Russian hymns fill the blindingly white cathedral. Its lofty walls, unadorned and awaiting frescoes, echo the recorded melodies. Outside these sacred confines, beyond the iron gates and the police tape, lies Paris—a different world from the one inside.

Two feet on the ground. Someone is grabbing onto my shoulder. I’m holding my friend’s wrist with one hand, keeping the other free to balance myself. They push us forward. Now I’m on my toes. One foot dangling in the air. I’m standing like a flamingo, yet I’m not stately. I’m having a full-on panic attack.

It's eight-thirty on the last day of the yearly Amsterdam Light Festival and everywhere I look people are queuing up for warm beverages. I came prepared, my bag heavy with a cocoa-filled thermos and a small bottle of rum. As people push past me toward the Hermitage, I suddenly realize that I have to pee. But where to go?