My Five Days in Hell, Germany

I’m staring at myself in the mirror as my Airbnb host scrubs baking soda in my mouth with a toothbrush. Tears are streaming down my face. 

“Stop crying.” 

I wipe my eyes with the palm of my hand and grab the toothbrush. It is stained with blood. This is only the start of the most horrific and comical day of my adult life.

I felt fine when I boarded the plane. Maybe a little under the weather, but nothing too worrisome. I fell asleep easily. However, when I woke up about two hours into the flight, there was a painful throbbing in the back right corner of my mouth. My lymph nodes were hard as a rock. 

As soon as I landed in Amsterdam, I looked up “how to know if you have throat cancer.” After extensive research (five Google searches), I was convinced that I, Ellie Lynch, was dying. I texted my best friend something cryptic like “I don’t feel well, thanks for always being there” and then a ton of unnecessary emojis. This was how I wanted to be remembered.

Unsure of what to do when dying in an airport, I settled on taking ibuprofen and buying an expensive juice that promised to “reset my gut microbiome.” I just had to get on my flight to Dusseldorf. Maybe when I arrived, I’d feel better.

I had been planning this trip since August. As soon as school started, I got a job as a waitress. I would work over thirty hours on a good week. I saved everything.

Okay, not everything. But mostly everything.

My original plan was to travel alone through southern Germany, meet up with my friend Kavi, visit the Black Forest, and then travel to Belgium and Amsterdam to visit other friends. I planned everything meticulously and booked all my train tickets and hostels in advance.

I did not feel any better when I landed in Dusseldorf. Actually, I felt worse. It was a cold, cloudy day, and my boots were giving me blisters. It seemed like everything was closed. A man tried to pickpocket me, and I had to sprint away. For a split second, I considered just giving him all my money so I didn’t have to run.

I dragged my feet to the Rhine. Then I feel asleep in a Starbucks. Yay, travel! 

I took more ibuprofen and caught my train to Cologne.

Cologne was the opposite of Dusseldorf. It was sunny and bustling with people. The ibuprofen was turning the throbbing to a dull ache. Maybe everything would be alright after all. 

I made my way to the hostel. It was on the third floor of a building that was under construction. It took me about thirty minutes just to figure out how to get inside, and then another twenty to hoist my luggage up all the stairs. 

Panting, I checked into my shared room for the night. I met a girl from Australia who told me intimate details about her love life. After talking for two hours, I realized we still didn’t know each other’s names. 

I decided it was time to explore the city. I bundled up and took the tram to one of Cologne’s famous Christmas markets. I downed a mug of glühwein and watched as the sky got darker and darker. I took a long stroll through the quiet, winding streets of the city. People were in pairs, huddling closely like a Norman Rockwell painting. Soon, my mouth began throbbing again. I held my jaw in my hands. If everyone looked like “Home for Christmas,” I looked like “The Scream.”

The next morning, after a disastrous hour trying to wave down a taxi, I met my friend Kavi on a train to Heidelberg. I did not tell him the news of my impending death. I took more ibuprofen. At this point, I didn’t know what would take me first: cancer or liver failure.

We rolled our suitcases to the Airbnb. Kavi and I introduced ourselves briefly to our Airbnb hosts before heading out to explore. We ate our way through every Christmas market we encountered, drank lots of bier, and skipped around the city looking unapologetically touristy. Soon, I forgot my troubles once again. Move over, Norman.

 We travelled back in high spirits. Our hosts had prepared a vegan meal for us! And there was wine from Macedonia! I might even go so far as to say that we were…vibing. We headed to bed – we had a big day tomorrow. I felt fat and happy. Maybe I was dying, but at least I was enjoying myself. I went to sleep smiling.

 I don’t remember what I dreamt about, but whatever it was, I wish it had never ended. I woke up gripping the right side of my face as if I were a pregnant mother in her last trimester. I got up and locked myself in the bathroom to cry. This was the most pain I’d ever felt. I would rather have menstrual cramps every day of my life than experience that level of pain again. (Okay, maybe not. God, if you’re reading this, please know that I am exaggerating.) I tried drinking some water, but I couldn’t swallow it, so I just leaned over the sink and spit it out. 

These are the unfortunate events that led me here, ten minutes later, crying once again in the same bathroom. This time, however, I am accompanied by my Airbnb host who is now claiming to be Joe Biden’s former dentist. He tells me that my face is swollen and that I have an infection in the back of my mouth. He says that the only way I will get better is by scrubbing the infection until it bleeds.

I thought the pain couldn’t get worse. 

