Monterey to Santa Cruz (just a wee one)

Up and at em, refreshed and ready to roll to...wherever!

Out on the highway, it wasn’t long.

He was a landscaping contractor, we moved some blueprints so I could get in.

Working for government, so many regulations, so many phone calls in such a short trip, to Watsonville.

Then it was a plumber, of mexican descent, who’d given up on Florida, and returned to California, he worked for Home Hardware,

Managed the plumbing section. The job was secure, but it was tough to buy a house, for his young family.

Then I was in Santa Cruz, and I liked it well enough, so I stayed for a while.

OC to Monterey, Day 3 (The wise)

A Medicine Man talks about new levels of conciousness

An early start didn’t get me moving very quickly. It was a native man of 70 years who picked me up after a half hour or so. He seemed to be fighting fit, but apparently had all sorts of conditions from cancers to emphizema, and as a result he smoked marijuana medicinally. By this stage it was par for the course when he shared his medicine as we drove along that winding road, following the cliffs, stopping to look at waterfalls and the like. I only got scared once when we seemed to slip a little on a particularly sharp bend. He dropped me at the next hotel/restaurant along and bought me a delicious breakfast. ‘How funny’ he said, ‘that an old man picks you up, buys you breakfast and then drives off with only a “happy trails.”’ How funny indeed, and how nice. Thankyou, and happy trails to you sir.

*****The Bender ends******

Walking the Dog
I was relaxing and enjoying the sunshine, not in a hurry after the spiritual guidance of my last ride, when I met a man taking his dog for a walk. He’d started the walk 30 days previously in San Francisco. We chatted away and it turned out that he, despite appearances, was a man of some means, who simply liked to live a simple life. I really admired the guy. His dog had hurt a paw, so now he was going to hitch a ride to get some treatment. We were going opposite directions for a while, before he decided that South wasn’t the way he wanted to go. He joined me in my spot looking for a ride North.

No point Russian
We waited a long time on that very quiet highway. Then a middle-aged couple with thick accents stopped for a look at the view. As they were getting back in the car, I negociated a trip down the road with them. Unfortunately, they didn’t have room for my friend and his dog, so I said my goodbyes to them.

They were a couple of Russians who’d emigrated to the USA at the end of the cold war. They lived on the East Coast and were on a little Californian getaway. They wanted to keep stopping and looking at things, which is pretty much the reason I was there too, so we were temporary travel pals. They were lovely people, perhaps slightly confused by my vagrant lifestyle, I mean, don’t I have a job, or actually do something? One day, one day…

Pays to sleep
Suddenly we were off the quietest highway in the world, and there was traffic everywhere. I got dropped off in Monterey. I strolled down to a busy onramp, stuck my thumb out, not sure where I was going, maybe Santa Cruz. As I stood there, as dusk fell, an overwhelming weariness took over my body. Unthinnkingly I walked back to some motels I’d seen, I used a credit card, actually paid for a bed, turned on the TV, and the next thing I knew it was morning.

OC to Monterey, Day 2 (Green)

After a long walk into town from the CalPoly campus, a coffee, and another unsuccessful busking attempt, I walked out to highway 1. This was it, I would cruise along the coast and see the lovely cliffs.

Mirrorvision
The first guy who picked me up was the founder and president of Mirrorvision, a company that will revolutionize the way we view media. He took me to his studio apartment in the little town of Morro Bay where he demonstrated (after another puff of a pipe) his product, four angled mirrors around an 8 inch TV screen from the 70s. He showed me a version of The Empire Strikes Back, specially edited for the Mirrorvision format. I also got to try some special Mirrorvision goggles that act as a kind of kaleidoscope but of course way cooler and more revolutionary. Its only a matter of time before everybody can enjoy this technology, so enjoy the last days of seeing the world straight before Mirrorvision takes over.

Uninhabited
About this point I realized that I had lost my map back in SLO. Oh well, what they hey, I wasn’t going to go back for it. But if I had it, I might have realized that I was about to enter into terrain where nobody really lives. My next lift was three very friendly youngin’s on their way back to Cambria after picking up some groceries in Morro Bay. They left me at the liquor store, opposite a pretty beach, apparently the spot where everybody would stop before attempting to drive on further.

A Surfer and some enormous seals.
Then a guy looking for waves picked me up, and we cruised along. He insisted that we didn’t smoke the joint mr mirrorvision had made for me, and instead we smoked one of his. He had just knocked off work and was relaxing with a beer and a drive. We looked at some enormous seals, elephant seals apparently, as they flopped about on the beach. He very kindly took me to the next stopping point 10 more miles down the road.

Hospitality
We stopped at the start of the amazing cliffs, had a walk around and stood in awe as it got dark. The surfer headed back home, I put my bags and my ‘Monterey’ sign in a prominent position in the outside eating area. I soon realized there wasn’t much point trying to hitch since there were absolutely no cars. Hmm. Interestingly, in this little stretch of California coastline no houses can be built, and the only things that exist are resort like hotels like the one I now found myself in. So the only people moving around were hospitality staff. I met the guy running the convenience store where everything was overpriced, and we became friends over another joint (there were no customers as you can imagine). He really looked after me, finding me some delicious leftover chicken to eat, gave me some free beers, and then when it was revealed that I had launched out into this coastline without a tent or sleeping bag, he offered me a place to sleep. It was his car, much more comfortable I must say than the chilly outdoors, and he even gave me a blanket. I am still so thankful, sir.

OC to Monterey, Day 1 (The hardest hitching to date)

So after Las Vegas exploits (which I would tell you about, but I’m bound by statute 22: “what happens in Vegas…”) and after a sick-day in Orange (was feeling horrible, until Jaeger-bombs and Rock-Band), it was time to hit the road again.

After a brief consultation of Google Maps, I decided that the train was the only reasonable option for getting the hell out of Orange without a car. So I caught the commuter into Union Station LA. I tried and failed to not pay. At Union I assesed options for getting to a thumbable freeway but in LA transport and/or information are shit so I decided to try

AMTRAK

It was nice, I had 4 seats to myself, it cost $21 from LA to Santa Barbara. I met a cool college kid who was going back to school at CalPoly in San Luis Obispo. He was a young guy and I liked him because he thought everything I said was interesting. He was wise with big bright eyes.

Santa Barbara
Attempted to busk, got shunted by security in the mall, then had to compete with the endless beggars on the streets. One example was a couple of guys with a sign that said “Hungry, hungry Hobos”. How is a Simon & Garfunkle song supposed to compete with that?

Getting out of Santa Barbara, THE HARDEST HITCHING EVER
I was at a pedestrian crossing where I had to convince cars to stop, hold up the cars behind them while I got my bags and self into their car. Even I couldn’t believe anyone would do that, they didn’t, I left.

At the next on-ramp there was no room either. From entry to merge was about 20m, and I couldn’t work out how to get a ride without causing an accident. I tried the least busy entry, which had a vague spot where maybe someone could have only knocked over one or two trees while they pulled over. No good. I had to think of a new trick:

THE RED LIGHT TRICK
One of the 3 entries to the onramp was a traffic light where cars were waiting. There was no room to pull over, but enough time to get in and away on the light cycle. I waited, picked out a solo guy who pulled up as the light turned red. I gave him the would-you-mind-winding-down-the-window signal. I told him I was trying to get a lift and that I was stuck, that even a ride just down a few exits would help. He helped.

ILLEGAL ROAD CROSSINGS
Where that photography student dropped me was even worse. The onramp was embedded amongst intersecting roads not intended for a pedestrian to ever reach. I watched traffic for a long time before crossing two roads illegally. Then I was standing in an illegal and moderately dangerours spot, waving my thumb out.

