Troubles in Hitchland

After finally getting in touch with Jonathan, it sounded like picking apples in Italy might not work out. But I did found out where in Italy he was, and that if I headed there, we could keep looking for work, otherwise, I could just hang out in France. I decided that since hitching had worked so well thus far, I could probably make it all the way to Trento, Italy in a really long day of hitchhiking.

It took me about two hours to get from my couch surfing host’s house to a proper hitching spot in Marseilles. It was a bad start, but I was still upbeat as I waited in the friendly Mediterranean sun.

Two hours later, no progress. The passing people seemed indifferent to my thumb, but sometimes almost confused. I walked to the train station to use the McDonald’s free wireless to find out a better approach. I got kicked out of McDonald’s. A new and hilarious experience, but either way, I was able to get the info I needed.

I took the train north for half an hour to Aix-en-Provence, which would put me in the right direction. Plus, my couch surfing host informed me that they never check tickets on this line, so I didn’t have to pay. Thirty minutes of walking, and I felt like I had a great new hitching spot. People passing by looked amused, friendly, and often apologetic that their car was full, they were going a short distance, or they just didn’t feel like stopping.

After two hours, I was approached by a young frazzled looking guy with a gas can. He didn’t speak English, but explained that his car had run out of gas, but if I walked with him to it, he could take me to the tollbooth, which he said was a better spot. His name was Antoine. On the way we communicated in a mix of Spanish, English and French. He was a college student in the town, and also liked to travel by thumb. He shared a package of cookies with me. By this time it was after 5:00, so I realized that I would not make it to my destination by the end of the day, but if I hitched through the night, I could make it by morning.

This tollbooth was huge and the cars seemed to be moving too fast to see me. It took an hour, but I got a ride with a guy, William, in a big dirty van going Antibes, a town between Nice and Cannes, a little over an hour away. He was going there to buy a motorbike.

So at 9:00 I started again at a tollbooth, but after an hour, security came and said that it wasn’t safe for me to stand there (which was ridiculous, if you could see where I was standing, and how small of a toll booth it was) and that the cops would kick me out if I stayed. So I changed spots, waited another hour or two, then changed spots again.

At 1:00 AM I was freezing. I had packed for Africa, not for hitching to Italy to pick apples. Cars had grown rare at this hour. I realized that even if I did get a ride, it would not be far, and I would be out in the cold again. I decided to get into my sleeping bag and stay warm for a few hours, then give up the Italian dream, and turn back around to Marseilles, where at least I have a couple of couch surfing hosts and beaches. I was unable to sleep, so at 3:00 I decided I would endure the cold again in hopes that I would get a ride, since Marseilles, less than 2 hours away would be less ambitious than going to Italy.

At 5:30 a van stopped, and when I opened the back door, and an empty beer can fell out, I should have refused the ride. But I was cold and desperate. It was three young guys. Wasted. With a dog. They said they couldn’t take me far, but at least get me to a better spot to hitch from. They dropped me off about 2 km away from a tollbooth. I still don’t know if they did me a favor. I mean, it is better to be at a toll booth, but these guys did not know what they were doing, and could have dropped me off sooner. Anyway, I didn’t mind the long walk as it warmed me up. When I got there, I waited intently for the first moments of daylight so I could warm up or be seen by more cars.

By the time the sun rose I felt like a zombie on drugs. I was barely awake, sometimes falling dozing with my thumb out. When I gazed at the asphalt, it seemed to swell and shift like a weird hallucination. I felt panicked that I looked as crazy as I felt and would never get a ride. After about three hours of waiting, I got picked up by the first girl of the trip. Her name was Alexandria and, by American standards, she would have been too young and petite to be picking up hitchhikers. But it is a different story here in Europe where it is a dying, but still common practice for practical purposes. She said she often hitchhiked from her home to where she studies, about an hour and a half away. I was unbelievably grateful to have the ride. She took me all the way to Aix-en-Provence, where she is from, and where I could take the train (for free) back to Marseilles.

After the train ride, I got to the beach as quickly as possible, and proceeded to sleep for several hours. When I got up, I wandered back through the city, and at 8:15 I gave a ring to a potential couch surf host. She said she wasn’t home, but that she could still host me, although she already had two surfers from Lithuania, so it would be crowded. I had the option of either waiting outside her apartment for her to come home, or to come to her friend’s apartment, where she was hanging out. I confirmed that I was welcome, and hopped on the metro to where she was. She and her friends all welcomed me warmly and offered me beer and wine. We hung out until close to 2:00 in the morning, at which point we headed back, where I had a small cot waiting for me in the living room floor.

Lias shoes

I had just started to fall asleep, when the door opened and I realized that the Lithuanian couch surfers were finally arriving. In my grogginess I started talking to them, asking them if they knew about Šarūnas Marčiulionis, the glorious basketball star that played for the Sonics in all of his mustachey glory in the ‘90s. The two girls informed me that he is a hero and he will always save you, wherever you are. They were hilarious, and we stayed up for an hour talking silliness about goat cheese and hitch hiking (they had hitched from London).

