Slacks switched for 'sploring garb I ditched work, took sign in hand, assumed the requisite roadside position and launched the hitch trip. I hadn't tested the legibility range of my signage but it was white, the letters were drawn in this thick black marker and even if the passing drivers couldn't read exactly what it said, the fact I was standing beside the road like a bellend holding a handwritten sign gave sufficient indication of what the fuck I was doing. I had my brightest clothes and cheeriest demeanour at the ready, accompanied by one small backpack containing sleepingbag, camera, tripod and a rain jacket.
A few supportive souls beeped their horn and it must be a running joke amongst motorcyclists because a large percentage of them smiled at me and my sign and shrugged. I laughed it off, I'd probably do the same in their boots. Sour faces to do not a quick lift make. Within 20 minutes though a trucker flashed his lights and pulled up. He was Greek guy called Stratos and in a mix of broken dutch and english we sorted that he was going to Calais via Antwerp, pretty close to my intended destination: Brussels. My first ride of the day I was cruising. The situation improved when, since it was his birthday, he offered me tart. I considered the possibility that he was trying to poison, defile and dump me in the septic tank of a truck stop toilet but one can't dwell on every nasty eventuality and the tart looked goddamn tasty, so I ate it anyway. Anything else would have just been rude.