The road through Normandy

Sitting on a bridge that hikers pass every ten minutes, I wished I'd chosen a destination farther from civilization. Far away, where at least solitude felt good. Now I just wanted to cry, but of course I couldn't with so many people around. What the hell was I doing?

To most seasoned travelers, my impulsive decision to hitchhike through Normandy on my own for a week might not sound that out of the ordinary, but I'm quite a rookie when it comes to adventure and bored with myself, I decided to change that.

I'd been daydreaming about it for months now, but you know how it goes: it usually doesn't get much action. And when I realized that, I was already disappointed in myself from the outset. So there was no choice but to go. I picked out an old backpack in the attic, rolled up 7 T-shirts as I had learned from the many hitchhiker websites and crammed them carefully into that backpack, making sure I didn't forget the essentials like a toothbrush and a road map… I Even had room to take reading material. I felt like a real professional when I saw that I had managed to get everything into that little backpack.

I really liked it now that I had made the decision. My parents, however, were a little less happy with my decision to travel alone through France, hitchhiking, counting on strangers for a place to sleep, but they couldn't keep me at home now. I had made a decision and withdrawing that decision would be against the rules. And I'm not cheating. However, as this was my very first time doing this, I planned as much in advance as possible. I sorted out my destinations, looked for addresses where I could couch surf, and to satisfy Dad, who wasn't happy with the idea of ​​his daughter going hitchhiking instead of just taking the train, we made a compromise that I would go to my first destination would use the Blablacar website. I don't know what he liked so much about that, because in my eyes it's just hitchhiking by appointment. With costs. With equally strange people.

Brussels – Amiens

Two days after I took the plunge, I made my way nervously but determinedly to Brussels, where I was to take my first lift. Through Blablacar I managed to get a seat in Gregory's car. He was French and regularly drove across the border for his job; his luggage often consisted of hitchhikers. I got in with a French couple who were going back home. Because my French was still a bit rusty, I didn't dare say much during our trip to Amiens. Anyway, I like to spend a car ride in silence so that I can think quietly and now there was a lot to think about, so I kept my mouth shut for most of our drive. I had to mentally prepare for a week of forced social interaction. Survival of the talkative ones. Many times that week I asked myself why the hell I was doing this. I was not fit for this. I wanted to be someone I wasn't. The adventurer. The hero who manages to survive on his own. When Gregory finally dropped me off, he said as well-intentioned advice, “Why did you say so little? You have to talk to people if you want to do this.” I told myself I would start talking to people as soon as I got rid of him.

In Amiens I could go to Rayya. She was a few years older than me, worked long hours miles from the city, and lived in a small but beautiful studio in a historic downtown building. It didn't matter that she wasn't a kitchen princess, because I was hungry and she prepared a hot meal especially for me and I couldn't have asked for better at that moment. We didn't do much that night. We clicked, which made it so much easier to forget that I was a stranger in a foreign land. And although I tried to make myself understood in French, we soon switched to English because we simply had a lot to say to each other and my poor French got in the way of an interesting conversation. We snuggled up together while Rayya told me about her grandmother who lived in Tunisia, her parents who had migrated to France and her job, which she loved so much, but which demanded a lot from her because it was so far from Amiens.

The next day I couldn't afford to sleep in. Rayya had to get up early to go to work and so I had to spend the day outside until she got back. That wasn't a big deal. I was in a new city and I had plenty of time to be a tourist. I spent a long time in the cathedral, which was truly beautiful. Rayya claimed it was the largest in Europe and I kept a mental note so I could look it up as soon as I got back home. What was especially special about this cathedral was that as a visitor youthe roof could. I remember that my teacher once had to move heaven and earth to be allowed to stand with our class on the roof of the Sint-Pieterskerk in Leuven. This was beyond compare. It was grand and mysterious and somehow it made me feel more connected to the church. Unlike St. Peter's Church, I've never had a problem with that. I spent the rest of the day wandering around the city and looking for the park (thank God for the beautiful weather!) until Rayya came home late at night. She whipped up a leftover meal of Tunisian snacks and French delicacies and then surprised me by announcing that she would like to watch an episode of Game of Thrones.

