Did your parents own stores that sold products, they themselves wouldn’t consume?
So I Just Came To Switzerland And Police Stopped Me & Brought To Police Station For No Reason
- Thread starter Prince.Skeletor
- Start date
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...
For those "Europe is better" dummies.
PRAGUE: My Least Favorite City in Europe - The Blog Abroad
PRAGUE: My Least Favorite City in Europe - The Blog Abroad
I never thought I’d ever make a post about a city I hated, because quite frankly, I’m an easy pleaser that’s what she said, and it really doesn’t take much to make me happy (take note, future hubby!). But I’ve been asked this question before, and I never truly had an answer until now.
I’ve had my qualms with British and French authority, but for the most part, it takes a lot for me to flat out say, “I HATE THIS CITY”.
Now first off, Prague is BEAUTIFUL. It’s warm, charming, and absolutely breath-taking in some squares. Some streets don’t even look real because they’re so picturesque. This is what I expected, and my aesthetic needs were graciously met.
But here’s where things took a turn.
I did my usual wandering, in my usual aimless manner. When traveling in general, I make an effort to blend in when I can, but usually adhere to my typical boho attire – blouse, scarf, fedora, and bracelets.
Nothing about what I was wearing or how I looked should’ve drawn the attention that I got. The attention I’m referring to is something every Black American abroad has experienced in some manner, somewhere.
The lack of multiculturalism caused me to be a walking exhibit straight out of a museum.
And here’s what I mean.
As a black person, there are four types of stares I’ve come to terms with while traveling. And before you say that “you don’t see color” please for one second realize that I’m not talking about you. These people, locals, who some may have never seen a black person before in their life, indeed SEE color. This is not an opinion, this is a fact. And my year of living in Spain corroborated that by the amount of times I was catcalled with the ever-so-endearing words of “hey, black girl!” in Spanish. Here are the four variations of stares you get as a Black American abroad.
1. THE LOOK OF CURIOSITY
<snip>
2. THE LOOK OF APPROVAL
<snip>
3. THE LOOK OF DISGUST
This face hurts. Not so much the action of them making the face, but moreso the lack of concern to try and hide or disguise this face to begin with. It’s like they’re saying they’re not okay with my presence, but instead of keeping that pleasant thought to themselves, they want to make sure I’m aware of it too. These stares were plentiful in Prague. It was disheartening, because I had such high hopes.
In all honesty, this almost always comes from the older generations. People who were kids when the Wright Brothers made it possible to sit in a chair in the sky and teleport yourself to foreign territory. So the concept of multiculturalism and leisure travel is something their generation was never engulfed in like this one.
4. THE LOOK OF OBJECTIFICATION/SEXUALIZATION
This face is one I know female travelers experience everywhere and I’m not comparing our struggle in this department, but I know that black women specifically get objectifying stares in certain regions much more than anyone else. This is due to the increasing amount of African migrant women who turn to prostitution when it’s the only work they can find outside of their native country. The local culture then accepts this as the norm and they associate anyone resembling a woman of African descent to follow suit.
And before anyone tries to tell me to “appreciate the stares while they’re still coming” let me kindly tell you “NO.” Here’s why.
There’s this thing called mutual respect, and as long as you don’t give me a reason to treat you like the chauvinistic masochist that you come off as, then you will get the kind and chipper Glo.
Staring is not a compliment. It’s rude. Whether it’s a look of fascination or disgust, the act is so uncomfortable for the person on the receiving end, and even while making it very apparent that I, too, have these thing called eyes that allow me to stare back, they continue in their glare.
The worst part of all of this was walking on the sidewalk and having car after car, slow down, honk, or the strangest, put a hand up and point towards the end of the street, either signaling to meet them at the corner, or God knows what else. I felt so out of my element. I couldn’t be my normal, happy-go-lucky self.
To top my day off, I was at a stoplight with a girl who would be considered gorgeous by today’s societal standards: brunette, long hair, toned legs, and wearing a mini dress.
Now, I don’t go around sticking prostitute labels on pretty people like some locals do when they see foreigners, but between the two of us, if one of us were more dressed for the job, 1,2,3 — NOT IT!
