbit included), cane (to point and poke people with, and to support yourself in case you've had one too many bourbons), white gloves (touch not where other people touched) will do the "magic trick". Silk, of course, not cheap cotton or rags. And dare not forget those shining, dazzling cufflinks, that according to someone can be bought for only 300 euros at a certain store in Zurich. Wrist watches are a definite no-no, for it will equate you with the common man, and you really wouldn't want that. Instead one of these flip-open gilded clocks hanging from you side pocket is the proper convention. If you wear glasses, better get a 'one-eye lense' to play the part of the sophisticated member of the gentry, but looking more like a pirate captain. If you have to be bourgeois, do it with (literally) "class".

As I listened to the description, I was reminded of those satirical cartoons of capitalist fat cat with dollar signs in their eyes. An image of ridiculousness and disgust. Thankfully, I'm not going to the gala dinner. I cancelled, because really I'd rather spend my time with my family. Something about a bunch of men and women walking around in these gowns and dresses just abhores me so. Maybe because I believe there are more important things in life than members of an exclusive club gathering together to give one another pats on the back... maybe it's to do with the fact that it's all seems like one big facade of a fashion show to show off who is more powerful and rich. Call me left, call me a closet communist, but really, who are you trying to impress?

At the end of the day, take off the layers and accessories that cost hundreds or even thousands of euros, you are naked. Bare, exposed and vulnerable as any other man or woman on the street. Strip people of their pompousness and arrogance, and you'll find them as scared of life and death as any human being.

This was my Valentine's Day. Like any day, really.