How could I refuse that? I wasn't quite up to date with season 4 myself yet. Oh, and best of all? We watched TV in English, with subtitles!

Amiens – Rouen

I stayed with Rayya for one more night and the next morning the hitchhiking adventure started for real. Together with her I had discussed my plans and selected the best point from which to go to Rouen. The internet had taught me to stand somewhere where cars would pass regularly, but not too much, so that I would be quickly picked up by a nice driver who had to go in the same direction as me. We decided that the best plan was probably to stand near the slip road to the highway in front of Rouen. At least it was already literally in the right direction.

It felt a bit crazy to put my thumb in the air like that and make eye contact with every driver that passed by, but I had chosen to travel this way, so there was no point in worrying about how moronic I was. might look like. Believe it or not, I didn't have to wait on the side of the road for 5 minutes before being picked up. My driver was a nice man who took me straight to Rouen, my next stop. What a stroke of luck! I had chosen my routes so that I never had to drive more than 200 kilometers to the next town, so hopefully I could get there without too much trouble. That it would be so simple was more than I expected. I really started to like this!

This time I had booked a bed in a youth hostel because I hadn't found someone in time to couch surf. It was quite a hassle to find that inn, because it was outside the city, and when I got there I was told that I couldn't check in until 7 o'clock in the evening. So I still had a whole day to stroll around before I could quietly retire to a room. I left my backpack at the inn and took only what I needed. I entered the city from what you might call the back, up the hill past old houses and little buildings worth seeing and on to the beautiful historic center with the cathedral and the old bell tower as the main attraction. The weather was changeable, but mostly dry and that turned out to be ideal for a lot of tourists for a trip to that beautiful center. I had it in my head that it would be quiet everywhere in September: no tourists, no hassle, the way completely cleared for the lonely hitchhiker. Was I wrong! The city was overrun with people and that annoyed me immensely. In that crowd I felt quite lonely and I searched all day for a place where I could spend quietly, in silence, completely on my own. I found the answer on the city map I had brought with me from the inn: the Musée des Beaux-Arts. Apparently they had a nice collection of paintings there and that appealed to me. That was a wonderful museum! And free for students, I found to my surprise when I asked at the counter about discounted rates. I became completely happy when I walked through the various corridors and could admire brushstrokes and shadows, pleats and frame ornaments in peace without first having to push ten visitors aside. I was practically alone in every room. heavenly. However, that blissful peace disappeared as soon as I was outside again. I wandered around the various small busy streets for a while, but eventually I had enough and made my way back to the youth hostel. While waiting for it to be 7 o'clock, I went looking for a quiet spot.

Bridge in RouenBridge in Rouen

Much to my disappointment, there was no park or anything like that near the inn. Even around the small church people seemed to hang out all the time and I felt the need to be really alone for a while to give in to that loneliness that had been gnawing at me all day. Finally I sat down on a pedestrian bridge above the railway and it was time to let my anxiety flow out of my pen. Writing calmed me down and I was able to enjoy the view again a biticht. I kindly said bonjour to the passers-by. I ate the leftovers of my cheese baguette I bought in the afternoon. I looked at the pictures I had taken so far. But secretly I was looking forward to the moment when I would come home again.

That night at the youth hostel I went to bed early. The next day I would have to make it all the way to Granville and for that I had to pass Caen, which meant I would have to find at least two different drivers. I would also have to walk all the way to the other end of town to take a lift in the right direction. I slept well. My roommates didn't bother me.