Regardless, guess who got the harassment as a car with two men in the front pulled up to the crosswalk. She was invisible. They looked right at me, muttered some words, smirked, and I felt them practically undressing me with their eyes. It was disgusting and I felt so violated.
I’m fully aware there will be creeps, jerks, and losers in every city or country regardless of where you are. But to feel like I got a taste of each collectively in just the two days I was in Prague didn’t sit well with me.
I’ve had my qualms with British and French authority, but for the most part, it takes a lot for me to flat out say, “I HATE THIS CITY”.
Now first off, Prague is BEAUTIFUL. It’s warm, charming, and absolutely breath-taking in some squares. Some streets don’t even look real because they’re so picturesque. This is what I expected, and my aesthetic needs were graciously met.
But here’s where things took a turn.
I did my usual wandering, in my usual aimless manner. When traveling in general, I make an effort to blend in when I can, but usually adhere to my typical boho attire – blouse, scarf, fedora, and bracelets.
Nothing about what I was wearing or how I looked should’ve drawn the attention that I got. The attention I’m referring to is something every Black American abroad has experienced in some manner, somewhere.
The lack of multiculturalism caused me to be a walking exhibit straight out of a museum.
And here’s what I mean.
As a black person, there are four types of stares I’ve come to terms with while traveling. And before you say that “you don’t see color” please for one second realize that I’m not talking about you. These people, locals, who some may have never seen a black person before in their life, indeed SEE color. This is not an opinion, this is a fact. And my year of living in Spain corroborated that by the amount of times I was catcalled with the ever-so-endearing words of “hey, black girl!” in Spanish. Here are the four variations of stares you get as a Black American abroad.
1. THE LOOK OF CURIOSITY
<snip>
2. THE LOOK OF APPROVAL
<snip>
3. THE LOOK OF DISGUST
This face hurts. Not so much the action of them making the face, but moreso the lack of concern to try and hide or disguise this face to begin with. It’s like they’re saying they’re not okay with my presence, but instead of keeping that pleasant thought to themselves, they want to make sure I’m aware of it too. These stares were plentiful in Prague. It was disheartening, because I had such high hopes.
In all honesty, this almost always comes from the older generations. People who were kids when the Wright Brothers made it possible to sit in a chair in the sky and teleport yourself to foreign territory. So the concept of multiculturalism and leisure travel is something their generation was never engulfed in like this one.
4. THE LOOK OF OBJECTIFICATION/SEXUALIZATION
This face is one I know female travelers experience everywhere and I’m not comparing our struggle in this department, but I know that black women specifically get objectifying stares in certain regions much more than anyone else. This is due to the increasing amount of African migrant women who turn to prostitution when it’s the only work they can find outside of their native country. The local culture then accepts this as the norm and they associate anyone resembling a woman of African descent to follow suit.
And before anyone tries to tell me to “appreciate the stares while they’re still coming” let me kindly tell you “NO.” Here’s why.
There’s this thing called mutual respect, and as long as you don’t give me a reason to treat you like the chauvinistic masochist that you come off as, then you will get the kind and chipper Glo.
Staring is not a compliment. It’s rude. Whether it’s a look of fascination or disgust, the act is so uncomfortable for the person on the receiving end, and even while making it very apparent that I, too, have these thing called eyes that allow me to stare back, they continue in their glare.
The worst part of all of this was walking on the sidewalk and having car after car, slow down, honk, or the strangest, put a hand up and point towards the end of the street, either signaling to meet them at the corner, or God knows what else. I felt so out of my element. I couldn’t be my normal, happy-go-lucky self.
To top my day off, I was at a stoplight with a girl who would be considered gorgeous by today’s societal standards: brunette, long hair, toned legs, and wearing a mini dress.
Now, I don’t go around sticking prostitute labels on pretty people like some locals do when they see foreigners, but between the two of us, if one of us were more dressed for the job, 1,2,3 — NOT IT!
Regardless, guess who got the harassment as a car with two men in the front pulled up to the crosswalk. She was invisible. They looked right at me, muttered some words, smirked, and I felt them practically undressing me with their eyes. It was disgusting and I felt so violated.
