If you had told me, “Chris, one day, you will need to rely upon the kindness of strangers to get from one place to another. You won’t have a bike, car, train, or bus, and the distance will be too far to travel by foot—all you will have is your thumb,” I would have questioned your sanity, hoping that I would indeed be provided with more than my thumbs (I like my other appendages!).
“Hitchhiking is unsafe!” I might have proclaimed. “It is dangerous to get in the car with a stranger. Surely you can find someone familiar with a car.”
Well…
Such was the situation Saturday, July 8th. During an interaction with Jim (co-owner of Bake My Day) through the WorkAway site, he wrote…
Hi Chris,
You might be better off staying in Killarney on Friday night and either having a go at hitching down to us on Saturday or getting the bus to Kenmare on Saturday and we’d pick you up on Saturday evening.Enjoy the trip.Cheers, Jim!
So nonchalant. And slightly worrisome, at the time. The idea of “having a go” at “hitching down” to the coffee shop, rather than having someone planned to pick me up (quite frankly) stressed me out. And for those of you that are unaware…despite what appears to be “spontaneous” adventures, I always approach every trip with a huge plan. Usually multiple plans, to be honest. I research; I prepare; I re-research; I re-prepare. And hitchhiking? Usually not included in any of those plans.
Thankfully, on this particular day, Jim ended up asking Chiari to pick me up from Sneem, allowing me to avoid the dreaded “hitchhike”. To maintain my peace of mind for the afternoon.
Fast forward one week…
I had completed five five-hour shifts at Bake My Day. The inaugural days were stressful as I attempted to keep my head above water. All the while, long-stay WorkAway volunteers raced around me with knowledge, skill, and finesse. Steaming milk, preparing dessert plates, taking orders, clearing tables, washing dishes, making coffee, and so on. They had the process down and, while I knew it was only a matter of time, there was a lot to learn.
When Friday hit, and I was gifted with my first day off, I was ready to be anywhere except the walls of the coffee shop. Unfortunately, the closest town was 6 km away, and it didn’t have much to offer (besides beautiful beaches and expensive bars); the next closest town of “substance” (i.e. shops, cafés, restaurants, etc.) was 14 km away—or roughly three hours by foot.
Needless to say, I was at an impasse. I had witnessed Paula, Jessi, and Cristian set out on the road to hitchhike during their off-days, only to return with exciting stories and competitive timelines, arguing over who could hitch the quickest from Point A to Point B. But, even after some research (seriously), the idea worried me.
And here’s the thing…I wasn’t even concerned about being abducted or getting into the car with someone that might drive me off the Cliffs of Moher. I didn’t think someone would try to drug me, kill me, or otherwise harm me. No, what worried me was the idea of abandoning my Pride, abandoning my Control, and allowing myself to be present with a stranger for a few moments. To recognize that an awkward silence might exist, that we might run out of things to say, that questions might not come to mind…and this person that was kind enough to pick me up might feel unamused or unsatisfied with their decision.
So, I set off on my own for Sneem. “Three hours isn’t that long of a walk…and it will be nice to see the countryside by foot. Yeah, that’s why I am walking. To enjoy the world,” I told myself, avoiding the confrontation and interaction that might happen within the car.
After an hour and a half, and upon reaching the “Sneem – 8 km” sign, that voice started to change its tone. I could turn back or I could embrace the preferred method of travel for those in Co. Kerry…and I felt my thumb start to flex its muscles.
Half-heartedly, I walked down the road with my thumb out, no cars passing, just getting comfortable with my own actions. I heard the first vehicle start to approach, and quickly put my hand back to my side. “They probably wouldn’t have picked me up anyways…” I explained aloud. Another car approached. This time, I stuck my thumb out, but held it next to my waist. If it was the will of God, I thought, they would see my thumb, despite how shy it was. ZOOM. Nothing.
So, I kept walking—defeated—for what felt like twenty or thirty more minutes. All the way until the next distance marker…“Sneem – 8 km”…
Somehow, despite my beliefs, I had actually traveled zero distance. Not one kilometer. Realistically, I was likely right about to cross into “7 km” World, but still. It was the last straw. If I was going to get to Sneem, I had one option.
I walked until finding a patch of dirt on the side of the road—someplace where I could boldly stand without fear of being hit by passing vehicles. I pulled out my book, fully expecting car upon car to fly by. Confidently, I stuck out my left thumb, extending my arm and facing the direction that traffic would be coming from. And after about two minutes, I heard the first car approaching. I straightened my back, put on a smile, showcased my book (hoping this might make me look academic and trustworthy), attempted to make eye contact with the driver…and then their blinker turned on.
The car pulled to the side of the road, and the driver—a 30-something male dressed in business casual clothing—reached over to open the door. I leaned in as he quickly uttered, “Watch your step. Hop on in, mind the buckle, where ya headed?” This was not his first time.
His name was David. He was headed to Kenmare, where he would be starting his first day at an animal charity fund. He was renting his sister’s home in the area while he looked for houses in Ireland, debating between Kerry and Cork for his home-base. While he had grown up in England, he had been living all over the world for the past 28 years, residing most recently in the Canary Islands—an area that he now wanted to escape, due to his lack of interest in water sports. His partner resided in Ireland, and they hoped to be living together soon. He called me “Glen” multiple times, before finally nailing down my proper name—and then continued to use it throughout our interaction. In a matter of ten minutes, we had reached the destination that would have taken me two hours to find on my own.
We shook hands, had a quick laugh, and he promised to visit the coffee shop before I left for the States. The fear of hitchhiking disappeared forever.
***
On the way back, I approached the journey with much more confidence. I stopped by one of the local coffee shops, grabbed an Americano for my walk, and kept my eyes peeled for the perfect “waiting spot”. I passed some fellow hitchhikers that were stranded on the edge of town. We nodded to each other in recognition of our worldly travels, as I moved on from their territory.
As I continued down the road, I heard a car travelling rather quickly. There was no place to pull over, the road could barely fit two cars (if at all), and the possibility of getting picked up seemed low. Still, I stuck out my thumb—my back still to the approaching vehicle. The car slowed down as it passed me, and then flicked on its blinker, stopping completely in the middle of the road. The driver flew open the door, pointed out the seat belt, and we were flying!
This time, his name was Graham. Originally from the south of Ireland, he sported a strong Cork accent. I didn’t understand much of what he said, but chose to laugh whenever he laughed. Through utterances and some good craic, I gathered that he was headed to his caravan on the beach, where he would be meeting up with his wife and kids. He worked as a maintenance manager for an American company, where he had been employed throughout most of his adult life. He knew Chiari from the coffee shop, which granted him some familiarity, and (much like the first man) promised to stop by on his way back to Cork.
After what seemed like the blink of an eye (he drove “the Irish way”), we were back, shaking hands, and seeing each other off. “Cheers, Dave! Was it Glen? Chris! Cheers, Chris! Thanks a million!” Leave it to the Irish to thank you for letting them drive you to your destination. Also, apparently I am giving off serious “Glen” vibes, and I am completely okay with that, considering this Irish musician with the same name.
All things considered, I give hitchhiking two thumbs up…and one thumb out.
The Adventures of Chris and Ed 