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“So, where do you need to go?”
“Well, eventually, Belgium, Ghent.”
“I can’t take you that far.”
“How far can you take me?”
“I live about half an hour that direction.”
I think to myself, for a place that is about a 17 hour drive, 30 minutes any direction won’t make a huge difference. Then again, this is the first car to stop in dog’s ages.
“Do we pass a lake or anything?”
“Sure do.”
“Alright, I’m in.”
Loeka and I both hop in the car and off we go. As the man strikes up conversation I silently bless the hours passed in torment at the dinner table. You see, I didn’t speak French all that well and having ended up in the French mountains with Chloé’s family speaking French to me, at me and around me, I had adapted rather quickly. I can tell you, I hate not speaking a language that surrounds me. Well, I wish I could speak all languages really, but it only bugs me when the people in my direct and less direct vicinity are all conversing in a language I do not speak. Which secrets are being kept? Which jokes have I missed? Maybe I feel verbal communication is roundabout all I manage to do well, my one and only true strength, I can talk my way into, or out of, most things. A knife that cuts two ways, to be sure.
Or indeed, that is as blunt as a pillow-fight is fluffy in this particular case. For I could not for the life of me follow the conversations around me. Well, at least when it was one to one, I could understand what was being said and could reply, in sorts. And bungling and stumbling my way through this awkward ordeal, French did start slowly, but surely, to make more sense. I had followed Chloé to France, for I wanted to go to Italy. This will sound bad. There is no way around the truth however. I had fallen in love with an Italian girl by the name of Rebecca, much to the demise and detriment of the relationship I already had back home. I had never cheated on somebody before and I felt like s**t.
And then it got worse.
I decided to go to Rebecca in Italy, I let her know in advance, I generally have little means of communication once on the road. We hardly knew each other but I am quite hopelessly romantic really. On my way, I meet this cool chick named Chloé that promises me a ride all the way to the Mont Blanc. We start seriously hitting it off though and I find myself stopping over at her family’s house before continuing my road. This is where I get lost in the French. I decide not to make the same mistake and do things the wrong way once again, so before anything serious happens, I get my impossible behind to Italy and once more break it off with someone. Ciao, Italia! Bonjour, France.
me in those very French mountains
I end up staying for a while with Chloé afterwards, me and Loeka that is. Long enough to pick up some French. Long enough to run out of money and start feeling the call of Belgium. That’s where I am now, on my way home after this pilgrimage of intrigue, romance and heartbreak. And all of it has left me melancholic. And truth be told, hitchhiking with a great big beast of a dog isn’t the easiest.
The man that had picked me up and I converse as much as we can and feel the need to. We get to the bend where the road home for him becomes the road further away from home for me. The lake is gorgeous and just what Loeka and I need. An enormous lake surrounded by road and trees, reflecting the late-spring sun up into the very trees surrounding it and up into my happily receiving eyes. After days on the road, a swim will do us good. A wash is surely needed. Last time I washed was in Switzerland, Grenoble, and it has been some days since then.
The lake is cold and refreshing. Beautiful though it is, I don’t feel like camping here. I can get some mileage out of this day still. As me and Loeka watch the few cars that race past, do exactly that, I start giving up hope. Then I hear first and see second.
SCHREEEEEEEUUUCH!! A car coming from the opposite direction throws itself, drifting and screeching, from his lane into the opposite direction and stops right next to me. The window rolls down and then...
“Tu vas où!?”
“La Belgique.”
“Allez, saute.”
The man introduces himself as Vincent and explains we will first go to the supermarket and then he has some time to kill, he can drive me up a bit. He stocks up on fizzy drinks and premade sandwiches. I do the usual, sardines in a can on sunflower oil, a baguette and dog food. I still have a bit of cheese and a bit of red wine in the bag. As we leave the supermarket he says something about an ex-girlfriend and he speeds his car into a one-way street, stops at a house, and starts shouting at the top of his lungs, which is answered by a window opening and a girl shouting back in the same manner. Are we on candid camera, I wonder.
He backs up out of the one-way street, at full speed, and starts munching on his premade, triangular, LIDL sandwiches. He starts then to explain how he was a professional boxer but he took a really bad hit to the head. He says he hardly notices a difference, but he has medical leave from work and he’s paid by the government for disability. He goes on to explain how he casually started using heroin because life without boxing is boring as hell. He tells me all of this until his phone rings. I take the moment to tell Loeka that I love her and if we die in this car, I know she knows it’s all my fault.
Vincent accidentally ends up breaking his sunglasses whilst driving, so now he is having a phone call, smoking, driving and fixing his sunglasses all at the same time. I decide to relax, if today is my day then so be it. He hangs up the phone and we start talking to each other and amidst all of the noise he drops this one sentence that just feels like a Chinese proverb, epic in its simplicity. He says to me: “Chacun son style mec.” To each, his style. To each his style indeed, Vincent.
He drops me off in a place that is at least in the top 10 of worst places to have been dropped off after hitchhiking. At least in my personal list, that is. It’s a small, eerie looking town with nowhere in the vicinity a good place to camp. At least there is a train station, maybe I have enough money left for a ticket out of here on the morrow. There is however the night to deal with first, where oh where shall we sleep, Loeka. Let’s roll.
First place I find was a park with a gazebo that had been turned into an impromptu campsite for a group of gypsies. I approach them carefully, in what I hope is a respectful manner. I tell Loeka to stay behind a bit, no need for getting a big dog involved, and she is quick to defend me when need be, I remember her jumping the cops at the Swiss border when they woke us up in the middle of the night. Gave me quite the scare. I explain how I am only seeking shelter for the night, I don’t mind setting up camp on the other end of the park if they don’t mind. They agree.
