Now down to the nitty-gritty. I strapped my bags and tent on to the back of my bike and headed north through the back streets of Belgium. Psyched and ready to go, I was a man with a plan and nothing could stand in my way. I got hopelessly lost within an hour. Getting lost in a land in which you do not speak the language does different things to different people. Personally I go through stages. At first I get nervous. I’m very big on planning. I enjoy drawing maps and writing itineraries and researching points of interest. Getting lost is a monkey wrench. But then, when the adrenaline kicks in, I begin to love it. The challenge. The chance to test myself. To test my resourcefulness. I inevitably get my act together and feel renewed and proud when all falls according to Hoyle. So on through industrial Machelen, ghost-like Zemst, quiet Mechelen, soft Rumst, retro Edegem, and sprawling Hove I rode on my way to Antwerpen – a beautiful city with a romantic sunset over the river and a nice chill atmosphere that made me feel comfortable and happy. With fietskaart (bicycle map) in hand I ventured onward through Borgerhout, Merksem (I almost didn’t make it out alive!), and Woensdrecht before I got lost again in frighteningly suburban Bergen op Zoom where, in case you’re ever there, they WILL NOT accept Belgian Francs in the supermarkets. I advise you to exchange your money BEFORE filling your shopping cart and waiting on line at the counter – especially if you haven’t used your ATM card in over a year and can’t remember your PIN number. Anyway, some places do take credit cards and campsites are really cheap. After waking up and greeting the plentitude of bunnies and turkeys that had apparently slept beside my tent I set off through the vast countryside of hills and woods that is collectively known as Halsteren, Dinteloord, and Stampersgat. I actually rode through Stampersget three or four times because I apparently found a magical road that makes a HUGE circle and is impossible to escape from without breaking down and crying. Needless to say, I quickly escaped and headed on to Niewemolen, Driehoek, and Heijningen before two things happened: 1) I got lost again and 2) I realized I couldn’t pronounce the name of a single city I had cycled through. I crossed beautiful bridges, slept in cozy campgrounds, learned a bit of Dutch from some friendly beer-guzzling natives, soaked up the summer sun, witnessed spectacular fireworks over the never-ending beach of The Hague, swam, read, ran, ate, and rode that bicycle of mine until it begged me to stop. Six days and 300 kilometers later I arrived in Amsterdam.