A hitchhiker's manifesto

A little while ago, a friend of mine whom I had not seen since freshman year said this to me during one of those dreaded conversations about the near future: “Wait. You still have dreams after four years of Columbia?”

To see whether I do or not, about a week ago, my spring break travel buddy and I found ourselves on the outskirts of Santa Rosa, trying to hitch a ride along what I heard were the beautiful shores of Northern California.

Before I go on, yes, Mother, I do hitchhike. I have been doing it since the summer of 2007, when, thanks to a charming Italian truck driver named Antonio who has out-of-wedlock children scattered all over Europe and North Africa, I made it from Barcelona to Andalusia. My best friend and I appreciated that he subscribed to an old adage they teach in college: “Consent is sexy.” He asked many times. And he had the chivalry to still buy us lunch the umpteenth time we said no. By the time we had to part, we were already missing him.

Yes, there have been others since. There was the lovely old Irish lady who, because I wasn’t a gypsy or a beggar, told me I “don’t look like a normal Romanian.” The Spanish butcher who went out of his way to drive me around his hometown when I confessed I did not have plans to stay and visit. And, of course, the occasional former hippie in his 40s. There were many. But I use protection. I try to look people in the eye and to see who they are rather than who I think they should be. That’s one thing I feel like I’ve been losing practice with since coming to America for college. That and dreaming.

No, Mother, I don’t do it to spite you or to worry you. I do it to travel more for less money. I do it to practice getting over my own massive label-generating prejudices. And I do it because I believe we live in a world where performing random acts of goodness without expecting to gain something in return is becoming an ever-larger evolutionary disadvantage. To invest in something or someone with no good reason is regarded as a silly concept. That just shouldn’t be.

I suppose I am an irresponsible lefty who will be ripped apart in the “real world,” at least the American version of it. Hell, I don’t even have a job yet. What’s worse, I am totally naïve. Together with my friend, I tried to import my European naïveté to northern California—it seemed like the more liberal corner of the country. We exposed ourselves to the possibility of having a gun pulled on us (true story, happened to a friend of mine in Oregon), of having unwanted encounters with drug traffickers, or of being mistaken for day laborers, and as soon as I was on that road, the drivers had instantly made up their minds about who I was and what kind of threat I might pose. That’s a little ironic, since it’s on the road where I dream and feel most like myself.

Admittedly, for all economic intents and purposes, we failed. In a full day’s work, we didn’t make it farther than 25 miles north from where we started. But in between spending money on two buses, we did get picked up once by a father of two who was on his way to his children’s baseball games. He didn’t seem like the most affluent of people. Definitely didn’t drive an SUV. Said he just “couldn’t leave us standing there.” We chatted about his adventures and misadventures in Tijuana. After he dropped us off, it was many long hours of fruitless thumbing in the rain and trying to read disgust, amusement, regret, or sheer confusion on the faces of drivers who passed by. Accepting defeat, we holed up in a McDonald’s to reflect, checked into a motel, and then finally took a bus back to Berkeley.

Three conclusions:
1) Really, America? I know that, as a classmate put it today during a seminar presentation about the failure of the auto industry, “it’s very American that your car is some sort of sanctuary.” But there’s plenty of room in that air-mangling SUV of yours. You should start caring more.
2) I am getting my license this summer. And I’ll be damned if I don’t pick up hitchhikers.
3) I may be stubborn or a little stupid, but yes, I still have dreams. Especially after four years of Columbia.

Angela Radulescu is a Columbia College senior majoring in neuroscience and behavior. She is a former Spectator photo editor. The Rookie Brain runs alternate Thursdays.