I have been looking for the seedier side of Holland. I found it today.

There is not much that is unsafe in this country. The people are content and happy so there is very little crime. The one major crime that plagues the streets: bike theft.

I have been looking for a new bike. Penelope, mine, is a good workhorse, but she’s heavy and old and has only one gear. I’m in the market for a daily bike. They run nearly a thousand Euros for a good one.

I got a listing off craigslist for less than a hundred.

So, I found myself on a train to check out a bike, frantically googling how to take a bike on a train. I felt very Dutch indeed, but then they wouldn’t need the Googling.

I got off at Utrecht Overvecht and found the underbelly.

Right out of the station is a shopping center. All around me are bikes which is normal for this country. But a ten-minute walk to the address brought me closer and closer to home. Not in the best way. 

I realized then that I was going to meet a craigslist person for a cheap bike. There was a good chance this bike was stolen and I was going to meet a criminal. This was craigslist, after all. 

Also, I was alone.

It is amazing how quickly your survival instincts vanish while living in the lap of luxury. I was deep in Call of The Wild now. Instinct kicked in. I knew where my keys were, ready to shank if I had to.

I walked down the deserted streets past construction sites and broken windows. The store fronts were faded, a bakery that had seen better times sat on the corner, and washing machines spilled from a mechanic’s shop into the street.

I was lost. I didn’t want to let the seller know that though. 15 minutes after our agreed-upon time, I rang the doorbell. Google Maps had forsaken this area.

I had a sinking feeling I was just about to enter the movie Hostel. The man who opened the door was not much of a relief. He was wearing a tank top and, I’ll say, shabby chic cargo shorts. He had face tattoos, at least one was that teardrop that, in the States and Mexico, meant you had killed somebody. 

He directed me to his basement. 

I’m not stupid. I didn’t follow. Instead, I waited for him to bring the bike out onto the street. He gave me a weird look. I expected a new shiny stolen bike. I got a rusty piece of crap that was worth every one of the eighty euros I was willing to spend. 

It was his daughter’s old bike. Second hand when THEY bought it.

This man who looked like a cartel dealer was just a dude selling his kid’s bike.

I was reminded this was the Netherlands. Even the seedy underbelly doesn’t quite sprout the same fruit.

It was only then that I noticed the people walking around, the baby carriages and joggers that dotted the side streets. I had been scared before and that had colored my entire world. But this is the Netherlands.

That machine shop was probably doing a sale. The Bakery I judged has excellent reviews. The neighborhood was thriving.

The bike was too big for me. 

The seller bid me good day, apologized for wasting my time. I thanked him and started back towards the train station. 

I took my keys out of my pocket and put them back in my purse.