‘Travelling by invitation?’ asked one of my lady friends. ‘Who, in his right mind, would ever want to invite you in their home?!’
Below is an English translated excerpt, originally from the Dutch paperback Letmestayforaday, published in 2004 by Nijgh & Van Ditmar in Amsterdam, and as Singel Pocket in 2005 by Singel Uitgeverijen, Amsterdam. All book rights are mine.
My parents often wondered why I squandered the better part of my teenage years hunched behind my PC in a small and boring little village in the Netherlands. Living under their roof as I was, they believed that instead of surfing endlessly across the growing expanse of the World Wide Web of the half 90’s, life might prove infinitely more profitable if I actually pursued my studies, perhaps even doing my homework, radical though that concept seemed.
I, however, remained convinced that my relentless digital wanderings would ultimately bear fruit. There was something out there! I was surfing the waves of pure optimism: like most young idealists, I harbored an unshakeable faith in the Internet’s boundless power to unite souls across continents, allowing strangers to truly know one another despite the tyranny of geography. It surprised me, it captivated me, it inspired me. But I could not get my parents to see all that.
In autumn 1999, some college friends and I embarked on a road trip to Madrid and Barcelona, departing from Zwolle, a pleasant university town in the Netherlands. Our chariot was a thoroughly beaten Peugeot sedan I’d purchased secondhand from a professor, a vehicle whose better days were clearly visible only in the rearview mirror.
But within a week of our homecoming, wanderlust seized me with renewed vengeance. A year later, I proposed we recreate that blissful adventure, but reality proved less romantic than memory: none of us possessed the funds, the time, or – crucially – a functioning car, since my trusty Peugeot had expired with theatrical timing upon our return from Spain. Such continental escapades remained, for the moment, the stuff of wistful daydreams.
One fateful December evening in 2000 found me sprawled before my television, channel-surfing through my ennui.
The hour was late, the reruns uninspiring, those brain-numbing call-in game shows appeared designed exclusively for the intellectually challenged, and the American talk show was… well, Jenny Jones, discussing “Young Internet Entrepreneurs.” Various guests recounted how they owed their commercial triumphs to sudden flashes of inspiration, playful concepts born more from whimsy than business acumen.
Suddenly alert, I leaned forward, curiosity piqued and somehow enchanted. Rich Schmidt, an enterprising American, regaled viewers with tales of his website Sendmeadollar.com (archived link): visitors who mailed a dollar bill to Schmidt’s postal address earned the privilege of posting a message on his site. The venture was flourishing magnificently—countless messages populated the platform, and his dollar counter had climbed to an impressive $3,000.
Fascinated by these novel methods of effortless income generation, I slipped into familiar reveries of travel. How far might $3,000 carry me across the globe, meeting extraordinary people, witnessing breathtaking landscapes, absorbing history and culture, savoring life’s richest offerings?
As my scheme crystallized from drowsy fantasy into focused ambition, I resolved to bypass expensive hotels entirely. My purpose would be better served by staying in people’s homes. And why shouldn’t I solicit invitations the same way Schmidt had courted dollar donations? What fundamental difference existed between the time-honored “brother-can-you-spare-a-dime” and my request through the same medium for a night’s lodging?
The concept ignited my imagination. My mind practically glowed with possibility. I scoured the web for similar ventures, travelers seeking accommodation through online appeals, but discovered nothing. The website I envisioned would be utterly unprecedented, a digital pioneer. Between bursts of excitement, I scribbled potential domain names: a memorable URL was, naturally, essential. Soon I struck gold: Letmestayforaday.com: a succinct manifesto of intent, blessed with an irresistible rhyme.
The following months were devoted to transforming vision into reality. This required registering my domain for thirty-five Dutch guilders (on the very precipice of the Euro era). I designed the Letmestayforaday logo, converted photographs of myself into JPEGs, crafted an introductory page crowned with the simple question: “Would you invite me?”
Naturally, I intended to reciprocate the hospitality I received: my website would chronicle my journey day by day—experiences, observations, challenges overcome, fascinating people encountered, and intimate glimpses into their lives. A technically gifted friend programmed an entire back-site publishing system enabling me to post daily reports and upload accompanying photographs.
Armed with justifiable pride and brimming confidence, I approached my parents to unveil my project.
“I’m going to travel the world,” I announced. “Getting myself invited by people through the Internet and it’s never been done before.”
My mother said nothing, but replaced her coffee cup upon its saucer with unmistakable emphasis before exchanging a meaningful glance with my father.