Rouen – Granville

The morning of my journey to the southernmost point of Normandy I had to spend in the rain. Packed and fallen, I crossed the city and ended up in the industrial area of ​​Rouen, which was located on the Seine. With the city behind me and the wooded hills in the distance, the highway extending from the industrial park didn't seem like a very appealing destination, but I had to continue my journey and lose as little time as possible. After all, I had an appointment in Saint-Per-Sur-Mer (next to Granville) with my new hostess and I wanted to be on time. Finding a lift here was more difficult. I was standing in the driveway to the freeway. It seemed to be in the right direction, but it wasn't ideal for cars to pick up hitchhikers. Everyone was driving too fast. It rained. I was afraid I had chosen the wrong place and I wandered from one side of the industrial zone to the other. When after hours of walking through the rain I still didn't have a lift, I had to go to the bathroom. Luckily there was a gas station nearby. The nice lady at the till pointed me in the right direction to Caen and handed me a handful of sweets. She probably felt sorry for my soaked lonely hitchhiker appearance and I was only too happy to play that trump card. With my bags full of candy, I went back to where I had stood before. It was raining even harder now and my sign with "Caen" written in thick letters was probably not even visible through all that falling rainwater. Finally, a family car hastily pulled up to the side of the road and gratefully I got in. It was blissfully dry and nice and warm in the car. I took the opportunity to let my coat dry while talking about the adventures I had already experienced. The little family in the car was on their way to their relatives in Caen and as I was continuing my journey towards Granville from there, they thought it best to drop me off at a driveway. I didn't complain, because I had made it over 100 kilometers in one piece, but I dropped off on the highway…? I was pretty sure hitchhiking on the highway is pretty illegal.

And there I was, on the hard shoulder of the highway next to Caen. I put my thumb in the air hoping someone would be crazy enough to stop here. I found myself afraid of what would happen if I didn't get a lift. I would have to walk to the city, but that didn't seem so obvious on the highway. As a result, I would not arrive in Granville on time and I would have to find a place to sleep in Caen. And if I had nowhere to go, I'd have to sleep on the street. I found that idea quite scary. Still, I remained optimistic. I quickly learned to think practically and to look for solutions in case things went wrong and not to give up. Finally I was picked up by a nice Frenchman in his sports car. We spoke French (me with difficulty) because he claimed to help me with my language development. I didn't doubt that, but secretly I suspected that he just couldn't speak English. He talked endlessly about golf and vacations and cars and when we got near Saint-Lô he dropped me off again, wishing me good luck with my journey. I had ended up in a place that seemed to me to be a dead village, although this place was a lot bigger. I felt hopelessly lost until I came across two friendly old men who steered me in the right direction. Not much later I got my last lift of the day and was neatly dropped off in Saint-Per-Sur-Mer, where I met Anne-Lise.

Anne-Lise was an extremely hospitable and smooth lady. However, like most French people I'd met so far, she refused to communicate in English any longer once she realized I spoke some French, even though she spoke better English than me. She led me to her house and showed me my sleeping place on the mezzanine. I was pleasantly surprised with so much privacy. She then introduced me to her two sons, who I soon discovered did not speak a word of English, unlike their mother. The stereotypical image that the French cannot speak English turned out to be (partly) correct. Before dinnerwe could take a walk together in Granville. It is a beautiful city on the coast. The sea was wild and the landscape erratic. It is therefore not surprising that as a hopeless romantic I fell in love immediately. This was one of those places where solitude would feel really good.

The next day she took me to Mont Saint-Michel. She didn't go with her, because she had to work, but I had no problem discovering that curious mountain on my own. Despite the tourists – it is probably overrun by holidaymakers all year round – it was a fantastic trip. It's such a mysterious island that used to be inaccessible at high tide, unless you wanted to risk wet feet. Now the island is connected to the mainland by means of a sturdy wooden bridge on which the tourists are transported in bunches at the same time in the so-called 'shuttle buses'. It will save you 15 minutes of walking. I must confess that I was also on such a bus.