I’m fully aware there will be creeps, jerks, and losers in every city or country regardless of where you are. But to feel like I got a taste of each collectively in just the two days I was in Prague didn’t sit well with me.
The Worst Part About My Travels As A Solo, Black Woman
April 20, 2016Gloria Atanmo73 Comments 10337 views
Estimated Reading Time: 7 minutes
Paris, France // July 2015
While I’m the first to encourage my fellow African-Americans to spread them transatlantic wings to hop across the pond and join me in Europe, there’s a part that I’m always hesitant to open up about when it comes to the reality of our existence in some parts of the world.
And while I can’t speak for every black woman, nor every country’s views, I can share my experiences, my observations, and my discoveries, in hopes that it can prepare and even educate fellow black women as to something that is far too common, and yet, beyond our control.
Sorry to build the suspense, but I have to contextualize this, because again, I was so oblivious to it at first, that when it happened, I was so shocked, disgusted, and confused. And a bit saddened as well.
Toledo, Spain // June 2015
Because when you’re so used to doing everything to control the perception others have of you, and then having that “power” taken away from you for the simple fact that you’re in a city or region where people that have your skin color, are usually prostitutes, it’s a hard pill to swallow.
Yes, that’s right.
I was mistaken for a prostitute.
Not just once. But dozens of times. And I’ve honestly lost count.
The first time it happened, I was in Spain.
The second time, The Czech Republic.
The third time, Albania.
And before the cynics begin to question what I was wearing, it didn’t matter. I was clothed, covered, and respectable.
Whether that be in a long, flowing skirt or in jeans and a peacoat, there are just some regions of the world who see black skin on a woman, and assume that the only way I was able to afford to get there and stay there, was by way of selling my body to a local.
This way of thinking isn’t born overnight. It’s taught and it’s ingrained into people’s minds by what’s happened in the past.
A post shared by Gloria Atanmo, The Blog Abroad (@glographics) on Dec 4, 2018 at 4:58am PST
In Barcelona, for example, I quickly learned that there were certain streets I just couldn’t walk down at a certain hour, even as “early” as 8PM.
One time I was with my German friend leaving a restaurant, and he was walking me back to the train station on the famous La Rambla street, and one by one we’re met with these strange looks that I can’t quite describe. It was a mix between a look of congratulations to my friend and a look of dirtiness to me.
We passed police officers who muttered something along the lines of “good job” in Catalan, while looking towards my German friend, and seemingly scaling me up and down as if imagining what Nicki Minaj moves I had in my repertoire *eye roll*.
My friend and I looked at each other, mutually sensing the discomfort of the situation, but still in the dark about why we were attracting such strange expressions.
I started becoming self-conscious but more observant of everyone around us, wondering why we were getting so much attention.
And then I locked eyes with what looked like a West-African (specifically, Nigerian) woman. I only specify she was Nigerian, because I can spot my own (both parents were born and raised there), and this will make sense later.
She stared me up and down, then looked at my German friend, eyeballed his crotch area, then looked at me again and muttered something to her friend nearby.
It’s now clear they were prostitutes, and they had mistaken me as their “competition” and crossing into their territory.
We made our way off the main strip of La Rambla, and off to the smaller sidewalk, because it just became too uncomfortable.
And then we noticed a trend.
Every 100 feet or so, there was a new African woman.
Claiming her spot/corner.
And giving me the same “jealous” glare as if they were mad I had found a “customer” for the night, while they were still out there harassing men that passed them by.
The worst part was, they did look like me. And I looked like them.
You see, most African prostitutes wear coats, scarves, sweaters, and jeans. Just like me. Therefore, making us almost indistinguishable.
I was an empty corner away from looking like one of them, and the embarrassment was enough to keep me away from that street past dark for the remainder of my time in Barcelona.
I tried hard to forget about that night, and my friend and I only talked about it once over coffee, before agreeing to pretend it never happened. It was awkward. To have a friend walk down a street for 15 minutes under the assumption that you, his good friend, was purchased for the night.
I don’t walk around flashing my college degree, credentials, or achievements on my arms, but the fact that I couldn’t and didn’t really know how to defend myself, was something new. I was embarrassed. A type of embarrassed that leaves you speechless and unsure how to vent or open up about it with friends.
