Hitch-hiking has always held a fascination for me. Maybe because one time when I was five years old, my Dad and I were driving out to BC so he could help his friend build a house, and our car broke down, so we had to hitch-hike the rest of the way.
So when I got my own car (LGJ) I made sure to pick up hitch-hikers all the time.
I liked the guys who were talkers, who had stories. The ones who just sat and stared, or slept, were disappointing. Same when I was a hitch-hiker, I liked the rides who talked. But I always cued into my ride, talking if they were into it, keeping quiet if that's what they preferred.
Once I was driving out to Saskatoon, and I picked up this guy, and we just clicked. He was a middle-aged native fellow from a BC reservation. So demographically we weren't that similar, but once I put in the Creedence (the universal hitchers' soundtrack) and we were singing at the top of our lungs, we bonded. I even took a picture of him by the big plaster bull in Radville.
I think my favorite experience on the passenger side of things was in Newfoundland. I was leaving St. John's headed for the Viking Trail (Yay vikings! See? Full circle. I wonder how Legolas and Gimli are doing?) and this guy picked me up. We drove together for six hours, with hardly a pause in our conversation. His name was Sean. He was heading to Port-Aux-Basques to attend a funeral. So he had the entire length of Newfoundland to go. As we got near to Cornerbrook, it was dark and there were many moose on the road. In fact we came across some devastation as two moose, a cow and her calf, had been hit and killed, and the people in the car were in bad shape too. Sean turned to me and said, "The roads are getting dangerous, want to stop in Cornerbrook for the night?"
I agreed, and I got to watch Newfoundland hospitality in action. Sean came unannounced to his brother's girlfriend's cousin's house and explained who he was and how he was connected, and next thing we knew we were long-lost family welcome for all time. Sean and I went out to a pub and had a beer and shot some pool, and continued our conversation.
"How you like Newfoundland?" he asked me, deep into our third or fourth beer. I told him the honest truth, I absolutely loved it. Loved it. Then, he pulls out his Zippo and shows it to me. It had the Newfoundland Coat-of-Arms on it.
"Here," he says, "I want you to have this. To remember Newfoundland by, and me."
Next morning he dropped me off on the Viking Trail, and went on his way. A few days later when I was in Port-Aux-Basques I called him up and he came and got me and showed some more of the famous Newfoundland hospitality. Later, at Christmas, when I was back home, he called me up to make sure I made it home alright. He was a good guy. I always wanted to keep in touch with him, but you know how that goes.
I still have the Zippo, though. It's been everywhere with me- China, Tibet, Alaska, New York, Mexico. I have quite a few souvenirs from all my trips (gastrointestinal organisms included), but that Zippo is my very favorite.