Memory of a Vagabond

By Adam Ross Rapoport

In 2010, Adam Rapoport experienced a life-changing epiphany.
He wanted to travel the world, by any means necessary. But for the twenty-three-year-old son of an middle-upper-class family to do so, he would have to drop out of graduate school. Undaunted, he sold his possessions and hit the road with a backpack and $700 for the adventure of a lifetime.
Adam wanted to experience the freedoms of homeless travel. Over the course of two years, he learned how to get around and survive on the road. He hitchhiked across the United States, he joined the crew of a sailboat and explored the Bahamas with a seemingly cursed captain. He then wound up working under the table in Central America. And finally, he studied under both wilderness survival experts and a spiritualist guru in Montana.
Spiritual, adventurous, humorous, self-reflective, insightful, and even romantic, Memory of a Vagabond shows that following one’s dream will bring you to places you never thought possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Sep 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483417486

Book preview

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PART I

Hitchhiking across the United States

CHAPTER 1

The Beginning of the End

Like many stories, mine begins with an idealistic, curious young boy—a dreamer. It started when I was fifteen years old and sitting in Algebra 2 next to my buddy Ryan. Ryan was a pudgy kid with blondish-reddish Afro-curly hair and the darkest blue eyes you might ever see. We were often in the same math classes together, as our mathematical intelligence was similar. However, our artistic capabilities were not similar. Ryan was an artistic genius when it came to painting and drawing, while my art didn’t come close to his. The kid was a divine vessel with a pencil.

Anyhow, Ryan turned to me one day and instructed me to draw an elephant. I didn’t ask why. I knew, given our prior conversations about psychology, philosophy, and the meaning of life, that this exercise would teach me something important about myself. After finishing the elephant, I showed it to him. It resembled this one:

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Ryan studied it. He opened his notebook and then showed me the drawing of an elephant he had done earlier. It looked something like this:

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Ryan said, "Adam, look at your elephant. It’s young; it hasn’t become an adult. In addition, it’s standing still on all fours, indicating that you don’t feel like you’re moving anywhere or making progress. Also, you’ve drawn random squiggly lines in the center of your elephant, which represents confusion on the inside, in your center. This exercise was meant to determine if you’re aligned with your purpose in life and working to accomplish it, Adam. You obviously don’t know what your purpose in life is."

Ryan picked up his drawing and said, Now, look at my elephant. It’s mature—not fully an adult, but on its way. In addition, he is moving his feet, walking, making progress, and evolving. I know what my purpose is. One day, I’m going to be a great artist, perhaps one of the best of my time. I’ve been working on a portfolio of art since I was a kid.

He looked at me. "Adam, you’ve got to figure out what your purpose is and align with it, so that the next time you draw this elephant, it will be strong, mighty, and making progress. And when it does look mighty, you will be, as well, because the elephant is a symbolic representation of you. If you don’t align, then your elephant is going to look like a little bitch for the rest of your life."

We both started cracking up.

He was right, as he often was. I’ve done this exercise many times with many men after, and the ones who know what they want out of life draw elephants that are always confident and mighty, even if the men cannot draw.

So, Adam, what’s the dream? What’s the purpose? Ryan asked.

I sat there and thought for a minute. I visualized how I used to ride my bike through the fields near my house, how I used to swim through the ocean at the beach, and how I used to explore the untainted woods with friends—and I recalled how free and how strong I had felt at those times. I also thought back to how my parents had taken me on vacations to other countries when I was young—and how alive I felt upon seeing, discovering, and learning new things about the world. I knew what my purpose was; it had been there inside the whole time.

The voice in my head said, Travel!

More than eight years had passed since I had that conversation with Ryan, and I was twenty-three years old. By then, I had finished college with a degree in sociology. (If I wasn’t able to travel year-round, then I was damned sure going to study other cultures, or at least pretend to.) I had also fallen in love with a beautiful woman named Victoria, with whom I lived in an apartment in Boston. I was attending graduate school, but that was all about to change.

I had moved to Boston about a year before, in 2009. I had been accepted into graduate school to study Chinese medicine and acupuncture at the New England School of Acupuncture. Being notified that I had been accepted into the program was the best and worst day of my life. On the surface, it seemed like a dream come true. I got to live with the woman I loved, continue my education, and be on the path toward the supposed American dream. Get the woman, get the job, get married, have kids, and raise them so that they can repeat the process. At least that’s what most normal people do in American society.

