"Amsterdam is pretty." -Me
Third night and I was out of options. My mate Geoff became an Amsterdam ex-pat, too but I never got in touch with him. Instead I stayed at a complete stranger's house! His name was Remy and I asked him straight up if I could sleep at his house after a transaction at a bike shop. He obliged and we stayed up too late drinking beers, playing video games, and making short work of a certain unnamed parcel of contraband I didn't want to travel with (G-13). Broaching the subject of journalism, I was surprised to learn that young Remy was a published reporter in the realm of European high speed trains. He showed me the article, all in Dutch. Dutch is a language Dr. Seuss invented. Remy also encouraged me to get to the ferry and go to England. I booked my ticket and looked at the clock-I could get 5 hours of sleep. I had to do near 100 kilometers, the first bit with rough directions, the longer bit along the North Sea coastline. Forecast was rain. If I left at 8 I would have five hours to make the ferry.
I left the house by 9. I was to the coast by 11. Not good. There was a headwind and I got lost on some foot trails. The headwind increased but somehow the rain never came down hard. I rode along the massive Dunes that wall in the North Sea from eating Holland alive. It was beautiful, and as I made it more south, I found myself in some proper wetlands. I was nostalgic for my bay area childhood. I was also sans a pair of headphones so i was thinking way too much. I rode my bike into the giant ship with minutes to spare, legs trembling from the excruciating pace I had to set in the last half hour.
The ferry was very fancy, and for a while I walked around, trying to find the economy cabin. Alas, it was all first class. I fell asleep laying across two leather benches and was promptly tapped awake by a deckhand saying that if I wanted to sleep, I should rent a sleeping cabin. Yeah right.
Arriving in Harwich, England was magical. The scene was right out of a BBC movie: little houses tucked into lush greenery and hunched over elderly people in Barbour jackets and Mac coats. It was also dark. I had ten miles to my campsite, an interesting sounding one called "The Stranger's Home" that was behind a pub. I was suddenly worried that I wasn't going to be able to handle the dark, windy, driving-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-road roads by myself. Luckily, as I neared the passport checking station an old timer also on a bike offered to ride with me to Bradfield. We rode slowly and talked about the road. Jonathan said he'd just come down through Holland by the same route I had. Suddenly our stories were too similar... both alone, both coming from Holland along the same national route... both biking to Bradfield at 10 PM? Jonathan said he was meeting his wife there. When we parted ways I didn't really care if Jonathan was telling the truth or not, I was just happy to be in my tent in one piece.
Before the tent I drank two pints at the pub and got surprisingly tipsy. The local cider was a treat and the Carlsberg was cold and fresh. I met a couple at the bar who told me some horror stories about traveling in India. I realize now that India is the number one originator of travel horror stories. Apparently the man's lower intestine ruptured on a train and he had to get it totally remade. That meant a colostomy bag for two months in India. He said that he was thankful to have the operation done in India because the same life-saving operation in the UK would be a) incredibly expensive and b) near impossible to do in time before a horrible, poop-related death. Suck on that, Michael Moore!
Tomorrow is a 50-mile ride to Henham. I'm worried about the roads here. They use miles?
ALONE
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