After Saturday’s British Open round (see entry “Steve Stricker!” for details) I had the fun game of trying to find someplace to sleep for the night. I had hoped to be able to find someplace to crash in Carnoustie, rather than heading back to Dundee, but thanks the rain and the fact that the town hasn’t heard of eaves or covered entry ways, I was heading back to the church to sleep outside again. I had made friends w/some policemen in Carnoustie and caught them up to speed on my lack of sleeping situation, but they had nothing to offer. They suggested I head to the campsite out of town and maybe someone would take me in there, but it was a crapshoot. If I didn’t find a place to crash, I’d be outside on the wet grass w/my sleeping bag. Dundee was appearing to be the only sure thing.
I walked all over Carnoustie, which really is a quaint little town. I tried a couple churches, but all were locked. I thought about stowing away in the library, but found no way to get out of the locked building on Sunday. I eventually stopped searching and headed back to the covered entryway of the church in Dundee. It was cold and spider-infested, but at least it was dry. I made camp in a corner and set my alarm to make sure I was up before people came for Sunday mass.
Sleeping definitely wasn’t easy. The wind carried every outside voice into the entryway, as well as a recently laid-off, separated, homeless man. He was a couple sheets to the wind when he joined me in the entryway to sleep for the night. I couldn’t understand a word of his thick accent and I wasn’t about to fall asleep with him there. Don’t get me wrong, he seemed like a nice, genuine guy who I felt very sorry for, but as a single female foreigner, I wasn’t really comfy in the situation. He eventually left, and I managed a couple minutes of sleep, but I was waking up every 10 minutes making sure I was still alone.
Most of my awake time was spent thinking of all the odd places I had crashed on this trip. I might be from the Northwoods, but I was never the girl sleeping in the middle of the woods under the stars. On this trip though, I’d already slept in a couple hostels, on the couch of a hostel in Barcelona (an agreement made b/t me and the owner–I had to watch the place while he partied), on joint-infested, glass-covered, dirty grass, a park bench, under a carousel ride, in the lobby of an apartment building, in a park, in an ant-infested bed, on an acquaintances’ couch, in various public-transportation stations and now in the entry way of a church.
The woods of Wisconsin suddenly seemed like a great place to be.