On a fingertip

After Lisbon, my objective was to reach Vinay, a small village 100 km to the east of Paris. Paul was there, and also the perspective of working picking grapes in Champagne. I had 500 dollars to get going, I had youth and lots of boldness. 

At that time France required a visa for us, so, at the embassy, the very short attendant made it clear that nothing would happen without a return ticket, money and hotel address. I sat at that square next to the embassy and though, what now. That's when I saw our dear friend coming out for lunch.

Luck moves in mysterious ways.

After a few days selling Brazilian indian's crafts on the Cascais beach, being hassled by a crazy Finish guy, and making friends with the son of a Brazilian diplomat, I returned to the embassy - at lunchtime - taking documents that proved I would go to France by car. That sweet lady then gave me the visa.

So I hopped my rucksack on my back and off you go to the highway, direction East, to hitch a ride.

First car that stopped for me was a Masseratti. The businessman was going to Madrid. He really needed company, cause he talked about all sorts of things and told me live of Spanish history. He would stop here and then to have a coffee with cognac. I was so happy with that History lesson in Spanish, that the gentleman got out of his way, on the E-80 to show me Salamanca, Ávila and the Valle de Los Caídos, the very impressive burrial place for Franco. It stands carved into a mountain and is surrounded by gigantic angel statues each with a different demoniac expression. 

The next day I left Madrid and went to the gasolinera - in Spain no one will stop for you on a highway. An old man in an old car saw my sign and waved for me. He was Moroccan. I stared at his face and decided to get in. On the road the man would talk French and I answered here and there with a "ha-ha", "ouí" and "merci". As far as I could go, the man was returning from his daughter's marriage in Morocco - and his car was filled up with rabble. He drove nonstop  and once in a while asked me to serve him a cup of coffee from a large thermal flask. It was autumn in Europe. The scenery was fascinating. The whole road was tainted yellow, red and orange. So that's how I went from Madrid to Paris - I couldn't understand a word the man said. When we arrived there he stopped at a service station. I reckon I had a helpless look upon my face, cause he decided to take me all the way to my destiny - which is an hour from Paris! 

I could never thank enough those people.  If I was ever afraid to hitch, I lost that fear on that trip. After all I was lucky enough to be welcomed by two gentlemen, albeit from totally different cultures, languages and beliefs. 

Years afterwards, I was at some highway in Germany. It was snowing. A couple stopped and asked if I wasn't afraid to hitch alone. I was quite honest and told them I was - but after all, they ran the same risk as I did. That was honestly dumb of me: they left me shortly afterwards in the middle of nowhere.

When I arrived in Vinay, a small town with a church and three streets around it, I looked for the maison where Paul told me he would be. When I arrived he was outside. Thanks to his strong temporomandibular joint, his jaw didn't fall and break to pieces on the ground.