“What about your graduation timeline?” my father inquired.
“I’m afraid I’ll need to pause my studies temporarily, as I have no idea whether this journey will last a week or stretch across months.”
“Do you still intend to complete your degree?” he pressed.
Back in 1995, I had embarked upon journalism studies that would theoretically launch me into professional media work. Six years later, graduation remained tantalizingly elusive. Of course, I should have focused on attending lectures and completing assignments, but other pursuits constantly beckoned, activities that were also providing invaluable journalistic experience, or so I rationalized.
“I can graduate whenever I choose,” I replied, hoping this sounded remotely credible.
“But how will you manage it?” my mother persisted. “This traveling business, I mean. You haven’t got a penny to our name!”
“If I secure sufficient invitations, I can hitchhike from destination to destination without spending anything at all.”
She retreated to her final defensive position.
“And what if someone murders you? You might be killed on the road, or fall gravely ill.”
This possibility had never crossed my mind, not for a single moment. Why would anyone wish to kill me? For monetary gain? Me, with pockets full of nothing but optimism? Fear seemed pointless.
I reasoned that if you’re too frightened to go, you’re better off staying home.
Repeatedly, I bombarded friends with my revolutionary concept of traversing the globe purely through Internet-solicited invitations. Most responded to my passion with well-aimed doses of common sense.
“Traveling by invitation?” asked one female friend. “Who, in his right mind, would ever want to invite you into their home?”
Undaunted by familial and friendly skepticism, I launched my website on Monday, March 12, 2001. The previous evening found me at a neighborhood pub, where during a casual billiards game with the bartender, I shared my travel ambitions.
“I trust you’re well-prepared?” he inquired.
“Certainly, as prepared as one can reasonably be.”
“I mean sponsors, advertisements for your site. You’ll need substantial publicity, considerable noise-making. A website like yours lives or dies by momentum. As an aspiring journalist, you should understand this. Obviously, you’ll notify press and media, have you considered that?”
“Yes, I have. And I’m not going to.”
“What do you mean, you’re not going to? Without publicity, not a soul will visit your precious site—nobody will know where to find it. How can the public bookmark what they can’t locate?”
“I want to discover whether I can transform my idea into success without fanfare, trusting purely to the chemistry between kindred spirits. I want website visitors motivated solely by curiosity. If they appreciate what they find, they’ll return. It will start as merely a tiny rolling ball, but it will travel tremendous distances, eventually attracting sponsors and advertisers who’ll come running to catch up.”
The tiny ball began rolling immediately: two hours after launch, several Dutch bloggers had already discovered my site (by monitoring newly created statistics counters offered free by tracking companies). Journalists, I knew, regularly mined blogs for fresh story leads. By 6 PM on launch day, the Dutch news site nu.nl had mentioned my project. The following day, a Dutch Radio 1 travel show editor invited me to discuss my plans on air, a ninety-minute train journey delivered me to the presenter’s desk at 8:30 PM for a five-minute interview.
A journalist from the Zwolse Courant, my adopted hometown’s newspaper, happened to catch my radio appearance and, after visiting my website, decided to write an article. Since most regional Dutch papers share resources, this item was distributed through the national associated press network. This generated a call from a journalist in The Hague; a press photographer visited the next day, and within forty-eight hours I was featured across multiple regional newspapers.
Meanwhile, my website performed exactly as envisioned, yielding its first invitation harvest: from the Netherlands and Belgium, but also from Paignton in England, Shoal Bay in Australia, Hsin Tien in Taiwan, and Islamabad in Pakistan.
An American emailed from Chicago: “Boy, you’ve got nerve! Consider yourself invited—and if my wife objects, I’ll book you a hotel room and cover the bill!”
Among these early responses was a questionnaire from Revista2K, a Brazilian Internet magazine I’d never heard of. I replied enthusiastically. Soon after, American journalist Leander Kahney contacted me, requesting a telephone interview for Wired.com, the largest and most influential Internet publication in the United States.
Once Kahney published his article on Wired.com, it appeared, sometimes with variations, across countless other news sites worldwide. The French newspapers La Libération and Le Monde, Spain’s El País, Italy’s La Repubblica, Turkey’s Hürriyet, the Moscow Times, The Australian, and South Africa’s Dispatch all featured my project within days. I discovered descriptions of myself and my travel scheme in completely unfamiliar languages on Russian, Polish, Serbian, Turkish, Arabic, and Hebrew websites.
