Darcy Hughes

On a bus from Paris to Brussels, I woke up to shouting. Passengers chorused “NOO!” and the woman next to me was one of the most passionate protestors. She turned and asked, first in French and then in English, “Do you know what’s going on?” With a sleeping mask still on my face, I shook my head. She quickly explained that the driver was taking a poll on whether or not to stop for a break. “I don’t want a break,” she said, “I’ve been traveling for twenty- eight hours straight, and I NEED a shower.” She turned away again and shouted “NOO,” glancing over at me like I should join in. I actually wouldn’t mind a break, but I liked her spirit, and I appreciated her friendliness. The driver ruled in favor of the naysayers, and she applauded.

Ingrid was her name, and she was traveling from Côte d’Ivoire, where she was raised, to Brussels, where she lives now. She believes that traveling is the best way to learn about other cultures, and she hopes that the next generation will be the most well-traveled, and therefore, most culturally sensitive one yet. Ingrid works as a mentor for migrant youths and prays for their acceptance in a new land. She has lived all over Europe so we talked for the next couple of hours about the languages, foods, and economies of various cultures, including Belgium. She said that the country was linguistically divided between Dutch and French speakers. Later I noticed that the signs in Brussels had both languages on them. She also informed me that the notorious Belgian chocolate came from Côte d’Ivoire cocoa, and it pales in comparison to what they make at home. I decided not to tell her that I had signed up for a touristy Belgian chocolate-making class.

When we arrived at the station, Ingrid helped me find the metro line that I needed, and although we had only just met, it was sad to say goodbye. We connected so well and were likely never to cross paths again. Feeling oddly sentimental, I asked to take her picture before we parted.

Brussels was the first city I maneuvered as a solo traveler, so I looked for group tours online. I went to a Belgian chocolate-making workshop which seemed to only interest fellow sugar-obsessed Americans. Each attendee went home with a few trade secrets and thirty pralines!

After the class, I grew acquainted with Brussels by wandering its streets rather aimlessly. I saw the Grand Place, the iconic Mannekin Pis, and endless amounts of Belgian waffles (or as they call them: waffles). Eventually, I went into a Tourist Information office, and that’s where I saw an ad for a “Van Gogh Immersion Experience.” I had to Gogh!

The exhibition was inside the cavernous central room of La Bourse, the old stock exchange building constructed in 1873. I walked in, and a series of projectors painted Van Gogh’s brush strokes all around the room’s stone walls.

I was inside Starry Night Over the Rhône, surrounded by bobbing boats and a midnight sky – but the paintings continuously evolved, and accompanying classical music changed with the scenes. Soon I was amongst an expanse of sunflowers, then cherry blossom trees, hayfields. The spectators were slumped in comfy couches around the room, gazing upwards with silent open mouths. We were all entranced.

I watched the splendorous sequence twice before moving on to the other room where people wore virtual reality goggles and sat in swivel chairs. It was strange to see them spin their bodies and turn their heads, looking at a universe presently invisible to me. I donned the goggles and saw Arles, France. I traveled through Van Gogh’s world: his house, a forest, the town, and the harbor. I saw how he transformed relatively ordinary scenes into extraordinary paintings, for at each location, a large frame would appear in front of nature and fill with the painting it had inspired. The experience was so realistic I instinctively moved my arms and legs throughout the journey, even with some concern for bumping into virtual objects. I guess this is what those other people were doing when I first walked in.

In the evening, I returned to my Airbnb feeling accomplished, for I had independently navigated my way through an unfamiliar city; however, this feeling was short-lived. The Airbnb host, whom I assumed was a non-threatening older gentleman, opened up his closed-off living room and showed me “Voodoo dolls” that his imperialist father had brought back from Africa. The wooden faces were frozen in expressions of terror and had nails hammered all over them. He began playing romantic music and asked me to dance. I awkwardly fumbled for an excuse to go back to my room, where I locked my door and waited for him to close his own. I knew I couldn’t sleep there, so I tip-toed out and Ubered to a hotel.

Around midnight I sat in my new room feeling rattled and full of self-doubt. Why was I so far away from home? Why was I traveling alone? My anxiety was verging on panic, and I felt so isolated.

Months ago, when I first told people about my plan to travel through Europe, the most popular response was “alone?” It’s common for people to encourage girls to be cautious.

I looked out the hotel window and onto an expanse of city lights. This world is far too beautiful a place, I thought, to be afraid of exploring it.