![The sun hung high over the French countryside, radiating a heat that seemed to shimmer off the asphalt. My rucksack, emb...](https://img5.travelagents10.com/695/673/920006926956736.jpg)
07/01/2025
The sun hung high over the French countryside, radiating a heat that seemed to shimmer off the asphalt. My rucksack, emblazoned with a bold Union flag, sagged heavily on my back as I adjusted its straps. Jamie, my travel companion and lifelong friend, glanced at the ‘AFRIQUE’ sign we’d made and shook his head with a wry grin.
“We’re going to need more than luck today,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
We had barely crossed into France, arriving in Le Havre by ferry, and were already discovering that hitchhiking through the country wasn’t as simple as sticking out your thumb. It had been hours since we’d taken up position at the intersection, our sign waving optimistically in the breeze. Cars zoomed past, drivers barely sparing us a glance.
“Must be the rucksacks,” Jamie mused, kicking at a stray pebble.
I knew what he meant. The Union flag wasn’t exactly a symbol of endearment for many French drivers, and it was beginning to feel like an invisible barrier between us and the open road. But we weren’t about to give up. We had a goal: Africa.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a car slowed and pulled to the side of the road. A middle-aged man leaned out of the window, looking us over with curiosity.
“Afrique?” he asked, pointing to our sign.
We nodded eagerly, our spirits lifting. He gestured for us to hop in and told us he was headed toward Brittany. It wasn’t Africa, but it was a start.
The car ride was long and filled with awkward silences, punctuated by attempts at broken conversation. Neither of us spoke fluent French, and our driver’s English was equally limited. But we managed to bridge the gap with shared smiles and gestures.
As the kilometers rolled by, the scenery changed from the industrial outskirts of Le Havre to rolling green hills and quaint villages. We eventually reached the southwest coast near Quimper, where our driver invited us to meet his family.
It was an invitation we couldn’t refuse.
Over the next few days, we found ourselves immersed in the local culture. We helped harvest oysters and mussels from the bay, tasted fresh seafood straight from the ocean, and drank wine with new friends. Quimper, with its cobblestone streets and charming architecture, left a lasting impression on me.
“This is what travel is about,” Jamie said one evening as we sat on a rocky beach, watching the sun dip below the horizon.
I nodded. It was a transformative experience, and we were only just beginning.
Eventually, it was time to move on. We bid farewell to our newfound friends and resumed our journey south along the west coast of France.
Days passed in a blur of heat and dust. We hitched rides when we could, walked when we couldn’t, and made countless bowls of muesli by the roadside. Muesli had become our go-to meal — easy to prepare, filling, and light enough to carry.
One particularly scorching morning, we found ourselves seeking refuge beneath a cluster of tall cypress trees near a power plant. The steam plumes rising above the trees painted a surreal picture against the blue sky.
As we sat in the shade, contemplating our next move, a small white Renault van pulled up.
An elderly woman rolled down the window and beckoned us inside.
“She looks friendly enough,” Jamie whispered.
I shrugged, grateful for the lift, and we climbed in.
Jamie took the back seat, stretching out and promptly dozing off, while I sat up front with our host. The woman was chatty, her words tumbling out in rapid-fire French. I did my best to follow along, nodding occasionally, but it wasn’t long before my mind began to wander.
The heat, combined with the rhythmic hum of the road, lulled me into a semi-drowsy state. I must have been drifting off when I felt it — a hand on my knee.
Startled, I glanced down.
Her hand was definitely kneading my sweaty kneecap.
I turned to look at her, wide-eyed, and she offered me a smile that was meant to be seductive but came off more unsettling. The unmistakable scent of cheap cognac wafted toward me.
“She’s drunk,” I realized, my stomach tightening with unease.
I tried to shift away subtly, but the van was small, and there wasn’t much room to maneuver.
From the back, I heard Jamie snicker.
I shot him a glare in the rearview mirror, but he only grinned wider, clearly finding my discomfort hilarious.
The van began to weave across the road, and my anxiety spiked.
“She’s not looking at the road!” I hissed at Jamie.
He sat up, suddenly alert.
“Do you think she knows where she’s going?” he asked, peering out the window.
I glanced out as well and froze.
“Wait… isn’t that the same power plant we passed earlier?”
Jamie followed my gaze, and his expression mirrored my horror.
“We’ve been going in circles.”
The steam plumes we had admired earlier were unmistakable. We were back where we’d started, hours later and no closer to our destination.
When the van finally came to a stop, I didn’t wait for an invitation. I yanked open the door and jumped out, followed closely by Jamie.
The woman waved at us, still smiling drunkenly. She seemed completely oblivious to our dismay.
“Merci,” Jamie called out, giving her a polite wave as we hurried away.
Once we were a safe distance from the van, we collapsed onto a patch of grass by the roadside.
“Well, that was an experience,” Jamie said, shaking his head.
I pulled out our trusty bag of muesli and poured some into a bowl.
“Nothing like a little muesli to calm the nerves,” I said, handing Jamie a spoon.
As we ate in silence, the absurdity of the situation began to sink in. We’d hitched a ride with a drunken woman who drove us in circles for hours.
Jamie chuckled first, and soon we were both laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming down our faces.
“Only us,” I managed to say between gasps.
Refreshed by our meal and laughter, we picked ourselves up and resumed our journey.
The road stretched out before us, winding through vineyards, sunflower fields, and sleepy villages. We encountered more characters along the way — some kind, some quirky, and a few downright odd.
There was the eccentric artist who painted portraits of travelers in exchange for stories, the farmer who let us camp in his field in return for helping with the harvest, and the young couple who shared their wine and tales of love under the stars.
Each encounter added a new layer to our adventure, shaping our understanding of the world and ourselves.
By the time we reached the Spanish border, our spirits were high.
“What have we learned so far?” Jamie asked one evening as we sat by a campfire, watching the flames dance.
I thought for a moment.
“That people are complicated. Kind and generous, but also flawed. And that life is unpredictable.”
Jamie nodded, tossing a twig into the fire.
“And that muesli is the true fuel of adventure.”
We both laughed, raising our bowls in a mock toast.
The road to Africa stretched out ahead of us, uncertain and full of possibilities. But we were ready for whatever came our way — armed with nothing but our rucksacks, a sign, and a never-ending supply of muesli.
Because, as we’d learned, the journey itself was the real adventure.
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