For the past six days, I have traveled by plane, train, and automobile across Italy. I have seen the Pope and Michelangelo’s statue of David, and eaten more carbohydrates than any one person ever eat in a lifetime. I’ve walked eight miles a day and had to fix a mosaic of Band-Aids across my raw heels. Wine has become water. Italy is like a dream, from Rome to Florence to Venice and now Milan. It’s easy to get swept up in the European flair and the pasta and the pizza and the language and the art and forget that you are spending exhaustible funds and that people are living their real lives all around you—that is, until you find yourself in one of those “this is real life” situations.

My friend and I traveled to Venice via train on a Tuesday night. In what seems to be a recurring trend in my life, however, our train was massively delayed and meant we’d be arriving in Venice two hours later than anticipated. We were set to stay at an Airbnb that had received rave reviews for its host and location and we were looking forward to taking it easy after four days of sightseeing. I contacted our host to let him know we’d be arriving later than anticipated and waited for a response as we made our way from one side of Italy to the other. As we pulled into Venice, we were struck by the scent of salt water and the sight of the Grand Canal on either side of us. Oddly enough, there wasn’t a response from our host, but with the help of trusty Google maps, we figured we could navigate our way to the apartment ourselves.

We boarded the bus only to realize that nowhere on the vessel was there a sign or anything of that sort that denoted what stop we were approaching and that we were headed far, far out of the city. On one side of us, a woman was passionately yelling into her phone in Italian and on the other, a young woman cried as she spoke on the phone with someone whose only identifying factor was his contact name “Federico.” It was dark and rainy outside and when we finally figured out where to exit, we stepped off the bus into only more mystery. We had a five-minute walk to the apartment, it was pouring rain, and, in true European style, there were no street signs anywhere. We set out with a vague idea of which streets to take as I frantically messaged our host again and again, but to no avail. As it turns out, the address he had given us was simply a street name, without a number of any real indicator of what the house looked like.

We stood in the middle of a dark street in the Venetian countryside as rain poured on us for 10 minutes before we realized that we were two young girls in a situation our parents had told us for our entire lives to avoid. I was fraught with panic as I tried every medium I could to contact our host. My friend turned to me and decided that we had to find a different alternative to standing in the middle of a dimly lit street where individuals wearing hoods were ducking in and out of back doors and dogs were barking at us. We walked up the street, unsure of where we were headed, only to realize we had stumbled upon a Best Western. It looked like the Gates of Heaven in that moment, which I feel strongly is a comparison rarely made. We scrambled inside to find shelter and what we assumed would be a safer situation than where we had been before.

Inside, we frantically explained to the desk receptionist our situation and he looked at us with sympathetic eyes while gesturing to the couch. An hour passed and midnight was frantically approaching. My anxiety was surmounting and I know my friend felt the same way. She turned to me and declared, in an action for which I am grateful, as it is a confidence I lack, that we were going to find a different accommodation for the night, closer to the city center. We had waited long enough and while we might lose some money, we had the funds to spare and it was a matter of safety at this point. I agreed and commended her on her take-action attitude. It’s a trait I immensely lack and I was thankful I was with someone who knew so staunchly to follow her gut.

We found a room for the night using an app that alerts you of last minute cancellations or room openings at local hotels and impulsively booked the cheapest one. With confirmation, I messaged our host, yet again, and told him we had to cancel because time was really getting away from us. Look, guys have ghosted me before; I’m pretty used to the rejection at this point. But from someone who was literally supposed to provide us with shelter, well, this one hit a little harder. We asked the receptionist to call us a taxi and breathed a sigh of relief that modern technology had provided us with an alternative. We fell back into the couch as the door to the Best Western swung open and there, as I recognized him from the centimeter wide portrait on the Airbnb app, stood our host.

My stomach dropped into my shoes. I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle at the situation. I mean, for God’s sake, the whole ruse where men show up at the last minute after you’ve already figured out a different way is getting a little old. The knight-in-shining-armor gag only works if you show up on time. My friend and I looked at each other wide-eyed and silently negotiated how to figure this one out. I stuttered through an explanation that we felt unsafe and he hadn’t been responding, so what were we to do? In classic male fashion, he let out a defensive scoff and said some nonsense response that I automatically filtered into the section of my brain I call “Reasons Men Have Ignored Me That Literally Do Not Makes Sense Nor Do They Matter.”

He left in a huff as our taxi to the next hotel arrived. In the cab, I received a message from him that outlined the direction to get to his house. Thanks, friend, but too little, too late. Our driver explained to us that he could not take us directly to the hotel, because in the city center, the only feasible mode of transportation was waterbus. We looked at each other and just laughed at how nuts this night had already been. We arrived at the dock, boarded said waterbus, and chugged our way down the Grand Canal. With the help of the ever trusty Google Maps, we departed the boat at what many would aptly call an alleyway. Again, panic ensued as we frantically dragged suitcases down the cobbled streets of Venice and tried to find our hotel.

We found it, eventually. We found it completely dark and locked up. It was nearly half past midnight at this point and we were practically abandoned in a city where we knew no one, nor the language to communicate what we needed to, and our only shot at shelter for the night was completely a lost cause. I was on the verge of unstoppable tears when I saw it: the brightly lit interior of a hotel across the way. We practically broke open the front doors as we sprinted into our own personal Mecca. Yet another helpful man at reception greeted us and as we spewed out our reason for our obviously weary, bedraggled state, he looked thoroughly disinterested but did not hesitate to offer the cheapest room available. He even went to so far as to offer us $50 off of the cost. We nearly wept with gratitude and willingly obliged to any request he made.

We stumbled into our shoebox room, just excited to be enclosed by four walls and warmth and know we were safe in the hands of this fancy hotel that, in reality, was far out of our budget—but would do for the next two nights. We threw ourselves onto the bed and laughed that this situation would only happen to us. We popped open a bottle of wine, downed it at an alarming rate, and settled into a restful sleep.

It seems as though no trip I plan goes swimmingly. I have faced one too many delays and cancellations and mishaps to really have any faith in my travel ability, but I do have faith in the universe. In the grand scheme of things, these are just blips on the radar. They are not dire life-or-death situations, by the grace of God. They add something to my life, whether it be a stronger sense of sanity or confidence in myself, but they do not take away. They’re experiences that make for great stories. They help this girl without a guidebook find her way.