Europe from the Passenger Side

Travel Stories: He began hitchhiking on a Basque motorway. By the time Jeff Biggers reached Denmark, the power of a well-timed shout of "Euskadi," and other secrets of the road, had been revealed.

Arriving on the peripherique of Paris that evening, out of francs, Rupert insisted on entering the city to find a hotel that would change his wad of Spanish pesetas. By the tenth hotel, Rupert resorted to screaming (again)—hotels refused him because he wasn’t a customer (and we had even put on our shirts and shoes to make a good impression)—and then it took us over two hours to find our way out of the city center.

We crossed the Seine six times. I was thrilled. I saw the Notre Dame from all sides. Rupert didn’t stop screaming until we reached the fork in the highway. Offered a straight ride back to London, Brian suddenly changed his mind and stayed in the car. Our goodbye, at three in the morning, was awkward and quick.

“Just in time to pick up the dole,” he said, with a wink. “I’ll see you in Ireland.”

I watched Rupert drive west, feeling as if I had been abandoned. There’s nothing worse for the solitary wanderer than to be left behind by his newfound mates; you feel alone, not solitary. Wary of catching a night ride, I slept for a few hours in a ditch. At dawn my first ride came from a Flemish-speaking trucker from Flanders. He was delivering toilet paper to the Parisians.

“The French are full of shit,” he shouted (all truckers seemed to shout), in English, “they even insist we speak their language.”

By the time I reached the fields of Belgium, my next rides, almost exclusively with Eastern European truck drivers, had grown rather silent. Drivers attempted to communicate in French, German, Russian and Greek. I responded in English, Spanish and Italian. Finally, I announced, “Arizona.”

“Arizona,” one shouted, and he withdrew both hands from the steering wheel, racing at 90-miles-an-hour, and pretended to fire off pistols. We nearly hit another truck head-on. “Bang, bang, Arizona, John Wayne.”

I felt giddy when I finally arrived at the border crossing into northern Rhineland. Germany’s autobahn was supposed to be the easiest transit station for hitch-hikers in Europe. The sweeps of rolling hills were dotted by idyllic dairy farms and the occasional blitzkrieg of exhaust-spewing industrial parks. I stationed myself within yards of the customs station. I raised my hand-written sign—Kobenhavn. I was going for what Brian had called “the big one,” a straight shot to Copenhagen. Within seconds a truck came screeching to a halt. A massive forearm wave me on. I climbed into the 18-wheeler, dragging my backpack into the front seat, as the trucker tore off before I could barely shut my door.

“I’m not going to Kobenhavn,” he said. He was a hairy, ravenous looking man with a set of stunning forearms. He was the spitting image of Rasputin. My heart wilted. My hitchhiking headline had arrived. He shouted really loud. “I’m from Kobenhavn,” he blasted, “so I can give you tips. You must stop at Christiana. It’s a commune in the center of the town where you can smoke dope. It’s legal. I took my wife there on our honeymoon. We didn’t leave the room for a week.” “Where are you going now?” I said. “I turn at the next exit.” He had ruined my perfect autostop location. “No drug problems in Christiana,” he went on, oblivious to my despair. “No, not like Turkey. I spent three years in a Turkish prison for drugs, but at least I learned good English. I speak good English, no?”

It took an entire day and night and the following day, arguing with a pair of Norwegian sisters for space on the highway (they ended up throwing rocks at me), serenaded to sleep by the rabid howl of farm dogs in a field where I slept like a fugitive, until I finally reached the shores of the Baltic Sea. I caught the last ferry to Denmark. An older Dane, who said he made a weekly trip on the ferry to buy duty-free booze, was amused by my journey.

“Great way to meet the locals,” I said. Hint, hint. I had visions of a Danish farm, a hot shower, and a lavish smosgarbord awaiting me. “I once made it to Greece by autostop,” he said. “So many generous people.” He nodded. “But that was a long time ago. You can’t trust anyone today.”

The old Dane dumped me at a nearby highway rest stop for the night. I joined a caravan of Romany gypsy campers with no license plates. Without a word, a young kid came over and offered me a bowl of soup. Stretching my sleeping bag in a grassy ditch to the side, I scanned the Nordic stars, shifting for some comfort on the hard ground. I was ecstatic.


Tags: Global Village, Hitchiking, Road Trips, Europe

Jeff Biggers is the author of several works of travel memoir/history and plays, including the forthcoming "Damnatio Memoriae: A Play, Una Commedia," based on migration stories in ancient Rome.


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