Notes from the passenger seat

I'm not nervous when I first pull out my thumb on the outskirts of Brussels. If I count all the kilometers I've hitchhiked before, it probably amount to half the equator. And I'm only going to Berlin today, the first stop of many. I catch my first ride after an hour, with a self-confident single of mother of two. She's less surprised than I am when I tell her where I'm trying to go to. Iran.
Five months later, I return home, by plane. I made it to Iran, but when travelling overland the path there is much more interesting than the destination. And, as a hitchhiker, it's inevitable to remember that path by the people who are friendly enough to help me on my way.
There's Zlatko, the heroic Montenegrin truck driver who manages to navigate the shoulderless hairpin turns of the mountainous country every day of his life. In the middle of our tortuous ascent. He treated me (and himself) to some beers and breakfast when he picked me up, and when we went to his rig sans seatbelts, I knew I was in for a great ride.
There's a congenial silverhaired couple who bring me over the border with Albania. They encourage me to gorge myself on locally grown figs and grapes, and cover the backsheesh. 3 euros to get out of Montenegro, 4 beers to get into Albania. They're extremely happy when they discover I'm Belgian, which means I'm a catholic just like them.
There's Osman, my first ride in Turkey. We like eachother, we're both amateur ancient historians, and he talks for hours about the different sight in his country, the names of perished civilizations and great heroes. I tell him about the richness of the archeology museums of Berlin, where to find the best Flemish paintings in Vienna, the places I want to visit in Iran. We don't share a common language. It doesn't matter.
There's Murat, my first Kurdish driver who insisted on showing me around Mardin province when he discovered I didn't have a itinerary. Impeccably dressed in a suit and leather suit, his white shirt in sharp contrast to the muddy roads and dirty children playing in the streets. Dark faced wrinkled by the constant sunshine beating down on this area, a roasted plain flooded by the Tigris. His face as timeless as the history of the area, the cradle of civilization.
There's Mahdi, the handsome Iranian student who picked me up in the middle of Maranjab desert, Iran. Quick to smile, yet able to keep a straight face when hunting girls for sport. Generous enough to invite me to join his friends for the rest of their road trip, and authentic when he invites me to the one two weeks later. Extremely intelligent and well spoken, yet adventurous and impulsive.
And there's more than a hundred others, and all of them have taught me something of the places I've been to. And that you can find friendly people anywhere.