Tag Archives: hitchhiker

The Museum

Right out of school I wasn’t really ready for life yet. I needed to get out; get away – see the world, and if the money wasn’t enough for the world, then at least my own country.

I stumbled into him on the way South. A kind lady threw me out on a country road – and he was already there, lying in the dry grass with a cheap grin on his face.

“Been here for an hour,” he said. “Hard spot to catch a ride.”

We talked. Shared a cig he had stolen from his last ride. When there was still no car in sight – at least none that would stop – we walked side by side, our loose shoes sliding over the dirt in unison.

The heat was bad, but worse was the lack of prospects. No cars in sight and only an occasional house interspersed between the large fields. Max saw it first. The blue sky was still above our heads, but a front of gray was approaching from the horizon.

“Better find some roof,” he said.

We had passed the last house nearly twenty minutes ago. The next one, a large building with white walls, was not that far ahead. We pressed on, with larger steps, while the front of gray already swallowed the color of the land.

A large sign, nailed against the fence. The first word must have fallen off, but most letters of the second one remained:

“Muse m” Continue reading

Why I will never hitchhike again

This happened to me about eight years ago. I had hitchhiked regularly for more than two years. This was the last time I ever did.

When you hitchhike overnight there are two options: Either someone offers you a place to stay or you find yourself a place to crawl into. I always had my one-man-tent and a light sleeping bag with me but I rarely needed them. I’m a rather talkative and friendly guy and usually those people that are ready to let a single young man in their car and enjoy his company don’t mind offering said man a bed or at least a corner in the garage at night and a shower in the morning.

I had been on the road for six days and every single night I was lucky enough to score a bed. The second night I had even been invited to come along to a house party. The third night I was offered to join some sort of family reunion where a father met his kids for the first time in years, but I politely refused because his ex wife obviously minded having a smelly stranger around. In return for being polite I got a beer and a pack of yoghurt and was allowed to sleep in the car. Continue reading

Fresh Luck to Its Owner

I last saw it sixteen years ago, still remember every detail of the watch.

I was on a road trip with friends. I don’t remember the city name; we just stopped because the bars looked inviting and, I think, because we saw a group of slightly underdressed girls walking into one of them.

A round of drinks; dance; a round; trying to chat up girls. It was a good night. One of the guys hit it off with a local girl in a short black dress; the rest of us watched from the safety of the bar. A horribly smelling guy walked past us. Somebody bought a round of tequila. I licked the salt; poured the hot and cold liquid down my throat; bit the lime. That’s where my memory ends.

I woke up at the side of a road. The hard sand below me was as dry as my throat. Continue reading

A Mother’s Lullaby

No matter how hard I try to remember anything bad, my childhood was simply too perfect. I spent hundreds of hours thinking back to the time when I didn’t understand the world – and still, whatever I try to think of, every image and scene that I remember was always perfect.

Sure, my ‘parents’ were weird, but they never hurt me. My dad was overprotective and never even allowed me to play in the kitchen, but I can’t think of any other signs that my child’s mind could have seen. I can’t remember any screams or loud fights or slamming doors; among each other dad and Eliza never had any conflicts.

I hate those memories of the three of us sitting jointly at the dinner table with mom’s freshly cooked food right between us. I remember how ungrateful I was; how I gulped the food down without knowing how much my mother suffered to make it. Sometimes I even complained about the food and then Eliza went back to the kitchen and, a long time later, returned with a completely new meal.

I hate remembering the joy I felt on our camping trips to remote woods. Dad drove the caravan and Eliza sat to him while I slept in the back of the caravan. Even on those trips, while dad drove and I was falling asleep in the back of the caravan, I still had my lullabies. All the food and trips and holidays and TV nights and game nights and stargazing nights, all those were enjoyable, but even when I was small I knew that none of those acts compared to the wonder of a lullaby, hummed from a mother’s heart to the ears of her son. Continue reading