Depending on the Kindness of Strangers

I’ll never forget the first time I entered a stranger’s car on a street corner in the Québec suburbs. The car, faded blue with mud crumbling off of the fenders, pulled up a couple of strides ahead of me. In two days’ time, the number of strangers’ backseats I had infiltrated struck eight. Perhaps you're questioning my morals and perhaps I have mislead you but hey, a captivating opening sentence is the key to a captivating tale.
My roommate and I dropped everything in the midst of exam season and decided to explore Québec for the weekend. This was easier said than done for two broke students whose food consumption could more or less be categorized into ramen noodles and box wine.
We used a carpooling service to reach destination number one, located six hours away in Rimouski. There, a hotel was out of the question, and Canadian Octobers aren't exactly “camping-friendly,” so couchsurfing was the only option. Welcoming, doesn't begin to describe the couchsurfing hosts; their generosity, which included treating us to a pint at the local ‘microbrasserie’, cannot be captured in so few words so I will not begin to try.
At mid-afternoon the following day, after exploring Rimouski’s every nook and cranny (and splitting the tastiest pesto-cheddar baguette I have ever had the honor of calling breakfast), we were ready to try it - hitchhiking.
Our first stop was a scenic town (think Middle-earth and Hawaii in matrimony) called le Bic, located a thirty minute drive away. This would be our test run; the next day we would hitchhike back home on six different vehicles in twelve hours. We stationed ourselves on the edge of town and put our faith in our thumbs and in our “plus loin” (a little further) cardboard sign. Conscious of the absurd image we were portraying, we couldn’t hide our surprise when a faded blue car slowed to a stop a couple of strides ahead.
The man beckoned for us to get in. He was overweight with greasy white hair that stuck to the back of his neck. His large belly was supported by a buckled belt reminiscent of a cowboy in an old Western. We attempted conversation but he said little. In a short time the lakes of le Bic began to peek over the road. Somewhat relieved we collected our things.
“Here would be perfect, monsieur,” I said. He said nothing. I looked at Mika. “C’est bon ici, monsieur,” I said louder. The man drove on in tranquility. Mika made an attempt to no avail. I looked at her with growing apprehension.