Just as I came to Rotterdam under the blanket of night: cold, raining and windy—introducing the panicked thought of, “Oh goodness, what have I gotten myself into?” Thus, I left in the darkness. I left R'dam on the chilliest, windiest, most rainy morning it had seen in weeks. (My stay at Rotterdam had the most pleasant of weather—sunshine—extremely uncommon.) Coincidence? I think not. Finally, I left Rotterdam the same way I had met it, on the 4 am train to Schipol (Amsterdam airport).
*Note: I’m actually typing this on the train; fighting back tears—and those who know me know I don’t cry.
Let me recount my last day in R’dam:
Blizzard of emotions and events:
Just the night before, I had just flown in from Italy and threw all my laundry in the washer. I bounced around from packing, studying, and all around catching up. In true student form I barely slept--due to a mixture of anxiety and cramming. The morning of the 26th, I crawled out of bed for my last Erasmus exam: Marketing Management. Since I had been traveling and prepping for my departure, my kitchen consisted of a jumble of condiments and spices; a bag of yellow onions I purchased my first week in Holland, and a lump of butter. I stopped by my local Plus Supermarket for a roll and some very essential chocolate.
You see, for my very first go at the SAT, my mother told me that her mother recommended a bit of chocolate right before a test. Ever since, I’ve always had a chunk or two before any exam. In the US, many friends have expressed how odd they considered my chocolate superstition—at Erasmus though—I noticed nearly a dozen or so other students with their delicious chocolate bars proudly displayed on the corner of their desks…in my section alone, at each and every one of my exams! Maybe it’s a European thing. Americans don’t judge.
The thrill of finishing our last exam was celebrated with a good-bye lunch, followed by a good-bye ice cream outing, then a good-bye let’s-follow-Anna-while-she-buys-goodies-for-home trip, break, good-bye dinner, good-bye football game watching, wrapped up with a good-bye karaoke session.
It was spectacular.
However, in between this all, alarms were going off. During the break in between all of our good-bye festivities, I found out that my laundry, which I had hung up to dry the night before, had not dried. I needed to pack, clean my apartment, attend all the good-bye events and my laundry was still wet! For those of you who haven’t realized by now, but in Europe, a laundry dryer is an unnecessary privilege to which few have access. Handy dandy hairdryer worked extra hard to try and dry all my stuff. Sad news…I still have a few damp things stuffed in my carry on.
After my continuous cycle of heart-breaking good-byes, I went home late and finished packing, called my taxi to get over to Rotterdam Central…one very sad last time.
My story comes full circle: Rainy Rotterdam. And me with two huge suitcases, a carryon bag and my laptop.
Goodness.
I still need to lug all this stuff from the taxi and up to platform nine. I pay the taxi driver more to help me with said challenge, but oh of course, life would never be so easy. Instead, as we triumphantly arrive at platform nine’s entrance, it’s gated and locked and taxi driver ditches. I stand there alone with baggage galore. Minutes before the train comes, they come and unlock the gate and I test my strength to carry it all up the stairs. Let me tell you…my muscles rival Arnold’s now. Thankfully, Dutch kindness does prevail, as a nice conductor helps me throw all my stuff inside the train before it rushes off.
Thank you!!!
Yet my adventure is not even close to being done. I still have to chuck my things off the train, somehow take them up to the airport and find a cart and lastly, conquer the airport check-in desk run by Ukrainians. Let’s hope all goes well.
***
I’m back. Post-airport.
For those of you, whom have been following my exchange, know that in everything I do—some sort of mishap is bound to occur.
Oh it did.
I’m a business student. I should know these things. You would think, I, who follow the trade papers, would know these things. I arrived at the airport. I hadn’t really slept in two days now. I threw (alright, threw is a bit of an exaggeration, more like mustered all the strength I had in the world and dragged) my stuff onto a cart. And like a proper civilized person I went to the check-in desk—and then it began.
Here’s my traveler/exchange student tip number one: Sleep.
Number two: sometimes bottling emotion up, not so good an idea.
My flight was bound for Kiev. European plane providers allow each passenger to check in only one, single 20-kilo bag. I had two. The dance began.
