Back on tracks, I leave Glasgow tired and satisfied. Worn out physically, yes – but elevated mentally. It's been an intense stop, different from the others – with the experiences, the thoughts, the feelings of a veritable journey accumulating.

It was already during the planning stage that I realized Edinburgh might be one stop too much. The one that’s on the list because it *has* to be on the list. Back then, I couldn't fancy myself taking a train to Scotland and returning without ever having seen Edinburgh. Which is how I end up on Friday, 27th at Waverley under pouring rain. Right on arrival, there's a minor cold emerging through my throat.

My hostel¹ is at (what I would consider) the dead center of Edinburgh. It doesn't take me longer than 10 mins on foot to get there from the Main Station. I arrive in the midst of a touristic bee swarm I didn't really anticipate after the Glasgow experience. We are many – and we are almost all from Central Europe.

Moreover, this is my most expensive hostel night of the trip. An unfortunate side effect of arriving in a tourist town at the beginning of the Halloween weekend. I am slow to re-adapt to the Hostel dorm room experience – and I understand that I should take some rest before the final chapter of this trip. My dorm is big and loud and filled with twentysomethings eager for their party weekend.

Everybody I met along rail tracks told me that Edinburgh would be "the better choice" out of Scotland's two major cities. My digital notepad is packed with recommendations, addresses, and locations – a city so well liked, people are eager to share their favorite spots with me. I want to honor such enthusiasm, but I'm feeling the emotional intensity of those Glasgow days deep in my bones. The weather is rough, too. Not unexpectedly (true), but nevertheless another tiring factor on the way out the hostel door.

Hitting the Edinburgh streets, I can still sense Loch Lomond as well as Glasgow’s hilly landscapes in my legs. My head thickens another notch. Cold, damp winds blow, the rain is heavier than before.

As I clutch my umbrella and start my program, I'm surrounded by loud, bumpy, multilingual tourism. Germans, Dutch, Scandinavians – all share the breathtakingly beautiful city with me. Groups are being led around. The old town is flushed with strangers that try to take a look at her every hole.

Just like me, I guess they are armed with (similar) recommendations, eager to confirm what they (like me) have been hearing for so long: "Edinburgh is great."

Only for me – I feel it right away – it isn't. I'm unwell. My body isn't thrilled to be out here – demands better nutrition and thorough rest. I don't enjoy being let around town by welcoming, friendly signs from the tourism board. Never do I get the sense that citizens here are going about their business with little regards for me in between them. Instead, everything, everyone is somehow tending to me here. I recoil from the ever-present attention. It's not for me. I don't particularly enjoy being on this excursion with my fellow countrymen and women.

After a load of very tasty Haggis² (accompanied by a pint), which I eat in the discomfort of being surrounded by my mother tongue, I make a final effort to pass Greyfriar's³ and walk up to Arthur's seat⁴ . Walking is better than sitting amidst omnipresent tourism.

It takes me a couple of crossings and a few hundred meters until I admit that I have to give it up. Under a nonstop 45-degree onslaught of cold water and air, my body ultimately gives me the sign: "That's it, I'm givin' out. I've got to lie down." I accept. / Unfulfilled, disoriented, unhappy I turn around half-way and make my way back to a long, pricy hostel night. To sleep it off and return somewhat *fresh* to London.