Ten years ago, if you told me that the core memory I'd be locking in on my dream Euro trip would be a lesson in friendship and boundaries, I'd have laughed in your face. Back then, my 20-year-old self couldn't have imagined that a meticulously planned adventure with my best friend would turn into a bitter pill I'd still be swallowing a decade later.
Amber* and I had been inseparable since Year 9. We bonded over a questionable, but passionate, emo phase that freaked out our parents. By the time we'd finished school and grown out our fringes, we had a shared bucket list - and on top of it was travel.
First on the list was an epic Euro adventure. Parties in Greece, Parisian bakeries, Venetian gondolas, and maybe a holiday romance or two. We promised ourselves we'd make it happen for our 21st birthdays.
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My family doesn't have a lot of money - I was the first person in generations to even have a passport, so to make my dream a reality - I got serious. In between Uni classes, I worked at the local supermarket's deli counter. By night, I poured beers at two local pubs. Working at the bars not only helped me earn extra coins, it also stopped me spending any on nights out.
Every dollar I ever earned went straight into the "Euro Trip Fund". I also kept a giant money tin on my desk that Amber and I jokingly called "The Vatican Bank". Every time I dropped a tip in, I'd imagine us sipping wine in Rome or eating gelato on the Spanish Steps. I wanted to travel well, and I didn't want to worry about money when I was there.
Amber would laugh and dream right along with me, her eyes lighting up as she described her perfect night in Santorini.
But as the trip approached, I started noticing a pattern. While I was meticulously researching hostels, train schedules, and must-see sights, Amber seemed content to sit back and let me handle the details. She'd respond to my questions with a nonchalant, "Whatever you think is best."
I ignored the little red flag that was telling me that I'd get exhausted from carrying the whole mental load of the trip. I pushed those thoughts down, telling myself I was overthinking. Amber wasn't a planner; she was the energy, the vibes, the life of the party. Surely, once we got to Europe, she'd step up. After all, this was her dream too. I focused on the excitement and the promise of adventure, trusting that the magic of Europe would bring out the best in both of us.
When we finally boarded that plane to Paris, I was buzzing with excitement. We were doing it. We were living the dream. My feet barely touched the ground, and we were already snapping photos of the Eiffel Tower. It was everything I'd imagined - until Amber dropped the bomb.
We were sitting in a tiny café looking at the menu, when she blurted out: "So, um, I'm kind of running low on money, I'm going to have to watch how much I spend at these places."
"Low?" I asked, trying to sound calm. "How low?"
She winced. "Like… almost none?"
I stared at her, waiting for her to laugh, to tell me this was one of her jokes. But she just sat there, biting her lip.
In that moment, I felt like I'd been sucker-punched. I'd worked so hard, planned so meticulously, all for this trip. And now I was faced with a choice: leave my best friend stranded in Paris or shoulder the burden of her share. Of course, I chose the latter. I couldn't imagine abandoning her. But I can't say I did it without resentment.
I found myself forking out for two. Two train tickets, two hostel beds, two lunches, two everything. I wanted to enjoy myself, to soak up every ounce of Europe's magic, but it was hard when I was constantly doing the maths in my head. I skipped the gondola ride in Venice because I couldn't justify paying for two. That stung.
Amber, to her credit, tried to pitch in where she could. She'd call home for money every now and then and find free things for us to do. But it never tipped the scales. The trip that was supposed to be about adventure and discovery took on a broke backpacker experience. Something I had been working my arse off to avoid.
The worst part? She didn't seem to grasp the magnitude of what she'd done. She still joked, still posed for selfies, still lived in the moment, while I carried the weight of both our realities.
When we got home, I thought I'd feel relief, like I could finally breathe again. But instead, I felt hollow. I'd spent years dreaming of this trip, and it had been hijacked by someone else's lack of preparation. I'd given up so much, not just money but experiences I'd been dying to have, because I didn't know how to say, "No."
Now, a decade on, I can see it for what it was: a lesson. A painful, expensive, unforgettable lesson about boundaries and self-respect. I've learnt to ask the hard questions, to speak up when something doesn't feel right, to say "no" without feeling like a villain. It's a lesson I wish I'd learnt sooner, but I'm grateful I learnt it at all.
Amber and I stayed friends, but our relationship has changed to social media acquaintances. I keep up with her and her kids and she keeps up with mine, but we rarely see each other.
There was an instant distance from the moment we got back to Australia. A quiet acknowledgement of the weight that trip put on our friendship.
Sometimes I'll catch myself reminiscing about Europe, and for a split second, I'll feel the thrill of those cobblestone streets, the taste of the baguettes that I'd split with my companion. But it's always tinged with a bitterness I can't quite shake.
If I could go back, would I do it differently? Absolutely. I'd have a hard conversation before we ever boarded that plane. I'd insist on transparency, on accountability, on fairness. And maybe, just maybe, I'd have taken that gondola ride in Venice - even if it meant going alone.
*Name has been changed due to privacy.
The author of this story is known to Mamamia but remained anonymous for privacy purposes.
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