‘I had an onion thrown at me': The 10 most unfriendly cities on Earth, according to our writers

Telegraph

a day ago

From the anti-tourism protests which have enlivened several corners of Spain of late, to the old cliché of the waiter who can barely conceal his disdain at your dining decisions, a city is not always guaranteed to hail its visitors with a smile and a song.
Here, 10 Telegraph Travel writers reveal the metropolitan hotspots where (in their subjective opinions) the greeting has been more 'bog off' than ' bonjour '.
Berlin
My husband is German, and will be the first to admit: his countrymen are not particularly warm and fuzzy. Nowhere is this more evident than in their capital, Berlin; where if you aren't left wing and unapproachable, you aren't cool.
It is home, after all, to Berghain, the most notoriously difficult nightclub in which to gain entry. Personally I would rather share a bath with snakes than shiver in a six-hour queue alongside the hundreds of other muppets that try their luck every weekend at this former power station-turned-rave-house.
The unsmiling, heavily tattooed bouncers vet hopefuls loosely based on how they look and whether they might 'contribute to the right overall energy'.
I have always found the energy in Berlin to be distinctly lacking. The most interesting thing that happened to me last time I was there was being issued a €1,500 fine for failing to wear a face mask at a deserted outdoor train station at the tail end of the Covid pandemic. I didn't pay it, and I won't be going back.
Annabel Fenwick Elliott
Riga
It was sub-zero in Riga and I'm not just talking about the weather. Stepping off the bus and into a cab in the Latvian capital, I got a frosty reception from the driver, who rolled his sunken eyes when I gave him the address of my hotel.
Service with a sigh. He fired up his wheezing Merc and sped through the city, muttering what I assumed to be obscenities beneath his tobacco-stained tash.
Perhaps he'd had a row with the missus, I thought. But his brusque behaviour would prove to be the rule, not the exception.
If you think Parisian waiters are surly, go to Riga – they take it to another level. Or rather, they did when I was there. That was a decade ago now. Perhaps it's shaken off its Soviet hangover. I haven't felt compelled to return and find out. Still, one thing I will say is that rude Riga did at least prepare me for my next destination: Russia.
Gavin Haines
Moscow
It is tempting to wonder if the following words are a case of recency bias; a discoloured view of a major city whose current position as the nerve-centre of a truly horrible war has thoroughly tainted its image.
But no, my visit to Moscow occurred in the spring of 2017, five years before Vladimir Putin launched his full-scale invasion of Ukraine – when (skipping over the annexation of Crimea in 2014) relations between Russia and western Europe were relatively normal. Yet Moscow did not feel particularly welcoming to this particular Western tourist.
The metropolitan population seemed surly and guarded, and while a near-total inability to speak the language will always place you at a disadvantage in any conversation, my attempts at the local lingo made no impression.
In 20 years as a travel writer, I have found that liberal deployment of the relevant term for 'thank you' will gain you a decent amount of credit. In the bars, restaurants and museums of Moscow, my use of the word ' spasiba ' elicited barely a grunt, let alone a grin or a cheery response.
I should add that I am not indulging in flagrant Russophobia here. I have visited St Petersburg on two occasions, and found it a fabulous place, alive with art and music, and home to some lovely people; everything its compatriot did not seem to be.
Perhaps Moscow is simply guilty of the rudeness so common to capital cities. Alas, I am unlikely to have a chance to check on its bonhomie levels (or lack of them) in the imminent future.
Chris Leadbeater
Geneva
Like the mountains that encircle it, Geneva is cold and inhospitable. Once, I made the mistake of offering to pay the brunch bill for myself and a friend. Two mediocre dishes and two even more mediocre drinks set me back almost 100 CHF (£90) – worse than buying a round in London.
On the way into town from the airport, I went one stop too far. Realising my mistake, I quickly caught the train in the other direction. The ticket collector was having none of it. My fault, granted, but I was instantly labelled as a fare dodger rather than a bemused tourist.
Since so many people are in Geneva for work (rather than the warmth and hospitality of the people), everyone leaves at weekends, meaning there's no one left to be unfriendly to you. The rest of Switzerland is as warm and inviting as a vat of fondue, but I've learnt to skip this city.
Anna Richards
Amsterdam
Amsterdam is, quite literally, the most unwelcoming city to British tourists in the sense that it has funded an entire tourism campaign telling us to 'stay away'.
Well, OK, telling our rowdy stag groups to 'stay away'. Does it feel unwelcoming on the ground? They're not exactly rolling out the red carpet.