Let me tell you that nothing compares to the pain of a stranger scrubbing your mysterious mouth infection with a toothbrush until it bleeds. The only thing that measures up is maybe the pain of knowing that your trip to Germany has been ruined. (Does this sound extremely privileged? It does, doesn’t it. Oof.)

The next twelve hours consisted of me crying in a German train, me crying in a German hospital, and me crying in another German hospital. The whole time, Kavi carried my suitcase and spoke to the doctors because he literally knows every language. He is Smart and I am Dumb. I was misdiagnosed with mono – or, “kissing disease” as the doctor repeatedly told me. I insisted I didn’t have mono. He didn’t take me seriously. He thought I was just some dumb American girl with a low pain tolerance and a particular affinity for kissing. I gained nothing from the entire day. All they gave me were some ineffective throat lozenges. (T-shirt idea: I Went To Germany and All I Got Were These Lousy Lozenges.) 

As we left the hospital, we spoke to one last doctor. I convinced him to prescribe me antibiotics. I survived another day and a half before switching my flight. I couldn’t push through any longer. The trip I was looking forward to all semester had officially been ruined.  

When I returned home, I saw many doctors. They all told me that I was right, I didn’t have “kissing disease.” I had a severe, acute bacterial infection in my mouth and should get my wisdom teeth removed immediately. I spent the rest of winter break lounging in my pajamas, eating mashed potatoes, and taking Percocet with two enormous holes in my mouth. My family felt so bad for me, they gave me all the attention I could ever want. It was wonderful.

day thirty

I’m going to tell you about the time I got kicked in the face on the beach by an Italian man. Also, the time I made PB&J for my host family. Both of these memories have imprinted themselves in my mind.

(One of them quite literally.)

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It had been such a perfect Sunday.

Since the bus schedule is always weird on Sunday, my friend Nicole picked me up on her motorbike. Her grandmother lives near my village, and she had been out visiting.

We fly down the wistful mountain roads. I remember my host parents commending me on my scooter-riding abilities a few days before.

“Most people try to lean against the turns – you lean into them! A true Italian!”

This is probably (no, definitely) the highest compliment I have ever received.

I’m holding onto the metal handles behind me, then holding onto Nicole because we’re going so fast and my hands are sweaty. I’m no longer leaning into every turn. My true nature begins to reveal itself—a frightened American. What’s worse, I always seem to be wearing a dress when I’m on one of these things. And let me tell you, dresses and motor bikes and Italian breezes don’t make for a conservative pairing. 

We arrive at the café and meet our friends for lunch. We talk with them about growing up in Imperia. They see many of their friends walking by as we speak. This is something I really love about this place – it’s a small town. You’re bound to run into someone you know wherever you go. This proved to be very, very helpful later on in the day. It could’ve saved my life. (Not actually. That’s pretty dramatic. It helped a lot, though!)

What followed was a blissful afternoon on the rocks, soaking up the sun and jumping off the rocks into the blue, blue sea. 

We couldn’t have known what would follow a few hours later in this very same spot.

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Their faces are doubtful. They struggle to hide their feelings about anything, ever. I don’t know if this is just my host family or an Italian thing. (Can I say that?) Regardless, both Antonella and Rebecca have one eyebrow propped up as if a man on the street was trying to sell them magical beans 

I spread the peanut butter first, quite generously. I’d like to know who starts with jelly. Please, if you know this person, get me in contact with them. I’d like to ask them a few questions.

They are overwhelmed. Both Antonella and Rebecca have conveyed to me that they don’t like the consistency of peanut butter. They’re nervous. This is understandable. There’s nothing in the traditional Italian diet that resembles peanut butter. Besides Nutella. But like, that’s Nutella.

When I finish with the peanut butter, I spoon out strawberry jam. This is another very important step in the construction of the perfect PB&J. It must be strawberry jam. I don’t want to hear the arguments for gr*pe j*lly. I just don’t want to hear them.

I take the two slices of bread and press them together. The corners must match exactly. Usually, I don’t pay attention to detail when making PB&J. That’s kind of the beauty of it. It should be effortless, haphazard. However, this is the first time these people are trying this classic American delicacy. One that means so much to me. I’m basically inviting them into my world as they have done for me time and time again. (I’ll admit this is also quite dramatic. Sue me.)

Antonella reaches for the sandwich, but I stop her. 

“This is the most important part.”

They watch as I take the butter knife and slice the sandwich diagonally. My cut is one of utter precision. I split the sandwich in half and hand a slice to each.

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A whole day in the sun makes a person very hungry – hungry in a specific way. What I mean by this is that the sun makes a person want to decimate an entire pizza.

And an entire pizza I did decimate. 