I kept smiling as the sun got lower. It seemed hopeless. Then

A GIRL!
A lovely girl by herself. She gave me a quick test:
-You’re not crazy are you?
-You’re travelling aren’t you?
I must have answered correctly because before long we were rolling along to San Luis Obispo. As we drove we had a taxi-cab like confession session. She told me about her boyfriend troubles, and I chimed in with the occasional ‘Right on sister,’ Then I revealed a restless doubt of my soul (or two) and we literally bonded (literally in the american sense, actually we bonded figuratively)

Then I called up my new college friend
***the bender begins****
and he helped me find a place to sleep where I was able to develop a method of lying flat on a sofa and a single-seater ordinarily too small for sleeping, very handy if you ever end up in college accomodation.

Flagstaff AZ to Las Vegas NV (A Movable Feast, Hitchhikers, Christian-Rock and Holiday Traffic Jams)

Thanksgiving

A light drizzle was falling on Flagstaff the last Thursday in November. It was the morning after a crazy Wednesday, a night of open-mic, 25c drinks, sand-speckled beer that had been down the grand-canyon and back and finally the couch of a sweet half-swedish girl. She’d made me feel great about my Swedish, more than any real Swedish person could, “Snakke du Svensk?” “Ja!”

These memories were floating through my head as my phone rang. It was cousin Ed and Ms. Watson calling from Atlanta, wishing me a happy thanksgiving. Alex across on the other couch started talking to her mum too, and I could hear that on the other end, the phone was being passed around, and over and over the sentiments of this American holiday were being expressed. I give thanks for you every day, she said. I felt inexplicably joyful.

The day before I’d been offered to eat thanksgiving dinner with some of the fine locals I had met in that little mountain town. I had declined. Vegas was calling. But now it was Thursday and outside the rain was falling. I was tossing how best to spend Thanksgiving; eating too much turkey, or getting wet with my thumb out. In the end it was a no-brainer.

Dinner was scheduled for 1pm. But after the crazy night, the hosts were still in bed at two. I went over to help with preparations; my role was chopping onions and then getting out of everybody’s way. I drank beer and a little pipe was being passed around. We played games. Dinner was served at 6.30pm. The turkey was great. The mashed potato was delicious. The stuffing was unbelievable. Everyone was so full of food, and we continued playing games, and singing along to the guitars and the mandolin. Occasionally I looked outside where it was still raining and where hardly a soul could be found. I was still contemplating hitchhiking. It would be miserable, nobody on the road, and that endless drizzle, while inside was warmth and joy. I’ll catch the Greyhound bus at 2am, I told myself, arrive in Vegas in the morning. The guitars kept singing, and then, the bus, if it existed at all, was past. At 5am I fell asleep on another couch.

Marching with Confidence

The rain had stopped and it was getting light. I had slept two hours but felt fresh as I marched out towards Interstate 40. Once again I hadn’t done my research very well. The spot had only about 10% of traffic heading in the direction of Kingman. Most cars were speeding past on their way South to the big city of Phoenix or East to New Mexico. And nobody heading in my direction stopped. I waited an hour before I decided to find another spot, possibly on the historic Route 66. There are only bits and pieces of that famous highway that remain, but the main street of Flagstaff still bears its name. I walked back into town and toward the 66. On route I stopped at a service station to get some advice. The first local I asked thought the 66 wasn’t the option. He said that where I had been standing was the best spot.

Another Hippy goes out of his way

The second local told me: “Get in.” He was a proper mountain hippy, in his 50s with a little white beard and the kind of hat that you could imagine on a real-life wizard. He was spending the day taking some photos. It was his hobby, although he confessed that he had some talent. A woman had given him the Infinity we were driving in, for example, in exchange for five of his photos. He didn’t really care where he took photos, so although he hadn’t been planning on it, he would take me to Williams.

We were already at 7000ft, but as we drove along he asked if I wanted to get high. Then the cab was hazy and we talked about life and politics. He’d tried to leave Flagstaff a few times, but he always ended up coming back. He was left-leaning, as hippies tend to be, but with a certain degree of cynicism and a lack of tolerance for bullshit, the kind of qualities that often come from spending a long time on the planet. I was very grateful for his company.

A Frog

I walked from where I’d been dropped off to the on-ramp of the freeway. And lo-and-behold, there was already somebody standing there. Could it be? It was. Another hitchhiker. Finally.

He was Etienne, a French dude riding his bike from New York to Los Angeles. The rain had trapped him in Williams for two days and now he was behind schedule. He was trying to get a lift with his bike and all, but without much confidence. For a while we stood together, then he very kindly offered me to stand separately from him, since I could get a ride in anything, whereas he needed a pick-up truck. I moved my bags down the road, but still drifted back and talked to him. And in the end we got a ride together.

Christian-Classic-Rock

A father and son tried to spend thanksgiving riding their 4-wheel motorbikes in the mountains. But their car broke down. Now they were on their way back with a massive trailer, room for an extra bicycle and all our gear. Then we were rolling along. They asked for a song so I took out my guitar and played a few as we drove. The son was about 14, a sweet kid, full of curiousity about Australia and France. The dad was into classic-rock, and he told me that he also played guitar, and wrote music. Christian Music.

When we stopped for a toilet break, he played me a number. Try to imagine a guitar riff in 2/4 by Eric Clapton in the Cream years or The Rolling Stones, that goes (starting on the off-beat) Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana. So the song went:

He’s the King…
(Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana)
The King of Kings
(Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana)
He’s the lord…
(Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana)
Of all things
(Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana)

It was still stuck in my head long after I wished goodbye to the three of them in Kingman.

Orange County CA to Flagstaff AZ (including peanut butter and jelly, infantry soldiers, police harassment, and the end of the endless summer)

I’m shivering as I type, warming up inside Denny’s awaiting my breakfast slam. Ahh…that’s better: ‘sausage’, eggs over easy, pancakes with maple syrup and a cup of coffee that keeps being refilled. Righteo, so how did I get here, from Californian November warmth to 7000feet and freezing?

The Gigalopolis
A few days ago, when I first arrived in the OC, I thought I was in LA. Not according to the locals. It’s a different city altogether. Seems a bit pedantic to me. Sure, it may be 35 miles from downtown LA but its not like there’s any distinguishable break from the endless city-blocks full of traffic and freeways projecting people around. You couldn’t really go anywhere without a car. And I think if you had a car you would simply end up driving around in endless circles (or squares, rather) going from one place to another, and never escaping. I was escaping. So I caught the train.

To San Bernadino. Another MCW* (the fourth I’ve visited), but again I was dissapointed to come out alive.

California
My first ride was a couple of hollywood agents, cruising back to their mountain retreat to put up christmas decorations. We drove through the hilly desert, and they dropped me at a rather pleasing mountain pass.

I threw some rocks. I had my first encounter with the California Police:

“You have to stand that side of the tree to be legal” he shouted (pleasantly?) from his car window. Apparently I had been blurring the lines between what is interstate and what is not. Yes sir, and I moved. But a gang of Mexicans who were doing some roadwork parked their truck in such a way that being legal meant not being visible. So I moved back to where I was originally, and before long got picked up by a Mexican who took me 20 miles down the road to the small city of Victorville.

God
Victorville was a bad place to stop. First because nobody was picking me up. Second, because God starting talking to me:

“You’re not aloud to be there…” said God.

I looked around for the source of this disembodied voice. It wasn’t God afterall, rather another cop hiding in the bushes, using his megaphone to scare people by pretending to be God. I gave him a smile, and a little hand-gesture and shuffled about 20m back down the onramp, leaning my things against the sign that says “No Pedestrians, No Farm equipment, No Mexicans.” I was honestly just trying to be legal, but I guess he thought I was being smart.

