at a truck stop in Montelimar, France

There is something fantastic about seeing the world from ten feet in the air. Riding in a seat fit for a modern day queen, surrounded by the smell that gushes from the crevices of a newly cleaned vehicle, the voice of a middle aged man lulling you in to a dream-like state. He describes his region, this place of rolling hills, olive trees, and full of his memories. He gives you an auditory tour of the wines, paints you a picture of his family. You turn to him from time to time, admire the large scar that nearly cuts his upper lip in two. He has gentle eyes, large, stubby hands, a laugh that explodes from his lopsided smile.

Here I am, I think to myself, riding in a semi somewhere in the south of France, talking with a stranger in another language. No one knows where I am, no one knows who I am with or where I am going. No one but the two of us. A fresh sensation of excitement starts to build in my body. I feel like I am going to explode and as I smile, I realize that it is a genuine reflex of my facial muscles.

When we stop for coffee outside of Montelimar, I take a second to snap my own photo in the bathroom mirror. There is no real proof that my short friendship with this man has existed, I don’t even remember his name now. It doesn’t matter. I can still see his scar when I close my eyes.

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The scarred man is not the first person to give me a ride on this glorious, sunny Monday. The first had been Khalid. The feeling that overcame me as I jumped in to Khalid’s work van was not exhilarating and it wasn’t filled with fear or apprehension as one might assume. It was natural and calm, as if I was partaking in the daily routine. When he pulled over and rolled down the window I saw in his eyes that he was a friend and after a few minutes, we bonded over our shared connection to Morocco. The second I started speaking Arabic, his jaw dropped, he opened up and was happy to share stories of his family, his thoughts on modern society, his favorite foods. Our conversation was energetic and we didn’t stop smiling the entire ride to Nîmes. By the time we reached the péage there, he was begging me to take his number so that I could let him know when I had arrived safely in the Alps. As I gathered my bag, he insisted that I call him if I ever need a ride near Nîmes or Montpellier. I sent him with warm wishes for his family, thanked him profusely, jumped out and headed on.

My first loner hitch hiking experience could not have been more pleasant. Once I realized this, I started to feel ashamed for stalling two days out of fear. It’s not comfort or predictability that I seek when I travel, so the lack of these two factors is not what gave me fear. Okay, I’ll admit that the lack of comfort and predictability scared me enough to keep me stalling for two days, eating falafel and watching shitty shows, telling people I was “packing”.

As a matter of fact, packing had really only taken about 30 minutes. My rucksack was filled to the brim but with very few items. Aside from the bulk of a sleeping bag, a sleeping mat, and a pair of shoes, I had easily squeezed in a pair of shorts, a pair of leggings, a few shirts, a jacket, a little towel, some panties, some toiletries, some baking soda, some fruit, my passport, a hiking guide for the Chartreuse and Belledonne mountain chains, a Kindle and my hat which is actually my father’s hat from his time in Kuwait and has been on every hike I’ve traversed since high school. I felt so much pride carrying that rucksack which I must admit was not mine but was borrowed from a colleague. As a matter of fact, many of the items in my borrowed rucksack and on my body were also borrowed. The Kindle, the sleeping bag, the sleeping mat, the hiking boots, they were all lent to me by friends and colleagues. I’ve learned that if you really want something and you tell people around you how much you want it, they offer to help you in more ways than you might expect. I started talking about my hopes to ‘hitch hike and camp out, see the mountains, maybe head up to Norway’ with everyone around me starting about a month before vacation. I was touched when colleagues, friends and even strangers offered me equipment, advice, maps, contacts.

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At a roundabout on the south side of Valence, I was sad to part with my scarred truck driver. He went out of his way to get me to a good spot and I was feeling so good when I jumped off the passenger side stairs that after waving goodbye, I ignored the passing cars to chow down on some fruit, chug some water, take a breather and let the sun hit my face for a few minutes. When I felt nice and ready, I stood up, stuck my thumb out and after a few minutes a car full of 5 women pulled over and asked how far I was going. There was no way I was fitting in their car because every seat was taken and I had a huge rucksack but by god  these women tried. I passed on the ride and as they pulled off, another man in a work truck stopped and told me in a spurt of accented French that he could “advance me” a little. He turned out to be a Portuguese construction worker and was really excited to hand me some of his work plans for me to look over. He apologized for not taking me farther, insisting that it was only on account of a work meeting that he was running late for. I was shocked that he was even helping me at all and was still grateful after a few kilometers when he dropped me at the other side of the city. I jumped out at a huge roundabout and we said our goodbyes. I went to a rest stop to use a proper bathroom and buy some nuts. I talked to a family that was really interested in what I was doing and then eventually went back to the roundabout and was almost immediately scooped up by a woman on her way home from work. She was a nurse and I was happy to gush about the love I have for my mama and for nurses.