In my homeland, the Netherlands, it was primarily the popular daily De Telegraaf that embraced the story, though domestic interest soon settled, my ingenious enterprise was filed away, and little more was written locally.
Internationally, however, the fascination continued. English newspapers pursued exclusive interviews, radio stations worldwide kept telephoning. My friends’ reactions to seeing my name on yet another foreign website remained consistently incredulous.
One day, when friends happened to visit my student apartment, the phone rang while I was making coffee in the kitchen. One guest helpfully answered.
“…Ramon? Oh yes, wait a second,” I heard him say in English. Then, switching to Dutch with obvious desperation: “Ramon, some Spanish guy wants to speak with you. I can’t understand a word!”
For the next ten minutes, I was interviewed by a reporter from Natal, Brazil. Thirty minutes later, the phone rang again: this time, a wonderfully friendly female voice calling on behalf of ZipFM in Nagoya, Japan. Would I kindly agree to be interviewed by their breakfast show presenter immediately? “Absolutely, I’d be delighted,” I replied.
While holding the line, I whispered to my friends: “Japanese radio station.” They stared at me in amazement.
This continued daily. Interview requests in my inbox soon outnumbered actual accommodation offers from around the globe.
Days became weeks as media attention sustained itself while I carefully sorted through the invitations flooding my website.
In April, a major Dutch tour operator contacted me, the company’s manager had read about me in that morning’s Telegraaf. He wished to schedule a meeting, having an intriguing proposal to discuss. Accompanied by a friend, I arrived at the company’s headquarters on the appointed day, soon finding myself shaking hands with a businessman eager to sponsor my adventure. He had everything mapped out: I would become his travel organization’s new spokesperson, prominently featured in television commercials, advertising campaigns, and promotional brochures. In exchange, he offered a six-month world tour with six stopovers of my choosing, with his company handling all arrangements.
This was simultaneously the last thing I’d expected and the last thing I wanted. I had hoped to find a sponsor who might cover ferry costs when necessary, crossing the English Channel or Atlantic, for instance.
But how could I possibly compress the mountain of invitations from every corner of the earth into a restrictive six-month schedule? What ultimately made me reject his offer (generous though it initially appeared) was my absolute unwillingness to become his company’s smiling, sanitized corporate mascot. My aspirations were focused on experiencing the world through genuine people who would serve as hosts, allowing me to see their surroundings through their eyes.
Fortunately, other sponsorship opportunities soon materialized, more helpful than burdensome. A telecommunications company offered two mobile phones equipped with cutting-edge Bluetooth technology, enabling state-of-the-art communication wherever I traveled. Radio station Q The Beat—nowadays known as Qmusic, agreed to cover my phone bills in exchange for weekly on-air conversations with their disc jockeys. Through networking, I connected with the Dutch agent for fashion brands like Oxbow and Odlo, departing their warehouse with bags of brand-new clothing, completely free.
My list of travel necessities had shrunk dramatically, though I still urgently needed a quality backpack and hiking boots.
To that end, I visited my local travel and sports store, waited my turn, and approached the shopkeeper’s wife about potential sponsorship.
“We’ve been expecting you,” she said pleasantly, pointing to a newspaper clipping prominently displayed beside the cash register.
“From the Telegraaf, as you can see,” she continued, congratulating me on my “fantastic idea” before summoning her husband. He wasted no time pondering my request, immediately selecting the finest backpack available, the best hiking boots in stock, and adding a bag of useful accessories.
This bounty he presented to me, absolutely free, before I’d even broached the topic of reciprocal arrangements. We settled on a link to their website from mine, plus mentions in future interviews.
By mid-April 2001, I was completely prepared to depart. But for where? Even in my most optimistic projections, I had assumed it would take weeks to clear sleepy provincial towns, perhaps months to escape the Netherlands entirely. But my website had become such a phenomenon that my anticipated itinerary required serious upgrading.
There was no sense visiting Dutch destinations like Almelo, Den Helder, Molenhoek, or Eindhoven when I could choose from Australia, Brazil, India, Canada, Chile, China, Costa Rica, Mexico, the Dominican Republic, and Egypt.
On May 1st, I embarked as the proud holder of 675 invitations spanning more than 65 countries!
This is an English translated excerpt, originally from the Dutch paperback Letmestayforaday, published in 2004 by Nijgh & Van Ditmar in Amsterdam, and as Singel Pocket in 2005 by Singel Uitgeverijen, Amsterdam. All book rights are mine.