“What are you doing?” he shouted incredulously through his windown. He looked a bit confused, like The Wizard of Oz after he’s discovered, unsure whether to continue using his megaphone or not.
Oh, I was trying to get a lift into Arizona.
Well you can’t hitchhike here!
I pulled out my old chestnut: “Oh sorry officer, I was under the impression that the onramp was ok, but not the interstate itself.” This confused him. He didn’t seem to be sure if hitchhiking was legal or not (and nor am I), but he was sufficiently thrown by this to think of a new excuse.
“That sign there is just a guide,” he told me. “I’m highway patrol, and I have jurisdiction over the whole onramp, so I’m afraid you can’t stand there. It’s a matter of your safety, that’s all, not because you’re a nuisance, but because we’re responsible if somebody takes the corner too tight and hits you.” Oh sure sir, no problem sir, thanks for allowing me to cross the onramp twice for you to explain how I might get killed standing beside it. Prick.

So for the first time I was forced from a spot on legal advice.

Slow progress, good vibrations.
The next onramp, a couple of miles away seemed the best option. I walked down the road holding my ‘Barstow’ sign, backwards. A wonderful lady picked me up, and took me to the next onramp. She was brilliant, offered me a place to stay if I got stuck, and even came back 20 minutes later with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!

I waited, no police, good! No traffic either. Bad. I practiced bouncing the ball (see Ep. 3) on my head.

Away...
I was in the car of a retired soldier. We drove past breathtaking scenery, a surreal desert/mountain combination. We had a nice chat. We agreed about everything, except creationism and muslims.

I was in Barstow, on a little frequented onramp of the I-40, the highway that runs all the way to North Carolina. It was getting dark. Earlier and earlier every bloody day. I needed a lift quick. I needed a new sign. I looked around for a scrap of cardboard, found one, and lo and behold, already had ‘Needles’ written on it. I don’t see other hitchhikers, but they exist, I’m sure. I’m not alone.

Isaac was a nice fellow in the 10th car that passed by. He was a divorcee, spoke with an accent that sounded European, but when I asked where he was from he simply said “Barstow.” He was going to see a friend in Newberry Springs. He left me at the exit of that impossibly small town. It was dark. There was a gas station.

A travel van stopped for gas. They’d passed me back in Barstow and I had waved. Isaac and I had overtaken them. I went and said hello.

I was lounging on a mattress with two dogs, driving down the road. They were on an adventure. The owners too. Back in Oregon, timing had been fortuitous, both had fallen out of work at the same time, and desired to spend a few months in Mexico surfing. They were driving down the 40 to that effect.

Then we were drinking Jack Daniels at the rest-area where they were going to camp the night. I hung out for a couple of swigs and a couple of smokes. They were very kind.

I was reading the tourist info at the rest area, all about Arizona, and about the rules for rest areas. I watched a guy go into the toilet. I watched him leave, hesitated for a moment, and then. Excuse me buddy…

The Summer Ends
80mph we sped, and I found out he was a combat engineer for the army. Apparently this is a standard infantry ‘grunt’ who occasionally gets to blow up bridges and the like. He was driving all the way across the country to his new station in North Carolina, where he would join the 82nd airborne. He was a wonder, a very sharp character. We became fast friends. We agreed about a lot of stuff, and we enjoyed disagreeing with each other too. He was mostly playing the centrist conservative, and I the centrist liberal (in the american sense). He had wanted McCain to win. He agreed that the country was in bad shape, but had a refreshing view of what those problems were. We talked for four hours straight, and were just short of Flagstaff when he pulled over to sleep a few hours. We were at 7000ft. It was cold. Very cold. 33 degrees according to his car. I still don’t always get farenheit, but now I know that 33 is cold enough for me. But he was army. He was tough. I was the whimp who had to borrow a blanket.

Before sun-up we set off again, and he dropped me here at Denny’s, where now I’ve finished my breakfast, and my fourth refill of coffee. I’m warm again now. The sweet blessed warmth of the indoors.

*Murder Capital of the World.

Austin TX to Orange, CA (An Epic)

I’d been threatening to ‘get cracking west’ for a while, and stop pansying about with these 200-mile-days. But I didn’t expect to end up on the West Coast so soon. I put it down to tiredness, lonely highways and the cold.

It began with meeting a young Obama campaigner in the adjacent hotel room in Austin. Over a few beers in the ‘live music capital of the world’ I divined that he was heading West. Taking a semester off school to join Obama’s campaign machine, he had been sent to Missouri where he worked for a solid four months. After the (historic) victory he had spent a couple of weeks celebrating, and after a week in Austin was heading back to his home in Oregon. So on Monday morning I said goodbye to my Mexican mates and jumped in his car.

We ate up Texas. Texas as many of y’all know is often used by Americans to understand the size of countries. As in the sentence ‘Bolivia is one and a half Texases’. I guess France would be our metric equivalent. Texas is big, and West Texas is boring. So we drove and drove through endless barren countryside, occasionally chatting away. He was an interesting guy, an intelligent thinker who understood the difficulties of practical politics. Refreshingly, he didn’t suffer from that worrying disease of Obamamania which makes you believe that all the world’s problems are now resolved.

Darkness fell and we drove on to El Paso. El Paso is sprawling and shiny, set amongst some crazy hills, and at nighttime the dominant feature is an enormous star of texas placed hollywood style on the adjacent mountains. Here my ride was stopping for the night in a hotel before he drove on towards Vegas. I decided to try my luck and look for a lift that would take me through the night. So he dropped me at a truckstop. There I began my old routine of asking for a lift to Albuquerque, New Mexico. It didn’t work. It was 10pm, then 11pm, then midnight. I had drunk a lot of coffee. There weren’t many people coming through. Everyone was going east or west, to California or to Florida. I kept trying. Then I fell asleep sitting up under my hoodie. The guys on nightshift took turns in sleeping too. I thought they might not be happy with my being there, but they didn’t say anything, and in the morning wouldn’t take any money for my coffee. I wasn’t worried about anything, which was weird. I guess it was my longest wait by far, but really I was just hanging out so it wasn’t too bad.

When it started to get light, I decided enough was enough, and I went out to the onramp and stood there for a while. But it was cold. Very cold, so I was jumping around, looking silly which probably didn’t help my chances of getting picked up. I got the feeling that in this border-town nobody wanted to pick up a stranger. But finally at about 10am, 12 hours after I had arrived, a guy in a truck pulled over. He too was going to California, but I thought I could get a lift up to Las Cruces where I could continue North on the 25 through New Mexico and Colorado.

But then, he told me the story of another guitarist he had given a lift all the way to California. And gradually, tired and not thinking too straight, I decided I didn’t really want to get off at Las Cruces. It was more of a non-decision. Just keep on rolling. And roll we did. He was Fidel one of the coolest cats you’ll ever meet. A Mexican cowboy (he really looked after his black Stetson) who loved to drive along singing. I got my guitar out and we sang La Bamba. He had a whole lot of Mexican traditional music on his iPod, and he gave me a musical tour, singing along all the while. One of my favourites was a Spanish version of Bob Dylan’s “It ain’t me babe”:

No, no, no, no, no soy yo.
No, no, no, no, no soy yo.
Al que ella dara su amor.

I guess in Mexico a song wouldn’t fly if it had the theme “sorry girl, I’m not interested in you.” In the Mexican version, its about a guy who gets stood up at the alter by his love, “It ain’t me- who she’s gonna love.” Wonderful!

In this way, New Mexico dissappeared. Arizona came with its amazing geography, like those american road-trip movies, a strip of tarmac carved through an unbelievable desert landscape. Then came the cactii. I can’t imagine a better way to travel through the West, playing songs on a guitar, chatting, popping back into the sleeper for naps, watching the miles slip by. Night fell and we crossed into California, and stopped for the night in a hotel in Thousand Palms. In the morning we continued on, past the most extensive wind-farm I have ever seen. I guess in California they go for quantity rather than quality. There must have been a few thousand turbines, most of which weren’t spinning. Desert. Cactus. Palm tree. And then we arrived at our destination of Pomona.

