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.