After another three trains I arrived in Zandvoort in the Netherlands, my final stop on this trip. I’m completely and utterly knackered, but I made it. Hoorah!

The seaside resort is only 30 km from Amsterdam and can be reached directly by train (twice an hour). It’s like Brighton without the pebbly beach or Blackpool without the pleasure beach. It’s cold and windy, like England, and people are wrapped up in beach towels and jackets, trying to make the most of their vacation at the seaside. The braver folks (read crazy) lay out in their bathing suits hoping to catch the tiny slither of sunshine fighting to break through the clouds.

I walked into the town center (all of two minutes away from The Best Western), passed the rows of houses advertising available rooms–and the magic mushroom shop–and picked up a little punnet of freshly caught and fried cod (more food…) being sold on the sea front.

Sitting on one of the benches overlooking the rough, frigid sea, I celebrated my accomplishment of completing Europe On An Alphabet. I sat alone and watched the kite surfers jumping up and through the waves. Seagulls screached above and dog shit dotted the pavement.

Well, I made it. A bit of an anti-climax but nonetheless.

Since it was on the way back to the hostel in Namur, where she had a reservation for the night, Caroline gave me a ride to my accommodation in Yvoir, my “Y” place. The hotel is right next to the train station and sits across from Yvoir Island. It’s like a version of Fawlty Towers, minus all the staff except Cybil, and even she’s now about 90 years old and cannot accompany guests up to their rooms upon arrival. Neither does she speak English. Just points and babbles.

A very bizarre experience. Extremely high ceilings, creaky floorboards, flowered wallpaper on the walls and doors, and Scottish tartan curtains. The king-sized bed was two single beds pushed together. The only other guests in the establishment were three men all sharing one room.

I didn’t fancy sitting by myself all evening so Caroline and I went for drinks (and another game of Scrabble–English, this time), and then I snuck her into my huge room with mis-match oversized furniture for a slumber party. Getting her out the next morning was a little tricky but since the landlady was too old to run after us and we weren’t able to understand what she was saying, it wasn’t too difficult to get away with it.

The weather has been so bad the last couple of days, it makes everything look depressed.  The huge houses that sit along the river and nestle up in the surrounding trees surrounding are like something from the Amityville Horror movie.
 

   

I got as far as Namur in Belgium last night. Still stinky from the camp fire, the first thing I did at the hostel (Auberges de Jeunesse Hostel) was hand over a bag of laundry and take a long hot shower. Off to investigate today and will head to Yvoir tomorrow. Also booked my return ticket on Eurostar from Brussels for August 28, the day my ticket expires. The finish line is in place. Now I just have to get there….

The next day, after breakfast of coffee, bread, Mirabelle plums and homemade jams (peach, rhubarb, orange marmalade, confiture de mures and fleur de pissenlit) I’d changed my mind and decided that I would kick myself later on if I didn’t find a bed to sleep in which was actually in the town of Xertigny.

Joel drove me to the only hotel available. “Completement, full,” he said.

He dropped me at the tourist office (yes, there is actually one) to see if they knew of somewhere I could stay for the night. I said goodbye to Joel, not before he reminded me with a grin that “Rasey is Xertigny.”

Beatrice was at a loss. She made a few phone calls but none was successful.

“Pastor? Cure?” I asked, thinking that maybe the local priest would have a place for me to stay. Nothing.

“Gandamare?” Beatrice suggested. It was worth a shot. Maybe I could crash in one of the cells for the night.

After a demonstration with handcuffs I managed to figure out that it was against the law to place innocent tourists behind bars. But the police officer I spoke with, Jerome, did call the mayor for me to see if there were any other options for me. 

“There is utt,” Jerome said. “No key, but…” he used arm gestures to tell me that there was a roof. Great! That would be fine. It was one kilometer away. We set off in Jerome’s car but a barrier across the pathway through the trees prevented us from getting very far on four wheels. I put on my backpack and Jerome pointed me in the right direction to La Faisonderie.