There I worked for my ride, unscrewing bolts, putting wedges under tyres, hammering bits of wood. It felt good to get covered in grease in the baking sun. His load was three new trucks for a truck-rental company. The foreman of the yard said that he had had 50 trucks delivered that week. And the company Fidel worked for was sending out hundreds of trucks a week. I thought the country was supposed to be in recession.

Then my friend came and picked me up. We rode down freeway after freeway, cars everywhere. I had arrived in a place that didn’t seem plausible in a desert. So Cal, 48 hours after leaving the capital of Texas.

Lafayette LA to Houston TX (the longest day yet)

A Good Start
After the debacle of yesterday, and by the lucky virtue of my host having an early start, I was on the road at 7.45am. I whistled a little tune as I waited to cross the interstate, and found myself a good spot on the other side, a long on-ramp, safe to stop and plenty of time for drivers to see me. The first bunch of cars came by and one of them pulled over. I wasn’t surprised for some reason. It just felt like I was going to get a quick ride, and I did. He was a college student on his way to class. By the time he dropped me off in the little town of Crowley I’d heard a few of the songs he’d recorded in his home studio and heard about happy days spent in Colorado.

The Niggas
Three lads who were in the business of selling seafood squeezed my bags in amongst their eskies, and shoved me in the back seat of the pick-up. They were white boys who liked to refer to each other as ‘nigga’ and talked about popping caps in arses, listened to hip-hop, that sort of thing. They were actually pretty humourous. They told me they could get me as far as Lake Charles, but suddenly we pulled off the highway and parked infront of a Walmart. One of the chaps got out, and we waited. I didn’t know what was going on, but it turned out he was robbing a few little items he required like a phone. He’d been inside the store for about 20 minutes when a police car entered the parking lot and pulled up at the shopfront. We all thought he might be in a little trouble, but at that moment he surprised us, coming from behind and smiled as he got in, showing off his brand-new cap! We were off again and a little down the road I thanked them and was on my way

An ex-hippie
After quite a wait a guy pulling a caravan made a last-minute decision to stop. I don’t usually pick up hitchhikers, he told me, but then I saw your guitar. Music wins again. It turned out he was a bit of a tripper. In his 50s, he was on his way from Florida to the devastated island of Galveston. He’d had a tip-off that some hurricane recovery work could be found there. In the meantime he was on the look-out for a dentist who could put his teeth back in. He was pulling his home with him, behind an old Ford Van that was getting 8 miles to the gallon. I know the mileage because we ran out of gas not once, but 3 times. He only seemed to want to have enough in his tank to make it to the next gas-station. At each stop we got out and wandered around, and at one stop he forgot to actually get gas, and sure enough, we didn’t make it to the next gas station. Luckily he had a spare gallon in the back, he popped that in but we still didn’t have enough. The gas-station location on his GPS was out by 1 mile, so when he squeezed out the last drops from his reserve, we were still half a mile short. We walked down and got ourselves another gallon. It was impossible to be in a hurry with this guy. But we had lots of interesting conversations, not all of which I really understood, but interesting none the less. The rain started to fall as I got my first glimpse of Texas, and he dropped me off 20 miles from Houston. But 20 miles from Houston basically is Houston. I was trying to get to Austin, and the megalopolis was in my way.

Un otro Mexicano
Too much city traffic. I could feel that nobody was going too pick me up. And it was raining. So I talked a mexican into taking me around the ring-road to a truck-stop which I hoped would be my saviour.

The Trucks are Stuck
Excuse me sir, I was trying to get a lift to Austin.
Oh I’m not going anywhere.
I’ve been here for 5 days.
Nooo, I’m staying here tonight.
And so on.
It’s the economy, apparently. Lots of truckers waiting for loads that don’t exist. And nobody going to Austin. I made friends with the security guard but he couldn’t help. I struck up a deal with a homeless guy. We stood outside the door together, I asked for a lift as they went in, he asked for money as they came out. He was doing much better than me. After two hours without even a sniff I gave up and decided to go into Houston and see what happened.

A lonely bus ride in the pouring rain.

A busy bar. With wifi. And Houston has a hostel. Check-in is until 11pm. But I don’t write down the address.

An holistic-optician
At 10.43 I am on a tram. The police get on, and ask me to get off because my ticket isn’t valid. I’m not the only one. I tell them that the machine doesn’t work, and if they look closely they will see that the ticket for which I was overcharged is stamped with tomorrow’s date. This is taking time, its now 10.50. But a woman has overheard the conversation, has recognized my accent. She asks me what I’m doing. I tell her I’m not sure, going to a hostel I don’t know the address of, or sleeping in the greyhound station. We get off together and she takes me to her office where by day she takes a holistic approach to improving vision. She is lovely. We look up the hostel on the internet, get the address, and she drives me to it. We arrive at 11.27. The office is closing but they check me in, and a beer is awaiting on the balcony, the first of a few after a very long day.

New Orleans LA to Lafayette LA (the latinos come through)

New Orleans, crazy town, i don't understand how it works but its a bit of a free state. Drinking in the streets, awesome! Legalized gambling, well ok. Showing of boobs- well it depends on the boobs. So understand that in such a place an early morning start didn't happen.

I left my hostel at midday, went for an hour long walk out past a cemetery, and along a highway to a suburb of neat middle-class houses, about one in three uninhabitable after the wind and water came through these parts a little while ago.

But I did find a very nice spot to stand, and it wasn't long before a pair of

Nicaraguans
picked me up and got me somewhat to the edges of New Orleans. I say somewhat because New Orleans is big and I wasn't sure where it actually ended. They were a couple of friendly guys and were very kind about my Spanish. They spoke that reasonably intelligible form of Spanish that most central americans speak.

Then I waited for a long long long time. And I thought I was in trouble again. Again I had been left at a tricky spot, with lots of traffic, cars moving quick and not an especially safe place for them to stop. I walked up and down and tried various spots. An annoying thing that has recently happened is the end of daylight saving. Now its getting dark at 5pm. And I was rather concerned about the possibility of getting stuck in a dodgy outer suburb of New Orleans. It was after 4pm when a couple of

Mexicans
stopped and said they wanted to help me. The passenger was very concerned that I was hitchhiking and thought the police would arrest me at any moment (I didn't tell him that five police cars had drived past during my long wait) and wanted to take me to the airport where I could catch a bus. I wasn't against the idea at this stage, but they weren't going to the airport, and the driver understood that I was trying to hitchhike. We drove along one of the most amazing highways I've ever seen. A swamp as far as the eye could see, the kind of place you could see yourself fishing amongst alligators, and the only man-made thing in sight this enormous concrete strip. At one stage we reached the intersection of two highways which was an incredible concrete construction floating on poles above this swamp. It was almost dark when they dropped me at a gas-station and wished me luck.

I knew I had no choice but to ask around here. I picked out a guy driving a pickup by himself. He looked like a latino but i tried in English first. I still haven't quite worked out the etiquette for this. If you strongly suspect someone of being a spanish-speaker, is it ok to try Spanish first? Would that be offensive if they didn't speak Spanish. Well, when I told in English him I was trying to get a lift to Baton Rouge, he pointed me in the direction of the highway I needed (assuming I had a car). He hadn't understood. Then I tried in Spanish, explaining I was hoping maybe he could give me a lift. He was very reluctant at first, but eventually I talked him into it.