And so I find myself setting up camp at the edge of this park. There is hardly any light but I know the tent inside and out and setting up is fast. Loeka and I are hungry so I give her some dry food. I open the can of sardines and put some toilet paper on the oil, I light the paper and the can of sardines is now a candle that will give me 15 minutes of candlelight to read by and then grilled sardines for me and Loeka to celebrate after. The night came fast and sweet. Loeka kept me warm.
The day came like it went, smoothly and without causing a stir. Sudden too. An exit like that is called a French exit, though in France they call it “filer à l’anglaise,” which is an English exit. Maybe it takes a Belgian person to see the humor there. Regardless, I chuckle and think about coffee, apparently out loud, for Loeka gives me a little eyeroll. ‘Nough said, let’s check out that train station, there is bound to be coffee there.
Eureka! Coffee and baguette, fresh out the oven. When you have almost no money, spending what little you have seems of little consequence and hardly a thought passes. A second coffee won’t hurt my chances of being able to pay busfare now will it? Well, I found out just after that it was pretty close, actually. The fare for the farthest bus out was all the money I had left. Loeka, being big, needed her own ticket. The ticket seller was adamant she be muzzled. Loeka was used to almost never wearing a leash, let alone being muzzled, so of course I had no such thing on me. I created a muzzle-like-thing with some rope and a sock and hoped for the best.
I almost hugged the bus driver when I showed him my jury-rigged MacGyver-muzzle and he just scoffs at it and motions me to get in the bus and not trouble him anymore with these trivial matters such as who sits on the bus wearing what exactly. Next stop, misremembered random town! Off we go! The bus ride itself was relaxing and pleasant. As we get to the final stop, we arrive in a town that looks indistinguishable from the previous town, I fear for a second that we just went around and ended up where we started, but there are minute differences, such as the entirely different town’s name for a start. We get our bearings and head for the closest, biggest road, looking to find a good hitchhiking spot. After traversing what seemed to be an endless journey of streets leading to nowhere in particular we find a place that isn’t perfect but the road leads directly to a big national road and allows people to stop over easily, if indeed so they intend. While walking over to it, the police stop their car next to us and beckon me over to them. The cop asks if I am an HSDF. I say,
“Pardon?”
“Homme sans domicile fixe.”
Oh yeah, everybody knows that abbreviation. They were wondering if I was homeless. I say, not at all, it’s just that I am a long way from home, poor and hungry, so if they are feeling very Samaritan, they are free to drive me to Belgium.
They leave me to my own devices and not long after a man stops over. His hair is half long, well kept, he’s wearing glasses and looks halfway between a sports enthusiast and a banker. There is a dirty mountain bike on the car but other than that he and the car look inconspicuous and clean.
“Alors, tu vas où?”
“La Belgique.”
“Je vais jusqu’à Nancy.”
That’s perfect, Nancy is practically Belgium, right next door to Metz. The Flemish Burgundian dukes of yore meet their end there a long time ago. So it was close enough to march an army to from Ghent. If I got really fed up with the hitchhiking, I could resort to normal hiking from there, I think to myself, only half joking.
The man introduces himself as Vincent and I almost choke. What are the chances? This man looks like a poster boy for health and fine taste. He just went mountain biking for the weekend in the south and is on his way home to his family and his desk job. Banker/sports enthusiast wasn’t far removed from the truth. Listening to Glenn Miller, conversing softly and being interested mostly in what inspired me onwards in this hitchhiking lifestyle, he could not have been more pleasant if he tried. He tells me that we will get to Nancy late, too late for me to still hitchhike or find a place to camp, so if I want, I am welcome to camp in the garden.
He warns me that his wife loves animals and is in fact vegan, but for reasons beyond her control, she is terrified of dogs. I am welcome to come in and eat and wash up if I so desire, but Loeka stays outside.
I find this to be an excellent deal, Loeka is used to waiting for me in the appropriate place, usually my tent, so this won’t be a problem.
When we arrive, the garden is just perfect and the family very welcoming. I am instantly reminded I am welcome to a shower and I take the hint and go and wash up. I explain to Loeka she will have to guard the tent for me and stay outside. She responds by collapsing into a pile of fur with a moan, so we have an agreement.
As I return, Loeka is inside the house. I get pissed. “Loeka, we had a deal!” As I rally at Loeka, Vincent approaches me and says it was his wife who let her in and it’s okay. I don’t understand what happened, she seemed really scared of dogs. The wife herself walks in and catches the conversation. She says that Loeka was laying at the doorstep with such a sad and longing look, she simply couldn’t resist and let her in, I should just keep her off the sofa. I think to myself, Loeka strikes again. She can literally look the burger out of your hands and into her mouth, seriously, this has happened already.
I am invited to the dinner table and it must have been obvious to all that I was famished, for I ravaged that first plate like a Viking pillaging a monastery. They all looked with baffled and bemused eyes and the lady of the house tells me I am welcome to more. Then there was dessert, then fruit, then coffee. Silently, and hopefully not very obviously, I wept a single tear of joy. Two Vincents, a world away from each other, chacun son style.
I walk into the living room to find Loeka
IN THE COUCH!
Bad dog! We get spoiled to death by this loving family and you repay them by breaking the one rule they gave us!
The lady of the house walks in and stops me mid-rant.
“No, no, don’t get mad! I couldn’t resist her look, I told her it was okay.”
Loeka strikes again.
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