Madrid

On February 7, 2022, my three roommates (Jessi, Gabby, Chloe) and I embarked on our first and only scheduled program that would help us adjust: orientation. We leaped out of the taxi in front of a stunning four-star hotel near Universidad de Nebrija, our college campus for the next four months. We followed the signs to the welcome center. There were two program leaders, born and raised in Madrid, standing in front of fifty-five college students. At the start of this orientation, I received my class schedule. The hours of 12:15 pm-6:20 pm on Monday and Wednesdays didn’t seem too rough for the semester. After receiving schedules, the powerpoint presentation began. The information started light: the basic emergency contact information, insurance policies, housing policies for students living independently of the program (us), and how to activate a metro card. Then, the powerpoint presentation took a dark turn.

The culture shock set in.

The powerpoint read:

Hold your belongings tight. Beware of pick pocketing! Especially at Starbucks and American chains. If you notice, all of the Starbucks’ in Madrid have glass windows. Natives stare in through the windows planning to scare an inattentive, confused American waiting for an inoccent latte.
Do not take the metro after 10:00 pm, especially alone.
Personal space is unheard of. People will sit extremely close to you, even if there are many other seats available. PDA and close contact is a sign of love and affection, so try to get comfortable.
Do not wear activewear in public. Leggings, sports bras, and sweaty shorts are disrespectful. People will be honest with your appearance, and if you are traveling to Italy, you can even get fined.

The words jumped out of me as if this list was written to scare me away on the first day. The list went on and on for the better half of orientation. I couldn’t believe it at first. I felt frustrated and blindsided. I just wanted to live here like I normal person, but had these intrusive questions ruining my first day. Should I avoid Starbucks for the next four months? How can I trust the metro before 10:00 pm? What if I do not want a random man to brush my arm and share the arm rest as I hear the music expelling from his airpods? Can I politely tell him to move to the empty seat beside him? How can I exercise outside? Do I have to run home from the gym and cover my body with a large sweatshirt just so that I don’t get stopped or cat-called?

I thought I knew it all.

I thought I had the worst possible scenarios played out in my head. I thought I had a basic understanding of Spain. My mother studied abroad in Barcelona and I read the passed down travel guides highlighting where to purchase essentials, which gym to join, and where to eat the“best” authentic Spanish food. I packed ample medicine, backup phone chargers and contacts, and a lockbox to store my valuables. I didn't think I would ever be so frightened.

When choosing a place to live, my roommates and I did the research. We asked past students who studied in Madrid and checked addresses to ensure we would be in a central area with shopping, restaurants, and markets. We thought Tirso de Molina, an adorable neighborhood just a ten minute walk from the center of Madrid, called Puerta del Sol, would be perfect. 8 Calle de Jesus y Maria is a 6 story building exploding with loud study abroad students from the University of Michigan and University of Miami. If so many students chose to live here, we assumed we had nothing to worry about.

We were wrong.

We decided to go out the first night we arrived. We decided to venture to the popular seven story club, Kapital, about 0.9 miles from the apartment. We walked there at around 10:00 pm to get in line for the first big night. I was on a high (figuratively); I ran into old elementary school friends I had not seen in over ten years, felt free, and assumed this was exactly how the next 109 days would go. We walked home from the nightclub at around 3:00 am that night, without a care in the world. We approached our adorable, inviting neighborhood and blinked twice to see a dark, shady plaza with crowds of 3-4 men at every corner seemingly waiting for the arrival of four, young American women. At this moment, we knew we needed to suppress the carefree energy and band together for the quickest four-inch tall booties speed walk for the next 0.3 miles.

Relieved to enter my new home, I struggled to open the heavy metal door due to lack of practice and jet lag, prolonging my beating heart rate and lack of ease. It took me a while to understand why students left the comfort and predictability of America to experience such deep levels of rage and fear in Europe.

After my first week, I discovered how to navigate the beloved Tirso de Molina. The small bodega, or alimentación, across the street sold the best snacks of all time: extra sour candy jars, super galactic Diet Coke flavors I had never seen in the U.S., fifteen different rare Lays flavors, and fresh churros dipped in melted chocolate. On Sundays, the plaza turned into a breathtaking farmer’s market called El Rastro where hundreds of local Spanish vendors sold all kinds of goodies. Homemade candles and soaps, curated lockets and pendants, graceful paintings and personalized artwork, and authentic thrift-shopping booths stretched across the streets. Just a fifty foot walk away stood the first Tapas restaurant that I ever explored and conquered. I tried my first patatas bravas (hot crispy potatoes with spicy aioli and sauces), spanish tortilla (a fluffy omelet with potatoes, onions, and spices), and mariscos paella (round grain rice seasoned with turmeric and saffron and shrimp).