The Honduran
And wasn't I glad I did talk him into it. What a great guy. An illegal immigrant from Honduras who had been living in Lafayette for a couple of years, working in construction. He didn't speak English very well at all. Like so many of these guys who've moved up from South of the border, his job didn't require him to speak English. According to the Lousiana farmers, these latino guys are known for being hard workers, and you just have to find one in the group who can speak English so he can explain things to the rest. He laughed at my joke which I heard the other day, that to my surprise translated well into Spanish. It goes:
Brown + White = Green
We had lots of laughs in the end, and he very kindly took me all the way into downtown Lafayette where I decided I would stay for the night. I had been trying to get to Texas, but when hitchhiking you take what you can get.

Meridian MS to New Orleans LA (and knowing between good and evil)

On the road early in Mississippi with storm clouds overhead. A few spots of rain started to make me realize how lucky I've been with the weather. Nothing serious materialized though, and after only half an hour or so, my guitar got me a lift again.

A couple of retired Alabama educators picked me up. They were a couple of great boys in their 60s on their way down to Baton Rouge to watch the big game between Alabama and LSU. Very refreshing to have some reasoned conversation with friendly and intelligent southern folk. We chatted about music, politics, travelling and told jokes. In the two hours we cruised along, i learnt that in Alabama, you have to pick between good and evil. Its quite simple, good you support Alabama, evil, you support Auburn. They dropped me off only 40 miles from NOLA in an awkward spot.

A key to hitchhiking is not only getting lifts, but knowing when to get off. I should have stopped a few miles earlier at the 'Welcome to Louisiana' station and would have fairly easily cruised into New Orleans. Instead, I had to cross several lanes of the busy interstate and then walk about two miles down the road where the cars weren't zipping past at 70. You live. You don't learn. And then

A SKETCHY RIDE

I guess it had to happen, after so many good rides with good people, I finally got a strange one. After a bite to eat, I waited less than a minute before a young chap with dark skin and blue eyes pulled up. I'm trying to get to New Orl'ns I said, and he said he was heading that way. For the first time, there was no conversation to strike up. I tried to get things going with a few standards: "it sure is purty around here", "So what part of New Orleans do you live in?" "Why are you so strange?" We cruised along and listened to Obama's first press conference after his victory. After a while, I noticed he seemed to be rubbing himself. I ignored this, I mean what else could you do? Then he started rubbing himself a little bit more rapidly. I continued to ignore him, but at the same time started to assess things like door handles, central locking systems and potential weapons. I started to think about how to escape, but there was no escape to be had while driving in the middle lane of a highway at 65 miles an hour. I would just have to see how it panned out. I looked out at the amazing view. To get into New Orleans, you cross along an incredible causeway across a massive lake. Ahead I could see the tall buildings of the city. It really was very attractive. He was still rubbing himself. Occasionally I tried to give a look that I hoped would say "look, i don't really mind what you do in your own car, but that thing you are doing is kind of seedy." When I asked a question he would stop rubbing for a moment to curtly answer, and then return to his crotch. Hmm. Well, I decided, I guess its better that he's rubbing himself rather than trying to stick his bits in me. So you can't complain too much. When we got into the city, I asked where the French Quarter was. He pointed to the left, as he was turning to the right. Alright, I'll jump out here then, I said. He pulled up, I got out, I grabbed my bag and said thanks mate. He drove off, i walked into town, and that was that. Relieved, very relieved.

Birmingham GA to Meridian MS

Bobo (The Human)

Bobo picked me up on the outskirts of Birmingham. I introduced myself as Simon, that's a funny name around these parts he told me. He took me down the road and we's gone and had ourselves a lovely little chat. He decided afterwards that I was his friend and that he was going to help me. He offered me money for food, and really wanted to go out of his way to help me. He told me that he never ever learnt to read or write so well (but he could drive a truck just like he's ringin a bell). Despite this he skillfully rendered a sign guaranteed to get me a lift in no time:

Meridan
MISS.
I won't kill you

One of the sweetest guys I ever met.

Then I waited a long long time...

The Comedian
Rob worked at a company providing parts for the Mercedes plant down the road. He was in good humour about the imminent collapse of the American Automotive Industry. I was his first ever hitchhiker. Afterwards he gave me a business card and it turned out he was a comedian in his spare time!

The sun was low, and the cars were driving into it. They couldn't see me so well.

I decided to ask people for a lift at a truck stop. My approach:
"Excuse me sir, I was trying to get a lift into Mississippi. You wouldn't be heading that way would you?"
The 1st man said no I'm not. The 2nd said no I'm not. The 3rd said umm. The gas station employee said you can't do that here son. I started to walk back to the road when the 2nd revealed his fib, and picked me up. Score!

The Lousiana farmers give me the lowdown:

On their African-American brothers
- You don't know what it's like. We're the ones that have to live with 'em.
- You can't educate them black kids, you teach 'em to write their name, and the next day they gone forgot.
- They just sit around and get drunk, and collect their welfare cheques.
- They don't work.
- They go complain about slavery, well if they don't like it why don't they just go on back where they came from.

BUT

- when they get a bit of white blood in'em, well sometimes they can be purty smart
"you mean like Obama?"
- well i don't know about that

and on the president elect
- he's a muslim. And we's be Christians so we don't believe in that. You know when he was gone and sworn in as a senator in Ohio, he wouldn't do it on no bible. He used the Koran. He won't pledge no allegiance to no flag when he's sworn in. No sir.

Sounds like January is going to be even more historic than we thought!

Election Day Part 2

The queues turned out to be non-existant at the Birmingham country court-house. There was one woman handing out how to vote Obama flyers, but nobody to hand them to. She asked me for a song, she wanted to sing gospel, great voice. We were joined by the lawn-mowing guy. My first day in Alabama, so I said to him "I guess you just like cutting the grass so much that you do it for free." He could play the harmonica without a harmonica, quite a talent. We were joined by the security guard who took over the axe and played some mean jazz. A regular election day jam!

In the evening I attended a small gathering to watch the results come in. We flicked between Fox News, CNN, NBC and eventually Comedy Central. All those networks try so damn hard to be neutral it hurts, like listening to Eddie McGuire commentate a Collingwood game. We drank champagne when Obama's win was announced, when history was made. Things would never be the same again. Then we got drunk and forgot about the election.

Election Day

Its midday on the first tuesday in November and I've just arrived in Birmingham Alabama. When I arrived there was absolutely nothing to do, but I happened to walk passed the Obama 08 headquarters. So decided to volunteer. It turned out this meant calling Florida voters (Alabama is a lost cause I spose). You had to use your own phone. The room was full of a diverse bunch, young women, an old lady, a middle-aged man, white and black. Everybody seemed to be enjoying the feeling of helping out. About 15 volunteers on the phones. I felt a bit silly using my own phone credit, and also using an Australian accent to convince Floridians to get out and vote. So I just made one call to be part of the process. and then I headed on out.

Now to check out these queues, which apparently are stupidly long. I'm not one of those to criticize American democracy too much, but waiting for 6 hours to vote is just dumb.

Chattanooga TN to Atlanta GA (and 5 American Dreams)

It was tough going today, but the public came through, as they always do. God Bless America. Its quite a diverse place, the USA. And I guess I only get to see a small segment of it from the passenger seat of random automobiles. Who knows what goes on in the other cars. The families of Latinos, who are yet to squeeze me in amongst their batallions of kids. The middle-aged couples in the Mercedes and the Jeeps who seem to have plenty of room, but accelerate away and pretend they haven't seen me. I think Americans are on the whole a helpful people, but in such a place as this, with millions of strangers and daily news reports of the horrors they commit to one another, its impossible to know who you might be letting into your car. Its a gamble. So I'm incredibly thankful that there are enough punters out there to help me get around. Let me introduce you to today's gamblers:

The Father and Son
Dad was off to work in a satellite city of Charlottesville, just over the border into Georgia, with 10 year old son beside. It was a saturday morning, and he seemed to pick up work wherever he could. The windscreen was smashed and the car beat-up and old. You see a lot more beat-up cars in this country than in Europe. He told me that he had once tried to hitchhike down to Florida, ended up walking to Atlanta. When he wished me luck a couple of exits down, I felt he really meant it.

