Let's face it: I'm in way over my head with this whole university thing. For some reason I decided to become an Honours student, conduct research on perceptual dialectology in South Asia and become an editor of an academic journal. Mistakes were made. Because on top of that, I'm still a runner, a damaged granddaughter and a blogger who is hopelessly behind on her content. It's been a hectic year, with little time to share my travel stories. But we all know mental health is more important than a conspiracy theory about the Titanic. So today I decided to slow down for once and write something fun. Something outside my usual niche. Something that we can all have a good laugh about. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm going to tell you about the beautiful disaster that is my Spotify Wrapped.


I discovered Spotify in 2014. The laptop my grandma gave me for my college career had the app preinstalled. I loved it right from the start. I still prefer CDs though, because I like to have physical copies of the music that I absolutely love. Since 2014, Spotify has kept me from so many financial disasters in the music world. Getting a feel for artists before buying an entire album is my favorite thing about Spotify. This year was a little different though. In January, I discovered the Desi category. Since that day, I've been looking forward to the complete mess that 2019's Spotify Wrapped would be. And I'm not surprised that even though Spotify claimed that my taste changed with the seasons, all of the are heavily influenced by Bollywood. Winter still looks a lot like what you'd expect from a basic white girl, with Mike Posner represented twice. Spring is when I started learning Hindi and decided to listen to the Bollywood Blast playlist on the train to university. It escalated from there, but Spring was also when I really started to get into The 1975. No surprises here.


Summer is more of the same, like Spring but amplified. This is how I'll remember 2019 when it comes to music. I listened to Bollywood Blast all the time while studying for finals. My friends thought I'd finally lost it, until I explained that listening to music in a language you don't speak is ideal if you want music in the background of your study sessions without it becoming a distraction (and then I shot myself in the foot by learning Hindi). Spotify, however, decided that this slide should be accompanied by a fragment from Pressure by The 1975. With good reason. I listened to this song on repeat in the early days of summer. After my grandma's death in May, I became a bit of an insomniac, prone to nightly episodes of pure panic. I'd sit for hours at my desk, just staring at my laptop and panicking badly unless Pressure was playing on repeat. That's how I'll remember the summer of 2019; The dark half of twilight and Pressure. I'm okay with that, bittersweet as it now seems.


Then Fall came. And I literally don't know of the artists shown on that slide. Here's the thing: I can't afford Spotify Premium at this point in my life, so whenever I'm out and about, I am forced to listen to albums and playlists on shuffle. At some point, I just stopped paying attention to the artists in playlists that weren't my own. As a result, I know that I must have listened to these artists; I just can't name any of their songs.

Moving on to my favorite artist of the year. I was worried about this one; the forced shuffle might have skewed this category in favor of some Indian dude as well. But I needn't have worried. My artist of the year is The 1975, which none of my friends will find surprising. Apparently I listened to their music for 17 hours just on Spotify. Not counting the times I listened to my physical copy of their album. And definitely not counting those endless days out of the African roads, when I was listening to So Far (It's Alright) on repeat all day. These 17 hours are just the tip of the iceberg. What's worse: I can exactly pinpoint those 17 hours. A few nights in June and three weeks in November made up the bulk of them. By the way, I'm very skeptic about Chocolate being my favorite song of theirs. You know, the sleepless nights with Pressure and all that. But I digress. And no, Spotify, I don't want to thank The 1975 for being my favorite artist of the decade. There's nothing more awkward and anxiety-inducing to me than tweeting a popular band. They have more than enough random fans bothering them as is.


My World Citizen slide once again confirms that I mainly listen to South Asian music and The 1975. Spotify's pick for my US artist is hilarious: They picked Khalid. I haven't listened to the guy's music in ages. To make it even better, they paired his picture with Halsey's verse from Eastside. Great job guys, great job. And then this gift keeps on giving: I get Davina Michelle for my Dutch pick, and I listened to one song of hers maybe four times before the radio killed it. My fifth country to show up here is Puerto Rico, represented by a guy named Farruko. I have literally no idea who this man is. Neither his face, nor his name, nor his song ring any bells.


The next slide might not be able to top the absolute mess that the previous one was, but it sure is a beautiful mess too. Spotify tries to claim I'm genre-fluid, but they really had to work hard to come up with more than three genres. Pop, I understand. Latin, sure, I have a vague memory of a few trips to uni with Spanish instead of Hindi. But then we get a lot of variations on Indian pop. Good effort, Spotify, but you really didn't have to call me genre-fluid when I so clearly do not fit the label.


Finally, I can get to my songs of the year. I only recognize Mike Posner's Move On at first sight, and Leah Nobel's Coffee Sunday NYT. Leah Nobel was my favorite artist when I first got dragged into the weird world of Caroline Calloway. Her song fits the lazy influencer vibe that Calloway gives off. It calms me down when I'm panicking. It's a good song. The same goes for the Hindi songs on this list. Okay, maybe half. The other half just somehow always pops up in the forced shuffle.


So 2019 was... interesting in terms of music. But Spotify Wrapped doesn't end there. No, I suddenly get to hear Sheppard as the start of my decade recap. A true blast from the past - the last time I listened to Sheppard must have been July 2018. My interest in the band decreased rapidly after 2016. It's not the only thing that has decreased over the years though: My time spent on Spotify is also significantly less than it used to be. I love the graph with this information. It shows exactly when I was stressed and miserable. The moment I started university, I didn't need to rely on music for my happiness anymore.


My songs of the decade are accurate. I moved on from my favorite band from my high school days, Train, to generic pop to depressing pop to awful Dutch rap music. Then came George Ezra and I ended up with South Asian tunes and The 1975. I've grown and changed a lot, just like my list shows. I'm no longer the girl who listened to Train because it reminded her of home in the US. I'm now that weird old university student who listens to music in a language she barely speaks. It's all good though. This really is who I am. But I do feel attacked by 2017. I was going through a lot when I listened to De Jeugd Van Tegenwoordig. I didn't need a reminder of that lapse in my judgment!


