So. Vienna was nice. I had fun. Etc. It’s actually pretty hard to leave, and fairly obvious as to the reasons why, so I won’t insult your intelligence by banging on about how much I wish I could stay a little longer. I figure it best not to have that pressure, and move over a city. I’m only a couple of hours down the road anyway, in a place I’ve been to before and need to reclaim from bad memories. I begin my hitch to Budapest bright and early.
With a bit of luck this will be my last hitchhike for some time, as I fully intend to stay here for as long as possible, pick up some work, maybe teaching English or something in a hostel. It’s not much fun standing by the side of roads in freezing cold weather, so at the very least I shall be awaiting warmer climes. This will also afford me the opportunity to try to get off the booze and cigarettes, and back into a shape that doesn’t resemble Jabba the Hutt. I’ll believe it when I see it.
As far as hitches go, today has been pretty awesome. I’ve put my bag down against the petrol station wall, and someone has pulled in to pick me up, offering a ride to another services 100k from my destination. Probably one of my fastest pick ups ever, it bodes well for the day.
As ever with accepting part-way rides, there is a risk of being abandoned in the middle of nowhere with not a sniff of a chance to get out. At least on the edge of a city you have the option of returning to some kind of base to try again later. This is looking like one such problematic occasion. There is very little traffic at the truck stop, and those that pass are not biting. The wind is though, and I cut a lonely figure at the end of the concourse, umbrella up to shield the bluster and light rain. As ever with these locations, I decide to return up to the service station to recuperate, sink a coffee and get second wind.
I have this little technique whereby I huff and puff my way in, breathe a little too heavily and generally make it look like I’ve had one hell-of-a-day, and could do with a change of luck. I then melodramatically dump down my gear in an over-showy demonstration of the exhausted. People turn with confused stares as to why a backpacker is at a service station. My entrance has achieved its objective. Finally I place down my cardboard hitch sign displaying my required destination, before looking around expectantly. It has never worked.
After something horribly salty and stodgy (I remember Hungary not particularly known for its culinary excellence), I’m back down at the entrance to the motorway. It’s not long before a young couple have slowed, and to my utter delight they can take me all the way to the city. An actor and a musician, it’s people like this I long for as a hitchhiker, with experience of it themselves, and firm believers in the celebration of the free spirit. The journey passes with flowing conversation, and before long I find myself staring at door, holding a small bit of paper on which I believe to be my friends Budapest address. I lean against the flat buzzer, and wait for a response.
Goodnight Vienna, good afternoon Budapest
So. Vienna was nice. I had fun. Etc. It’s actually pretty hard to leave, and fairly obvious as to the reasons why, so I won’t insult your intelligence by banging on about how much I wish I could stay a little longer. I figure it best not to have that pressure, and move over a city. I’m only a couple of hours down the road anyway, in a place I’ve been to before and need to reclaim from bad memories. I begin my hitch to Budapest bright and early.
With a bit of luck this will be my last hitchhike for some time, as I fully intend to stay here for as long as possible, pick up some work, maybe teaching English or something in a hostel. It’s not much fun standing by the side of roads in freezing cold weather, so at the very least I shall be awaiting warmer climes. This will also afford me the opportunity to try to get off the booze and cigarettes, and back into a shape that doesn’t resemble Jabba the Hutt. I’ll believe it when I see it.
As far as hitches go, today has been pretty awesome. I’ve put my bag down against the petrol station wall, and someone has pulled in to pick me up, offering a ride to another services 100k from my destination. Probably one of my fastest pick ups ever, it bodes well for the day.
As ever with accepting part-way rides, there is a risk of being abandoned in the middle of nowhere with not a sniff of a chance to get out. At least on the edge of a city you have the option of returning to some kind of base to try again later. This is looking like one such problematic occasion. There is very little traffic at the truck stop, and those that pass are not biting. The wind is though, and I cut a lonely figure at the end of the concourse, umbrella up to shield the bluster and light rain. As ever with these locations, I decide to return up to the service station to recuperate, sink a coffee and get second wind.
I have this little technique whereby I huff and puff my way in, breathe a little too heavily and generally make it look like I’ve had one hell-of-a-day, and could do with a change of luck. I then melodramatically dump down my gear in an over-showy demonstration of the exhausted. People turn with confused stares as to why a backpacker is at a service station. My entrance has achieved its objective. Finally I place down my cardboard hitch sign displaying my required destination, before looking around expectantly. It has never worked.
After something horribly salty and stodgy (I remember Hungary not particularly known for its culinary excellence), I’m back down at the entrance to the motorway. It’s not long before a young couple have slowed, and to my utter delight they can take me all the way to the city. An actor and a musician, it’s people like this I long for as a hitchhiker, with experience of it themselves, and firm believers in the celebration of the free spirit. The journey passes with flowing conversation, and before long I find myself staring at door, holding a small bit of paper on which I believe to be my friends Budapest address. I lean against the flat buzzer, and wait for a response.