Mont Saint-MichelMont Saint-Michel

To get to the top of the mountain, you had to pass many winding streets that were packed with restaurants, souvenir shops and the indispensable Japanese with their SLR cameras. Well, it also had its charm. And I enjoyed the wonderful historic architecture on the island. The most beautiful, most commendable piece of architecture awaited me upstairs: the abbey. It was a beautiful building with surrounding green gardens and a spectacular view of the North Sea on one side and the swampy coast with civilization on the other side in the distance. I like that special atmosphere that always hangs in old Christian buildings. You have to hand it to them: they knew how to impress people! It almost made me spiritual.

That evening I stayed with Anne-Lise. After eating rabbit with prunes, we watched “I am legend” which, of course, was dubbed in French. I was lucky that I had already seen it once and so knew what it was about. I enjoyed this evening together, because the next day I would not see her again. It was my last evening in Normandy, as I had planned it. In the morning I went home.

Granville - Home

On my departure, which was quiet and unnoticed, I left a card and some Belgian chocolates on the kitchen table as a thank you for Anne-Lise's hospitality. Then I went to the bus stop. The bus would take me to the major roads and from there I would hitchhike further. The reason I left so early was because I wanted to get home in one day. The distance from southern Normandy to Leuven was not insurmountable, but I knew I couldn't do it with one driver. Luckily I didn't have to wait too long for a lift this time either. It was a woman who stopped in front of me. That surprised me. Only now did I notice that all the others who had stopped before me were men. She would become the only woman to offer me a lift during this week.

The first leg of my return journey continued in small steps. I covered most of the distance on highways and I got over my fear of being dropped off here: there were enough people willing to stop. However, if I continued traveling at this pace, it would be very late and that made me a little nervous. One of my next drivers was a truck driver. The man stopped his colossus in front of me in the hard shoulder; I was quite impressed by that. Glad I got in on the passenger side; I had never been in a truck before and from the inside it is even more impressive. You really have a wide view! I was delighted to tell my story to the driver as best I could. He was a sympathetic man and happy to have some company. However, after about an hour he had to drop me off because our destinations did not match, but because we had stopped at a gas station, he was happy to offer me another coffee. A break wouldn't hurt, I decided, and I enjoyed this quiet moment in the parking lot with him. Then I had to continue my journey.

I decided to try a new tactic. The truck driver had given me a tip: if you want a lift that will take you as far as possible to your destination, you should look at the number plates of cars. A Frenchman may not drive as far as Belgium, but a Belgian or a Dutchman will of course. It occurred to me that a detour in the parking lot wouldn't hurt, while I carefully looked at all the passing number plates. There, right in front of me, was a car with a Dutch number plate. Could I really be that lucky? I decided to stop defying my luck and just go for it. I tapped the window and the driver opened it for me. “Good day,” I said, in Dutch, after all that was now possible. “Are you going to Belgium? Could I perhaps ride with you?” “Get in,” said the young man behind the dooro'clock. This was the biggest windfall of the whole week! I was able to hitch a ride from the middle of Normandy all the way to Belgium! And once I crossed the border, it wouldn't matter where I ended up. I could hitchhike if I wanted to, but I could also just take a train. Riding with the Dutchman was the final part of my journey.

Going on a trip feels like an obligation. Not as a vacation. You have to travel to be an educated person. You have to travel to find yourself. You have to travel to gain the necessary experience. There are millions of reasons why you should travel and I agree with all of them. I also felt the need to travel. I had to do this or I'd regret it for the rest of my life. This was my chance to show that I was brave. And despite my shock, I was immensely proud of myself for having dared and successfully managed to pull it off. However, the cliche says that home is the best place and it wouldn't be a cliche if it didn't have a grain of truth in it. I was exhausted when I finally reached Ghent and I decided that I had had enough social contact. With no guilt or shame, I could now make my way to the station and catch a train home. I already sent mom a message with the prospect of my coming home. Less than a minute later, I got a text back: “Welcome back!” On the train I was overcome by a familiar feeling. Taking the train, this too was coming home. I couldn't wait to get home to turn the key and open the door.