Spotify saved the biggest surprise of them all for the very end: My artist of the decade. And it's SHEPPARD. My first guess would have been Train. The 1975. Even De Jeugd Van Tegenwoordig would have made more sense since the dark days of June 2017 were full of Sterrenstof, the only song of theirs that I can tolerate. But Sheppard... I loved them in 2015. I still like their music. But I rarely listen to them. I have no idea how they became my artist of the decade. Oh well. Weird things happen. Let's focus on next year now. My main goal when it comes to music: Making my Spotify Wrapped for 2020 and the next decade even more chaotic than this one.

I've always been obsessed with stories. Even as a small kid, I used to read them, make them up, write them. And at some point, I decided to share my stories with the world, on this blog. That's how I got the idea that maybe, just maybe, if I told stories of my travels, I could show people how beautiful our planet is. Maybe I'd inspire some people to take better care of our world. Call it the idealism of a not-quite-millennial girl if you want. But it was one of the main reasons why I was looking forward to spending a few weeks in Africa this summer. It was going to be one big adventure, it would make for weeks of amazing blog posts that would maybe provide food for thought for more people than just me and my dad. Africa completely lived up to those expectations. While I was there, I couldn't wait to start writing.

But then I came home... and I couldn't do it. No matter how often I tried, how often I picked up a pen, how often I searched the right words, my message would fall flat every time. The words sounded bland compared to my memories. It just didn't feel right. I was trying to tell stories that I wasn't ready to share yet. So I decided to keep them to myself a little longer. Africa taught me so much, and as long as I haven't fully learned those lessons, I can't turn them into blog posts like I've been doing for years.

Now, in November, I still think about those few warm weeks in August on an almost daily basis. When I walk through the forest next to the athletics track I train at, I sometimes feel like I'm back in the Okavango Delta. Every now and then, my train home turns into a mokoro. Unexpected noises coming from the backyard still scare the living daylight out of me. Stories from Africa cross my mind in those moments, and that's when I know: Soon I'll be telling those stories. Soon, but not now. For now, I'll just share this picture of a baby elephant. Because baby elephants can brighten any day.

It was my dad's idea. It's always my dad's idea. As soon as we stay somewhere for more than three days, he wants to rent bicycles. He can't help it. It's in his Dutch DNA. So if it's anyone's fault, it's my own. I should've said "no" after what happened in Laos. But I didn't. When my dad came up with the idea to rent mountain bikes in Bratislava, I said "yes" loud and clear. I told him it was a great idea to cycle to Devín Castle on the Austrian border. So when I ended up in a garden center, my clothes soaking wet from the rain, waiting for a new mountain bike with no flat tires, I really had no one but myself to blame.

In hindsight, everything hinted at a negative outcome from the start. When we wanted to make a reservation for three bikes, we already ran into trouble. The rental place was closed the day before we wanted to go cycling. Luckily, people at the tourist information office were able to get in touch with the owner and by the end of the day, we had a reservation and put down a deposit. But when we showed up to pick up our bikes the next day... there was once again no one there. It started to rain. My parents and I huddled together under a pent. Every minute seemed to last an hour. I was getting cold. A big part of me just wanted to go back to bed. I was sure the owner was not going to show up, but we'd already put down the deposit and leaving didn't feel like an option.

Just when I was about to turn around and go back to my botel, the owner of the rental place showed up on an electric scooter. He did not see it as a problem that he'd kept us waiting for half an hour. Both my dad and I were very annoyed already, but put our annoyance aside so we could finally hit the road. We got our mountain bikes, and a normal bike for my mom so she wouldn't have to put extra strain on her bad back. Almost an hour later than planned, we finally left for Devín Castle.

Rain kept falling steadily as we followed the boulevard along the Danube towards the Austrian border. We had 10 kilometers ahead of us, which is not that much for the average Dutch person. Despite the rain, and despite my brakes screeching loudly every time I touched them, I was optimistic. So far, things looked better than they'd done in Laos. The boulevard had a beautiful lane for cyclists. I loved it. And then it ended.

First, the signs along the boulevard disappeared. Since the first one I'd seen said "9.8 km", I'd assumed this nice boulevard would take me all the way to Devín Castle. But not long after I'd spotted that sign, the boulevard ended. No signs were pointing me in the right direction, so I just stayed as close to the Danube as possible. After a while, we had to go off-road. Dirt sprayed everywhere. The paths were very rocky. My butt was starting to hurt already, but I was also enjoying myself. Slovakia was silent and cold that morning, gradually turning green in the first days of Spring. The small forest we cycled through was beautiful. Sadly, that part of the journey soon ended, as the path ended when we came across a road. Not quite a highway, much busier than a backroad. There was no bicycle lane, so we just cycled on the main road, pretending we were cars. Occasionally we'd pass a house, cars passed us by every few minutes. It was still raining. My mood dropped. I wanted to pick up the pace, but my mom had different plans. Out of nowhere, she stopped and yelled: "Go on without me!"

My mom had a full-on dramatic outburst in the middle of Slovakian nowhere. She had tears in her eyes when she told my dad and me that she couldn't go on. She thought her back was letting her down once again. She said she just didn't have the power in her legs to turn the paddles around. I'm not going to lie, I rolled my eyes when she said those things. I love her, but I knew this had nothing to do with her body letting her down. That was simply impossible: One second she'd been right by my side, the next she was 20 meters behind saying she couldn't do it. I know my mom, this was very unlike her. Something else had to be up. My dad looked at her bike and solved the mystery: she had a flat tire. We all looked at each other. There was only one thing to say.
"Now what?"