Ran away and joined the circus
Days before his 16th birthday, he'd fulfilled one of the coolest stereotypes of all time, by running away from home, and spending a year with a travelling circus. That was years ago. Now he was settled down, and off to see his eight-year-old son play football. His son was good, eight sacks for the season. He'd taught him to snap a ball using a soft-toy, and "boy could he snap a ball now." I saw the photo, a little beardless version of his dad, solidly built and strong.

A McCain/Palin Bumper Sticker
A couple of good-ol boys were off to watch college football on TV. They had a big white truck, comfortable. They were old mates, driving along, shooting the breeze, smoking cigarettes. They didn't seem too interested in politics, but I wondered about the sticker. "So you're a McCain supporter?" I asked. "Looks like it might be a tough road from here?"
"Oh, he probably won't win," he told me. "But I don't trust that Obama guy. I still remember what the terrorists said after 9/11. Not to worry about the borders, because the next attack was going to come from inside. I'll always remember that. And with Obama, you just never know..." They dropped me off and pointed out the bar where lots of girls, easy girls, could be found later that night if I was still around.

Joe the Carpenter
A real southerner, with accent and all picked me up. He was a great laugh, and lifted my spirits for the rest of the day. He showed me a photo of his four daughters, and his lady friend. He was a young grandpa. That daughters got three kids, and that one, she's got a couple of mixed-race chil'n. I couldn't understand him all that well. There were stories of love and divorce, that you got to provide for a woman, give her a bed, put food in her belly, and then there's all those nice clothes she wants too. And if you can't provide...
"I'm happy with my lot." he said. "People have been good to me, and I try to help out wherever I can. I mean, we all have our personal problems, but, I do what I can." And he did what he could. I was another 30 miles down the road with a smile on my face.

The Weezer Fans
A lad was celebrating his 25th birthday by going to see his favourite band, Weezer. For company he had his 15 year-old brother. I interupted 'Arrested Development' that they'd been watching on a portable DVD player as they rolled along. We chatted about rock 'n roll and he dreamed of getting on the stage with the band if he could. I wonder if he did.

I got dropped off at a bus stop on the outskirts of Atlanta. Caught a bus full of latinos and blacks. The bus had TVs, advertising some kind of success-guaranteed fitness system, all in Spanish. A post-office employee helped me with directions. We went through miles and miles of suburbs, that never seemed to end. I had arrived in a very big city again.

Knoxville to Chattanooga (with a song stuck in my head)

The city of hard-knocks had treated me well.  I wasn't the guy who got shot in the leg by a stray bullet on Tuesday night.  That was probably some crack-junkie.  The locals in front of the Old City Java laughed about it, pointing across the street to where it happened.  I sipped my bottomless cup of coffee, and we chatted about elections and baseball and the decriminalization of marijuana.  They made me feel at home.  And then, I left.  Again.

In a good frame of mind, I waited patiently by the road in the southwest of town.  I hummed: "Pardon me boys, is that the...I've got my fare, and just a little to spare...".  It was maybe only the 100th car that stopped.  He was in the business of polished concrete floors and benches.  I was in the business of professional travel, today.  Sometimes I'm a musician.  Sometimes I'm on my gap year.  If you were the same person everyday, life would be a bit boring no?  

He dropped me at the recently developed outskirts of Knoxville.  I waited.  "Read a magazine and then you're in baltimore."

The second guy was into roughly the same thing as the first, except with marble instead of concrete.  He was a curious fellow, saw my guitar and figured what the hey.  He had lots of questions for me.  I was in the mood to talk so that was good.  He dropped me out past the 'split' where the 70 heads south to Chattanooga while the road continues on West to Nashville.

I'm yet to see another hitchhiker on these adventures.  But where he dropped me off, there was a note written by a guy who had stood on the same spot, about 4 years ago.  It was a slightly more detailed version of "I was here."  I liked that.  I waited  "...dinner in in a diner, nothing could be finer, than to have your ham and eggs in..."

I got hungry and bought fried chicken, potato and gravy with a biscuit.  A biscuit is a bread-roll i found out.  Good, because I didn't really want a biscuit.  The girl guessed I was Australian.  She had the sweetest smile.

I went back to the road, was just biting into my first bit of chicken when Taylor pulled up.  He was an environmental scientist on his way back home.  We cruised along.  He had great geographical knowledge, naming the rivers and the plateaus and explaining the local geology.  He was a smart guy, who wanted out of America for a while.  He was planning to go to Bali to live with his wife.  We used his phone to call ahead to my host, and we arranged to meet for a beer downtown.  We crossed the Tennessee River, did a loop passed the Aquarium, and then, "woo woo Chattanooga, there you are!"

Blacksburg VA to Knoxville TN (and why cars run on gasoline)

Those who know me know I’m not the type to worry to much about anything. But all of us have our moments of panic. Today as the sun went down and I was left 40 miles from my destination, I thought it was finally time to sleep in a ditch and sink to my true level of seediness. But bless, once again I was saved by an incredibly friendly american, and my ‘everything will be alright’ attitude was vindicated once more.

My day started early, getting a lift from my lovely couch-surfing host to the bus to Roanoke. I got to fill out a survey on my feelings about the bus service:

Number of times a week you take this bus: 0
Location of bus stops: Reasonably good, I only got a little lost
Quality of service: Excellent, quality control measures on 100% of rides.

This took me back to the good ol’ 81, and I grabbed a couple of short rides. The first with a friendly working man in his comercial truck, and the second with an older gent on his way back from the hospital where he’d been having a blood test to make sure his blood was thin enough for his artifial valves to keep pumping blood through the system. Unfortunately this left me at a slightly awkward spot, with a cool breeze blowing. Gotta get south, I kept telling myself. Its not November yet, but it soon will be.

After waiting an hour or so, I caught my big ride. This was with an interesting couple. She was a veterinary technician on her way to a conference in Ashville, North Carolina, and her stoned-mason (excuse pun) boyfriend was coming along for the ride. He was an intriguing fellow, of the super-cynic view of the world. He’d spent a year in Iraq serving in the marines, an experience he described as “the best and worst days of my life.” He believed in all sorts of conspiracy theories, one which I hadn’t heard before. It involves gasoline and prohibition, that cars ran on alcohol in the beginning (a reasonably verifiable fact that I can’t be bothered verifying). This would mean that any hillbilly with a distiller could make his own fuel. So the prohibition movement was designed so that the oil industry could capture the market such that everyone would have to pay to run their cars. Dubious theories aside, these guys were tremendous, and merely cruising through the countryside they decided to change their route and take me all the way down the 81 to 40 miles from Knoxville.

I was so happy about making such great time that I decided to go for a walk into the wilderness and play my guitar and generally dick-about near the town of Newport. When I finally got back on the road, I realized I was actually in a terrible spot, with very little traffic going to Knoxville. So I stood at a lonely exit, thumbing hopefully at the cars that came past, maybe one every 10 minutes, but without luck. I’d been taught a little trick by my marine friend earlier, using fingers to gauge remaining hours of sunlight. I gauged I had less than an hour, and decided something needed to be done. I didn’t know what though, so I started walking when my latest saviour pulled up. He asked me where I was going, I told him my story, and he said he could get me back on track.

He was a great guy, towing a four-wheel motorbike on a trailer behind, curious and open about my means of travel. In the end he got me more than just back on track, going out if his way (almost the opposite direction from where he was going, as far as I could tell) to take me all the way into Knoxville. And with the help of his GPS, right to where my new friend, and a fun filled night, awaited me at the Old City Java café.

