{"id":160355,"date":"2023-10-26T13:44:18","date_gmt":"2023-10-26T11:44:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.erasmusmagazine.nl\/en\/?p=160355"},"modified":"2025-12-19T11:27:01","modified_gmt":"2025-12-19T10:27:01","slug":"where-are-you-going-little-red-riding-hood","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.erasmusmagazine.nl\/en\/2023\/10\/26\/where-are-you-going-little-red-riding-hood\/","title":{"rendered":"Where are you going, Little Red Riding Hood?\u00a0"},"content":{"rendered":"

When I go out in a red dress there are sometimes people who sing to me. Some of the catcalls are so artful that they\u2019re almost a compliment. It lends a touch of magic to my discomfort as I saunter through the dark streets of Rotterdam. \u201cWhere are you going, Little Red Riding Hood?\u201d someone calls out from a doorway. Usually, heading away from the wolves in my life.<\/p>\n

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\n\t\n\n<\/svg>\n<\/span>\n\tImage by:<\/span>\n\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tPauline Wiersema<\/a>, \t\t\t\t\t<\/span>\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tLevien Willemse<\/a>\t\t\t\t\t<\/span>\n\t<\/p>\n<\/figcaption><\/figure>

It was a Saturday night in the Oude Noorden district \u2013 after 1am, as I recall. My bike had been stolen and it would be another half an hour\u2019s walk to the nearest metro station. It didn\u2019t take long to start feeling sore in my high heels. The damp cold chilled me through my sweater and I could feel the lecherous gazes of men in alleyways as goosebumps on my skin. I looked longingly at a tram rattling past. It was out of service and already on its way to the terminus, but the driver saw me and beckoned me over. I rushed across the street and into the empty tramcar.<\/p>\n

Having made sure I\u2019d gotten on board, the driver enquired whether I was all right. He told me he was under the impression that I could do with some help. I had to hold on tight \u2013 a tram with no scheduled stops picks up quite a bit of speed. I thanked him. \u201cI\u2019d ended up in a situation in which I couldn\u2019t be sure who to trust. I wasn\u2019t even sure I could trust my own judgement. After all, I was the one responsible for getting my bike stolen, having left the key in the lock.\u201d We chatted as I stood in the doorway of his cab. I guessed his age as a little over thirty, but it was hard to be sure: he kept staring straight ahead as we traversed Rotterdam\u2019s dark streets. I let my hair down and massaged my temples.<\/p>\n

I often wonder if I should be more afraid when I\u2019m out alone on the streets. It\u2019s not like I never look over my shoulder, but it still preys on my mind. I asked my girlies<\/em> and we all agreed: we have a right to have fun, whether it\u2019s in the library or in Wunderbar. Other than that, we\u2019re not thinking all that much about everything that could go wrong. What never ceases to amaze me, however, is how many encounters in the street have a duality about them \u2013 like the one with the driver who gives way only to wolf-whistle after you or the Prince Charming who gallantly saves you from a pervert, only to become a predator himself.<\/p>\n

The tram driver and I had nearly reached Oostplein, where I could catch the last metro. \u201cAre you sure I can\u2019t take you home? I\u2019m going that way anyway when my shift ends.\u201d I politely declined and headed back into the night.<\/p>\n\n\t

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Read the previous column by Giselle<\/h2>\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t