A post shared by Gloria Atanmo, The Blog Abroad (@glographics) on Nov 29, 2018 at 7:05am PST
Another time while I was out and about exploring the city, I arrived at a small intersection where I saw a car coming.
When I’m in no hurry, I’m always very lax about letting cars just go in front of me, and depending on where you are, most of them do anyway.
But I saw him slowing down, and encouraged him to press the gas again, and do a motion with my hand that waves him through to carry onwards.
But he instead brakes even harder so that his passenger window is right in front of me, winds down his window, and excitedly asks me in Spanish how much I charge, soon motioning that he didn’t even care, to just hop in the car anyway, reaching over to open the door.
The shock hit me so hard again, I felt like someone just punched my gut. I *accidentally* kicked his car and walked around him and crossed the street.
My Spanish/Catalan was so bad at that time, that I hadn’t taught myself how to be angry in a foreign language yet. And God knows that was probably for the best. Jesus took that wheel.
And as much as I try to forget it happened. It soon happened again in Seville, Spain. And then in Prague, Czech Republic, and then in Gjirokastra, Albania. And several other cities, towns, and villages around Europe.
And being here now in Cyprus, I was reminded yet again, that this is just a part of my solo travel experience that I have to accept. Because it happened yet again.
Lisbon, Portugal
The other day I met a lovely lady from The Philippines who was the pastor of a church here who told me about their worship service happening in a few minutes.
She wanted to prepare a few things and had her husband walk me to where the church was located.
Sidenote: After traveling for so long, you start to develop a spirit of discernment, and I knew from the sound of their voices and the joy in their heart from finding a “sister in Christ” that I was in good hands.
So her husband and I start walking down the main street and heading for the church.
He was probably in his early 60’s, and since the wife was off picking up some things, there we were. An older man, with a 20-something old black woman, and immediately, the heads started turning.
On this narrow street lined with bars and restaurants of hundreds of people sitting outside facing towards the street, we soon become the center of attention. And by the looks of their faces, it was not for anything good.
There is nothing more embarrassing than the thought of someone thinking you were just “purchased”.
I knew what everyone thought, and my jolly new friend, oblivious to it all, was telling me about his journey of being a born again Christian, and how much God has worked miracles in his life.
And there I was, instead of rejoicing with him in his victories, allowing my human side to take over, and I put my head down, trying to avoid all the stares and mutters we were receiving.
It was different than the stares I got when I was by myself exploring Cyprus. People smiled and waved, and even chimed in a few times with, Welcome to Cyprus! It was beautiful.
But it was about 8PM this time. And all I saw were judgmental faces.
Thanks for listening.
April 20, 2016Gloria Atanmo73 Comments 10337 views
Estimated Reading Time: 7 minutes
Paris, France // July 2015
While I’m the first to encourage my fellow African-Americans to spread them transatlantic wings to hop across the pond and join me in Europe, there’s a part that I’m always hesitant to open up about when it comes to the reality of our existence in some parts of the world.
And while I can’t speak for every black woman, nor every country’s views, I can share my experiences, my observations, and my discoveries, in hopes that it can prepare and even educate fellow black women as to something that is far too common, and yet, beyond our control.
Sorry to build the suspense, but I have to contextualize this, because again, I was so oblivious to it at first, that when it happened, I was so shocked, disgusted, and confused. And a bit saddened as well.
Toledo, Spain // June 2015
Because when you’re so used to doing everything to control the perception others have of you, and then having that “power” taken away from you for the simple fact that you’re in a city or region where people that have your skin color, are usually prostitutes, it’s a hard pill to swallow.
Yes, that’s right.
I was mistaken for a prostitute.
Not just once. But dozens of times. And I’ve honestly lost count.
The first time it happened, I was in Spain.
The second time, The Czech Republic.
The third time, Albania.
And before the cynics begin to question what I was wearing, it didn’t matter. I was clothed, covered, and respectable.
Whether that be in a long, flowing skirt or in jeans and a peacoat, there are just some regions of the world who see black skin on a woman, and assume that the only way I was able to afford to get there and stay there, was by way of selling my body to a local.