My phone told me we were right in between the center of Bratislava and Devín Castle. Smack dab in the middle, five kilometers either way. That's a long walk, especially when it's cold and rainy. My dad asked me for my phone, so he could call the guy who'd rented us our bikes. I gave my dad my phone, but he handed it back because he didn't know how to dial the number on the business card he'd put in his pocket for instances like this one. I dialed the number and fled. My dad can be intimidating when he's angry. When he hung up, he was furious.
"Now what?" I asked again.
"That idiot said we should call a cab and come back. And he ain't paying for that cab. Well, neither am I." He looked around. "I'm going up to that house over there. Maybe someone can help us."
My dad disappeared, leaving my mom and me behind. I couldn't help but be reminded of Laos and my dad having to fix his bike between the rice fields. The big difference between then and now was that we had been close to our hotel in Luang Prabang. Now, we were an hour's walk away.

When my dad returned, he was accompanied by a Slovakian man.
"I'm getting a ride to the city center," my dad grumbled.
"What about us?" my mom asked. "Shall we stay here?"
"You could go inside," the Slovakian man suggested. "There's a... an... arboretum there."
My mom looked at me. I looked at her. "Okay. Why not?"

The arboretum turned out to be a garden center. My mom and I both like gardening, so we decided to walk around. The place appeared to be deserted. Although the plants were beautiful. I was starting to feel uncomfortable. It was too quiet. A memory of Percy Jackson's visit to Auntie M's Garden Emporium popped up in the back of my mind. I decided to talk about the misshapen fruits on a lemon tree to convince my mom that I wasn't freaking out. Every little noise made me jump. The situation was surreal. "This is how people die" is what I imagined my friends would say. How do a Dutch girl and her mom end up in a deserted Slovakian garden center in the middle of nowhere? I was balancing on the verge of hysterics. Then I rounded a corner and my heart stopped.


A person was standing right in front of me. A woman in overalls, most probably a garden center employee. I literally jumped when I saw her. And then she asked the question I least expected in that situation.
"Would you like a cup of tea?"
My first reaction was to decline. I said my dad would be back any minute and my mom and I would just wander around for a bit. But as the rain fell down harder and harder, we got colder and colder. My dad was still nowhere to be seen after what felt like an eternity. So my mom and I went to the house next to the gate and asked if the offer still stood. Five minutes later, we were all sat on the front porch, talking about quinces.

It was the most bizarre situation I'd been in for as long as I could remember. The rain kept on falling and as the temperature dropped, we were invited into the office. There was a beautiful shrub full of flowers that gave off an amazing smell. After getting stranded in the middle of Slovakian nowhere, I was now sat in the office of a garden center next to a Caribbean plant. I couldn't help but laugh. "This is so bizarre," I told my mom a thousand times. Never in a million years did I expect to end up in such a situation. But I was grateful for it. I could go to the bathroom there and when my dad showed up with a new bike, we all got another cup of tea.

Around noon, we left the garden center. It was called Agapé and had ties with Boskoop, the place where I got for my long jump training. Bizarre as the entire encounter might have been, I'll never forget the kind Slovakians who offered us help, shelter and tea on that rainy day. They made a bigger impression on me than Devín Castle, which we eventually did reach. None of the bikes had any issues again. Yet with Laos in the back of my mind, and this Slovakian experience leaving me flabbergasted, I couldn't help but think: What will happen next time when my dad says "Let's rent bicycles"?

I've often talked about how much I like trains. They're great. But there's another mode of transportation that I like just as much, yet rarely get to enjoy: the boat. 2019 has been a good year for boat trips so far though. In February, I went to Dordrecht by boat and on a sunny day in April, I boarded a boat that would take me from Vienna to Bratislava. Things got even better when I got off the Twin City Liner in the Slovakian capital. Because right next to the mooring place for the ferry was Botel Gracia, the hotel where I'd be staying for the duration of my stay.

Sleeping in a botel had been a dream of mine since my mom explained six-year-old me the difference between a hotel and a motel. I'd jokingly asked her if a botel was a thing too. When she said yes, all I wanted was to stay at one. It took sixteen years to happen, but the wait only fueled my excitement. I had so many questions when I walked to Botel Gracia. Would I get seasick? Or riversick, as this boat was on the Danube? Would the rooms be cramped, like on a submarine? Would the riverside be safe or scary at night?


As soon as I stepped aboard the botel, I knew I was not going to be seasick. The Gracia was a big ship and barely moved in the fast currents of the Danube. While my dad checked us in, I wandered off to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, mesmerized by the river outside. The most exciting thing to float past was a duck, and I loved it.

We'd arrived before midday, so after dumping our luggage, my parents and I left the boat to explore Bratislava. Although there is a sightseeing bus, we decided to walk. The map we'd picked up at the front desk showed that all the major sights were within walking distance. Within five minutes, we'd reached the city center. It was a sunny day, and because we were so exhausted from walking almost 20 kilometers through Vienna the previous day, we just sat down on a bench to enjoy the weather.

With the boat as our base, we planned short trips into the city. One in the morning, one in the afternoon, with a boat break in between. It was an atypical plan for the Fisher family, but it worked under the circumstances. We were all tired, me from university deadlines, my parents from worrying about my grandmother who'd just been hospitalized. My grandad had given us his blessing to go on this trip, as there was nothing we could do for him and his wife by staying at home, but we made sure to keep up to date on the situation by returning to the boat's wifi at a regular interval.


Our adventures in Bratislava were small. They started on the second day of our stay with a visit to Bratislava Castle, a mere ten minutes away from my hotel room. We could have reached the castle in seven minutes, but I was still doing a half-limp when walking uphill due to a calf injury. Once I'd made it up to the castle, I basically wanted to go down again right away. The building was renovated and redesigned so many times that it now looks odd. I felt strangely uncomfortable. The castle looks like it belongs in every single century it lived through, from the 9th till now, or in no century at all...

After leaving the anachronistic castle behind, we walked to the other major landmarks we spotted on our map, all close by. We saw the Blue Church (do not recommend) and Michael's Gate, but I personally enjoyed simply strolling down the old streets the most. They're charming in that calm Eastern European kind of way that Western Europe just lacks. I calmed down a bit in Bratislava, realizing I didn't need to hurry of worry about what was to come. I think Bratislava is the most relaxed European capital I've ever visited, and it reflected on my own usually stressed mind. Later in the afternoon of that day, my parents and I took a walk along the Danube, crossing a bridge to the other side. I went down to the water, sat between trees as I dipped my fingers in the icy cold Danube and thought to myself: This place is perfect.