If I walked out the front door to the left, I felt safe and knew I was just a few minutes from the major “plaza” or square. But, I did have to keep my eyes open for loiters and police activity. 7-10 policemen often stood in the center of the square by the metro station, sometimes handcuffing individuals and breaking apart fights. If I walked out the front door to the right, random men and strangers came up to me as I moved further into the darker, dirty streets, asking for my name and age to the point where I found myself running back the opposite direction.

I had a lot to learn.

While my four months were unforgettable, studying abroad is scary and overwhelming. This first night gave me a glimpse into how I needed to activate my hyperawareness and sensitivity. I didn't need to know everything - I was here for a reason. I didn't know how self conscious I would soon feel. The glorified picture perfect moments and puns I mooned over were fake. As I checked off eleven new cities, each city dismantled its preconceived beauty.

Madrid was first.

Prague

Prague was the first trip on my itinerary. My study abroad program began about three weeks later than many of my other friends' programs in Barcelona, so it felt easy to copy everyone's else's first weekend trip to Prague. It seemed exotic and trendy enough, and it seemed easy to plan an itinerary by following our social media feeds.

I felt so much FOMO when I was home for three weeks while everyone else had started their journeys. My feeds were filled with illuminating photos of Prague’s rich history. I saw the Old Town Hall Astronomical Clock, Prague’s medieval gothic clock dating back to 1383. The Prague Castle, the largest castle complex in the world. The Jewish Quarter, home to central Europe’s oldest synagogue, the Jewish Town Hall, and Old Jewish Cemetery featuring 100,000 people in a mix of unique Gothic, Renaissance, and Baroque tomb styles. And, the most famous night club in Prague - Lucerna, known for its mix of techno and house music. My roommates and I stood in line for an hour just to get the notorious green wristbands for the loud club go out for the night with our close friends studying abroad in Prague.

We arrived in Old Town at around 3:30 pm and checked in at an adorable hotel called Golden Prague Rooms where we received one small golden key to open our family - sized room. We got ready to go to dinner and then straight to a night out, trading small rolled-up evening tops and skirts across the room that we had previously worn in Madrid. I made a reservation at a tavern called Kolkovna Celnice because I wanted to try the local Czech cuisine. Czech cuisine is definitely an interesting taste, famous for thick vegetable stews, curries, and exotic baked meats paired with bitter beer.

The four of us walked into the restaurant in an assortment of black leather pants and ripped blue jeans, short long sleeve cropped tops, and thick gold hoops. We sat down at our table. Kolkovna Celnice reminded me of an American sports bar. Wooden tables overflowing with pitchers of dark beers, a mix of booths and high tables, and groups of men waiting in line at the bar for the chance to order another round. The restaurant was crowded, full of drunk middle-aged looking men laughing and conversing.I didn't realize I made a reservation at a restaurant that was actually a local pub. After a few minutes, the restaurant went quite silent and I stopped to take a look around me.

They were staring at us.

Almost every middle aged man in the room was staring at us. Now remember, in Spain, staring is not rude nor scary. We continued on with our meal, deciding what to order that would give us a taste of Czech cuisine without being too daring. We settled on sharing chicken wings, grilled salmon, potato pancakes, and of course, the famous dessert called Tridelnik, a cinnamon sugar pastry filled with whipped cream and nutella. I got up from the table to go to the restroom with one of my roommates, and I was rudely awakened by a table of four men hollering, cat calling, and laughing at us. This was the first wake up call that I needed to ask more questions before a weekend excursion. These middle aged men were making fun of us, asking, “Where are you from? America?”. Yes, we are from America. Is that shameful? Are we interrupting the locals? In America, we go out to dinner in going out attire and do not feel ashamed or uncomfortable. We sank beneath the table for the rest of the evening, trying to cover our bodies with crossed arms and paper napkins. We finally flagged down the waiter for the check and the ability to leave.

When my roommates and I left the club to search for a taxi, we stumbled upon an older man sitting in the front seat of what seemed to be a taxi cab with its tail lights off. I remember that the four of us were in a deep conversation, recapping the night, the funny moments, and all of the University of Michigan fraternity boys we had just run into. We had only been in Prague for a total of nine hours, so we did not have a grasp of the city, nor could we read Czech street names. We thought we were carefully making it back to the hotel at 1:30 am, successfully navigating the first night in a foreign city. We did remember that the taxi to dinner lasted around 7 minutes, so the ride should not be long. About 10 minutes into the ride, my roommate Gabby realized that we should not be in this car.

