This is not a light story!

It is about fear and the moment hospitality turns into something else entirely. I hesitated for a long time before publishing this.

Albert (name changed)

During a cultural tour, a forty-one-year-old man was allowed to go on holiday independently for the first time in a long while. He lived in a protected residential setting and had previously spent a considerable period in a psychiatric hospital. A fellow patient — perhaps, in his own mind, even his future life partner — accompanied him.

Things went wrong immediately on the outward journey. The female guide leading the tour, unaware of the fragile mental state of one of her guests, came across to him as arrogant, cold and harsh. It made him aggressive. Not openly so — the guide did not notice it at first — but it coloured his mood for the rest of the trip.

Albert was a somewhat spoiled man from a well-to-do Jewish family. He played the clarinet beautifully, loved classical music and had strong opinions about almost everything in life — especially his own. His future bride, with whom he hoped to build a new life after years of struggling, now that he had been declared sufficiently recovered to live independently, was his complete opposite. She was kind — that much was true — but seemed emotionally distant. Still, she knew exactly what she wanted and could not be swayed.

She had previously been married for more than ten years but left when her husband developed a brain tumour, claiming she could not cope with it. In a series of unstable relationships afterwards, she had two children, both of whom were placed in foster care because she was unable to care for them either.

Albert’s financially comfortable mother had bought him a new apartment. Just before the holiday, he had been busy furnishing it and preparing to resume his work as a programmer at a university. Struggling deeply with his Jewish identity, he had an intense fear of borders, customs officers and uniforms. His father, who had died young, had left him a tiny Dutch–French dictionary — a cherished possession he carried with him everywhere. That, too, was part of the reason he had chosen France for this trip. From the emotions he attached to that little book, he seemed to conclude that France must be his second homeland. Albert was obsessively preoccupied with his father — sometimes lovingly, sometimes furiously, at times in violent fits of rage.
How do I know all this?

One evening his girlfriend came to see me and told me her partner was a psychiatric patient and was completely losing control. He had stopped taking his medication. She was afraid to sleep in the same room with him. She asked whether I could “just have him admitted somewhere.” She spoke about it as casually as if she were asking for extra towels.
I decided first to talk to him myself. Past experiences with hospital admissions, repatriations, insurance companies and endless phone calls made me reluctant to have someone admitted so easily — especially to a psychiatric ward, which I knew could become a long and complicated process. How would a French doctor communicate with a Dutch man who barely spoke French? It seemed far better to keep things calm and try to get him home with the group, where his own doctors could assess what needed to be done.

I decided to call his Dutch psychiatrist. Unfortunately, he had just switched doctors and his intake with the new psychiatrist had not yet taken place. His medical file was in transit. The new psychiatrist did not know his full history but understood my dilemma. Based on his medication, she advised giving him a substantial dose of sedatives and strongly encouraging him to resume his regular medication. The coming days would then show whether he could simply return home with the group.

Armed with a small bottle of sedatives, I went to his room with his girlfriend. I braced myself for the worst — but Albert turned out to be extremely polite. Well-groomed, refined, intensely nervous, but approachable. Not aggressive at all. He spoke openly about his problems. I calmly explained that what had happened was not acceptable and that he needed his medication to get through this crisis. I also explained the sedatives. He said he refused to take his medication because it made him feel like a zombie.

Albert latched onto me. He kept talking and declared me a wonderful man. Everything would be fine now, he said, as long as he could talk to me several times a day. I stayed with him deep into the night. His girlfriend slept. I nearly did too. Albert, with an enormous amount of sedatives in his system, remained hyperactive. Eventually I left. He managed to sleep a few hours that night. I was convinced I had made the right decision by not having him admitted immediately.

The next day started reasonably well, but I could not hold his hand all day. After briefly speaking with him at breakfast, I was away for several hours. When I returned late in the afternoon, it was obvious that he was angry with me — angry because I had not been there all day. He no longer spoke to me directly, only through others.
That evening he announced he was going for a walk.

Around midnight we received a call from the night porter of another hotel. Our guest, he said, had booked a room there for two nights and had asked him to inform us. That was how angry he was — he did not even want to sleep in our hotel anymore.
Later that night the porter called again: the guest had not returned, despite having paid for two nights.

The following morning I went to the main police station to report him missing. His girlfriend came along but insisted on stopping first at the other hotel to reclaim the money. We also visited the shops where he had placed orders the previous day.
At the police station, after endless waiting and the usual reluctance, we were told the officer in question was not available and that we should return after three in the afternoon.
We had lunch, drove around aimlessly, then went back. The same officer was still unwilling to fill out paperwork. Just as he finally found pen and paper, my wife called.

The municipal police of Le Cannet had found Albert — completely distraught — in the middle of the street.They asked me to come because he kept shouting the name of the hotel. We drove there. On the way, his girlfriend told me she never wanted to see him again. Someone who behaved like this, she said, was not for her. Had she known, she would never have gone on holiday with him. She stayed in the car.
When I saw him, I was horrified.
He was wearing only his trousers. Otherwise he was naked, filthy, his feet completely torn apart. All his belongings were gone — camera, new Discman, clothes, passport, driver’s licence, credit cards — everything.
He stood screaming at the officers, arms raised, singing something like a lament. I approached him. Despite his confusion, he recognised me immediately — though he was still angry. I was his only lifeline, so he listened somewhat. When I asked where his belongings were, he told me he no longer needed clothes because he was going to his father — to the other side. This world was not for him anymore.

