I wake at dawn and I don’t want to stick my nose out from the sleeping bag. It is so, so cold, and I am so, so scared. I want it all to pass. It takes all of my force to move. I sit up and as quickly as I can I pack my things.

Putting my feet into my wet and cold socks and shoes almost makes me want to cry. Then a little devilish sting of humor hits and I think to myself that this, at least, helps to stop my foot with its damaged ligament from swelling up. I have to smile.

In the end I slept hidden behind a car dealer’s, under a roof and on a couch which I’m guessing the workers use for smoke breaks, seeing to the full ashtray on the table next to it. A light triggered by movement would go on as I approached, which scared me at first but in the end I figured it would help me wake if anyone else would come.

The sleep was light. I woke up shivering, slowly and carefully moving whenever I had to shift my position. Still, sleep is sleep, and sleep heals.

I leave quickly, not looking back. I have chosen a spot by the highway from Google maps, a spot where I hope trucks will stop and if not trucks then at least cars, anyone headed south and away from here. Through the night I have heard heavy traffic so I am sure they are working, even thought it’s Saturday.

It takes me about an hour to walk. I cross the river again, a different bridge over the furious water overflowing to the trees on the riverbanks. I imagine it’s all the rain from the mountains. The road goes steeply uphill and I walk slowly. I meet only a woman and we say good morning. Otherwise the roads are empty. As I ascend I see Villach below me, still sleeping, and the mountains behind it, herding their clouds. It is beautiful and now, moving and warmer, I find it all right, even though my feet are still wet. Still, I am determined to get out of here.

Barely anyone passes the parking during my first hour, but finally I speak to a young father who takes me only a short bit down the road but to a huge Rastplatz with a hotel, restaurant and oh so many people passing by.

Truckers, buses, passengers, I speak to all of them. But first I slip into the noisy chaos of the restaurant and order tea. I enjoy it slowly as I charge my phone and regain body heat. Afterwards I use the bathroom and wash my face.

The Rastplatz proves to be a tricky place, but the mountains are beautiful and I am in a good mood. I fear spending the night there. At the same time, I marvel at my strange mind state in limbo: this state that I believe that in any given moment, someone is on their way towards me and I don’t know who they are yet, and everyone I am asking says no but eventually it will happen. Eventually someone will pick me up and help me get to where I want to go, and neither me nor them know about it yet. It is strange to believe this when everything in the given moment is pointing to the opposite.

After about four, five hours, it happens. I am asking around, I am asking everybody and this woman returns my approach very hesitantly. She asks me where I’m going and as I say towards Udine or Venice. She says she needs to think about it and heads into the restaurant. I don’t think more about it, assuming she will say no. I am disappointed, but happy; I think that maybe I am put in her way this exact day, as she might be in the need of practicing saying “no”. But she returns ten minutes later and gestures me:

“Come on, let’s go!”

And just like that I am saved. I feel giddy and in disbelief, but I stuff my bag into the back seat and strap myself in in the front.

We swoosh by the magnificent Alpes and I am in awe to see them and so happy that I am seeing them from the warm inside of a car, taking me away from them. From here I could watch them all day.

The woman is friendly and chatting with her energizes me. She tells me about her life, about moving from Germany to Serbia and her husband passing away.

“I never pick up people”, she tells me “but I though I’d pick you up before any weird guy does.”

(And that is, by the way, how I surf on privilege.)

Her jaw drops when I tell her that I mostly hitchhike with truck drivers and she stays gaping when I tell her that sometimes I also sleep in their cabins, that I’ve always been safe and that nothing bad or creepy has happened to me so far.

And just like that, the landscape is flat around us and the Alpes grow more and more blue in the rearview mirror.

We miss the exit in Udine so she takes me to Palmanova, the last stop on our shared road; she is going to Trieste.

When I open the car door on a sunny parking lot and the warm air hits me, I feel like I could become a puddle of gratefulness. My driver approaches two young girls sitting nearby and asks them, on my behalf and in perfect Italian, where I could find a good spot to hitchhike. They answer, friendly and smiling, and I part from them all receiving wishes for good luck.

I feel like a king and a child. I feel giddy and almighty. It doesn’t matter where I will sleep tonight because it will not be as cold. By the side of the parking lot I take off all my extra layers and I brush my teeth and I send a selfie to a friend. I buy some food, stuff it in my backpack and then walk over towards the gates to the highway. Figuring I could do a good hour or two of thumbing before the sun sets for the night, happy if I would have to spend it here but with my hopes softly set on following the highway as it leads to Venice.

…

(This story told in pictures.)