I slept well in my bed on a boat, but woke up to rain on the third day. We rented mountain bikes to visit Devín Castle, but believe me when I say that that deserves a blog post of its own. When I returned to the botel that afternoon, I crashed on my bed and didn't get up until it was time for dinner.

It was still raining on our fourth day in Bratislava, and I wanted to stay on the boat all day. My parents convinced me to go out and explore the city once more. We walked to a Russian cemetery, which was my idea, as I hadn't seen a graveyard from up close yet and that usually is part of my routine when I visit a new city. This cemetery was the resting place of Russian soldiers who died while liberating Slovakia from the Nazis in the Second World War. It's odd for a girl from Western Europe to see statues honoring the Red Army, but those are the experiences that make traveling so interesting. I got the chance to see history through Slovakian eyes, and in those eyes, the Russians weren't all bad. Although the state of the cemetery seemed to imply that the current generations don't care as much anymore...


That night, the rain stopped pouring. We decided to stay on the boat and have dinner in the botel's restaurant on the top deck. The view we had from there was amazing. Night fell relatively early, and the weird but famous UFO bridge lit up just a couple of dozen meters away from our boat. The spotlights on Bratislava Castle turned on. For some reason, all those lights made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I left the boat with my dad around 9PM to take pictures of the riverfront with its bridge and view of the castle. All the pictures turned out awful, but the short walk and the views were worth the effort.

I was happy when I went to bed that night. Four days in Bratislava is a lot to explore the relatively small city, maybe a bit too much, but I'd had a good time. Most important of all: I'd finally had my botel stay. But would I surprise anyone when I say I hope to go back someday? Probably not. Because as usual, I already have new Slovakian adventures in mind that I hope to turn into reality.

I think I convinced at least a few people in my life in 2015 when I said that I'd had a great time in Vienna. A visit to the Austrian capital was part of the curriculum of the teacher training program I was attending at the time. As the years went by, however, cracks appeared in my carefully constructed lie. I admitted that, okay, not the entire field trip had been fun. And okay, I really didn't like the hysterics displayed by classmates when they talked about princess Sissi and the House of Habsburg. And yes, I did lock myself in my room with two others and lots of Chinese food, because I didn't want to spend my money on a mandatory visit to the ballet. Early this year, I said what I should have said four years ago: My first time in Vienna was awful. So my second visit, in April of this year, served one purpose: reclaiming the city that had been ruined for me by others.

When I landed at Vienna's airport, I was hit by a wave of memories. The museums I was forced to visit. The disgusted looks shot my way when I said I didn't care for an old and gone monarchy. The exaggerated, ear-piercing screams of "SISSI" whenever we visited a palace. I was determined not to find myself in such ridiculous situations again. Luckily, this trip was a family vacation, and although my parents and I clash from time to time, we are on the same page when it comes to Sissi and high culture: we prefer not to associate with those things.


We arrived in the city late in the afternoon. In fact, we arrived so late that we weren't sure about eating out. My mom was in favor of staying in for a meal of bread and yogurt. I was not a fan of that plan. Not only was I hungry, I also wanted to go to a restaurant called Schnitzelwirt. My parents had been telling me about this restaurant for ages. They'd found it on their first trip to Vienna in the late 80s and now, well over 30 years later, they were still talking about the place. I was not going to let the chance to go there slide just because we'd arrived at our hostel after 6PM. I showed my parents that the legendary Schnitzelwirt of their stories was only a short walk away according to Google. An hour later, I was eating an insanely delicious schnitzel that barely fit on the enormous plate it was served on. We shared our table with Southern European tourists. The decor reminded me of old people's living rooms. It was all exactly like my parents had told me, even after all those years. My efforts of reclaiming Vienna were off to a great start.

The next morning, the city was up bright and early, buzzing with anticipation for the Vienna marathon. My dad and I, both runners, looked up the route and found out that the front runners would come close to our hostel soon enough. We packed our bags for the day and headed out to see some of the best marathon runners in the world compete. It took us a while to find the right spot, and then it took a while longer for the runners to get to that point, but it filled me with excitement to see the leaders of the race run past me at a pace that would kill me within 600 meters.

We walked towards the city center after applauding the first women in the race. We followed the Mariahilfer Straße until we reached the Naturhistorisches and Kunsthistorisches Museum. My parents and I discussed our previous visits to the city. None of us wanted to repeat those visits, so we opted out of Schloss Belvedère, the Stephansdom and several museums, and didn't have the original Sachertorte at Café Sacher. Don't believe what the masses say when they tell you that Sachertorte is amazing. I was glad I didn't have to eat it again. Instead, we went to the Danube and got information about the Twin City Liner, the boat that would bring us to the Slovakian capital Bratislava the next day.

From the banks of the Danube, I could see the rides of the Prater, a small amusement park that reminds me of Dutch funfairs. I'd been there in 2015, but hadn't had the chance to ride the century-old Ferris wheel. None of my classmates had wanted to go, because they thought it looked "unsafe", and I didn't want to do it by myself because of my vertigo. But my parents were willing to join me on that sunny day in April, even though my mom's vertigo is worse than mine, so we started walking to the Prater. Our tickets weren't cheap, but soon I was 65 meters up in the air, taking in the view of the city from the top of a 122-year-old Ferris wheel.

Once my feet were safely back on the ground, it was time for lunch. We had no activities planned anymore, so we decided to head to the Danube Channel after a quick bite to eat. I couldn't wait: I'd already spotted some amazing pieces of street art along the Danube channel. With my parents in tow, I spent the rest of the afternoon sprinting from piece to piece, pointing out work from Dutch artists, telling about different techniques and admiring the artistry. And of course, I left some of my own stickers near the pieces I liked best.