The nice check-in lady instructed me to go to another part of the airport and cargo mail my extra bag. I ran, bags in tow until I stumbled upon this new unexplored ravine of the airport. I went up to two airport gentlemen and asked for cargo mail. After five minutes of painfully slow Dutch walkie-talking, (my mind screaming, “The Dutch are famed for their efficiency!!!”) they wave their hand about to nowhere in particular and say: There.
Where does “There” mean? I start to worry.
I have two bags! I see a KLM sign and walk over, tell them my story and they say, nope. They can’t help me. I need baggage claim stickers on my stuff in order for them to accept. I need to go back. I explain that I was instructed to come here sans baggage claim stickers…here is my ticket. I slide across the ticket. The staff person says, “Sorry Natalya, you need to go back, have them give you stickers an….”
Natalya?
Where did this Natalya come from?!?
Who is she?
I look at the ticket. I’m not Natalya. This is not my flight. This isn’t my ticket!!! I mutter shocked, “That’s not me. I’m not her. Why do I have this ticket?” And by mutter I mean zombie mumble my words or maybe just think the words and nothing comes out because I’m so stunned.
I sharply glance at the time. I need to check-in again. I need to catch my flight. I need to do something with my bags. I fling my bags on the cart again and do a Home Alone sprint through the airport back to my check-in desk. My lady’s gone. I get a new one. I blurt out my story in one breath. She looks at me frazzled and asks me to repeat…but slowly this time. After over fifteen minutes of calls and explanations and such, the horrid truth comes out. I need to pay for my extra bag. Ok. I’ll suck it up. I will go pay for my bag.
My tips, listen to them!
Here I was, this completely sleep deprived girl, leaving her home of over three months, the people she has grown to love and spent every day with, who have in turn been so welcoming and lovely, and she now has to leave this amazing country and doesn’t like to be sad—ever, and now this check-in lady says she has to go pay an insane amount to keep her bags, and she really misses home all of a sudden.
Oh goodness.
I shuffle my way to the payment window while texting my mom, “Call me.” She calls panicked, “What happened?! Are you alright?!” The floodgates open right up. Niagara Falls doesn't compare to the sob fest that followed. In the run on of run on sentences I recalled my last hour and a half’s bag episode and how now I was paying an outrageous fee.
“So, you’re ok? Nothing has happened? You’re alright?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m ok…I guess. But I have to leave Holland, and everyone I know, and I haven’t slept in two days, and now I can’t stop crying…”
“But you’re ok?” She laughs. “You’ll be ok. You’re going to Kiev, you’ll see the family, you’ll be fine.”
I realize she was right. But goodness, like the Louisiana levies couldn’t hold the storm, nothing could hold back my tears. She tried to calm me down as I waited at the non-EU flights security line. I went to get my passport checked. That poor police officer. I think my sobs terrified him, because I have never gone through security that fast in my life. Stamp and baby we were done in a flash.
My tears were still pouring and I walked like a blind person to the nearest line I saw. I stood there for nearly fifteen minutes until a very sweet elderly American lady nudged me and whispered, “Honey, I think you’re in the wrong line. You’re gate is that way.” Oh goodness! I look at the time, was I about to miss my flight!? I thank her and run. That’s when I begin to notice the severely sympathetic looks I’ve been getting. Sure, I look like a mess; but why are all these people giving me the “I’m sorry for your loss” looks?
I look down.
I am wearing head to toe black.
Black shoes.
Black stockings.
Black dress.
Black sweater.
Black belt.
It really did look like I was mourning the loss of someone passed. The tears sure didn’t help. Yet, that made me feel better. I was just leaving a country. No one died. Thank the Lord for that.
I reached my gate looking like the grim reaper and the security personnel quickly remarked that there was no need to worry, the plane hadn’t even boarded. "No need to cry, you’re fine." I laughed and explained I was an exchange student sad to leave. That cracked them up.
Observing those around me, I was still getting the “I’m sorry” looks, but all the passengers—they were Ukrainian. I was going home (one of them). It felt good.
Now, let’s hope a small child kicking its seat won’t sit behind me. But let’s face it, we all know, a crying baby will always sit near me on every flight. Oh well.
***
Millions of students go on exchange or a study aboard each year. Each one I’ve run into has never expressed any regret. And you know what? Neither do I. This has been the most amazing experience I have ever had the privilege of living. Thanks for reading this far.
Now it’s time for Ukraine.
