From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Five: pulling rabbis out of hats

God's ear: a rabbi points the way to Geneva

I didn't have to wait long before I was on my way again, this time thanks to, you've guessed it, a rabbi.

I asked him if he spoke English. He said "non" so the initial conversation was conducted in French. He appeared so horrified by my attempts that suddenly he managed to muster some English. And it was more than adequate for us to converse until we got to Geneva.

"Are you married?" he asked

From anyone else I would've interpreted this as being a little forward but this was coming from someone who had God's ear, though obviously not Jesus's.

"No," I replied.

"You should marry someone who likes to travel."

"And someone with a car," I mused.

He didn't laugh. I decided to put it down to the language barrier.

"Have you felt the presence of God on this journey?" said the inquisitive rabbi.

"Between Brive-la-Gaillarde and Lyon, quite possibly. But the rest I'm not so sure," I responded.

Not even a smirk was apparent from my driver. Perhaps I was being too smug, particularly for someone whose life was in someone else's hands.

In the blink of an eye Geneva was upon us and I was seeking my next lift. I headed to the lake and sought a trip to Lausanne, or perhaps, if I was to be lucky, Zürich.

A young lad soon pulled up and took me a couple of kilometres to a petrol station where I met a Swiss-French guy who I imposed myself upon.

At first I thought he was going to take me to Lausanne, then Basel seemed to be possible. However, we couldn't communicate in a language either of us understood and, eventually, he dropped me off at a petrol station about six kilometres past Lausanne.

Sadly, the next stroke of luck didn't occur for quite some time. My evening was spent residing in a phone box in an attempt to keep warm, as the gas station was closed and about two cars came through all night.

There was one chink of light, though: I managed, through the wonders of technology, to book a seat in a car through mitfahrgelegentheit (a carpooling website) from Munich to Warsaw. I just needed to get to the Bavarian city by 17:00 to catch that lift. Possible, but I needed a helping hand and this was, on current form, not forthcoming.

I was just ticking off the minutes, which took all night unsurprisingly, until the cafeteria adjacent to the station opened.

When it did I must have asked about 100 people for a lift to Basel, Bern or Zürich but no-one seemed interested in my plight. It was also surprising how few people spoke either English or German, particularly as the latter is one of Switzerland's official languages.

After a further 90 minutes passed by I decided to speed up my journey by taking a step back, to take two steps forward. After all, I had to be in Warsaw within 36 hours.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Four: Somewhere in France to somewhere else in France, but this time near Switzerland

Rain

The English. That was the first surprise I encountered. But not the jolly, friendly English. No. The middle class, pompous, bigoted 'we've hired a people carrier in southern France' kind of English.

Mind you, I was finding it hard to disguise my hidden agenda.

Anyway, once they were swiftly encountered I moved onto my next target. A French lady who was stood at the bar in the cafeteria. Sadly, pleasant though she was, she was heading in the wrong direction, towards Bordeaux. Tempting though it was to turn round and give up on my adventure to return home, I declined her offer of a lift.

Moreover, my luck was just about to take a turn for the better.

Just outside the cafeteria and near the exit of the gas station, a driver-by asked me: "Where are you off to?"

"Lyon," I responded, though I wanted to go further. In fact, for a joke, I wanted to say Warsaw but then maybe my abstract sense of humour might be lost on the French. Actually, it tends to be lost on the English too. So much so that I am beginning to doubt whether I have a sense of humour at all.

No matter.

Rain

"And where are you off to?" I continued.

"Lyon," came the welcome response. "Let's go," the driver said in near perfect English.

The next few hours flew by (slight exaggeration) in the midst of a conversation about linguistics in which I was largely out of my depth. Nevermind. I bluffed my way through it.

He (I can't remember his name, probably Pierre) dropped me off at a petrol station just the other side of Lyon and I awaited my next stroke of luck.

And yet more rain

There was free internet so I used and abused this service until just after 8 o'clock when the station closed. I was soon on my way again when another man took me further in the direction of Geneva. He had just dropped off his daughter who was returning to university. That is all I can remember from the one hour journey, apart from the fact that the spitting rain turned into an avalanche of rain.

Now I guess you are wondering, if you are still with me at this point, where the rabbi and Robert Kubicka come into play. Well, you will have to read the next excerpt. Oh, what a tease.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Three: Somewhere in France to somewhere else in France

Hitchhiking: a BMW 4x4 without a latte or a chubby guy

Once again I didn't have to wait long. A young lady picked me up after a five minute wait and I was on my way once more. These toll booths were proving to be a resounding success.