Towards the end of the afternoon, my feet and legs started to hurt. We'd walked more than 15 kilometers already. All of us were tired. My mom wanted to go back to our hostel to take a nap. And although my bed looked a little bit like heaven after dragging my sore body from the waterside back to our hostel near Westbahnhof, I could not lie down. My mind was restless. The bad memories from 2015 were being pushed away already by new, much better memories. No one had forced me to go to museums I wasn't interested in; Instead, I'd found art in the streets. I'd rediscovered Vienna on my own terms with people I loved. But there was one thing on my mind that kept bugging me. I needed to go back to Schloss Schönbrunn.

Despite the pain in my legs, my dad and I left the hostel for a brief visit to Schloss Schönbrunn, maybe the most famous of all the residences of the Habsburgs. I'd visited the palace on my college field trip and hadn't liked it. I personally just don't enjoy looking at furniture and being expected to fawn over it because a dead monarch once sat on or lay on it. Back in 2015, I just wanted to explore the palace gardens and bring my life motto into practice: "I see a hill, I climb it." Eventually, I had gotten the chance to make it up the hill, but at a snail's pace as I had to stay close to the other students. There was no time to admire the statues of Greek gods and heroes. People were complaining. It wasn't fun. This time would be different.

My dad and I zigzagged between tourists and speed-walked to the foot of the hill behind Schloss Schönbrunn. We pointed out some of the statues, challenging each other to identify the hero or god, turning it into a competition without saying so. Everything is a competition between me and my dad, but as we started walking up the hill, we left our competitiveness behind. The most important thing became reaching the top together, which was more challenging than ever: I'd injured my calf in February. A tiny tear in the muscle tissue hadn't fully healed yet, and the scar tissue got irritated as I walked up the hill. My dad and I slowed down. Every now and then, I walked backward for a bit, as it relieved the stress on the scar tissue. I felt ridiculous, but could also laugh about it. It didn't matter how I'd get to the top, as long as I'd get there.


And I made it. I made it without hurting myself. I made it without my dad having to carry me. I simply made it. I stood there, breathing more heavily than I'd like to admit. As I looked out over the palace gardens and Vienna, I calmed down. I realized I'd reached my goal. I'd overcome not only the traumas originally associated with my time in the teacher training program, but also the lingering negativity that had attached itself to the Austrian capital. I'd replaced all of it with experiences that made me happy. I stood there, tired but proud. My dad took a picture of me to commemorate that important moment, even though he didn't know half of how much it all meant to me. And as I smirked for the camera, I mentally addressed all the teachers who'd wronged me. Two words came mind, followed by three more.
"Suck it. Vienna is mine."

A lynch mob gathered outside the Gevangenpoort, The Hague's prison, on August 20, 1672. Inside the prison are the brothers De Witt. Johan, grand pensionary of the Dutch Republic, was rushed over to the prison to help his brother Cornelis, who was suspected of treason against the Stadtholder and was subjected to torture sessions in the basement of the Gevangenpoort. The angry mob outside on the streets of the Hague was calling for the brothers' heads. The two men are trapped. Before they know it, people break into the Gevangenpoort. Johan and Cornelis are killed, ripped to pieces just outside the prison. A finger and tongue which supposedly belonged to the brothers are still kept in a Dutch museum as morbid memorabilia.
Well over three centuries later, I was standing in the same room where Cornelis de Witt had spent his last days on Earth and thought to myself: How the hell did I end up here?

I'd come across museum De Gevangenpoort online while planning a day trip to The Hague with my mom. The city is close to Rotterdam and I hadn't been there in ages, so it was a perfect choice for my Twelve Cities Challenge. Although the city has plenty to offer in terms of shopping, food and art, my mom and I wanted to spend our time learning a bit more about the history of The Hague, which is central to The Netherlands as a modern constitutional monarchy. We already knew we wanted to visit the Binnenhof, where our parliament is located, but the Gevangenpoort seemed like a good addition, as it would introduce us to lesser-known parts of Dutch history. Granted, I'm very interested in Medieval prisons and torture chambers. I have odd interests, I know. My mom isn't a big fan of such things, so we planned some more light-hearted activities as well. We wanted to go shopping at De Passage and visit Chinatown, but first and foremost: we would be going to the Binnenhof and the Gevangenpoort.

When we arrived in The Hague by train, it was cold and gray; a normal Dutch day in March if I've ever seen one. We walked from The Hague Central Station to the Binnenhof, directed by small signs. You really can't miss it, although it comes as a surprise when you reach the place. None of the streets leading up to it, nor the gate, imply that you're about to enter a historical place. Within a few steps, my mom and I left the 21st century behind us and entered the timeless epicenter of the Dutch democracy. We sat down on a bench opposite the Ridderzaal (literally translated: "Knight's Hall") and talked about the current political climate.


We looked at the Asian tourists posing for pictures, but kept an eye out for famous politicians. There's always a chance of spotting a party leader or minister, since parliament is based in one of the many buildings of the Binnenhof, as well as most politicians' offices. Sadly, we had no luck. After a while, we stood up and walked on, past al the buildings dating back to the Middle Ages and the Dutch Golden Age. I even got the chance to feel tall in a tiny archway. We strolled along the Hofvijver, taking in the view of "het torentje", the small tower housing the office of our Prime Minister. Then we crossed the street, and found ourselves in front of museum De Gevangenpoort.

At first, we didn't notice that we were standing in front of the museum. The entrance is a non-distinct door everyone walks past without noticing it. I double-checked the address and the signs next to the door. I didn't dare enter, convinced this wasn't the right place. Yet all the signs said so. I stepped through the door hesitantly. There was a small courtyard, and a souvenir shop where you can buy tickets to the museum (beautiful tickets with pictures of old Dutch art on them, I have to add). Fifteen minutes later, our guided tour started.

We started out in the courtyard before entering the actual prison and its cells. In every one of the rooms, our guide told us more about Dutch history as well as the history of the Gevangenpoort, which were often intertwined. Vague memories of my 11th-grade history classes slowly came back to me as I wandered the small, cramped hallways.