Something felt off.

The supposed taxi driver did not have a meter, he was not using a GPS system, and his lights were still shut off. As I would soon learn throughout the next four months, Gabby had an innate sense of direction that baffled me, as my educational testing in ninth grade signified a distinct gap in photographic memory relating to spatial mapping, directions, and retracing my steps. Gabby realized we were close to the hotel, making unnecessary circles and loops. We quickly tried to get out of the moving car but the doors were locked and the language barrier impaired us again. The taxi driver stopped the car and told us “2500 Czech Koruna”, translating to about $100 in American dollars. We had no choice but to oblige. Chloe, sitting in the passenger front seat emptied her purse to find the cash she had just taken out of the ATM and handed the wad of foreign money to the driver as we all tugged on the doors.

We have all taken countless taxis and Ubers, never thinking that scamming tourists may be some recreational activity for an international cab driver.

We ran two blocks to the hotel, minds racing with the possibilities of how this night could have ended. Little did we know this would not be the first time we would run run away from a man to find a sliver of safety.

This would happen again.

Paris

Paris: the number one most beautiful city in the world, the most romantic city in the world, and the home to the most delicious pastries in the world. Paris offers sights of cuddling and kissing on every corner, all kinds of sculpture and paintings rich in French history, and flaky croissants and chocolate pastries creating an irresistible aura on every street. The Louvre, previously a royal palace, is the most visited art museum in the world. The galleries span over 15 acres to showcase the small but mighty Leonardo’s Mona Lisa, magnificent Sphinx of Egypt, and Michelangelo’s Slaves. The Love Lock Bridge outlines the bridges of the Seine River where couples inscribe their names and initials on padlocks, lock them up, and throw the keys into the river. The cafes in are iconic, existing everywhere and always full. You sit at the tiny, round table facing outward toward the street. You people watch, you order the smallest cup of coffee of all time (but never enough caffeine for the Americans used to the Veinti lattes and americanos), and you stay there for hours. The French people are thin, typically ordering nothing but a drink but thought to sit at these cafes drowning in multiple flavored croissants.

The Americans who come into these cafes always cause a scene. They, or we (my four roommates) planned to Uber across Paris to Cafe du Monde, a classic cafe that abroad students deemed a “must”. We are a group of four, so the tiny table won’t work for us and we need to put two or three together for the amount of food we plan to order. We then trek to Musee d l’Orangerie, a modern museum spanning across the Tuileries and showcasing impressionist and post-impressionist paintings. Then, we went shopping down the Champs-Elysees. Like Sauvignon-Blanc white wine, I can pronounce Champs-Elysees as my father often refers to it as one of his favorite streets in the world.

After a long Friday of Ubering and taxi-ing across the city, I decided to meet two of my friends from home for dinner and drinks. One friend, Reading, went to high school with me and was visiting Paris for an art internship to visit the Louvre and the Museu de L’Orangerie for inspiration for a graphic art project. And to visit Paris, her dream destination, for the first time. My other friend, David, is a newer friend I met in my senior year of high school who was visiting Paris with his family. He had been to Paris countless times, even had a place in the Marais. I knew Reading and David would hit it off with a perfect blend of adventure, humor, and carefree energy. I introduced David and Reading and we walked near the Arc de Triomphe, the large monument arch honoring those who fought for France in the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars. We went to classic brasserie, trying escargot (snails that taste like the rich, buttery sauce they come in), french onion soup, croque monsieur (hearty slices of bread with fresh melted swiss cheese and ham), and duck confit (the whole duck leg seasoned and cooked in its own fat until tender enough to fall off the bone). If you couldn’t tell, I am very adventurous with my food. I am the least picky eater and food is my love language. Always has been.

After dinner, we went to this club called “L’Arc” right next to Arc de Triomphe. The clubs in Europe are 18 +, so we walked into the youngest scene of 15-18 year olds. We decided to make a night of it anyway. We sat at a high table for the first hour, from 11:00 pm - 12:00 am, catching up about our experiences. David was studying abroad in Tel Aviv, Israel, and I spent a summer there the year before, so we reminisced about our favorite beach spots. Reading just listened. At around 1:00 am, I decided to leave and meet my friends close by at a Jazz bar for some live music. I invited David and Reading, but they decided to stay, so I let them do their thing.

We said our goodbyes.