UVA to VUT (in one fell swoop)

After my longest wait to date, I was picked up by a landscape-architect who took me all the way from Charlottesville (home of the Hoos) to another college town, Blacksburg. It was really quite lucky the way it happened.
The thing about hitchhiking is that you have to not only enjoy standing by the side of the road for extended periods of time, but also you have to enjoy sitting in cars for extended periods of time, next to strangers. My luck today was that the guy who picked me up seemed to enjoy sitting in cars himself, and had no particular destination in mind. He had finished his Sunday chores, and simply wanted to get out of the house. So he got in his car and took off.
Well, imagine his surprise when upon entering the highway he sees a guy standing with a backpack strumming a guitar. I cannot vouch for how silly I might have looked- bear in mind this was after a two hour wait. I was almost certainly being a little bit silly. But I caught his attention, and he decided to stop.

We struck up an easy conversation, smoked a few cigarettes and cruised passed signs that said "This is McCain country". These were the first real signs of republican support I'd seen since entering the country. Apparently I had entered the south. In the north-east I had started to think that the black-muslim-terrorist guy was the only candidate and his win an inevitability. But here, Virginia, tobaccolandia, is apparently 'maverick' terrain. Its a pretty green state, but apparently it might turn blue at the start of November. I'm a bit confused about it all, maybe it's global warming or something. Why would a land of frozen pizza turn blue?

It was nice to ponder this, next to a friendly guy who, like me, had nothing much to do. We talked about America, and other places he'd been, like Alaska, and places we'd both been, like Chile. We talked about Obama. There's a lot to like about that guy. The green hills rolled by and he decided to drive all the way to Blacksburg. We ran out of matches, got some more, smoked some more cigarettes and rolled into town. It was the long trip, but the time, like the miles, had slid by lazily and pleasantly. That's how Sundays should always be.

2 hours is some time to wait.

The vast majority of passing drivers will steadfastly avoid communication with the hitchhiker. There are, however, a plethora of signals a passing driver will sometimes employ when he doesn't intend to stop. Unfortunately, we will never be sure of the exact meaning of these signals. Afterall, they are given by someone who we will never have a chance to ask. However, I will try to interpret one or two as I understand them.
A classic is the sideways finger-point. This means: "I would pick you up, but as I am turning just up ahead I'm afraid I cannot assist you."
Another is the shoulder shrug, especially popular amongst women drivers. This means: "I would pick you up, but let's face it, I don't know who you are and frankly I don't want to know."
Another is vocal, which is the mouthed 'sorry'. This means "I would pick you up, but the worlds is full of dangerous people you know, and I wish it wasn't so, but it is, so sorry."
One I very much enjoy is the good-ol' wave. This means: "Hello, I would pick you up, but...hey, who am I kidding, I'm not going to pick you up, but hello!" I like this one and I would encourage all motorists who pass hitchhikers by to try it.
Today, I experienced not once, but twice a completely new signal. This I shall call the 'no-way Jose'. It involves a shocked glare, followed by the raising of the index finger, and a shake of that finger from side to side. This seems to say "Not in a million years would I pick you up, no sir, no way Jose."
Its instinct I guess. Standing where I was today, there wasn't much time for the drivers to think of what they would do. I guess the NWJ was just a spur-of-the-moment reaction. I started to think what signal I instinctively give. Probably the shoulder shrug. If I had more time the wave I think. Hard to know, it's a tough decision. I think I'd just stop.

Washington DC to Charlottesville VA (with police escort)

Starting is always the hardest bit. I caught the metro from downtown DC out to the famous Route 66 at Falls Church Station. On google maps it looked like an ideal location to start, and indeed when I arrived the station was right in the middle of the highway. Unfortunately I was hedged in by a railway yard and a carpark, but after attempting to traverse a Virginian jungle, I eventually found the way through the carpark and passed the high-school (with kids playing on the gridiron pitch, another just-like-in-the-movies moment) to an onramp of the 66. After only a few minutes of standing at a rather awkward spot, I flashed my thumb unenthusiastically at a dark car, which promptly flashed some worrying blue lights at me.
“Do you think it’s a good idea hitchhiking a police car,” the very tall trooper asked me leaning out the window
“Umm.”
“Do you think you should be doing this here?”
“Umm. Well…I was under the impression that I wasn’t to hitch on the interstate, but that the onramp was ok.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” she said. “You shouldn’t walk on the highway.”
“Yes maam.”
At this stage she started shuffling around things in her car and I was waiting for the ticket she would issue that I wasn’t going to pay. But, it turned out that she was actually clearing the seat for me. What a great start, a ride in a police car 20 miles down the road to a great rest-area. Lovely.
From there I didn’t have to wait long before a convoy of cars going to a Nascar-meet offered me a lift. I was in the enormous Dodge truck driven by Kevin, with his son Kevin Jr. in the passenger seat. They were a great bunch of football throwing larikins off for a weekend away together, including Kevin Jr.’s pregnant girlfriend and a bunch of other guys who liked to compare the size of their fuel tanks and gas mileage. I was a bit sorry when they dropped me off after a great 100 mile cruise through the Appalachian Mountains along highway 89.
This left me in a slightly chilly Staunton, where I didn’t have to wait too long before an environmental-scientist went way out of her way to take me to the very top of the mountain range where the Appalachian walking trail crosses the highway. A few spits of rain at this stage might have helped my cause. A 17-year-old high school senior, on the way to his girlfriend’s house, took pity on me. He too went a bit out of his way and dropped me off right in downtown Charlottesville.
Back on track, and faith in American people renewed. Virginia: tick.

Bad hitching day (with drugs, knives, and the murder capital of the world)

Made a snap decision not to catch the chinatown bus from Philadelphia and instead caught the metro south and stood by the freeway for a while before a little guy in one of those new old-style cars (are they chevrolets?) stopped and took me just down the road. He was a guy who liked knives, pulling out an enormous blade from under the seat which he said he needed for protection. He was on his way back from picking up a few little bags of weed. He said he didn’t have any of this to give me but he did have a knife for me, and also gave me a ball that proved to be endless entertainment for the rest of the day.
I waited for quite a while maybe an hour bouncing the ball when finally a guy who used to be a roadie for the grateful dead, a young guy with a whole lot of cocaine that he and his friend were going to try before they went a fishing. He only took me a couple of exits down the highway but assured me I’d be in a great spot to get a ride into DC.
I got bored at his spot because there wasn’t much traffic afterall, sitting on the safety barrier strumming my guitar when a black guy in a beat-up sedan leaned over with a puzzled look and asked if he could assist me. He could. We were cruising down the highway before long and he had a beer next to him. He offered me a busch from the cooler that I had buried underneath my guitar, and being quite thirsty I undid my seatbelt and got me a beer. He was on his way to the racetrack, apparently the only place in the state of Delaware for slot machines. He was keeping busy in his unemployment “giving back” the $1000 he had won there the day before. He dropped me off another 20 miles along.
From here I had to jump some barriers and things in order to get to the onramp, where I waited some more time before a guy in a big black ute (or truck I think they call them) pulled over and offered me a lift a little further down the road, to a very pleasant spot with nice autumnal leaves, green grass and 6 different roaring highways intersecting in an appealing spaghetti type fashion. There wasn’t much traffic at this entrance, and so the wait wasn’t quite so disheartening, but equally long.
Finally a Bolivian delivering tropical fish to pet stores picked me up and gave me a decent lift to the outskirts of Baltimore. I ate some McDonalds (being hungry by this stage some 7 hours after breakfast) and decided to press on.
I didn’t have to wait too long on a very busy road for a baltimore local to pick me up and take me “through the tunnel”. I didn’t know what that meant, but it turned out it meant the tunnel under the harbour. He was an Amtrak employee who gave me a great tour of all the local railway yards in Baltimore. He also gave me quite a scare, telling me that Baltimore was the murder capital of the world (incidentally the unemployed gambler had told me the same about DC earlier that day). He showed me the cuts in his lip and eye where he’d had run-ins with the gangs of dissaffected youth in this town of 60,000 heroin addicts. I had to see this, I decided, and besides, after so much waiting during the day it was a bit late to get to DC. He dropped me off in the south of town and I caught a bus full of black guys who all seemed to be high-fiving each other, talking just like urban black people do in the movies and in hip-hop songs. Thankfully they ignored me and my tell-tale backpack (and lucky for them cos I had that knife handy!) It turned out that all the hotels in B-more (Be more Careful) were booked out. So the hitchhiker turned regular commuter, and caught a $7 train to DC where the possibility of a bed was better.