The first part of the tour brought us to the cells where the convicts from the lower social classes were kept, including children, often dozens at a time. They had to stay in a dark, small room, the door of which was so low that even I, standing at a measly 1.67m tall, almost hit my head against the top of the door frame as I stepped into the cell. The next stops were more accessible and comfortable, although equally gloomy.


Our tour guide took us to the attic of the Gevangenpoort next, where the most disgusting torture equipment was on display. I found it strangely fascinating to see the rack, nooses, and branding irons, which were used to burn criminal records directly into the skins of those who broke the law. The use of every piece of equipment was calmly explained. It sent shivers down my spine.

The tour moved on to the cell of Cornelis de Witt, which was the most normal room in the entire building. It looked more like the early modern equivalent of a studio apartment than anything else, yet the story of Cornelis and his brother's death filled the room with darkness. It's always a humbling experience to walk in the footsteps of a famous historical figure, but this time it made me feel slightly uncomfortable. Little did I know the last stop of the tour would be much worse.


The guide led us to the cellar. It was a small room with old fashioned tiles in Delft Blue on the walls. The tiles had been haphazardly applied, some broken, many upside down. It didn't matter; they had been bought at a low price as rejects from the factory, chosen because it was easy to wipe the blood off of them. The cellar of the Gevangenpoort had once been a torture chamber. Centuries earlier, Cornelis de Witt had been tortured for hours n end so he'd admit to his alleged treason. No matter what they did to him, Cornelis kept his mouth shut. I found myself staring at specific tiles, wondering if he'd been staring at the exact same ones while his body was almost torn apart. The sight of those tiles imprinted itself on my brain.

As my mom and I left the Gevangenpoort behind us, we were both a bit blown away by everything we'd learned about our national history. Although the topic had been gruesome, we were glad we'd planned the visit. We spent the rest of the day shopping, looking at architecture and just having a good time. But looking back on all the things we did that day in The Hague, nothing came even close to my experiences at the Gevangenpoort.

I never understood the concept of hate following. Actively dedicating part of your time to looking at content you don't enjoy seemed the most pointless thing ever to me. Besides, with a climate crisis, Brexit and Trump's possible impeachment on our hands, I like to keep my social media feeds a bit more light-hearted and positive than our current reality is. Hate follows do not fit those criteria. So picture my surprise when March rolled around and I found myself hate following Caroline Calloway.

Caroline Calloway caught my attention in the early days of this year. Like many others, I'd never heard of this New York-based influencer before a Twitter thread about her "creativity workshop" went viral. The workshops were supposed to be part of a tour, which was canceled, uncanceled, called "a scam" by internet dwellers and was ridiculed all over social media. I followed every second of the drama that ensued, laughed at Calloway's lack of skills in the event management department, lost it when she got stuck with over a thousand mason jars in her teeny tiny studio apartment and made sure to share this beautiful mess with my closest blogger friends. I checked Calloway's Instagram stories at least twice a day, until the drama blew over (at least on this side of the Atlantic Ocean). That's when I finally hit the follow button.

At first, following Caroline Calloway was just about being the first to see the next installment in the Scam Saga. But after a week or two, I was following with genuine interest. The hate, which is a strong word for me anyway, subsided. I was confused about the content she put out and absolutely unimpressed, but interested nonetheless. Later on, I learned that I'd joined the madness long after Calloway rose to fame with her long captions on posts about her time as an American student in Cambridge and that her current content had little to do with her original brand. Not that I cared. Because the things she does on Instagram now are oddly fascinating.


I can't say I truly like any of the things Calloway makes. "Like" is too strong a word for how I feel about her content. I'm also not interested in any of the things she's interested in. I don't obsess over art unless it's been spraypainted on a wall and I don't care for Oxbridge and the prestige linked with it. Neither do I like sharing every single little detail of my life online, the only thing Calloway seems to be doing these days. It dawned on me that I was hate following this girl just to see her make more dumb mistakes. I wasn't proud of this at all and told myself to unfollow her. But I couldn't do it. I kid you not, as my finger hovered over the button, I thought to myself: "I'm going to miss the plant content..."

I couldn't do it. I couldn't unfollow her. So I didn't. Just for her plants. Deep down, I did kind of like what Calloway showed the world in her Instagram stories: the small studio apartment, all the plants, her art. She showed me a variation of the life I was dreaming of, a life full of creativity. I hated to admit it, but I wanted that kind of life too. Minus the unexplainable Caroline antics. Every few days I found myself looking at her content and going WTF out loud. There are plenty of articles and Twitter threads to fill you in on all the weird and questionable things this influencer has done. Believe me, it's all highly entertaining. I often find myself laughing out loud over how disconnected from the real world she can be. And, in a weird way, that inspires me.

You see, Calloway sells her art on Instagram. It's not my cup of tea. If you want my uncensored opinion, I'd say that it's nothing more than an overpriced crafts project. She used to sell minimalist paintings of boobs for $40 and is still making copies of Matisse's Blue Nudes, which are usually priced at $140. Most of the time I just roll my eyes and move on when I see these pieces of influencer art, but sometimes I see something so bad that I just have to make my own version of it, to prove that anyone can do it, and that I can do it better. In some weird and twisted way, Caroline Calloway is now my muse when it comes to painting.


The first time I made Caroline Calloway inspired art, it took me two days - a long time compared to the two hours it takes her to cut out a shape created by Matisse, glue it onto store-bought paper and slap a $140 price tag on it. My own project started as an attempt to prove that you can be inspired by Matisse while still adding your own flavor to the work. I kept the position Matisse's Blue Nude is in, but redrew it in my own style. It took me an entire day to get the figure right, mostly because my drawing skills are a bit rusty. Since I do like the paper with stars and constellations that Calloway used when she first started her Matisse series, I kept with that theme and placed the figure in a black night sky. By the end of the second day, I had my own "dreamer bb". Art inspired by Caroline Calloway's Matisse-inspired art. Very meta.

