When I was eighteen I hitch-hiked alone from London to Port Grimaud (near to St. Tropez) in France. It was 1983, Punk was officially dead and the New Romantics were already in their death throes. I thought I looked so cool in my tan moccasins (no socks); faded blue denim dungarees (rolled up 3 inches above the ankle); light brown leather jerkin (no shirt); loosely knotted red neckerchief and navy blue beret (at a jaunty angle, of course!). Dexy's Midnight Runners were 'where it was at' for me that summer. The Celtic Soul Brothers were on the rise... ever so briefly anyway!Why Port Grimaud? I'd been there a couple of years previously with a friend and his family and thoroughly enjoyed myself. So it was a safe, familiar and certain destination. I'd never hitch-hiked before and in those days it wasn't even thought of as a dangerous way to travel. Having walked the mile to the nearest motorway junction. I found it relatively easy to get my first lift, waving a tattered piece of corrugated cardboard with the legend DOVER scrawled in thick black marker.
Three uneventful lifts later, and before I knew it, I'd left the comforting familiarity of Blighty behind and I was a foot passenger on a ferry to Boulogne and looking forward to my journey, the whole of France stretched out before me. It felt like a rite of passage, and in many ways I think it was. I was learning to be independent, breaking away from my mother’s apron strings. I stood proudly on the deck surveying the coastline ahead, squinting in the bright sunshine contemplating the adventures that may lay ahead of me, and puffing contentedly on a fat 'roll-up' made from Old Holborn tobacco.
Getting lifts once on French soil proved to be difficult. I managed to get a ride toward Paris from Boulogne fairly quickly with an English couple on holiday, but soon realised it wasn't going to be as easy as I thought. After Paris and heading south it became much harder, the time I would have to wait between journeys became longer and longer and I would find myself doing much more hiking than hitching. I'd already met a few other hitch-hikers along the way, of differing nationalities, and many told me that France was by far the most difficult country in Europe to 'faire de l'auto-stop' (hitch-hike).
I soon found out that just being English was a liability in France. I'd get offered lifts by people and we'd start driving along, all smiles and polite questions, then they'd ask me where I was from. The answer to this question often changed the atmosphere completely. Once I confirmed that I was 'Anglais' (English) my ride would often suddenly come prematurely to an end, "this is as far as I'm going" they'd explain apologetically giving me the Gallic shrug. Then I'd end up stuck in the middle of nowhere, trying to get my next ride.
It was after one of these occasions when I found myself stuck in a lonely spot for many hours. The road was bordered on both sides by maize fields, I'd been walking all morning and the scenery hadn't changed. Cars had appeared once every 15 minutes if I was lucky, and were usually going in the wrong direction. I'd been singing to myself out loud to keep my spirits up and as the day ground monotonously on I'd started talking to myself too. I had the distinct impression that I might be going slightly mad. One thing was for sure I had to get away from this place, back to somewhere that had a busier road and much more frequent traffic.
The blue Mercedes that pulled up came as both a surprise and a relief, I was a little dubious at first because I'd noticed this very same car driving past me going the other way not 5 minutes before. The single male occupant got out and motioned for me to put my heavy kitbag into the boot, which I did before opening the passenger door and slipping into the shiny tan leather seat. My initial concerns quickly set aside in the knowledge that I'd soon be escaping this godforsaken backwater.
We set off driving at a leisurely pace, whilst I answered the usual questions. I'd decided to tell people I was Irish, which is partly true because almost half of my antecedents actually were. But this seemed to get a much better reception from the French than when I said I was English, my lifts lasted longer and the atmosphere was always much more cordial.
The driver was Middle-Eastern in appearance, maybe Algerian or Moroccan and he spoke French with a very strong guttural accent, to the point where I found it difficult to understand him. He was fortyish and of average build and when he smiled I could see the flash of several gold teeth, glistening in the late afternoon sun.
He asked me where I was eventually headed to and when I told him St. Tropez he offered to drive me all the way there, even though we were still several hundred kilometers away. I said it was kind of him to offer but that it must be well out of his way and a lift to the next town would be more than generous enough. 'It's not a problem for me' he said and took his hand off the gear stick to pat my knee, whilst he again smiled his Aladdin’s cave smile. Of course I was still young and relatively innocent; I quickly dismissed the doubts arising in my mind. He's just being friendly, I convinced myself, and it’s probably just a cultural thing.
After a while he turned the radio on, Arabic music drifted from the speakers and we drove on for several kilometers. I looked out of the window at the French scenery rolling by, villages, churches, and cornfields. Then he softly patted my knee again, I looked down just as he grabbed my left wrist and pulled it toward his lap. I glanced over to where he was pulling my wrist and saw that he'd undone his trousers and unzipped his flies. The sight that greeted me was his erect penis poking through the cloth of his trousers and he was desperately trying to put my hand on it. I pulled my hand away quickly. What are you doing I exclaimed in broken and very surprised French. He spluttered, whilst readjusting his clothing, about how he thought that if he would be kind enough to take me to St. Tropez then the least I could do was comply with his wishes. 'No way!' I said suddenly realising at that precise moment that what he'd actually been proposing earlier; and what I'd misunderstood due to his thick accent and just nodded politely in agreement; was evidently "a ride for a ride".
'Stop the car!' I screamed 'I want to get out'. We pulled over to the side of the road and I went to open the door. Then I realised that my bag was in the boot and if I got out the guy would most likely just drive off taking all my belongings with him. 'Get my bag first' I yelled somewhat panic stricken. The guy turned off the engine got out of his seat and, still adjusting his trousers, opened the boot. I ran around the back and hauled my kitbag out. The guy just shrugged, got back in the Merc and drove away leaving me at the side of the road kitbag in hand, breathing hard with my heart racing. 'Welcome to France!' I thought 'Welcome to bloody France...'
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