So having no key is okay but what Jerome forgot to mention was the fact that my shelter for the evening didn’t have four walls, either. All of the doors to the inside were locked. I’d have to sleep outside in the patio area. Never mind, after my recent expeditions with Bernd, it’d be a piece of cake. At least there was an outhouse I could use instead of squatting in the bushes getting my butt stung or scratch by goodness knows what.

I hid my bags behind a tree and walked back down the pathway to the supermarket. In addition to wine, cheese, bread and ham, I picked up 40 tea lights. Back at the utt I lit a fire in one of the barbeque troughs available for picnickers, laid out my sleeping bag and waited for nightfall to close in.

The fire hissed, grasshoppers chirped, and around 0230 hours a creature with a really scarey screech woke me.

Camping out with a crazy friend is one thing but sleeping out under the stars by myself is another matter entirely. I did it, which is great, but not sure it’s something I want to do on a regular basis.

It’s taken me awhile to get with the program, but I might just be getting with the whole hostel program. Am staying at another great one now in Warsaw.

Oki Doki Hostel (www.okidoki.pl) is wonderful, especially the three-bed room that I’m in. Centrally located and the staff get a 10-plus for their help and advice.

I caught yet another bus (3 hours) to Ventspils, home to 50,000 Latvians, and arrived right in the middle of the Ventspils Annual City Festival, which takes place during the first weekend of August, and celebrates the city’s founding date of 1290.

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After nearly six hours on two buses (changing in Panevyzys), sitting once again next to a cheesy-footed man (although this one had exceptionally hairy arms that kept reaching out and tickling me), I arrived in Riga, the capital of Latvia. Had originally planned to do “V” in Belarus and didn’t think I needed a visa. Turns out I do, hence my reason for traveling a little further north to Latvia.

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From Berlin I caught the overnight sleeper train to Warsaw then switched trains again. Thirty six hours after leaving Copenhagen I arrived in Vilnius, Lithuania, where I checked into the Fliaretai Youth Hostel (www.filaretaihostel.lt) for one night. The hostel is clean and cheap (less than 10 Euros per night) and is located ten minutes walk from the Old Town, in the Uzupis district.

I had to laugh when one of the guide books I read compared the deshevelled Uzupis neighborhood to Copenhagen’s Christiana district. Having only been in Denmark a couple of days ago, I think it would be safe to assume that the residents of Christiana would think the buildings in Uzupis are like palaces next to their dilapidated warehouse homes. They’d also be bored titless since there doesn’t seem to be any of the personality, activity, color, people, music, or drugs that they’re used to. (I may be wrong, though, since I didn’t stick around long and am just judging a book by its cover).

Seeing the dozens of swaying drunks around, though, there’s definitely plenty of alcohol in Vilnius. When I got on the Number 34 bus from the station to the hostel, one very kind gentleman peed on the seat in front of me and then ever so thoughtfully offered it up to the next drunk that stepped on board. He sat down to enjoy the ride and didn’t seem to notice the disgusting dampness seeping through his clothes.

And churches? Seriously, just how many churches does a tiny city need? There’re over 100 of the buggers. They’re everywhere you look. I don’t think the Guiness Book of Records was around at the time when they were built, between the 13th and 18th Century, so I’m not sure what the residents were striving for.

Anyway, onto Utena.

I´ve been in the Copenhagen area for a few days and it´s been one pain in the butt after another. I thought I´d give the place one final try last night and had the tourist information office make me a reservation at a bed and breakfast for two nights. Funny thing here is that the prices are always for a bed only and breakfast isn´t included.

“It´s just a ´B´” the woman making the reservation said.

Off I went, with the hope of an improvement on my previous couple of days. I should have been so lucky. I caught the bus out towards the Little Mermaid and walked up the steps of a lovely old building. The shiny brass door knob gave me confidence. This person cared about the minor details.