Lithuanians

The next day the four of us joined forces in the morning over a simple breakfast of coffee, bread and cheese. Still loving this French eating. We did a mix of sight seeing and errand running. We went to the Notre Dame de something. Sorry, but when it comes to these kinds of sight seeing things, I remember the people and the experience more than what we were actually doing. There was a great quote from one of the Lithuanian girls that is more fun out of context, “It is really hard to be a deaf gay”.

Tourists

The two girls left soon
after to hitch hike up to Amsterdam. They were on a few weeks of vacation from their jobs in England. They were very good hitch hikers, and I was impressed with how efficiently and casually they traveled. For me, hitch hiking rugged or hardcore way to travel Europe, but they just had this attitude that it was an obviously convenient way to travel for cheap. They never seemed to have problems getting rides, and would always try to travel at night to save money on accommodation. I was impressed, but at the same time, they said they got a lot of rides from truck drivers, so it obviously has something to do with their gender, as I have very rarely gotten a ride with a truck driver while hitching.

After we all parted ways, I went to the train station to pick up Lise, as she flew into town for the weekend to visit. The Air France connection continues to pay off. It was her first time in Marseilles, so we wandered around the streets for a while before joining Lia and her friends at a tucked away folk show. It was sort of cliché music, but I liked it, and it was cool to be watching it in a venue that was tiny and virtually invisible from the street.

This night there were two new couch surfers, and Israeile couple who were also traveling by hitch hiking, couch surfing, and sleeping wherever. They were great to chat with, and seemed to make a point of not being the stereotypical Israeli traveler, not that I cared much.

Marseille food

Lise and I spent the next day just wandering around the city. We really enjoyed the neighborhood known as the “panier”, or basket, which seemed like it must be one of the oldest districts of the city, with colorful building and a network of mazy streets. It is true that the narrower the streets, the cooler the neighborhood.

My cliche bike in front of cool wall Europe photo

On the way back, we went through another protest, again against the rise in retirement age. Dynamite sized firecrackers (not exaggerating) shook the streets. I thought it interesting that they didn’t tone down the explosives in response to all the warnings of potential terrorism in Europe. Or maybe they did tone it down.

At around 10:00 that night, Lise, the Israelis, and I set out for a big street party that would be part of an annual celebration in Marseilles. Getting out of the metro and emerging to streets in chaos was a welcome shock. There were makeshift bars and food carts all over the streets to fuel the crowds dancing to different bands or DJs on every block. We wandered block after block looking for Lia and her friends, and on every street it seemed to be a different kind of party with a different kind of music, like all the bars and clubs had just been turned inside out. It was impossible for me not to think of the Grateful Dead song, France. “When the club can’t contain the beat, it just rolls out in the street”, which is specifically referring to the south of France. During the whole night, I think I saw one security officer, not even a cop. I couldn’t imagine how this sort of thing could actually exist, and not erupt into violence or riots. Or maybe that is just what we are told would happen in America. I mean, relatively mild 4^th of July celebrations in parks are crawling with security and law enforcement. At big events, with bad reputations, police bring what seems to be a portable jail or drunk tank. And I am sure it sees plenty of use. So I know that the ability to have unregulated and uncontrolled parties in the streets is not the type of “freedom” that freedom lovers in America are referring to, but damn, it feels pretty good.

Because it was Lise’s first time in Marseilles (though not the south), there was a lot of discussion of the differences between the people. Both sides seem to think of the other as less friendly, for whatever reason. I did find it more difficult to make eye contact and greet people in Marseilles, but I eventually realized that it is because everyone has downcast eyes as they watch out for the frequent dog poo that litters the streets. So I can’t fault them for that. The conclusion I have come up with is that while there might be a difference, there are bigger and more noticeable differences between communities within a location. For example, hanging out with Lise’s friends, to me, felt not too different than hanging out with Lia’s friends, or my friends, or other couch surfers or traveler types that I have met. And in the same way, there are huge portions of the population in Seattle that I might not get along with, as would be the same with Lise in Paris. So trying to generalize people by location seems like a general waste of time, though it is always tempting.

On Sunday afternoon, Lise and I took a relaxing trip to the outskirts of town to visit a former fishing village that Lia had told us about. We wandered around, and yes, it was cute, but it had obviously grown far away from its roots as a blue collar fishing place and was now selling its catch. Elderly tourists were abound to wander the white rocky surrounds that Marseilles is famous for, before eating at one of the many fancy seafood restaurants. We didn’t spend much time there before deciding that we preferred the less quaint town our bus had stopped at on the way. So we hitched a ride back to it and had a basic kebab dinner at a very unpretentious diner populated by heavy smoking middle aged townies playing cards. This was an authentic scene that I think Lise and I were both glad to be witnessing. A different side of France that definitely had a familiar Americana parallel. We really aren’t so different after all (though don’t tell that to Lise).