This way of thinking isn’t born overnight. It’s taught and it’s ingrained into people’s minds by what’s happened in the past.
A post shared by Gloria Atanmo, The Blog Abroad (@glographics) on Dec 4, 2018 at 4:58am PST
In Barcelona, for example, I quickly learned that there were certain streets I just couldn’t walk down at a certain hour, even as “early” as 8PM.
One time I was with my German friend leaving a restaurant, and he was walking me back to the train station on the famous La Rambla street, and one by one we’re met with these strange looks that I can’t quite describe. It was a mix between a look of congratulations to my friend and a look of dirtiness to me.
We passed police officers who muttered something along the lines of “good job” in Catalan, while looking towards my German friend, and seemingly scaling me up and down as if imagining what Nicki Minaj moves I had in my repertoire *eye roll*.
My friend and I looked at each other, mutually sensing the discomfort of the situation, but still in the dark about why we were attracting such strange expressions.
I started becoming self-conscious but more observant of everyone around us, wondering why we were getting so much attention.
And then I locked eyes with what looked like a West-African (specifically, Nigerian) woman. I only specify she was Nigerian, because I can spot my own (both parents were born and raised there), and this will make sense later.
She stared me up and down, then looked at my German friend, eyeballed his crotch area, then looked at me again and muttered something to her friend nearby.
It’s now clear they were prostitutes, and they had mistaken me as their “competition” and crossing into their territory.
We made our way off the main strip of La Rambla, and off to the smaller sidewalk, because it just became too uncomfortable.
And then we noticed a trend.
Every 100 feet or so, there was a new African woman.
Claiming her spot/corner.
And giving me the same “jealous” glare as if they were mad I had found a “customer” for the night, while they were still out there harassing men that passed them by.
The worst part was, they did look like me. And I looked like them.
You see, most African prostitutes wear coats, scarves, sweaters, and jeans. Just like me. Therefore, making us almost indistinguishable.
I was an empty corner away from looking like one of them, and the embarrassment was enough to keep me away from that street past dark for the remainder of my time in Barcelona.
I tried hard to forget about that night, and my friend and I only talked about it once over coffee, before agreeing to pretend it never happened. It was awkward. To have a friend walk down a street for 15 minutes under the assumption that you, his good friend, was purchased for the night.
I don’t walk around flashing my college degree, credentials, or achievements on my arms, but the fact that I couldn’t and didn’t really know how to defend myself, was something new. I was embarrassed. A type of embarrassed that leaves you speechless and unsure how to vent or open up about it with friends.
A post shared by Gloria Atanmo, The Blog Abroad (@glographics) on Nov 29, 2018 at 7:05am PST
Another time while I was out and about exploring the city, I arrived at a small intersection where I saw a car coming.
When I’m in no hurry, I’m always very lax about letting cars just go in front of me, and depending on where you are, most of them do anyway.
But I saw him slowing down, and encouraged him to press the gas again, and do a motion with my hand that waves him through to carry onwards.
But he instead brakes even harder so that his passenger window is right in front of me, winds down his window, and excitedly asks me in Spanish how much I charge, soon motioning that he didn’t even care, to just hop in the car anyway, reaching over to open the door.
The shock hit me so hard again, I felt like someone just punched my gut. I *accidentally* kicked his car and walked around him and crossed the street.
My Spanish/Catalan was so bad at that time, that I hadn’t taught myself how to be angry in a foreign language yet. And God knows that was probably for the best. Jesus took that wheel.
And as much as I try to forget it happened. It soon happened again in Seville, Spain. And then in Prague, Czech Republic, and then in Gjirokastra, Albania. And several other cities, towns, and villages around Europe.
And being here now in Cyprus, I was reminded yet again, that this is just a part of my solo travel experience that I have to accept. Because it happened yet again.
Lisbon, Portugal
The other day I met a lovely lady from The Philippines who was the pastor of a church here who told me about their worship service happening in a few minutes.
She wanted to prepare a few things and had her husband walk me to where the church was located.
Sidenote: After traveling for so long, you start to develop a spirit of discernment, and I knew from the sound of their voices and the joy in their heart from finding a “sister in Christ” that I was in good hands.
