by Claire Holmes
The first two weeks of my study abroad were filled with conversations about where we wanted to travel on the weekends. I had planned to make the most of London throughout the week and then hop on a cheap flight with just a backpack to anywhere in Europe for the weekends. From our first trip to Dublin to our last trip to Barcelona, I was the fearless leader of the planning meetings. “We’re booking *insert new location* right now. Bring your laptop and credit card.” I would say to my friends. I commend them for their trust in my planning skills. They said they felt better not worrying about the details, and I felt better knowing all the details. My mindset is if I do all of the planning and know as much as I can, then if something goes poorly I know shit happens but it’s not a fault of my bad planning.
Our final trip to Barcelona was different from the others. We had decided on an Airbnb for more privacy and comfort compared to the hostels we had been staying in. I wasn’t flying with the rest of the group. They were arriving late from London, but my train from Montpellier arrived right after dusk. I spent the three-hour ride with my eyes fixed out the window and on the passing countryside. Trees and small farms flew past between stops at tiny French and Spanish towns.
As my arrival approached, I opened my Airbnb app to learn more about the check-in process. My role was to get settled in the apartment before they arrived in a taxi from the airport–they knew nothing about the process. I felt my stomach drop when I learned the keys were in a secure box that was blocks away from the apartment. I was expected to go alone to a random room, enter a code, open a lockbox, grab the key, and then make it to the apartment.
Three months earlier and I probably would have only been slightly on edge. But on this train, my mind kept wandering back to our weekend in Amsterdam and my confidence evaporated.
#
I had been fairly confident in my ability to be aware of my surroundings. I had no issues in London, even with the many reports of phones being stolen. I had visited cities all around the US and Europe with no issues. Wear a bag with a zipper and keep it close to my body. Splurge for the Uber when it’s late. Watch my alcohol intake so I stay fully alert. With my vigilance, I never felt even close to being in a bad situation.
Amsterdam was a whirlwind of a weekend. It started with a failed attempt at enjoying a club after the door of our Uber was taken out by a passing car. The second day was filled with lots of wine, boats, and bikes. Only four of us remained on Sunday afternoon because our Monday afternoon classes allowed for an early-morning flight. I felt relieved that the plans for the day were the tulip museum, cheese museum, flower market, and a food hall culminating in a trip to the only sports bar in the city hosting a Super Bowl viewing party. It took me hours to find the right place to watch when planning this long weekend hop across the English Channel.
The game started at one a.m. in Amsterdam. We had decided that we had to make the most of our time while we were young and had no commitments, so an all-nighter to get a glimpse of American culture was worth it. The bar was only a fifteen-minute walk away from our hostel in an area that catered to nightlife, so even at eleven thirty at night we were not the only ones around. Five hours, two beers, one order of nachos, an Usher performance, and a Chiefs win later, only me and one friend remained as the others had a slightly earlier flight.
In the planning process, I did not account for a five a.m. walk back to the hostel to grab our bags and leave for the airport. I was so focused on finding a place that would show the game
that “a quick walk back for our bags and to the train station” was all I accounted for. It turns out that central Amsterdam is not the place for two young women to be walking around alone at night. The streets were well-lit but bare. Wandering out of the bar, arm-in-arm, we naturally walked to the far sidewalk to avoid the man smoking outside the door.
Apparently, that was enough to draw attention to us.
Both completely sober, my friend and I quickly realized the smoker was crossing behind us. A slight push with my elbow and we crossed back to the other side of the street in an attempt to see if the man was headed in his own direction.
“Is he following us?” she whispered to me.
“Hopefully he’s headed down that side street. Let’s just keep going, but watch out,” I responded with quick glances over my left shoulder.
We zig-zagged through the street in the direction of our hostel. With each cross, we hoped that the man would head in a new direction, that we were wrong and he had other intentions. We finally accepted that he was locked onto us when we took our first turn.
Seeing that nobody was around to help us as we were followed from one side of the street to the other. We realized that the safest place for us to be was through the locked doors of our hostel.
“We shouldn’t run, right? That will draw his attention. Let him know we know he’s following us and we’re scared,” I voiced my thought process to my friend through shallow breaths. I acted calm. I was the person who already had the path to the hostel memorized. I was the one who was always level-headed. I had never been more scared in my life, but I had to get us out of this situation.