“I’m going to my father. That’s where I belong.”
Tragic.

To my astonishment, one of the officers suggested I simply take him back to the hotel. That was impossible. I explained that he was suicidal and that an ambulance had to be called. After some resistance, they finally agreed.
The ambulance arrived quickly. Of course, Albert refused to get in. He screamed and resisted. The paramedics and officers considered restraining him. I intervened. He was not that far gone. I spoke to him calmly and explained that this was for the best — that he was far too intelligent to let himself be tied down by a few macho men.

He grew quiet, looked at me, and climbed into the ambulance on his own.

I rushed back to the hotel to call his doctor. The hospital would need his medical history and medication details. With that information in hand, I drove to the emergency department. I could hear him screaming before I even entered.

I arrived just in time to see a doctor run outside, calling firemen back into the building. They needed help with a patient.
I asked if it was a Dutchman and said I belonged with him. The doctor grabbed my arm and pulled me along. In a procession of firefighters and nurses, we entered the treatment room — an image I will never forget.

Albert was pressed against the wall in absolute panic, screaming that he would not be locked up. The firemen clearly looked ready for a fight. I stepped between them and tried to reach Albert. Again I explained that he was too intelligent to be restrained like that. He followed me into another room.
Only then did I realise we had entered an isolation cell.
It was a horrific space — a bare table with leather straps dangling from it. It looked like an execution chamber.

“This looks just like the isolation cell at Hospital in Holland” Albert cried in terror and tried to run.
I managed to stop him and asked the doctor whether he could remain unrestrained. The doctor nodded and left.
Albert sat on the table, visibly calmer. A nurse drew blood and conducted some routine checks. He asked for water. Then he shouted, “I want apple juice!” — something he always demanded at our hotel too. I had to laugh.

A nurse stood by the door. After a few minutes he said I had to leave because they were going to lock the door. I spoke briefly to Albert. When I said I was leaving, he suddenly turned to me. His psychotic posture vanished. He grabbed me and whispered: “You’ll stay nearby, won’t you? You’ll come back?”

The fear in his eyes was so pure it nearly made me cry. What a tragedy. What a madhouse.

After countless calls with his mother, doctors and healthcare providers in the Netherlands, things seemed to be under control — until the hospital called again. They had a serious problem. They were not allowed to keep Albert unless someone with legal authority signed for his compulsory admission. In this situation, I was the only eligible person.

I asked why the mayor could not do it, as in the Netherlands. That was not possible. Here, a hotel director could sign — just like a ship’s captain or an airline pilot.
If I did not come immediately, they would have to release him back onto the street.
I rushed to the hospital. A kind psychiatrist explained the situation and asked me to copy a pre-written declaration by hand and sign it. As I copied the long text, we talked. Suddenly she looked at me and asked why I had not had him admitted earlier.

I had been asking myself the same question. I felt guilty. If I had done so immediately, perhaps this escalation would not have happened. When I explained my reasoning, she nodded. “That’s very kind of you,” she said. “If only more people cared for their guests like this.” A kind remark — but the doubt lingered.

I once suffered from severe phobias myself: panic attacks, irrational fear disorders. When you don’t know them, every attack feels like madness. My greatest fear was ending up like Albert. I was so afraid of it that I never dared watch One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Losing control of your own mind and being strapped down was my worst nightmare. And now I was the executioner.
My wife worried too. She understood the struggle it had taken to overcome my worst fears — not to mention my lingering claustrophobia and fear of heights. She feared the situation would reopen old wounds.

Weeks later we were told Albert would soon return to the Netherlands. A nurse was on the way to accompany him. Then his mother called in panic: the nurse had returned empty-handed, judging it irresponsible to transport him.

A few days later I received a call from the hotel: Albert was at the front desk. He said he had been out walking and would return home in a few days.
I spoke to him by phone. He sounded reasonable. Still, I went to see him.
Compared to the wreck I had seen in the hospital, he looked well: clean clothes, glasses, calm speech. His hands trembled from the medication. He said he would travel home by train after the weekend. After some conversation, he asked me to take him back to the hospital — he was tired. On the way, he wanted croissants and cigars.

At the psychiatric ward I again felt as if I had stepped into a real-life version of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Albert insisted on showing me his room. He had only been out of the locked ward for a few days. I agreed, partly because I wanted to speak to staff. A nurse told me he was not allowed to leave unaccompanied at all. I was shocked by how easily people moved in and out. She reassured me it was not serious and that he was doing well.

His room — which Albert described as luxurious — chilled me. Bare walls covered in desperate messages from previous patients. Better than an isolation cell, but closer to a prison than a hospital room. Albert was proud. He did everything to keep me there. We listened to his favourite music. He showed me books. When I finally left, I gave him some pocket money. He hugged me repeatedly, cried, and walked me to the exit.

At home, I called his mother. She was horrified. He was absolutely not allowed to leave the hospital, let alone receive money. He lacked nothing. His release was still days — perhaps weeks — away.

She would call the hospital immediately and have him returned to the locked ward.
My blood ran cold. What if he used the money to travel? Where would he end up?

I called the hospital, explained everything, then reassured his mother. One thing was certain: my greatest fear had been unfounded. This reality bore no resemblance to my imagination.

A few days later, his repatriation was finally arranged. Albert returned home.
We still hear from him occasionally. He is doing well. I still find him a kind man — though I sometimes wonder how much longer his mother will be able to carry this burden.