After, gelato. And walking. And more food. And possibly more gelato. (Did we have more gelato?) 

Suddenly, it’s almost midnight and we are sitting on the beach listening to music. There are lots of people in the distance – some on the rocks, others walking off their pizza and gelato, other authority figures with flashlights making sure no one is sneaking into the beach clubs. My friend and I are sitting on the sand at the free beach. 

In Italy, one must pay to be a member at a beach. Otherwise, you’re stuck spreading out your towel on the sand in a very tight, fenced off area called the spiaggia libera– the free beach. This is where the cheapskates recline. So basically, me and my friends.

So, we’re sitting on the sand with headphones in. I think Tycho’s playing – something very calm and ambient. The waves are crashing onto the shore and the rocks. My feet are burrowed in the sand. All is well with the world.

I hear shouting in the background, but it is faint. I ignore it – there are so many teenagers around with their friends, I just assume the sound is coming from one of them.

The shouting gets a bit louder; I’m going to turn the music up. There’s a light pole behind us, tinging the night with an orange hue. A shadow falls over us, turning our oranged faces dark.

This is when I turn my head around. It was second nature. I didn’t even think about looking back before I did.

Before I know it, I’m laying back on the beach, cradling my head in my hands.

My friend is standing up, screaming at the man. He chases him away. Then both of us are sitting in the sand. I’m speechless. I am completely without speech.

Okay, so I was screaming all the curse words I knew at the top of my lungs. What of it.

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They’re chewing as I’ve seen no one chew before. 

I can’t tell if they love it or hate it. I know they will give me their honest opinion regardless – of this I am absolutely sure. This is something I’ve had to adjust to since being in Italy. People here will tell you exactly how they’re feeling. It is utterly refreshing and utterly heart-wrenching. I am nowhere near as sensitive as I once was.

“What do you think?”

I don’t look up as I ask the fated question. I’m spreading my own peanut butter on my own sandwich. This is the first time I’ve come in contact with remotely American food since being in Italy. I hide behind my slices of white bread. I don’t want them to know how much I care.

Antonella grins widely.

“Good! Good! Very, very good! I like!”

I am glowing. 

I look to Rebecca. She doesn’t have the same look on her face. 

“I don’t like.”

Suddenly I’m devastated. This is an emotional rollercoaster for me. I have gotten my hopes up only to watch them be dashed upon the rocks by an eight-year-old. How will I learn to trust again? How can I put myself out there once more after such a laceration?

 I grab the rest of her sandwich and take a huge bite.

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He must have been strung out on drugs. There is literally no other logical explanation besides insanity.

All I remember about him was that he was wearing a green shirt. I don’t remember his face or stature. I wouldn’t be able to pick him out in a crowd. 

We didn’t make eye contact as he kicked me in the head. I don’t think I was looking up that far.

So, I’m screaming on the beach. (Just another Sunday night.)

 After a few minutes, my friend grabs my phone and shines it on my face. The impact had broken the skin on my upper forehead, but nothing looked too bad. 

Then, I take the flashlight and shine it on his face. 

The entire left side of his head is covered in blood.

We run to the bathroom. I’m flipping out, obviously. I can’t stop laughing and then subsequently screaming. I think it is just a lot to process. Also, I’m dramatic. Also, we got kicked in the face pretty hard. So, it’s understandable to a point.

I clean the blood and sand off with toilet paper. (Why do the bathrooms here never have paper towels? So inconvenient at a time like this.) 

“What just happened? Did that just happen?”

Over and over and over again.

We walk out of the bathroom. We had gone to the outside café that all of us had eaten at earlier. The waiter recognized me from lunch.

He spots our head wounds and asks if we are alright. In broken Italian, I attempt to explain to him the situation. This proves to be quite difficult, however, because I never learned the vocabulary for getting assaulted on a beach. 

Thankfully, the one person who can help me the most comes walking down the port at this very moment. Nicole.

“Oh my god! Are you guys alright? What has happened?”

Nicole speaks English really well. She’s only seventeen but can communicate perfectly. She also drives a motorbike. I tell Nicole all the time that she’s a total badass. This seems to be the only English word she doesn’t understand. 

We explain what happened. She gets ice for our heads and talks to the police for us. Then, she calls me a taxi.

I think she is my guardian angel. 

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Antonella tells me that Rebecca had two PB&J’s for dinner when I was gone. She even asked if she could start packing them for lunch at school next year.

I tell her nothing makes me happier. Then, I show her my flesh wound.

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After a week or so, the scabs heal. I was out in the sun too much and didn’t really take care of it properly. There’s a chance I will have a permanent scar on my forehead from the whole ordeal. Oh well! Like I keep saying, I’m saving hundreds on souvenirs from all the scars I’m accumulating this summer.