As we approached a major road, we finally came across a group of people but I was not confident that they were going to be of any help to us given their slumped posture and hands full of beers and joints. A swift cross to the other side of the street and I yanked us to a halt at the corner forcing the follower to continue walking and turn onto the next street. I picked up our pace to a speed walk by gripping my friend’s arm and subtly dragging her along. We needed to take advantage of the space while slow enough to avoid being chased. We made it to the street adjacent to the street of our hostel.
And then we ran.
#
The Barcelona train station was surprisingly busy for a Tuesday evening, so I found comfort in not being totally isolated in a new place where I didn’t speak the language. My Google Maps showed one simple bus would take me to the key drop-off. The group of people waiting for this particular bus quadrupled in the thirty minutes between my arrival and the bus. I was trying to hype myself up while constantly glancing between my Maps and the bus route stuck to the upper wall, making sure I didn’t miss my stop. As I prepared to get off the bus, I appreciated that the street was full of people and the yellow street lamps provided enough light to see clearly. There weren’t many people interacting in the streets–everyone was going about their own business. I saw no signs of back alleys or dark corners that could hide random creeps.
Less than a block from where I had gotten off the bus, I found the door to the storage area. I quickly punched in the code to the number pad on the black door and felt a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to stand still on the street for much longer. The room was small and the sterile white walls reflecting the white lights were a striking contrast to the street behind me. I took one deep breath to get me through.
I was immensely thankful that the pictures from the Airbnb host were a good representation of the key box, so I didn’t have to waste any time. The walk to the apartment was only a few blocks and the streets grew busier. Young professionals still in their work attire who might have been on their way to dinner or after-work drinks. College-age students came in and out of small boutiques and shops. Middle-aged adults sitting at tables in the street eating a late dinner. Even with the comfort of bystanders, I kept the key between my knuckles as I moved hurriedly to the entrance, thankful that I didn’t have to drag a suitcase behind me.
Through a locked main entrance, up the stairs, and through the apartment door I went. I triple-checked that I locked the door behind me and did a quick walk-through of the space. I had twenty minutes before they arrived to get ahold of myself so they didn’t see me freaking out. Just because I was traumatized from Amsterdam doesn’t mean it should affect their vacation. I kept telling myself that they can relax because I’ve got it handled. I’ve always got it handled.
Walking down the stairs to open the black, metal gate I saw my friends emerging from the cab that arrived from the airport. As I showed them to the apartment, they asked about the journey and the check-in.
“I could not have done that alone, but of course, you were fine, Claire.”
“Yeah thank god it was you and not me.”
“I knew you could handle it.”
Their votes of confidence were not at all surprising. I could often take their compliments lightly with a thank you and a small ego boost. This time, I didn’t quite trust and accept their comments. Not because they weren’t genuine, but because my heart rate was still elevated from the fear. Nothing could penetrate the guard I had put up since arriving in the city.
“Sounds better than our last walk through a city at night,” my Amsterdam companion remarked. I was surprised she brought it up. A shaky hug at the hostel after being safely inside followed by an almost run to the train station (thankfully without any unwanted attention) and we made it home without much talk about what actually happened. In London, we debriefed with our friends but kept it as simple as possible to not relive the experience. And no conversations about it since. I rehashed almost all of my travels to my mom during our catch-ups, but this story stayed locked away. I couldn’t let her be constantly worried about my safety. She would never sleep. Any future conversation we would have about my travels would be full of reminders to stay safe and could only knock me back down. I had to rebuild my belief in myself since that night. For myself going forward and for my friends who relied on me.
I didn’t want to bring down the excitement my friends had about arriving in Barcelona, so a “yeah, it definitely was” is all that left my mouth. Laying in bed that night, surrounded by my friends I could finally let my brain wander to both my mission to get the keys and the night in Amsterdam. I was proud that I pushed through it, and even if a bad experience caused so much self-doubt and anxiety it wasn’t crippling. I didn’t stop. I remembered that more often than not we had good experiences. That Amsterdam was the anomaly. That no amount of planning or preparation would have stopped that man from following us. That my friends trusted me because I had proved myself from the beginning and one experience that was out of my control doesn’t change that.
