Kat Beyond Borders

A series where this real-life travel blogger shares real-life shitshow situations to normalize that it’s not all rainbows and butterflies while exploring the world. I am using my platform to speak out on trauma informed travel and dealing with mental health issues while traveling.

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It was December 2018, and I needed to get out of my house with my parents in Florida, where I was spending my gap year and realizing I would never get into medical school. I decided to plan a trip to Copenhagen, Dublin, and London. I had lived in Copenhagen for six months the year prior, I hadn’t been to Dublin since my high school senior year, and I loved the accessibility of London and its proximity to both cities. This trip was going to be the reset that I needed: alone, visiting Christmas markets, and rejuvenating. Everything went well in Copenhagen, and my soul was lightened with memories of the best times of my life and all the seasonal gløgg I could drink.

When I got to Dublin, I realized that this was the first time I was in Ireland where I could drink. This was my fifth day by myself, and I was starting to get a little lonely. So, I decided to join the hostel bar crawl that night. Well, I didn’t really decide; I was talked into it by my Australian roommate in the bunk bed above me. She was also traveling alone and wanted to do something fun. Usually, I try to stay away from the party-centric outings and events of hostels out of fear that something will go wrong. I had no idea what I was getting into. The bar crawl bracelet gave you one shot and one drink at every bar that night. There were four bars on the docket. My Australian roommate quickly made friends with another beautiful group of girls from all over the world, so I stuck close by for my self-esteem and perceived safety. We merrily entered bars, immediately getting handed shots and chatting with people who were eager to know more about us.

I remember having fun… and then I remember nothing at all. Well, that’s not entirely true. After waking up in my hostel room the next morning with a busted lip three times its normal size and without my phone, wallet, and jacket, I started to recall bits and pieces. I had flashbacks of making it to the fourth bar, Whelan’s, which I had always wanted to visit after listening to live albums recorded there. I remembered dancing, and I remember frantically looking for my jacket, which I had left somewhere. The lost jacket wouldn’t have been too bad, even in December, but my wallet and phone were both in my jacket pocket. I remembered leaving my jacket to go on the dancefloor with a boy, and also recalled a dance floor make-out session that might have caused my busted lip. Once I was bruised, cold, and accepted the fact I wasn’t going to find my stuff (while horrendously drunk), I remember going out into the Dublin night and convincing a pedicab to take me back to my hostel. I pleaded with the driver that I would pay him when I got there, telling him I had no idea where I was. My hostel was well-known because it was right next to the famous Temple Bar. You don’t realize how much you rely on Google Maps until you no longer have it. I eventually convinced the driver, though I don’t remember how I got up to my room without my keys.

The next morning, with fear and a faint taste of blood in my mouth, I went down to the reception area and met Darren. Darren was my knight in shining armor for the next 48 hours. I told him what I remembered and explained that I needed to use a phone. This was my call-a-friend moment, except it wasn’t a friend; it was my father. I have called my father on multiple occasions when I’ve done something stupid, but nevertheless, I was crying when I had to tell him what kind of situation I got myself into. I explained I had no money, and his first thought was to wire me some via Western Union. The only problem was, it was a Sunday, and it was closed. This meant I would have to wait a whole other 24 hours before I had any money. My stomach started to rumble, and when Darren noticed, he brought me a coffee and gave me $20 to go down the street and get something to eat. After I ate the best tasting desperation meal of my life, I had to address the phone issue. Again, Darren had an idea: he would lend me some money and take me across the bridge to a place where I could get a small Nokia burner phone. He walked me all the way there, haggled with the owner, and set up the phone for me. I was now able to text my dad like it was 2002. Some communication is better than no communication, I guess. So now, with a full belly, and waiting to get a handful of cash in the morning, I felt a little bit better. When I received the money from Western Union the next day, I realized that I had €600, a burner phone, my passport (thank God), and a flight to catch to London the next day. I considered just going home, but then I remembered this is how people did it before smartphones. I thought of all the backpackers from the ’80s who managed without digital aids—the type of adventures that inspired the movie “EuroTrip.” After getting the money from Western Union, I decided to try and find Whelan’s and knock on the door at 11 AM to see if anyone was there. I thought that if my jacket was left there, it might still be there. I knocked on that door obnoxiously hard in broad daylight for at least five minutes until an annoyed worker opened it. I asked him to check the lost and found, and he came back a minute later, saying no luck. I never believed he actually looked, but short of breaking and entering, that was all I could do. My safest bet for my last day, and the thing I was looking forward to the most, was the Guinness Storehouse. Even though the thought of alcohol made me want to hurl, I decided I wasn’t going to leave Dublin without visiting it. I put on two layers of T-shirts and a flannel to shield me from December’s chill, which definitely wasn’t enough. I printed out a map at reception and made my way to the Guinness Storehouse on foot. I enjoyed the exhibits and made it to the rooftop where I got my free beer. I took one sip and gagged, swearing off alcohol forever. I walked back slowly, not meandering too much because I had no idea where I was going, and decided to rest for my flight the next day to London.

Writing this brings back many memories, some uncertain and mostly bad. When we are young, we tell these stories to our friends weeks or months afterward, with laughs and smiles, shaking our heads at how stupid we were. Years later, we may share them again or write them down, as I’m doing now, and realize what a big impact they actually had. I had never gotten that wasted from just alcohol before. I’ll never know if it was purely because I was on an empty stomach or if anything else was in those drinks. I’ll never know where my favorite green jacket went, or the orange wallet my mom got me from Miami. I’ll never know if anybody ended up with my ID or my credit cards, or how exactly I got my busted lip. I won’t remember the song that was playing when I danced. I’ll never know what happened to the Australians that were not in my memories after our agreement to stick with each other. I do remember the fear of carrying a wad of cash, and the relief when my dad picked up the unknown international number, and the warmth I felt after finally buying a replacement coat in London.

For years this story was a badge of honor; an anecdote of my adventurous nature and ability to handle adversity. When I type this now, I see it as an experience that feeds into a larger narrative of instability, lack of safety, isolation, and bad coping habits. So then, why put this on the internet? I have recently been thinking about the perceived perfection of travel. People thinking travel is a cure to their problems (guilty) and an escape from their lives (guilty). Social media feeds us beautiful blondes in dresses staying at luxury hotels atop cliffs, or sometimes, more “relatable” budget travelers who post reviews of experiences after adopting a nomadic lifestyle. What we don’t see, almost at all, is candor about trauma in travel: how travel feeds into it, exacerbates it, or triggers it. I’ve had years of therapy, and I am not a licensed professional, but I figured it might be helpful to talk a bit more about #traumainformedtravel. This is for the people who feel guilty that they aren’t having the time of their lives after spending a fortune on a trip, who have panic attacks in train stations, who get too drunk to remember that one bar on the corner, and who obsess about all the possibilities of what can go wrong. I can’t sit by and feed into the narrative that travel is “worry free.” Sometimes, the “escape” from our homes that we want isn’t as rejuvenating as desired; maybe it’s just the trip outside our comfort zone that makes us face our issues, whether we want to or not.