The French woman (I can't remember where she was from) took me about 50 kms (I can't remember exactly how far) to a place that I can't remember.

It was on a road in southern France if that helps. Anyway, it wasn't a toll booth. And there were a lot of Renaults and Peugeots about. The next vehicle to take me on my journey was a 4x4 BMW and I went half hour down the road to the next péage (toll booth in French, I'm struggling for synonyms).

The guy was both chubby and moody. And he had a latte on the go. A bit cliché, I know, but I was in France ya know and he wasn't wearing a hooped jersey, wearing a beret eating snails.

After him this memorable experience I got picked up by a couple in their fifties who spoke good English and were former hitchhikers themselves. They told me about their own tales and they had great empathy with my plight. The only thing missing from our conversation was a campfire but this wouldn't have been practical in the back of a Renault Clio so we decided against it.

They took me to a gas station where I was in for a big surprise. I bet you can't wait to find out...

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Two: Biarritz to somewhere in southern France

I waited just twenty minutes for my next driver but this time he took me just a couple of kilometres up the road. He dropped me at a toll station, which I figured could be a good place to hitch from due to the slow moving traffic I was trying to hail down. Five hours later I began to review this belief. I spoke to several drivers but all seemed to be heading back towards Spain and not Bordeaux, my next destination.

I trudged back to the town centre of Biarritz and bought a train ticket to the aforementioned French city, sleeping all the way.

Once in Bordeaux I managed to access free wifi at the train station and checked out what hitchwiki had to say regarding a good location to hitch from. I made my way there and got picked up by a guy en route. He dropped me outside an amazing bakery.

There I had mixed fortunes. Great food but I waited two hours in drizzling rain. To add to my chagrin, plenty of people pulled over, only to dash both into the bakery and my hopes too.

When I was eventually picked up I was taken 15kms into the direction of Lyon, the destination that at this stage I hoped to reach by sundown (excuse the cowboy terminology). Sadly, I was, naively on my part, dumped on the hard shoulder of the highway. Just seconds later it began to rain… incessantly.

Luckily the downpour lasted less than ten minutes and I managed to find a toll station once more. I never thought the sight of these road payment stations would be so welcome.

I waited less than five minutes for my next lift. An eccentric lady in her early 60s, who had half of Kew Gardens in the back of her car, managed to make enough room for me to squeeze in beside her (steady).

What was pleasantly surprising was her standard of English - extremely high. And she took me almost 60 kms to the next set of toll booths so I was starting to make some headwind with just over 48 hours until kick off in Warsaw.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part One: Santander to Biarritz

As first experiences go, there was no lack of effort as I attempted to hitch from Santander to Warsaw in three days.

As I left home on Saturday afternoon with my board with the words ‘Bilbao/San Sebastian’ blatantly inscribed on it, little did I know what was in store for me.

Using the website hitchwiki.com, which has plenty of useful suggestions, I headed for a gas station on the way out of my current hometown, Santander, in the direction of the Basque country.

How could I best describe the feeling after the three hours that followed? Forlorn. Dejected. You get the gist of it. I didn’t move one centimetre. In fact, there were ants that had made more progress than I had. And it wasn’t for the lack of trying. I made all sorts of comical gestures as the traffic raced by - imitating flashing lights, pulling faces and a variety of other childish manoeuvres.

After three hours of no success I made my way to the bus station, with a sense of failure, to get a bus to the border, and then try and hitch from there.

I got to the border town of Irun at around midnight and was picked up within an hour for my first official hitchhiking experience. A young lad, about 22, was my driver and, though I speak no French, it soon became apparent he wanted me to drive. Why? I have no idea but maybe you can work it out. I said I didn’t have my license with me and therefore it may be a bit risky to do so. He kept saying ‘Policia’ to me but I have no idea what he meant by that. Was he suspecting me for being a police officer? Did he want me to drive so he couldn’t get caught for something? Or did he somehow know that ‘Message in a bottle’ was number one on the day I was born?

Whatever it was, I was gripped to my seat throughout the 20km journey he took me on to Biarritz due to the scary nature of his driving.

Anyway, we got there in one piece and he dropped me off at the train station and I went in search of my next driver.