Everyone keeps telling me that this experience is an anomaly for Imperia. And I believe them. Imperia is safe – it’s a small, family-oriented town. I don’t feel particularly endangered being here. But regardless of how safe or unsafe, I’m glad I wasn’t alone and I’m glad it happened to people who were tough enough to take it. 

Little does this man know that along with kicking me in the face, he’s given me a story I can tell for a lifetime.

 Be safe, kids!

Day Fourteen

It’s half past two in the morning, and Nico’s blood is soaking into the wall. I sprint out of the room, blocking my face with my copy of The Waste Land. I don’t note the irony until much later.

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Here’s the thing about Naples: it is vastly overrated. In my mind, Naples was going to be a Florence, a Budapest, a Prague. Naples was going to be a city I could brag about. Something I could look back on as an eighty-year-old woman drinking an espresso martini by the fire and sigh, saying, “Ah, what a time I had in Naples!” 

 When I first arrived in Naples, I immediately realized that it was – pardon my French – a trou de merde*. Nothing about it was appealing. Certain romantics might describe it as raw, unfiltered, “honest.” I say it smells like literal merde. (Again, pardon me.) At one point I think I rolled my suitcase through some, too. The smell still lingers in my mind as I write this, many days later. That’s my lasting memory of Naples. That and the pizza – which I must say was fantastic. 

After a few days lingering around the city in search of “the good part” (which was not located), we decided it would be best to explore the other areas on the coast. In the central part of the city, if you can see through all the litter, you may come across the Naples train station. It is from here that you must flee the city. Most people come to Naples for the pizza and then get out as soon as possible. I was also one of those people. 

 *a shit hole

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We traveled to Amalfi first. 

PRO TIP: Don’t travel to Amalfi on a whim like I did. It takes way longer to get there than you would think.

 In our brains, we thought that if we left Naples at 12, we would arrive at Amalfi around 1:45. Our friends who we met at the hostel confirmed this. We all decided to travel together, planning a wonderful and peaceful day relaxing on rocky beaches and wandering through ancient streets. But, leaving the hostel around noon does not mean leaving Naples around noon. We walked the mile from the hostel to the train station, stopping along the way for groceries and snacks and souvenirs. I don’t think we even arrived at the train station until 1. 

 Then, an hour-long train from Naples to Sorrento. And let me tell you, these train rides are not for the faint of heart. There are approximately three open seats at any given time. As soon as the train pulls into the station, these empty seats will evaporate into thin air, leaving you to stand for the entirety of the ride. So, you wanted to look cute in Amalfi? Too bad. Your cute blue cotton dress that you ordered online for $39.99 (on sale) that matches the seafaring energies of the Amalfi Coast will not fare well on a packed Italian subway car with absolutely no air conditioning. And I mean no air conditioning. Hundreds of desperate tourists and shattered Italians pressed up against each other like freshmen at a Sadie Hawkins dance. And the smell. I could go on, but I will leave you to imagine.

Once you’ve arrived in Sorrento (and finished kissing the ground), you must board a bus to Amalfi. Follow the hordes of tourists crawling their way outside the station to form some semblance of a line. But – and this is very important – do not stand in this line. This line is a lie. There is no jurisdiction for this line. I watched whole families get turned away after having waited their turn in this line.

It’s everybody for themselves.

So, when the bus finally arrives, you must raise your chin high in the air and shove a free arm through the masses. Trust me, I realize how this sounds. But this is not the time to be nice. Think back to a time that gives you strength – maybe when a fast-food restaurant got your order wrong again and your mom is turning around at a busy intersection to point aggressively at the receipt and convince the manager to give the whole family a free meal – you’ve never felt more seen. Channel that energy here.

Once you’ve gotten on the bus, get a seat on the right side. (Or is it the left?) This is important, because you’ll want a good view of the coast. Also, your life will flash before your eyes about twenty-thousand times as you imagine the bus flipping over the edge and tumbling into the ocean. Existential dread is good for you every once in a while! Especially on vacation!

 In my mind, this bus ride was going to take about thirty minutes. The people we were with warned it might take a bit longer, but after surviving the awful train ride to Sorrento, I was blindly optimistic. I plugged the route into my maps – forty minutes. Not bad.

 At this point, all my loyal readers (i.e., my mom) know what’s coming. You roll your eyes at me again – how does she keep believing these lies? Of course it didn’t take forty minutes. Silly, silly, silly me. 

Two hours later, after nauseously weaving through mountainous one-ways in a charter bus, we arrived in Amalfi.