Providence RI to NYC with a piece of cardboard

My lovely couchsurfing host dropped me off at the highway, and I decided it was time to try an old hitchhiking trick, the sign. I had tried this one before going from Bristol with a sign that said simply “London” and the young removalist who picked me up, and indeed took me to London, told me it was a great sign. But I was a bit worried that writing New York would deter people who could at least get me on the way. Instead I tried one that gave the highway and the direction, “95s”. I had plenty of time to colour this in, because everybody was ignoring the sign. By the end it was a masterpiece but I’m still not sure of its success.
Eventually a guy heading just out of town did pick me up, a very nice carpenter who not only dropped me at the outskirts of Providence, but also offered me a place to stay if I got stuck. Where he dropped me, however, was a bit of an ordinary place: lots of traffic, but very little going down the ramp, and no safe place to stand on the ramp itself. I threw quite a lot of rocks. Finally a minister of some denomination unknown to me kindly stopped, gave me a lift, and told me my sign was no good. “You need one that says NYC. Its simple, just three letters.” But of course! And I was thinking of writing 7 letters with a space. Ridiculous.
So he dropped me off and I got to work. I was only a few minutes into perfecting my NYC sign when a college student stopped and picked me up. He couldn’t get me to New York but he did get me to the border of Connecticut and a lovely safe spot to continue on.
Here my NYC sign got me a great lift after 20 minutes or so, with a trucker. My first trucker! He turned out to be another minister in his spare time, and for the umpteenth time on my travels, I had to confess having heard of Hillsong but never having heard Hillsong. Well, they’re great apparently, maybe the most famous thing aussie there is. Note to self: listen to hillsong for making intelligent christian conversation. He was a nice fellah, divorced, estranged from wife and kids down in Lousiana, waiting for god to find a way for them to be together again. He was going through to New Jersey, and was concerned I wouldn’t be able to get off the highway anywhere, so he dropped me off at the last food and gas stop on the highway.
After filling myself up, I wandered casually towards the re-entry to the highway, where without even putting my thumb out, a couple of mexican guys heading back into NYC in a truck stopped. We flew through the last bit of Connecticut and then the Bronx began. They pointed out the left-hand-side where the poor blacks lived and the opposite side where the wealthy whites resided. They told me I didn’t need to worry about the Bronx, despite its reputation, but kindly showed me the drug-problem area that was permanently manned by police where I could safely whack out my laptop, get some wifi, make plans and begin to be amazed by the hispanic world that surrounded me.

Burlington to Boston (inc. gold-dome, homebrew, puff of pipe, and biscuits). Free.

The day started off kind a slow, getting up off the couch of my new college-town friends wasn’t that easy. But by about 11.30am I was on the road standing on the on-ramp of the 89. It took a while to get a lift, and a guy took me just down the road to they tiny town of Richmond. I seemed to be at some kind of park-and –ride facility and the flashy cars were driving past eyeing me a bit strange. But luckily my saviour came, she was Kalita and picked me up and took me to Montpelier, specifically to her friends' house where the guys seemed to be celebrating the recent harvest. They were wonderful, and I got to try their home-brew (excellent) and enjoy some of their harvest. It was good stuff (and evidently the source of their wealth). Ah Vermont! When I got dropped off back in town, I was feeling a bit funny and decided that it was time for a tour of the gold-domed state house, where they let me be the embarassing Australian on tour (Executive Branch? Is that where rich guys do their banking?) By the time that was done, I realized it was late and I had to keep moving.
So I wandered down the road and got a lift half a mile with some guys in a hippified Volvo station wagon going in the wrong direction, but they took me to the intersection and saved me a 15 minute walk. I stood throwing rocks for quite some time before a guy took me down a couple of exits and dropped me off under a bridge where I could shelter from the rain which had just started to fall. Finally, a middle-classed woman picked me up. She drove well past, but as an after-though decided to pick me up. It turned out her daughter had gone hitchhiking earlier that day and despite me being a bloke and her a woman (a dangerous combo so I’m told) she very kindly took me 20 miles down the road and wished me luck. By then the sun was out again but getting low. I looked at the map and realized I was still a good 150 miles from Boston and no real hope of reaching my destination. I was pondering how it was that I had actually started to think in miles not kilometres, when...
A miracle! A Chinese-Malay businessman who owned a tech company had been visiting his client, IBM, and was now on his way back to Boston airport. We flew down the highway as darkness fell, and chatted about the economic crisis, I nibbled on his biscuits and before I knew it we were in Boston. He dropped me off just a few blocks walk from my friend's flat. I even made it in time for pizza. Beginning to feel lucky.

Montreal to Burlington VT for less than $25 (Taxes and Vodka included!)

TAKE A BUS to the metro. When you board the bus try to give the driver the money ($2.75) you have correctly counted out. She will point you to the machine: feed the coins in one as a time, as directed, and the ticket will also work on the metro.

TAKE THE METRO to Bonaventure

TAKE THE 45 BUS from Bonaventure to Panama ($3.25)

WALK towards highway 10. After relieving yourself under the bridge proceed on to the petrol station. There, an asian gentleman will make you realize you’ve gone too far. Walk back to the “on-ramp” and find an appropriate spot to stick out your thumb. You will soon realize that you are in completely the wrong place. Continue standing with your thumb out anyway. When a car stops, pick up your bags and move briskly down the road. The more awkward you are with this, the more kicks the guy gets when he drives off. Change sides of the road, where your first chauffeur will be

A GUY WITH A CHAIR.
He is a nice guy, he don’t speak english so well, he loves it when you try your French on him. He’s on his way back from Montreal where he’s bought a lazy boy. He will drop you off at the onramp of the 35

A CIVIL SERVANT
will take you from there to the border. He symphatises with you because he once waited 30 hours for a lift in Saskatchawan, surviving only on a jar of peanut butter. He will also point you in the direction of the

DUTY FREE Vodka ($12 .95)

“WARNING WARNING US HOMELAND SECURITY!” I jibed as I approached the desk. The officer looked up suddenly, looked around at his colleagues, and then back at my big smile.
“You some kinda wise guy eh?”
“Naa Mate,” I said, “Aussie.”
“You know here in The United States we take the security of our country very seriously indeed, and if you are going to joke about it, well… I’m just gonna be upset that’s all. And when I’m upset, I don’t like letting people into my country.”
“Officer,” I said, “With all due respect, I was only making a little joke, making light, if you will, of the reputation that US Homeland Security enjoys in the world. You know, all the stupid questions. The lack of a sense of humour. You know?” ($6)

A BUSINESSMAN
will introduce you the United States, and show you 20 Miles of the vermont he loves.

A MYSTERIOUS MAN
will pull up at the motorway entrance and say he only has room in the back of his truck. Enjoy the wind in your hair as darkness, like the inevitable approach of winter, like the change of the autumnal leaves, envelopes all, leaving only the blinding headlights trailing behind. The man will drop you off in his frontyard in Burlington South.

A RECOVERING ALCOHOLIC DOG (and her owner)
will notice your guitar, and shout, “Bill.” She will give you a lift to your destination in Burlington, even though your name isn’t Bill.

$24.95