Saturday, June 17, 2023

Let’s just say I can’t get out of this town, this country fast enough. It’s 2 ½ hours before my bus leaves. I’ve been at the station since 11 am, four hours before I needed to be there. I booked a 3:45 pm bus because of the price $19.95, the direct route, and with the idea I would sightsee before leaving. No way. I have not felt safe or comfortable at any time, save for in my hotel room and at dinner last night (see the post for Thursday, 6-16). Not wanting to hang out in the area where my hotel is because I hated being in that dirt-filled area, not wanting to see the homeless, not feeling safe, I checked out 1 ½ hours before I needed to. I did take time to write but anxious to leave, I did so.

            Finding my way to the subway was easier than it was the day before. I was a little worried that I might not be on the right track, but after confirming with a woman, I boarded the subway and got off correctly. Whew. Not sure how to exit, however, I was able to ask a worker on a cleaning machine. He spoke English and told me where to go to get to the North Station where I would board a bus to return me to the Netherlands. He even told me that I needn’t walk as the tram ride is included with my subway ticket. I was back at the bus/train station in one minute. With over almost four hours to kill I sat on a bench in order to figure out if I should/could go somewhere. If there had been a museum close by, I would have loved to go. There’s a botanical garden but it wasn’t close by according to my map. Unlike the Netherlands, I didn’t feel at all comfortable on public transit. I went back inside the station and decided to chance putting my suitcase and backpack in a storage bin.

            It was easy enough to figure out how to do it. Cost was 11 euros for 24 hours. The numbered extra-large bin’s door already open, not a good sign. When I placed my items inside and closed the door, I noticed the bottom left portion of the metal door was not securely closed; it seemed as though it had been pried open at one time. This concerned me. Would my things be safe and secure? My computer was in there. I couldn’t lose that, and losing everything else would have been just as devastating. Telling myself to trust that all would be well, I left.

            I couldn’t quite figure out where to go. I could have gone out the front; I was familiar with the surroundings. However, I saw people walking out a different location and decided to follow. I walked out onto an area filled with cafes, people sitting at tables eating and drinking,  store fronts being washed clean of the debris before opening. As I continued past this, I found myself on a street full of stores with all manner of things for sale. I am pretty sure I was in a strictly Muslim area based on the dress of the women and the items for sale. That didn’t concern me but it was crowded and dirty. It smelled. Carpets, suitcases, shoes, clothing were for sale at very inexpensive prices. Had I not felt so out of place, I would have loved to take my time, browse, go inside the shops. I had never felt my “American-ness” so keenly. With the current state of things in my country, would these people welcome or resent my presence?

Wanting to keep the station where my belongings and where I would need to board the bus in sight, I didn’t stray far. Still thinking my items were okay and I had plenty of time, I walked a bit away from the shops, where less people were hanging outside on stoops. I took very few steps in the direction I was going before my skin began to crawl. I felt/saw eyes on me. Men and women checking me out. I told myself I am not safe. Leave. I turned and quickly left the area and got back to the station.

            Inside, while still not experiencing the most secure feeling in this place, I was at least not “out there.” I walked past my storage box. Still intact. I felt better. I went inside a small deli-type shop and bought a water and picked out a tomato, cheese, and basil sandwich. I didn’t want to risk taking any meat as the refrigeration was not very cold. Maybe the cheese was also a risk, but I bought it. 7,50 euros. I took a few small bites, but my nerves wouldn’t allow me to eat more. I packed the sandwich into my bag. I drank some water. As I headed toward what looked like a grocery store, a youngish woman dressed in a brown, full-length covering and head scarf asked, “Parlez-vous francais?” Thinking she was asking for direction, I guess her dress and youngness took away my guard, I responded, “No. English.” From that she said, “Please, no money. Just food,” as she pointed a thumb behind her toward the store.

            My immediate reaction to the several solicitations I received so far, and there had been a few is a firm, “No!” With her I mumbled something and began to walk toward the store. I heard her say, “Is okay?” I went inside, walked around an aisle or two and headed toward the exit. I heard, “Madame?” and saw the woman inside holding a loaf of bread. I waved her off and left the store.

            Given the opportunity that I was baggage-free, I decided to take a walk once again. This time I headed out the front door from where I thought it was at least a step up for safety and cleanliness. Tall buildings, lots of glass, shiny and colored gray from their steel walls felt like sentinels to me. Was I safer? It felt a bit so because maybe these are businesses and I was in a better area. Even still, was I any safer? There were some people walking. There was a park where a few children played. Yet, my red flags still made their presence known and once again, I turned to go back to the station.

I followed in behind a woman using a small brown cup to ask every passerby for money. Luckily, I got past her and was not solicited. Still unable to relax without my things, I opened the storage box after just one hour and removed my baggage. My body relaxed knowing my things were in my possession, even though I’d wasted 11 euros. I found a seat in a photo booth that was inoperable. In the booth I was able to put my suitcase in to my right, backpack off and atop the case. I secured my purse to my right side and sat down to watch the activity go by.

For the most part it was a small, safe place that offered me a feeling of sanctuary. I was, however, also a sitting duck. A man stopped and pointed to my bags. He spoke French, I believe, but it was so low I couldn’t really hear him. I thought perhaps he was a staff person telling me I couldn’t sit there. No. He wanted my water. I said, “No.”

One or two more people caught my eye to beg. “No.” A woman in a maroon full-body dress pushing a stroller with a child in it and her little boy, maybe five or six years old walked by. The little boy and I made eye contact. I smiled. He smiled back and raised a thumbs-up. I felt so good seeing that. I returned the gesture. I then saw the same little group walking round and round asking for handouts. The little boy once again gestured thumbs up to me, this time with both hands. His mother saw me and asked for money. Once again, I refused. This time, it was with a sense of regret, but I just couldn’t give.

From these encounters, the numerous solicitations I witnessed or was approached about, I felt a sense that I should give, that my karma would benefit from doing so. But I stuck to my original response of not going into my wallet, accessing my limited money, and giving to what I saw as poor souls. This is not my obligation. While I feel so badly for them, like the disabled man in a wheelchair, the old woman sitting at the entrance, I needed to stay to myself, remain anonymous. Protect me.

Although the photo booth felt safe, I decided to go around the corner to McDonald’s. Inside I found a table and sat. Hoping not to be asked to leave if I didn’t purchase something, I decided my time waiting for the bus, three hours, could be spent writing. So here I am at the end of this essay. As usual my anxiety level lowers when I get things out of my head and down on paper, virtual or otherwise. While writing I am surrounded by people of all kinds coming and going. I hear foreign languages assaulting my ears, but it soothes me. I am alone, yet not alone.

I still have two hours and fifteen minutes before my bus. I really can’t wait. I feel bummed that I didn’t get any chance to discover what this city and country has to offer. I doubt I will ever return. Once again, I so wish I could go home early. I think I’ve had enough. Perhaps my last three days in the Netherlands will change my mind. As long as I feel safe, my belongings and my person, I will find the joy in exploring again.