The scenery started to change. Subtly rolling hills began to climb dramatically in to the distance. The Alps were opening up in front of my eyes and the only familiar thing about them was the white capped peaks that brought me warm memories of Colorado. The only solid plan I had at this point was to call the Colombian Couchsurfer that offered to host me for a few days. I was getting close to Grenoble.

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On a relatively quiet two-lane highway, my nurse friend dropped me with warm wishes and a hopeful farewell. The second she was pulling off, a work van stopped to take her place. The man inside was another energetic local with friendly eyes and a lot to say. After telling him that I was having great luck with the hitching, he was happy to share with me  the “little secret” that being a young, lone woman traveling freestyle as I was, warded the attraction of friends and foes alike because of the vulnerability but also gall that it embodied.  People were curious and wanted to be a part of the adventure. And I found it to be true that the day and the experience before this first day on the road were filled with people like him that wanted to help me, wanted to keep me safe, even if only for 20 minutes. I started to think about the many people who insisted that traveling alone as a woman is too dangerous. At this point, I start ranting to myself, Well so is walking down a quiet, familiar street at midday in any town in the world. The difference between the risks I take when walking down any street on any given day in any given place and hitch hiking alone is that I am more in tune with my risks, my environment and my capabilities to protect myself when I am riding in a stranger’s vehicle, confronting the unpredictable present moment.

Though this joyful father was eager to warn me of “crazy people” that I might come across, he also spoke words of support and encouraged me to continue seeking adventures in life. As a beekeeper who had lived his whole life in the Alps, he was sure to tell me that the only safe way to ensure the health of the beekeeping industry was to buy honey from local markets, never big companies and I was happy to oblige. When he dropped me outside of the beautiful village of Romans, I was happy to find that the sun was starting to fall westwards, painting the mountains with pink and orange hues. The air was incredibly fresh, the walnut trees were scattering the sun rays and I wasn’t even hungry.

Very few cars passed and for about 15 minutes, no one stopped. I wasn’t feeling stressed and even took a moment to try and capture the sunlight in some photos that unfortunately turned out shit. Then a man with a van full of apples pulled over and helped me throw my bag in the backseat. When hitch hiking, it is a good rule of thumb to keep your bag within grasp in case you need a quick escape so I was glad to find that I could still reach my bag from the front seat easily. I had no need for my bag though as the man was a very sweet grandfather on his way to visit a daughter in Grenoble. He was happy to share more stories of the region and his experiences in the mountains. The views began to top themselves around every turn. Beautiful landscapes surrounded me and the setting sun was spreading brilliant colors all around us. We followed the Isère river to Grenoble and he let me off just at the edge of the old town center and wished me luck. I called my host and found my way to the laundromat where he was washing a rather large load of clothes. We ordered pizza and got to know each other a bit while we waited for the clothes to dry. A friend of his was hanging with us, snapping endless photos for his “photography class” and after the clothes were finished we all headed to his apartment.

I was happy to find his apartment full of colors, patterns, cameras, records, tapes, cds, books, guitars… They were both astronomers working in research labs in Grenoble and had travelled extensively, so over drinks in his kitchen, the conversations were interesting. I took a shower and then his friend took photos of me while I dried my hair. We eventually made it out for a drink at a bar that was full of random objects nailed to the walls and even a futon on a stage. After a few beers, I was happy to return to his place and immediately crash on my own personal bed!

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I am not the first young woman to hitch hike alone, to put myself in to the hands of strangers and hope for the best. I am not the first traveller to take a risk or try something new and come away with great memories. Many travelers have stories more interesting than my first hitch hiking story, but it is mine and I am proud of it.

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