A couple of weeks of courses in Aberdeen in November gave me the opportunity to see a bit of Scotland during the weekend in between the courses. I had only been travelling through Edinburgh previously, so I quite quickly decided that it would be worth to pay the well reputed university city a visit. Unfortunately, and just like as so many other times during the last few years, it seemed like a mission impossible to get some travel company for my short weekend trip. And as always I refused to not to go just because I couldn’t get anyone to come along. In other words, a solo weekend in Edinburgh in November it was. In an attempt to make it less solo, I decided to go for the couch surfing tactics when it came to accommodation. After reading miles of profiles and sending half a dozen of requests, I found this cool MTB guy, with a flat close to the city, who was willing to host me for a couple of nights. It took us about 32 seconds to hit the chatting off when we first met at the local pub on the Friday night. Before we both realized it, we were lost in travel stories from all over the planet and I was quite relieved that my host for the weekend seemed to be a totally normal guy.
After a Saturday of walking, walking and walking - canals, shopping streets, castles and Arthur’s Seat (couldn’t really leave this land mark after just having read One Day) – the plan was to go for a quiet dinner and then meet up with my host at around 10 pm for a couple of cocktails. All in all, it was going to be quite a civilized night and I already had a plan in mind for some early Sunday morning sightseeing. However, one of the nice things with travelling is that sometimes things don’t work out the way you thought they would.
Just after midnight, I got a call from my couch surfing mate. With a semi-drunk voice he told me that he’d locked us out. The keys were in safe storage in the flat, which obviously was going to make it quite hard to make it back in again. But no worries whatsoever, according to the drunk Irishman, he was going to head into the city centre in about an hour or so and he had at least five(!) mates where he could probably crash for the night. And for sure, one of them wouldn’t mind if he dragged me along as well. After two Italian restaurants, twice as many glasses of wine, a carrot cake worth a marathon or two and almost 100 pages in the brilliant The Angel’s Game I was quite sure my party mood wasn’t on the same level as my host’s. And it definitely wouldn’t last for another few hours while waiting for him to make it into town and finishing off the night at some bars. Instead, I thought I’d try to find another place to stay for the night, somewhere which wouldn’t ruin the Christmas shopping budget and would have a reception open at 00:37. It turned out that it wasn’t the easiest mission on the planet. Ah well, at least the walking was going to keep me awake until Mr Party made it to the city centre if I hadn’t found a bed before then. An hour, and many hostels, hotels and B&Bs later, when I was close to giving up, I suddenly walked past a bar. I had a look at the sign on the corner and noticed they’d also squeezed the word “hotel” in on the sign. The place didn’t really look like something that would normally be my first hand choice. It did look like the first hand choice for students on the hunt for cheap beer though. And for middle-aged women in safari pattern mini dresses on the hunt for something else, the students perhaps. However, a bed is a bed is a bed. I fought my way through the crowd and found quite a worn bartender in the far corner. Without hesitation, he did not only reply that he had a room available but he also added that it was a “lovely little room”. Somehow, that just made me even more sceptical. But again, a bed is a bed is a bed and if you’re tired enough all you need is some toilet tissues to put into your ears and something heavy to place in front of the door and you can sleep through most things, even in not so lovely little rooms. After the bartender had spent some time discussing with a second bartender, which of the rooms was actually empty, and then having to ask a third bartender for help to find the keys for the assumed empty room, we started the climb up the stairs. The more stairs you climb to a hotel room could either mean that you’re on your way to the pent house suite or to the wardrobe sized attic shack. The room was neither and to my surprise, it was indeed a “lovely little room”. Set up like a proper British countryside B&B room with heavy wooden furniture, a big old mirror and pale pink (or terracotta is perhaps the correct nuance for these kind of settings) flowerpots, block candles and tablecloths. Instead of a view of rivers or hills, the window looked out over the rooftops of Edinburgh and Firth of Forth was flowing in the distance to the left.
Again, one of the nice things with travelling is that sometimes things don’t work out the way you thought they would, sometimes they work out a lot better.
