My InIn Journey in the Netherlands

The Netherlands didn’t welcome me with noise or spectacle. It moved slowly, in the hush of bicycles gliding past, in the stillness of canals at dusk, in the soft blue light that lingered just a moment longer than expected. I thought this would just simply be another international trip and one more stamp in a passport. But actually, I got to experience a different rhythm of living in the Netherlands: A life quieter, kinder and humane.

A Home of Warmth

Our journey began around a kitchen table. Vanessa and her husband welcomed us with homemade spaghetti. That homemade spaghetti was easily among the top three I've ever had, even after eating countless pasta dishes in countless restaurants. A little ground meat, some cheese, and some vegetables whose name I don't know, created a dish that evoked a sense of peaceful and serene European life. While eating, we talked about everything from long-haul flights to Envision and InIn, and even about everyone's lives and the development of accessibility worldwide. I was deeply moved by Vanessa and her husband's sincerity. They are truly so kind. At the same time, their home felt like the kind of space people imagine when they think of “home,” the peace and coziness collided perfectly with the stereotypical European low-pace lifestyle. They brought me calm through their laughter and the glow of the small dining room light, a feeling I had never expected.

Where Innovation Begins with Empathy

Rotterdam revealed another side of the Netherlands - one shaped not only by beauty, but by thoughtful design and intention. Every part of the city carries the sense of coziness. Even the public transport system seemed to be built on serenity.

The InIn conference was held at CIC Rotterdam, just steps away from Rotterdam Centraal. The moment we entered the venue, we stepped into a world of innovation centered on accessibility. We set up our roll-up banner, arranged the materials, and kept rehearsing in a meeting room. I was really, really nervous. Presenting in front of hundreds of people in a completely unfamiliar place, as the only high school students and the only Chinese presenters, felt both exciting and a bit terrifying.

Before the conference began, we spoke with other innovators, from Envision, Bartiméus, and startups across Europe. Their work shocked me by their demonstrated creativity, purposefulness, deep humanity. We shared our ideas; they shared theirs. No ego. No competition. Only a shared belief in making life better for people with visual impairments.

Then the presentations began. When it was our turn, I stepped onto the stage with my heart racing. Somehow, the words found their way out. Warm applause followed, more than I ever expected. After the presentations came the open-discussion stage. Attendees wandered freely between booths, stopping wherever curiosity pulled them. Many came to speak with us. They asked thoughtful questions, offered constructive feedback, and shared perspectives shaped by years of experience in accessibility. Their insights were incredibly valuable and really affected our future path.

And through all of it, one impression stayed with me: people here were unbelievably kind. Maybe it’s because they work in accessibility. Maybe it’s cultural. But every conversation felt sincere, respectful, and human. I didn’t feel like a student or an outsider. I felt like a part of a shared mission. Came from a developing country, where accessibility awareness is lacking, I never experienced any place or conference like InIn. Innovation here felt grounded, thoughtful, almost gentle.

Even the city of Rotterdam itself whispered history. I saw the name Erasmus appearing in bridges and buildings, a great philosopher I just learned in AP European History.

Cities Made of Water and Light

Amsterdam felt like a painting unfolding in motion. The canals sparkled and boats drifted softly beneath ancient bridges. Inside the Rijksmuseum, art from different ages again demonstrated the city’s hymn of praise of its profound history.

I have to admit that before coming, I had quietly worried about safety in Europe. Yet as I walked through the city, I felt something different: a gentle sense of order, a rest assure bring by the city’s tranquility. People trusted the system, and the system seemed worthy of that trust. Life moved at a slower speed, not because people were doing less, but because they were rushing less.

Later in Zaandam, I finally saw the windmills, the stereotypical image so often used to symbolize the Netherlands. But standing there in the soft wind, they are more than just the symbolic imprint. They felt real, humble, almost shy. The beauty wasn’t loud. It simply existed and it touched me more deeply because of that. Against the backdrop of the setting sun, a gentle breeze blew, and the windmills turned slowly. I finally experienced the life that countless people dream of, as if I were in the final scene of an epic film.

The Language of Weather

One of the things that touched me the most is that every morning in Pelgrimspoort felt like opening a new painting. At different times on different days, the scenery was never the same. One the first night that we arrived, the rain dropped lightly, while the pavement shining like a silver plate. That was the first time the dutch serenity shocked me. Reflected on the familiar life at Beijing, an undoubted metro city, I had a strange feeling at that time. I kept wondering what that feeling was like, and gradually I understood. It was a surreal feeling. To escape from a busy academic life, from a fast-paced, densely populated country to a small town in a country known for its slow pace of life. On the first day, the sky glowed with a deep blue calm; the next, a veil of post-rain clouds softened every edge of the city into watercolor. The street never looked the same twice.