During those two days of being artsy, I kept checking on Calloway's Instagram stories. It was almost like I was making art with someone else, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. This realization pushed me into a bit of an existential crisis: I didn't genuinely like Calloway's content, did I? It all felt so paradoxical. I couldn't figure my own feelings towards this influencer out, so I did the only thing that seemed to fit the situation: Make more art. I sketched two more figures in different positions and painted their silhouettes onto pages of an old book that was on it's way to the dump, creating a triptych. I daydreamed about selling my art at reasonable prices. I learned more about anatomy. I learned how to handle my paintbrush better. I learned how to make a speed paint video. I learned so much.

In the end, I came to the finish that it really doesn't matter how I feel about Caroline Calloway and her content. The world keeps turning, no matter what I do. I don't have to support Calloway financially, which I won't, and I definitely don't have to follow her. But I choose to follow her, no matter how conflicting my feelings about her content can be, because at the end of the day, it leads to me making art and enjoying it. As long as it doesn't come from a feeling of hate, but a feeling of curiosity and confusion, I think it's a wonderful thing that could only come out of an era like ours.

Half an eternity ago, I was in the process of throwing my goals for 2019 out of the window. It was January, the nights were long, the days were short and I was bored out of my mind. Everything I wrote down was either not exciting enough, or was bound to happen anyway, regardless of how hard I'd work. Then Ella from Ella Was Here came to the rescue and challenged me to visit a new city each month of the year. The Twelve Cities Challenge was born. I went to Paris for January, but had to stay a lot closer to home for February because of university assignments. After a quick glance at the map of my country, I knew exactly where I wanted to go: Dordrecht.

Dordrecht is a small city very close to Rotterdam. It's not very well-known, often ridiculed in a local saying, but . You can reach Dordrecht within minutes if you take the train from Rotterdam Central station, or you can take the Waterbus, a boat. Paying the fare works the exact same way is it works for all other public transport in the Rotterdam area; if you don't have an "OV chipkaart", you buy an RET day ticket and scan it upon getting aboard the boat. Even though I love trains, I like boats even better, mostly because I rarely get the opportunity to go anywhere by boat. I'd followed this route once before, back when I was in kindergarten, but barely remembered it. It was time to really get to know this city so surprisingly close to home, yet so unknown. So on a sunny day way back in February, I got on the Waterbus to Dordrecht.


As usual, I arrived at my destination with no plan at all. Actually, that's not entirely true. I'd thought about doing a street art route and had the vague idea of walking to the city center, whichever way that may be. Neither of those plans was thought through, so after picking a friend up at the quay where I got off the boat, I did what I always do when I don't know what to do in a new place: I started walking.


The walk to the city center would have taken no more than a few minutes... if I hadn't gotten distracted by just about everything along the way. Dordrecht became a city in 1220 and wasn't bombed to pieces in the Second World War, so it has something Rotterdam doesn't have: old, monumental buildings from centuries ago. Many of the streets in and around the city center are small, winding and flanked by high, small houses from the 19th century and earlier. Some of these houses are now antique shops or sell vintage items. I spent ages windowshopping - until I saw the water of the marina.
As in many parts of my country, water is everywhere in Dordrecht. But whereas Amsterdam has its canals and Rotterdam has the river Maas dividing the city in two, Dordrecht's water isn't as omnipresent. It's been turned into a marina some time in the Middle Ages. The marina is relatively small, very cute and a perfect example of an old Dutch cityscape. Countless little boats and yachts bob up and down gently in the calm water. There is literally not much more to do than walk along the quays and look at all the sails, gear and old boats, but that's exactly what makes the place so charming. I could feel the stress leaving my body as I took pictures of the marina. I could have stayed there for hours, just looking at the water, oblivious even to the Pokémon Go players who had come to Dordrecht that day for a community event.


A million pictures of boats later, I decided it was time for lunch. My friend and I discussed our plans for the rest of the day over sandwiches: We'd do the street art route, look at the Church of Our Lady, go to the comic book store I vaguely remembered from a visit almost two decades ago, then catch the boat back home. I have to admit I did a terrible job preparing this short day trip. I couldn't find the street art route online anymore, and when I did find it, I noticed that my reading comprehension skills were not strong enough to understand the description. There was no map available, but since we had access to Google Maps, we figured we'd be fine.

We were not fine. The challenge began as soon as we'd left the old city center behind us. We did find the starting point, directly next to the train station, but the next street in the description was nowhere to be found. A quick Google search showed us that we first needed to walk down another street, which wasn't mentioned in the description, to get to the street we needed to be on. This happened time and time again. You had to be a local to be able to follow this route. We fell into a time-consuming and frustrating pattern: Read the description, google the street, get directions to that street, read the description again, follow the description for a couple of dozens of meters, maybe find a mural, and repeat. We gave up after three murals and went to a Japanese store instead.


Although the sun was still shining when we left the store, I was getting cold. We headed back to the old city center and walked around for a bit in search of a small coffee shop. We came past a machine that was writing a Bible, the comic book store on Scheffersplein which was still there after all those years, the only mill left in the city of Dordrecht and the Church of Our Lady before my friend spotted a place called Francis Lunch & Baked Goods. We ordered some drinks and talked for a while. It had been a good day, but it was coming to an end. At 5 pm, exactly 6 hours after my arrival, I boarded the boat to go back home. As I sat down in my chair and looked out over the water, I felt an unexpected sense of relief. With Paris and Dordrecht under my belt, I only had ten more cities to go to complete the Twelve Cities Challenge. I already had my next destination in mind. Bring it on, I thought to myself as the boat left to bring me home.

A long long time ago, in January, I finally visited Paris for the first time. Ever since then, I've tried to put my experiences in the French capital into words. But sometimes things are difficult to explain. Especially if you're trying to explain something in your second language. Although I've written blog post upon blog post about my travels, I often feel like I don't get my point across as clearly as I would like. Not unless I share my random thoughts from my trips. Chaotic, honest and sometimes way too personal; They're the only thing that can show you how I truly felt about a destination. I did this for Scotland, Thailand, Belgium, Israel and every other country I've visited and written about in the past two years. Paris will be no different. I had such conflicting thoughts and feelings about the place that this is the only way I can paint you the bigger picture without being overly positive or negative. Ladies and gentlemen, here are my random thoughts about Paris!

