After wrapping up a two-day project at Vencon, I took a solo weekend trip to Amsterdam. As soon as I clocked out on Friday, I boarded an overnight ICE train and arrived around 10 a.m. The city immediately captivated me, so effortlessly beautiful. Narrow houses with intricate architecture lined the canals, each bridge adorned with overflowing flowers.
Determined to make the most of my time, I spent the day exploring at a near-constant pace—ten hours of walking, discovering museums, flower shops, cheese markets, and local cafés. By nightfall, I found myself in the Red Light District, absorbing the energy of the city from a quiet observer’s perspective.
By 1 a.m., with nearly every corner explored, I faced a choice: find a place to sleep in Amsterdam or keep moving. I chose the latter, spontaneously booking a train to The Hague, then another to Rotterdam. I dozed on and off during the ride, surrounded by other young solo travelers making their way home after a weekend in the city.
Arriving in Rotterdam around sunrise, I stopped briefly at a mosque for a quick rest before setting off again. The city was alive with energy, hosting events that spilled out onto the water—marathon swimmers cutting through canals, locals surfing, and sailboats dotting the horizon. After a full day of sightseeing, I boarded an evening train back to Berlin, only to be delayed for hours. I didn’t step through my apartment door until 4 a.m.—just four hours before I had to be at work.
Somewhere during that ride back, I struck up a conversation with a man traveling with his dog. Completely off the grid—no phone, no internet—he relied on library computers to plan his travels and physical train schedules to navigate Europe. He told me he was on his way to Italy to curate 500 inherited paintings. His lifestyle fascinated me. It made me think about technology, change, and how differently we can all choose to move through the world.
By Monday morning, running on zero sleep and nearly 190,000 steps deep, I walked into the office ready to refocus. That sharp contrast—between a whirlwind, spontaneous weekend and the precise structure of my internship—underscored one of the biggest cultural adjustments I’ve experienced here.
At Vencon, flexibility in the traditional sense—like working remotely—isn’t an option for interns due to cybersecurity and compliance protocols. The workplace is structured, punctual, and results-oriented. Much like Germany’s transit system, you’re expected to arrive on time, stay on schedule, and keep up with the pace. It isn’t rigid in a negative sense—there’s a strong sense of community, with daily group lunches and “Beer Fridays” to close out the week—but expectations are high. You can’t just show up; you’re expected to show results.
Adapting to that structure has been an adjustment. It’s not the work itself that’s challenging, but the consistency and intensity of the environment. Spontaneity, while a beautiful part of travel, has little room in this setting. What I’ve learned, though, is that adaptability doesn’t mean losing my own identity; it means learning how to thrive within a new framework while bringing my full self to the table.