Here in Leiden, light was not just illumination. It was mood. It was poetry.

Crossing Another Border

We took the train south to Brussels. There, we experienced another rhythm. The moment we stepped out of the station, the air felt different. Actually, we mistakenly booked the ticket to Brussel Midi Station, which later when we searched on the internet was considered one of the most dangerous places in Brussel. Therefore, the “different” I felt this time brought me some extent of disappointment and disturbed. The architecture rose heavier, more ornate. The streets were paved in stone that seemed to remember every step that had ever crossed it. Government buildings stood with quiet authority, especially those belonging to the European Commission, their glass facades reflecting a continent constantly negotiating its future. Nearby, solemn churches lifted their spires toward the sky, as if history and policy had chosen to stand side by side.

Walking through the city, I started with, I had to admit, huge anxiety. Looking at the people walked by, I was really afraid of someone instantly jumped in front of me and performing hatreds. Gradually, this kind of anxiety eliminated as I realized that people in Brussel were as kind as people in the Netherlands. Each city had its own voice, its own tempo, its own way of breathing. The Netherlands spoke softly, in water and bicycles and gentle order. Brussels spoke in stone and echo and quiet dignity. And together, they formed a calm but ongoing conversation across borders.

And I loved listening.

We found our way to the Grand-Place. The square opened suddenly around us like a theatre stage, enclosed by golden facades that glowed even under a cloudy sky. Every building felt intricately carved, as if the architects had been sculptors first and planners second.

Another stop felt almost sacred to me: Lycée Émile Jacqmain. It carries a remarkable piece of history: this was where the Fifth Solvay Conference in Physics took place. I looked at the board where the image showing Einstein, Schrödinger, Heisenberg, Marie Curie, and others gathering in the same spot where I stood on. I felt as if time had briefly folded, placing my present life gently beside theirs. It was humbling to realize how ideas born in quiet discussion can ripple outward and reshape the world.

That day in Brussels didn’t feel grand or dramatic as we imagined. Instead, it felt contemplative as if the city itself encouraged you to walk slowly, to notice, to reflect. And somewhere between the government buildings, the ancient churches, and that legendary school, I realized how deeply I admired this quiet European confidence.

Leaving Quietly

On the final day, a cold arrived before my flight did. We had planned to travel to The Hague, and maybe even visit the Van Gogh Museum. But the plans dissolved quietly as my strength faded. The sore throat, the headache, the heaviness behind my eyes, truly made me realized that sometimes the body decides the itinerary for you.

Even so, the day still had one last purpose. Vanessa had kindly arranged an interview for us at CIC Rotterdam, and despite feeling worn down, we went. The space felt familiar and warm by then. The conversation flowed gently, and although I was tired, I was grateful. It felt like a meaningful closing chapter to the InIn journey.

After the interview, we didn’t wander anymore. We went straight to the airport. I was too uncomfortable to explore even one more street, so we found a Starbucks and stayed there for nearly five hours waiting for the flight. When the airport announced boarding, I knew that this dreamlike trip quietly came to the end, even though a part of me didn’t want it to. The journey was slowly folding itself closed, page by page, without drama or noise.

The feeling of the Netherlands, its calm, its trust, its quiet confidence, followed me.

What I Carry Home

For this trip, everything unfolded slowly. Softly. Gently. Yet somehow, that softness changed something inside me.

I began to understand that a city doesn’t need to be loud to be alive. Streets don’t need to shout to be meaningful. Systems don’t need to control people to keep them safe. I saw how innovation could begin not from ambition, but from empathy. How technology could grow out of listening rather than conquering. How progress could be gentle.

The Netherlands taught me that beauty hides in the reflection of water under a stone bridge, in the quiet glide of a bicycle, in a small kitchen filled with warm light and homemade spaghetti, in the way clouds drift slowly across a low northern sky. The most powerful beauty doesn’t shout. It whispers. And you only hear it when you stop rushing.

I carried these whispers with me on the plane. I still carry them now. Between water and light, I learned to slow down. To breathe. To notice. To believe that calmness can exist not as a rare escape, but as a way of building societies and lives.

And maybe, just maybe, a small part of me is still there, walking beside those canals, listening to the bicycles passing softly in the distance, feeling that quiet kindness settle gently into my heart.