So her husband and I start walking down the main street and heading for the church.
He was probably in his early 60’s, and since the wife was off picking up some things, there we were. An older man, with a 20-something old black woman, and immediately, the heads started turning.
On this narrow street lined with bars and restaurants of hundreds of people sitting outside facing towards the street, we soon become the center of attention. And by the looks of their faces, it was not for anything good.
There is nothing more embarrassing than the thought of someone thinking you were just “purchased”.
I knew what everyone thought, and my jolly new friend, oblivious to it all, was telling me about his journey of being a born again Christian, and how much God has worked miracles in his life.
And there I was, instead of rejoicing with him in his victories, allowing my human side to take over, and I put my head down, trying to avoid all the stares and mutters we were receiving.
It was different than the stares I got when I was by myself exploring Cyprus. People smiled and waved, and even chimed in a few times with, Welcome to Cyprus! It was beautiful.
But it was about 8PM this time. And all I saw were judgmental faces.
Thanks for listening.
Just what I thoughtAnother intelligent nuanced well travelled yank ...
Learn to read you literalist moron.
And don't bring your bipedal rep/dem workview into international discussions braniac. We don't want to lose braincells too
Lootha VanDraws
'The Night I Fell in Love' is the GOAT R&B album
You might want to place a hold on your credit card OP, who knows what those swine might be doing with your numbers...
TELL ME YA CHEESIN FAM?
I walk around a little edgy already
You're getting punked in Switzerland like a ho
I'd put your ass in a pine box without breaking a sweat,Rajesh
Just go fukk a hooker who didn't do enema in her ass raw like u always do trick ass Indian
That's why you're in Switzerland, right?
Prince.Skeletor
Don’t Be Like He-Man
You're getting punked in Switzerland like a ho
I'd put your ass in a pine box without breaking a sweat,Rajesh
Just go fukk a hooker who didn't do enema in her ass raw like u always do trick ass Indian
That's why you're in Switzerland, right?
whatever CAC
id easily break yo teeth
now stop embarrasing yourself cac
TELL ME YA CHEESIN FAM?
I walk around a little edgy already
Dumb ass thought he was clever with that slave comment
Those cops smelled the racism off you
Those cops smelled the racism off you
Atanmo, the author’s name, is Nigerian.
I say this because it is very well known that all “black people” traveling to Europe are not going to have the same experiences. Understand that there is nuance between AA traveling to Europe and Africans. The stereotypes within the US that AA are a problem and Africans are magical negroes is essentially flipped in Europe. AA have enjoyed relative popularity in Western Europe due to their efforts in WWII and their contributions to jazz, literature, and the arts whereas Africans along with Middle Easterners have been scapegoated as the source of many of their societies ills. Note the fact the author made mention that the locals assumed she was a prostitute because of the preponderance of African prostitues in their city. AA that experience racism in Europe by and large experience it because locals assume that they are Africans. AA are typically (not always) in a more privileged position when they travel in Europe than Africans.
I’ve personally had no issues traveling to Europe and I’ve been traveling there since I’ve been in high school.
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TELL ME YA CHEESIN FAM?
I walk around a little edgy already
Most racist Europeans don't give a fukk if you're AA, African or Afro-Latino
desjardins
Veteran
It’s a shame we always have to be concerned about racism when we travel
I remember a white coworker was telling me how awesome Croatia is and I asked him would I be comfortable there
We went back and forth a little bit about what I meant before he said yea and was acting all shocked that I would even ask that
I remember a white coworker was telling me how awesome Croatia is and I asked him would I be comfortable there
We went back and forth a little bit about what I meant before he said yea and was acting all shocked that I would even ask that
PikaDaDon
Thunderbolt Them Suckers
It’s a shame we always have to be concerned about racism when we travel
I remember a white coworker was telling me how awesome Croatia is and I asked him would I be comfortable there
We went back and forth a little bit about what I meant before he said yea and was acting all shocked that I would even ask that
lol they're so fukking clueless
Nobody in Europe is drinking lead tainted water like Flint.
American cacs are evil beyond belief.
010101
C L O N E*0690//////
they just finessed you they weren't cops*