Just as the train is battling itself through the rainy routine of Great Britain in October, I am also coming to terms with the fact that my energy is dwindling now. And as the train is increasingly late, I'm also increasingly reliant on motivational voices to get me to this very special night on my journey.

I arrive to a smaller dorm of my – by now – "usual London hostel."¹ I'm late. My train has been picking up delays with steadfast reliability. I'm not angry - albeit a little nervous. In the room, I grapple and fiddle, I unpack and re-package my things. There's still time. I make sure I shower and get (what has to pass as) my costume in order – I prepare my bed and my locker – and shortly after, I'm out the door.

Since leaving London, I have been looking forward to this night. I'm eager to see Foteini and Fabio again – I'm happy to meet their friends. I'm glad there'll be some version of a grand finale to my time on rail tracks. The fact that I'll end with a warm, social night at somebody's invitation provides me with serene joy.

Admittedly, I'm also a little later than I should be because I interrupted my hurry from King's Cross to the hostel in order to at least take a look at the 9 ¾ installation. For a minute or so, I was running up and down platforms 9 and 10, until I realized that people were actually queuing in beehive mass under the unforgiving eyes of security personnel. All in order to stand next to a plaque and the back half of a disappearing baggage cart. For a minute, I watched (more the scenario than the installation) from a few meters distance. Then, I hurried on.

On my way to Foteini and Fabios's, heavy, (quasi) horizontal London rain has set in once more. I clothed in what *could* be a costume – which for the sake of this evening's Halloween party has to be enough. Still, I can't help but keep comparing myself with the also costumized inhabitants of an enormous city, people on a mission like mine.

I reunite with Fabio and Foteini again. In preparation of the night, we sit at their very own kitchen table, in the very own house they bought. Foteini's stirfry is great and absolutely hits my spot. We compare costumes and try to somehow refine mine.

Outside, the rain is increasing another notch. Now, billions of accurate shiny strings line the London panorama before my eyes. Fabio's behind the wheel, while I joyously chatter on: about my last stops and my general impressions from two weeks on British tracks.

My legs are near-numb, my throat feels a little rasp, my mind is tired – but the excitement about one last special experience makes it worth a fight.

We're welcomed by all the ingredients of a solid house party: a shared apartment uniting an array of guests. Good, self-made snacks – a range of different beverages and people unwilling to take themselves too seriously over the course of one night.

I meet versions of Oppenheimer and one of those Frozen princesses. There's Inspector Gadget, Dobby², a "disco dancer" (self-described), and various *objects*: a wine bottle for instance, a block of cheese… and so on.

The music reminds me more of childhood than teenage, across the canal – I understand – we share the memories of the same cohort. With Fabio I break into teary-eyed laughter over old anecdotes of his and with Dobby I discuss South American literature, which I know very little of and he quite adamantly loves. There's the woman (dressed as Oppenheimer) who I get matching glue-on tattoos with. And the German-speaking host, who's hospitality I'm dearly thankful for.