I woke up at around 8:45 am on Saturday morning to frantic calls and texts from Reading: 4:07 AM, 4:13 AM, 4:21 AM. I called her immediately and she told me that she and Alex continued their night at L’Arc and then nonchalantly wandered around Paris by the Eiffel Tower at 4:00 AM. Apparently, the beautifully lit Eiffel Tower, the site for charcuterie picnics, wine tastings, and wedding photoshoots turns into a dark tourist trap in the late night/early morning hours of dawn. Reading and Alex were jumped by a gang of four French men who pushed Reading to the floor and Alex swooped down to help her stand. This gave one French man the perfect opportunity to mug David at a point of weakness, stealing his watch, phone, and wallet. David and Reading chased after the stolen belongings, but could not reach the four men running away, laughing hysterically, from the imaginary police who should have been here to step in sooner. Reading’s voice was still shaking with fear and tears streamed down her face at 8:45 AM, unsure if she would ever leave her hotel room until departure.

I could have been there.

Amsterdam

Everyone hears about the wonders of Amsterdam. The precious, soothing canals separating each street, the historic Ann Frank house, the one of a kind Van Gogh museum, the spectacular apple pies and world famous stroopwafels dripping in toffee bits and melty chocolate. Most uniquely, the “coffee shops” where people relax and kick back and the teenagers spill out of these coffee shops with special brownies and goodie bags in hand. Amsterdam is a wondrous city. It almost feels fake; bicycles align each canal bridge, love locks engraved with initials engulf the bridges, the streets are perfectly clean and tidy, and the buildings sit and stagger together like puzzles.

Then people hear about the controversial, yet still wondrous in my eyes, aspects of Amsterdam. I heard to beware the Red Light District: the gorgeous, yet dark, sexy alleyways with crowds of people waiting in line for La Cassa Rossa Sex Show and other secret meetings. The dim-lit windows with half naked women modeling and dancing promiscuously in the windows make me self conscious. I can't help but stare and question why they do this kind of sex work; this career I am trying to comprehend consumes me as I zone out. There are still canals and small ferry boats on the outskirts of the cobblestone streets. Thousands of people are walking beside me, also trying to decipher if this phenomenon of young women as young as fourteen years old living off of prostitution can even be called a wonder of Amsterdam, or if it all a rumor.

In more ways than one, Amsterdam feels illegal. Tourists travel to Amsterdam for the sole purpose of having a good time. Maybe engaging in drugs in a city that encourages them instead of bans them. The smell of weed lingers in every crevice even if I try so hard to ignore it. Everyone else is probably high on shrooms too. A no-judgement, no policing zone. Maybe engaging in sexual acts they otherwise couldn't. But they came to Amsterdam to have fun, to act out, right? I did not travel to Amsterdam to dabble in these secret wonders. Some may call that lame, but my anxiety would call it cautious.

I tried not to judge.

My deep affection for Amsterdam almost diminished in the blink of an eye. As a twenty-one year old female walking through the Red Light District in April, I held so many emotions. Seeing a prostitute in the window that looked just like me was bound to send me spiraling, but silently. Coming from an upbringing where promiscuous and illegal acts were forbidden and taboo, I felt conflicted. I was not looking down on these women, but I was trying to put myself in their shoes. The four other twenty-year old American sorority girls walking hand in hand next to me also went silent. We never really have conversations about the uncomfortable.

I pretended to seem invested in my instagram feed to push difficult truths aside. The woman in the window, seemingly matching my age, began banging on the windows to get my attention with slurs and stares of violence. Her angry face and demonizing words almost broke the glass shaking the ground beneath her. While cowardly shielding my fears behind my phone, thinking I was doing the right thing, she thought I was taking a photo of her.

I was horrified.

I was not taking a photo. I was trying to seem innocent, keeping my head down. I learned later on in the night that you can never take out your phone while walking through the Red Light District. Not only is taking a photo illegal, but it is a major sign of disrespect.

It feels unsettling that Amsterdam remains one of my favorite cities. When I returned home in May, when people wanted to pretend they cared about my travels, they would ask me what my favorite trip was. I'd say Amsterdam - for the colorful tulips and bicycles, for the tasty, warm stroopwafels and apple pie, and for the emotional afternoon in the Anne Frank House. People would nod and listen. No one would really know the pretty, yet twisted truths of Amsterdam until traveling there themselves.

The captured representations of travel hidden in my snow globes were bound to crack and break. The cracks make them unique, surviving battles and teaching lessons to the ones who choose to learn them.

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