In 2020, my housemate and I spent a month in Amsterdam. He knew a Dutch woman who lived in the city, and she invited us on a boat trip down the River Amstel with some friends. They were a cheery bunch, between themselves, but I recall being more or less ignored for the entire day.
I think more so than being unwelcoming, the Dutch are busy, direct (easily misinterpreted as 'rude'), and they seem to take a little longer to warm up than other nationalities, a bit like the Danish.
Fall into the right crowd in, say, Bilbao, Melbourne or Vancouver and you could easily make friends for life. Fall into the right crowd in Amsterdam and you'll get a smile and a firm handshake, at best. It's almost enough to make you want to stay away.
Greg Dickinson
New Orleans
New Orleans is hostile. Not just unfriendly – hostile. I hate saying this because I love New Orleans: the most beautiful and hedonistic city in the Americas. One of my favourite cities anywhere.
And yet, and yet. The hot, humid air hits you like a slap; everyone seems to require a tip, possibly 55 per cent; every smile feels faintly monetised; and, of course, if you walk two blocks the wrong way, you can get shot.
Once, I saw half a body hanging from the ruins of a collapsed hotel – legs dangling grotesquely from the 14th floor. A crowd had gathered. They were arguing over whether anyone should photograph it. Then, for no reason, they turned and stared at me suspiciously – like I was there to judge them – or arrest them.
New Orleans parties like it's possessed, and perhaps it is. There's music, madness, decay and menace. I'd go back tomorrow.
Sean Thomas
New York
'I'm nogunna soive yoo till yoo sayid prawperly,' demanded the lady in the Lower East Side pizza joint. ' You gotta loiyn to tawk ENGLISH! '
I tried several times to convince her that I was saying it properly – 'a bottle of water, please' – and that I actually speak English like, well, a native.
Hell, I even resisted the temptation to correct her pronunciation, or to mention the War of 1812, but she remained as implacably granite-faced as old Abe Lincoln and his Mount Rushmore buddies.
She couldn't understand me, she insisted, so eventually I caved like Keir on Nato contributions, and asked shamefully for a 'boddler warder'. She gave me a Dasani (tap water bottled by the Coca-Cola company) and a lesson – as if I needed another – in the unofficial motto of Manhattan:
'Welcome to New York. Now screw you!'
Ed Grenby
An expert's guide to New York
Quito
From the chatty driver who swept me from the airport in his boom-boom disco taxi, to the street vendor who insisted I try his foamy beer, egg and sugar concoction for free, I found Ecuadorians mostly friendly.
Falling foul (or should that be 'fowl') of the 'bird poop trick' on my first day in Quito did dampen my enthusiasm, however.
I was admiring the ornate façade of the Iglesia de la Compañía when what appeared to be bird droppings was dumped on my back. On the pretext of brushing me down, two crooks tried to steal my backpack.
Later, heading back to my hotel, a random loony shouted at me, and that evening I was held up in an alley at knifepoint and had to hand over my phone (luckily a burner). S- - - on, shouted at and almost stabbed: that seems like the definition of unfriendly to me.
Heidi Fuller-Love
Monaco
A jet-setter friend once told me that cabin crew quietly judge those who fly business class using credit card points. They'll still do their job, he said, but, deep down, they know you're playing out of your league and judge you accordingly.
I remembered his words last year when I attended a climate-friendly, electric alternative to the legendary Grand Prix in Monaco. At first, the standoffishness was quite amusing: seeing the tailcoat-wearing doormen's disdain towards the selfie-stick brigade in Casino Square was more fun than roulette.
But soon, it began to grate: from the begrudging table service (usually from French waiters who resent commuting to Monte Carlo in pursuit of scraps from the table) to the power-hungry police officers enforcing the complex network of road closures.
After a weekend of butting heads (metaphorically) at every corner, I left with one simple conclusion: Monaco is where billionaires are courted and everyone else is merely tolerated.
Djibouti City
A waterside city used as a logistical base for combatting piracy is hardly the coastal escape likely to grace postcards anytime soon. Djibouti, a country within the Horn of Africa, has always intrigued me. Its eponymous capital was the final stop on a tour of beautifully austere and alluringly hostile volcanic landscapes, where sulphur-spluttering fumaroles rise from salt-crusted deserts.
Even more inhospitable, however, were the troubled African nation's residents. Outsiders were scrutinised with suspicion: Yemeni refugees clustered in make-shift camps, suspected pirates awaited extradition, and intrepid tourists gulped at the price of beers in incongruously fancy hotels.
During one casual evening stroll through streets lined with crumbling buildings, I was chased by a plain-clothes official and accused of being a member of the CIA. But the real low point came with a trip to the local market, where – while snapping a photo of a sleeping cat – I had an onion lobbed at my head. Bombed by a barrage of rotten vegetables, I took solace in the fact it wasn't watermelon season.
Sarah Marshall