But below the surface, in the deepest realm of my soul, it was abundantly clear to me that something was wrong. Although I had everything a modern person was supposed to have in order to be happy, I wasn’t happy. Inside, I felt a growing sadness. During class, I found myself not paying attention and staring out the window toward the horizon. Sometimes, I would skip class when I had the opportunity to sunbathe, read spiritual texts, and swim in a river near the school. My grades dropped. I was growing resentful of Victoria. One year into the program, we broke up. My purpose was calling; I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I had been suppressing it for eight years now, keeping it on the inside instead of letting it flow through me like a river. Now it was erupting like a volcano. I was doing everything for other people, not myself. And now that Victoria and I had broken up, I was free to erupt. It was time to let the shit hit the fan.

I called my parents on August 1, 2010.

Mom, Dad, I’m dropping out of graduate school to be a vagabond and travel the planet by any means necessary.

Needless to say, they were surprised and shocked. It took a lot of explaining. I recalled the events and feelings that I had kept inside for so long, the ones that led me to want to change my lifestyle so dramatically. For when you call your parents and tell them you’re dropping out of graduate school to be a homeless person and wander the earth, they ask a lot of questions. But I knew in my heart that this wasn’t me being crazy; this was me being sane. For me, staying in graduate school would’ve been crazy.

A week later, I finished my exams to end the semester and turned in the official leave-of-absence papers to my graduate school. They told me that I could come back within a year and reenroll without applying again, but I knew I was never coming back. My shit was packed; my Jeep was loaded with what few possessions I had left after selling most of them to my neighbors. The barriers of imprisonment were removed.

It was not a year wasted in Boston, though. Sometimes, you have to do something to figure out that that something is not for you. I learned a lot of very important lessons. The most important one was this: never sacrifice your dreams for a woman—or anybody else, for that matter. The best thing for you will ultimately be the best thing for all.

But I did enjoy the culture of Boston. After being raised a beach boy, I got to experience life in a city. Boston was a progressive place with over thirty colleges in close proximity; the city was young and the beer was good. But in my experience, when you have millions of people living in a cold city, it’s no surprise that there are so many educational institutions and beer varieties; it is so frigid that all you want to do is be indoors where you can study and drink.

August 8, 2010

Like I said, all my shit was packed in my Jeep. I would be road-tripping home, from Boston to Virginia Beach, to see my parents before I started my journey. It was one of the best car rides I’ve ever had, tripping south down the East Coast with my girlfriend Victoria. The music was blasting, the top was down on my Jeep so the wind could go through my hair, and I was singing along at the top of my lungs to the music.

I was high on life.

Finally, I could begin the journey I had wanted to make for so long. I was feeling a sense of freedom I had never felt before.

I remember, about an hour outside of New York, that Victoria tuned off my music. I said, Vicky, you know I only have one rule in my life when I’m driving and in my car. Do not touch my music. When I’m riding in your car, I’ll put up with any of your hip-hop. I expect you to do the same with my rock and roll and reggae.

But O.A.R. sucks, Adam. Their lyrics are horrible, she proclaimed.

I listened to the O.A.R. track and started laughing. Yeah, the lyrics are kind of bad. But the music is good, and it’s my car, so don’t touch it, I said.

You’re such an ass, she retorted.

Yeah, I know, baby. But that’s why you love me, I said with a smile.

And it was most certainly true that she did love me, and I loved her. We had been through a lot, and our relationship was often a roller coaster, as most passionate romances are. One minute, we were fighting and yelling at each other; the next, we were making out and saying, I love you so much.

I remember the first time I saw Victoria. It was during my sophomore year in college. She was a freshman. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was beautiful and, to my knowledge, still is. She had long, brunette hair, green and brown eyes that change according to her mood, oversized front teeth that make her cute, and the best body ever. Call it intuition, but I just knew that we were going to be together when I saw her that first time from across the room in the college dining hall. Four years later, we had spent most days together like a ball and chain, like a diaper on a baby.

I wasn’t always the best boyfriend to Victoria, especially in the year when we had an apartment together. I cheated on her twice, became resentful toward her, and was drinking heavily on the weekends, which was usual for me. But I was starting to become a mean drunk. I loved her so much that I put my dreams of vagabonding on hold just for her. At one point, I almost sacrificed my dream entirely. However, though I loved her, I loved my deepest purpose more. I wanted our relationship to end. I couldn’t keep it on the inside anymore. My immaturity led me to be dishonest with my family and girlfriend about my true intentions for the direction of my life, and my fears of conforming to mainstream society caused me to form my own physical and mental prison. A man whose soul is castrated of its purpose can become angry, lost, sad, and caged. I was subconsciously manifesting these traits in my wild and careless actions toward Victoria, which indicated that I was not a happy man accomplishing what he was put on the earth to do. She didn’t deserve my behavior. I could tell that she was sick of it, too. So, one night, we broke up. I explained to her my true innermost feelings about my purpose, my reason for moving to Boston, the story of the elephant, everything except my cheating on her. I was too much of a child at that point in my life to tell her that. But everything else came out.