Growing up in Europe, I heard a lot of stories about Paris. About how romantic the city is, how the architecture will blow your mind, how lovely the culture is. All those stories fit the cliches perfectly (except for the story about a high school friend running away during a field trip - love that story). But I'm not a fan of cliches. Paris is a lot more than the decor for a perfect and romantic proposal. It's creepy, crowded and sometimes very cold. Most people wouldn't say such things about the French capital, but I like to keep things realistic on this blog. Truth is, there are so many weird and annoying things about staying in Paris that people barely talk about. So I've taken it upon myself to do that. Ready? Let's go.

Free walking tours are among my favorite things on the planet. They are great if you want to see a city on a budget or meet other people who are traveling alone. Especially if you're a broke college student, free walking tours are a life-saver. In a city like Paris, they're the best thing ever because you won't have to worry about missing out on any of the important highlights or getting lost. As you can imagine, I was very happy to find a company called Civitatis that organized free walking tours. I had to make a reservation, which I did, and showed up at the meeting point 15 minutes early.
15 minutes later, the tour was canceled. The tour guide was there, two other tourists were there, I was there, and still the tour was canceled. Why? Because they wouldn't do the tour for only three people. When we complained, we were told we shouldn't complain and be glad that a tour like theirs existed in the first place. We hadn't paid for anything, so why were we complaining? If we wanted, we could join the Spanish tour though. I'd never heard such bullshit before.
Civitatis organizes tours in a bunch of other cities as well. I'm never joining one again.

My hostel in Paris was located right at the foot of Montmartre. Every morning, the Sacré-Coeur was the first thing I saw when I looked out of my dorm room window. So of course, it was the first Parisian landmark I visited. I went there with a Chinese girl I'd met at the hostel, because I was still a bit nervous on my first day in Paris.
Going to the Sacré-Coeur was important to me. I'd read so many books that included scenes set in Montmartre and around the cathedral. However, my visit changed from a dream come true to a scary and intimidating experience soon enough. On the way up, I saw the words "the girls are thieves" in French spraypainted on a wall. Most of the graffiti was warning me for pickpockets. About halfway up the hill, a souvenir seller approached us with some bracelets. When I politely declined to buy one and walked past him, he grabbed me by the arm. I yanked my arm from his grip and walked on as if nothing had happened. On the inside, I was shaking though.
When we reached the top of the hill, the Chinese girl and I just wanted to enjoy the view. Instead, we were swarmed by girls with clipboards who wanted to scam us. We ended up fleeing into the Sacré-Coeur after a while. Our way back wasn't much better. We had to make a lot of detours, because the hostile souvenir sellers were literally standing shoulder to shoulder to block stairways and paths.
I loved Montmartre, I loved the Sacré-Coeur, but I didn't feel safe at all.


I love museums. Deep down inside, I'm a bit of a history buff. I also like to include a bit of historical background to my blog posts, and learning about the places I visit is much more fun when I'm actually there, instead of looking things up online. Naturally, I looked up some interesting museums in Paris and ended up looking forward the most to a visit to the Archeological Crypt, which holds the actual ruins of ancient Paris. I'd read online that I could buy a combination ticket for the Crypt and the Catacombs, but when I wanted to buy one at the Catacombs, the lady behind the counter said she'd never heard of such a ticket. I shrugged and thought she was just a French lady being French, ie fed-up with non-English speaking tourists.
After my walk through the Catacombs, I went to the Archeological Crypt, the entrance of which is on the square in front of the Notre Dame. I walked down the stairs - and was greeted by a piece of A4-paper with the word CLOSED on it. Not knowing what to do, I walked up the stairs again, past the police officers who were now keeping an eye on the staircase while holding enormous rifles. I sat down in the middle of the square. Checked, double checked and triple checked the Crypt's website. It was supposed to be open. It said so everywhere. Except for the sign and the locked doors, which told me the place was definitely CLOSED.

This wasn't the only time I was confronted with closed doors. My first attempt at visiting the Pere-Lachaise cemetery failed because of half an inch of snow on the ground. Which was already melting rapidly when I arrived at the cemetery, but it remained closed for the rest of the day. Other cemeteries were also closed, even when the weather was fine.

I was not surprised that I had to let security check my bag at certain Parisian landmarks. After all, a lot of terrorism-related incidents have taken place in the city over the past couple of years. What did surprise me was the extent of these security measurements. I had to walk through metal detectors multiple times and handed my bag over to security guards on a daily basis. I didn't really mind, because it's for my own safety and the weirdest thing I carry around is an unfinished friendship bracelet. But when my camera bag had to be pulled out of my backpack and triple checked, I couldn't help but roll my eyes.


Let me end this post on a light note: We're going to talk about the metro. From the get-go, my plan was to go everywhere by metro. So upon arrival, I went to buy a ticket for 10 rides, which would be a lot cheaper than individual tickets for every ride. Now where I'm from, we have a ticket system similar to the London Oyster card, but ours works nationwide for all forms of public transport. Before that system was put into place, we had tickets that would last for multiple rides. Based on my experiences back home, what with still being in Europe and all, I thought I'd get a ticket that would expire after ten rides. Instead, the machine gave me 10 slips of paper the size of my little finger and I couldn't help but laugh. For the rest of my stay, I had metro tickets flying around every time I took my jacket off, opened my bag or even moved. I looked like a character in a cartoon and it was hilarious.

Long story short, Paris isn't all it's been made out to be. It isn't all bad either, but sometimes it's better to know what's up ahead. I mean, who wants to scramble around on all fours, trying to find all the metro tickets that the wind blew out of your pocket while you were waiting to cross a busy Parisian street? I'm not a fan of pretending that stuff like this doesn't happen just to keep the idealized version of Paris alive in our imagination. That doesn't help anyone going to Paris for the first time. So I've kept it real today and hope this post will help someone, someday.