 SIDE NOTE: I think one of the most endearing things about Italy is how small all of their roads are. I think they might be so small because they haven’t been updated since the Pax Romana. Every time a car is about to drive around a tight bend, it must honk. This is because they will fully collide with anyone driving in the opposite direction. However, I did not find this historical fact endearing while on this journey.

You may have done the calculations. If so, I commend you. We arrived in Amalfi at a cool 4 o’clock Post Meridian time. Our bus was leaving at 8. 

What’s even more comical about this is that one of our friends Nancy who we were traveling with had to catch a flight to Rome later that night. So, she had to leave Amalfi at 5. We basically sat out on an over-populated beach for an hour, and then Nancy had to do the entire journey all over again. 

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There are many other stories I could tell about our week in Naples (really, our week avoiding Naples). What I’ve noticed about travelling is that it is hard to describe to others what you have experienced for yourself. It is easy to recount travel nightmares and miscommunications and the like. What’s difficult is explaining the feeling of smallness that grips you in these other moments of discovery. Like, jumping off a huge rock that juts into the Tyrrhenian Sea and feeling so very cold and alive. Or the wind ruffling your hair beyond restoration as you lean over the edge of the boat that is taking you to Capri. Or even the walk back to your tent at night in the forest of Sorrento, when everything is quiet and you seem to unfold into the world and it is all perfectly gentle and still.

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So there I am – the middle of the night. It is our second-to-last in Naples. I am reclining after a long, long day. 

I am sharing a room in the hostel with two British guys named Jack and Rico. They are app developers and are supposed to be in India. However, they forgot to obtain work visas and got stuck in Italy for a few nights.

My phone has probably been dead for about a day. (Typical!) I don’t have a charger. (Typical!) Luckily for me, I am rooming with techies. Jack offers to charge my phone through his computer. 

So I’m reading and Rico’s trying to sleep and Jack is asking me questions about TS Eliot. And I’m answering because he’s charging my phone and it is half past two in the morning.

All of a sudden, Rico arises from his slumber.

 “Dude, we need to turn the light off. Turn the light off, where’s the light switch?”

 “I think it’s by the door.”

Rico stumbles over to the door. He can’t find the switch.

 “Where is it, bro? Where’s the light switch? There’s no bloody light switch.”

 Rico walks around the room with steam coming out of his nose. He can’t find it. This is when he proceeds to punch the wall.

 Jack and I look at each other as Rico exits the room. Neither of us really know what to do. I bury my face in “Prufrock.”

 A few minutes later, Rico returns. I think his walk was supposed to calm him down, but now he’s only angrier. He begins to pack his bags in a furious rage. 

 “What are you doing, bro?”

 Jack is concerned.

“I’m leaving. I’m leaving bro. I can’t do this.”

 “Can’t do what?”

 “I can’t do this app with you. I’m done. I’m out.”

 “We’re so close, though, bro! We’re so close! What are you doing?”

 “I’m going back. To England. Now.”

 “But we just got here? We’re so close. We just have to get to India. We’re so close.”

 “I can’t be a team player, bro. This is why I box. I work alone.”

 Jack begins packing his bags.

 “Don’t follow me.”

 At this point, both guys are getting in each other’s faces. The argument is heating up, and I’m getting a bit scared. I block my face with my thin book of poetry as if it could protect me at all. I try to look as casual as possible and sprint out of the room. 

 I sit at the top of the stairs and listen to these two guys arguing about app development and team-work and India and seed money. Then, I see Rico storm out of the room with all of his belongings. I figure at this point it is safe to return.

 Jack is still packing his bags. There’s blood on Rico’s sheets. My phone sits on the ground, no longer charging in Jack’s computer.

He looks over and smiles.

 “It was really nice to meet you.”

 He leaves, and I sit in the silence of the emptied room. Both guys have left socks and water (and literal blood). 

 I’m so tired I just lock the door and fall asleep.

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No other anecdote perfectly describes my time in Naples than this – chaotic, severe, probably dangerous, blood involved. (I didn’t mention that I cut my hand while jumping off previously mentioned rock into the sea in Sorrento. And having to wrap my feet in bandages every day from all the walking. Lots of blood involved!) 

There are so many other stories – enough to fill a short novella that you would begin reading in The New Yorker and then get too exhausted after reaching paragraph three. I could tell you about the people we met throughout our journey, or the wonderful food we ate, or all the creepy waiters that still somehow endeared us to Italy while simultaneously raising every red flag. (Can I say this as a feminist?)

But it is too much, I won’t even attempt it. For now, all I can say is (and this somewhat self-effacing), “Ah, what a time I had in Naples!”