The owner, who must have been about 200 years old and as frail as a premature baby, greeted me at the front door. It was just before 2100 hours. The corridor leading back to the room I´d have was narrow (”please take your backpack off”), dark (”try not to use too many lights”), hot (”only open the window this far, please”), and had a distinct smell of old people mixed with tobbacco. I sighed, dumped my bags and left to go out for the evening with a couple of English people I met on the train from Hamburg. When I returned to the room a couple of hours later, I collapsed in the bed and fell asleep quickly.

This morning when I awoke and looked into the sink in my bedroom, a handful of hair protruded from the plug hole and it certainly wasn´t mine. I went to take a shower and found toothpaste stains all over the sink and mirror in there, as well some rather dubious- looking brown stains on the bathmat.

I stepped into the tub and turned on the shower attachment. Water went everywhere. The mis-aligned holes shot water left, right, up and down. Fearing a flood would ensure if I remained upright, I got down on my knees and lowered my head to join them. What on earth was I paying 400 KR for?? Not for another night, that´s for sure.

The last thing I wanted to do was give the coffin dodger a heart attack by running through my list of grievances, so I paid her for one night and then went to complain to the tourist office. I was expecting problems when it came to getting back the deposit they´d taken from me earlier, but they were quick to settle and get me outof the door.

This you’re gonna love.

The train system is so screwed up around Copenhagen at the moment because of track work that instead of catching two trains to Tisvildeleje, I had to catch three. Unfortunately though, I missed the last one because of delays–it was after 2100 hours–and would have to wait for another hour.  I called Ann at Tibirkelude B&B (www.tibirkelund.dk) to let her know I’d probably be there around 2300, what with having to walk 2km once the train pulled in.

“Oh, this is bad,” Ann said. Yeh, I know, but what can I tell you? Shit happens. “We go to bed by 10:30.”

“Er, so what would you like me to do?” I asked, and added half joking, “Should I not come and go all the way back to Copenhagen?”

“Er yes, I think that would be best,” Ann said.

You’re fucking kidding me, right?? (in my head, mom, not out loud). This really can’t be happening.

She wasn’t kidding and it was happening. What the hell was I going to do now? I was speechless and just put the receiver back on its hook. Maybe she just had a bad day.

Since there was no-one around at the ticket office I walked through the only open door I could find and spoke with the train track operator (or whatever the name of those guys is that sit in front of the control panel) to see where I could go. Anywhere. Just get me out of here.

Nothing much we could come up with. Osterport, Copenhagen or Helsinger. But what about a “T” place? Nope.

The next train that pulled in was headed to Osterport so I jumped on. When I exited the station at the other end I saw a Comfort Hotel so went to ask how much a night would cost.

“Usually 175 Euros, but we could let you have it for 145.” Very sweet of you but no thanks. If I was going to have to pay that kind of money, I’d head back to the city again.

Stephanie was carrying her bike down the stairs to the platform.

“Hey,” I said, suddenly thinking I might have some kind of plan, “Are there any hotels in Tivoli Gardens?” I’d make it do as my T place, stay one night and get out of town.

“No, they unfortunately close it at night.” It’s just got amusement park rides and restaurants.

I could see I’d sparked her interest with my alphabet idea. Her mind was working, the wheels turning, trying to come up with a place within easy reach beginning with the right letter.

I then looked at the train map and realized there was a station right before the airport, a suburb of Copenhagen beginning with T: Tårnby. There had to be somewhere there.

“It’s a relatively new area that’s built up over the last couple of years,” Stephanie said, “so I would have thought they’d have something there.”

She wished me luck when we got to Copenhagen and I continued, fingers and toes crossed there’d be somewhere.

And like a bright shining light I could see the Zleep Hotel Airport sign 100 m from the station exit. It would cost me approximately 50 Euros for the night but I didn’t care. Tårnby would do as my “T” place. It’s very basic and the carpets could do with a good wash (better yet, replaced) but it’s a roof over my head and I’ve got BBC World Service!