Look up, and let’s look at each other
A series of unexpected encounters: What I discovered when I put my phone away on public transport
I’m in Amsterdam for a week for work. And the moment I arrive at Schiphol, I always need a moment to adjust. In the forest where I live currently, I see only a few people a week, and there are barely any external stimuli. Here, it’s the complete opposite: people everywhere, sounds, movement.
I make a promise to myself not to spend too much time on my phone while being in public transport. Instead, I want to look around, to really see what’s happening. And right away, I am warmly welcomed by a train conductor. We stand waiting together and our eyes find each other, and he strikes up a conversation. He asks, “Did you have a nice vacation?” I smile. “Not really, actually. I just arrived from Portugal because I live there. I’m here for work.” His eyes light up with curiosity. “You live there?” “Yes,” I nod, “in the middle of nature.”
He laughs broadly. “Well, girl, welcome to the urban jungle of Amsterdam.”
At that moment, we pull into Amsterdam Zuid, and I look out the window. It feels exactly like that: from the quiet of nature into a world of noise, energy, and endless motion. A completely different reality. I step onto the platform and take a deep breath. The hurried footsteps of people who seem to know exactly where they’re going. I look around. But most people are looking down—at their screens.
A little later, I’m sitting on the tram to Central Station. A young man sits across from me. His clothes are worn, his hair unkempt. It’s clear that he hasn’t had the chance to take care of himself. He looks at me and says softly: “Hello, ma’am.” He tells me his name and then, “I live on the street. Do you have some change for me?” I don’t look at my wallet right away—I look at him. “Where are you from?” I ask. “How long have you been here?” He blinks, surprised by the question. As if he didn’t expect anyone to actually show interest. Then he tells me: six months ago, he fled from Ukraine. He had a job, a life. But since coming here, he has been sleeping on the streets. He has lost everything. I open my wallet and give him all the coins I have. It’s not much, but I see in his face that it means something to him. His eyes soften, and with genuine gratitude, he places his hand over his heart. “Thank you, ma’am,” he says. Then he slowly walks away, his shoes worn down, his shoulders slumped. I sit there, thinking. What must be going through his mind? What is it like to have to ask, every single day? To live in a world where no one really looks at you? Who was he six months ago? Maybe a teacher. Maybe a baker. Maybe he worked at a post office. Six months ago, he might have had a home, a family, friends who greeted him on the street. Now, he walks here, in a country where no one knows him. Where no one looks at him. Let alone starts a conversation. He walks away, and as I sit in the tram, a tear escapes me.
From now on, I make a promise to myself: whenever I can, I will always give something. Even if it’s small. Not just money, but also attention, a question, a smile, a moment of human connection.
The next day, I’m sitting on the tram again. Just like yesterday, I keep my promise to myself: no phone. Instead, I look around. I observe the people, searching for moments of connection. I wave at the conductor and smile. But as I scan the tram, I see that at least eighty percent of the people are staring down, their faces lit up by their screens. No one looks up. No one looks around.
And then, I see him. A little boy, about four years old. He kneels on the seat, almost halfway out the window to take in the city. His eyes follow the graffiti on the walls, the colors, the shapes. He turns excitedly as another tram passes, his mouth slightly open in wonder. He sees everything. He absorbs it all. I watch him, and at that moment, I try to see the city through his eyes. What would it be like to discover everything for the first time, to see it all with a sense of wonder and curiosity? How would the city look if I viewed it with fresh eyes, like he does? His mother sits beside him, but she doesn’t notice. Her eyes are fixed on her screen, her fingers moving across the glass. She doesn’t see how her son is discovering the city, how he is fully present in the moment. I keep watching him. I learned a big lesson: Let’s be more like children, let yourself be amazed, be curious, take it all in.
It’s around 4 o’clock in the morning a few days later, and I am on my way back to Schiphol. My taxi driver, Azi, greets me warmly, and I settle into the back seat. We drive through the quiet streets, and I ask him where he’s from. He responds with a soft smile, “I’m from Benin.” I immediately feel a bit embarrassed because I don’t know his country, so I apologize. Azi, with no hesitation, pulls out his phone to show me where it is. I ask him more questions: "What do you eat there? Is it nice? Do you miss it? What’s the biggest religion?"
Azi opens up, telling me that in the Netherlands, he hardly speaks to his neighbors. "Months can go by," he says, "and they wouldn’t even greet you." He continues, “That would never happen in my home country. There, people always greet each other.” He tells me he’s Muslim, though there are also many Christians in Benin, including in his own family. Then, he asks me, “Do you believe in God?” I pause for a moment and say, “I believe in miracles and a higher power, but I don’t give it a name.” Azi nods, respecting my answer. Then he asked me: Mam, how do get in contact with my own energy? I tell him that I think it’s the best to get to know yourself, spend time alone preferably in nature, without a phone and distractions. Go inward. He is really listening and taking it in: “That’s really cool ma’am, I will try that after today”.
We arrive at Schiphol, and as I’m about to get out of the taxi, Azi says, “I will always pray for you, ma’am.” I look at him and promise him the same. I give him a hug, grateful for our shared moment of connection, and head back home, carrying with me the warmth of our brief exchange.
And then, it hits me. The conductor was right. This is indeed the urban jungle. It’s a place where so many people are caught up in their own world, moving through the rush of the city, glued to their screens, missing the beauty and wonder all around them. But there’s also life here. There’s color. There’s movement. There’s energy. There are people with endless stories worth sharing. The city is alive, constantly shifting, constantly changing. And if you take the time to really look, to look up and around, you’ll find that there’s so much more to see than what’s in front of you on your screen.