We both knew we wanted different things. She was going to take a year off, interning and working as a professor’s assistant, and then continue her education, eventually going on to graduate school to study and get a master’s degree in social work. I was going to become an adventurer. After I explained my situation to her, she wanted me to go; she knew that if I stayed in Boston, I would be miserable. The last few months of our relationship were the hardest. We remained broken up but still lived in the same apartment to fulfill our yearlong lease agreement. I don’t recommend doing this. It was one of the hardest things I’ve been through, emotionally speaking, in a romantic relationship. To pass the time in Boston and to keep my mind off of Victoria before my departure, I started to see another woman from school whom I liked. Victoria began seeing another guy. Eventually, she had to stay at her friend’s place because things were just too fucked up, with all the jealous rage going on between me and her. We were fucking stupid kids. When we broke up, we both cried, but we knew it was the right thing. Over the course of our past year together, we had been living for each other and having a strong relationship with each other, but we had lost our relationship with ourselves. A few days before I was finally to leave for my big adventure, we realized how much we still loved each other though. We also realized that we weren’t anywhere close to loving the people we had been seeing to keep our minds off each other. We decided to spend the last few days together. It was beautiful; I was back to my old happy self, like when we had first met. We were not trying to possess each other anymore.

We finally arrived at Victoria’s parents’ house in Westchester, New York, where I was to drop her off. The next morning, she was to depart with her friend to go to Belize for a holiday. So, we spent one last night together making love. The next morning, she took me to the train station. I was going to go see my sister in Manhattan for a night and then return to pick up my car and continue down the coast. We hugged, kissed, and squeezed each other one last time. Victoria started crying. I’ll never forget that moment. She had the most beautiful skin. Seeing tears running down it made me sad. I got on the train and it carried me away, with Victoria becoming smaller and smaller; the whole thing was like a dramatic, romantic movie scene. It would be a long time before I saw her again.

Eventually, I made it home back to Virginia to see my parents. I had said good-bye to Victoria and had seen and said good-bye to my sister. Now I was back home. My journey was soon to start.

When I got home and was eating dinner with my parents—after they gave me plenty of hugs and warm welcomes—we were talking about what exactly I meant by saying that I wanted to be a vagabond.

I want to be free. I want to see every country in the world, and I’m not going to let a lack of money be an impediment. I truly believe one can travel this planet without it, and I want to see if my theory is true, I said.

But, Adam, you don’t know how to live without money, my mother said.

It was true. Like most Americans, I had centered my life on acquiring, or being educated about how to acquire, a profession to accumulate the green pieces of paper. I had, in my life, never gone without money. I was actually raised with plenty of money. My loving parents almost spoiled me and my sister. I often felt guilty and refused their gifts.

I know, Mom, but that’s the whole point of the trip: to learn, I said.

So, what, exactly, are your intentions, Adam? my father asked.

To start, I’m going to hitchhike to California with absolutely no knowledge of how to do so. I figure that getting my feet wet in my own country would be a wise thing to do before I go to a foreign land, I said calmly.

My parents were a bit freaked out, but they listened. Here was their son, once on his way to completing a master’s degree, now sitting in front of them, telling them that he wasn’t going back to school and wanted to hitchhike across the country instead. I knew it was hard for them to get, so I told them about a very special book by Paul Coelho I had read a few years back. It was called The Alchemist.

In the book, Paul Coelho says that every human being has something called a personal legend, a purpose that is laid out by the universe. Coelho also believes that, in the back of everyone’s head, there is a voice that whispers to them to accomplish that purpose. Some people listen, some people don’t. But for those who do listen and align with their purpose, the universe supposedly protects them and guides them along the way. When I read The Alchemist, I took this message very seriously, as it resonated very strongly with me. And, I honestly believed at that point in time, if to travel was really my purpose, my personal legend, then the universe would protect and guide me, as well.

By the way, looking back at myself as I write this now, two and a half years later, I have to laugh at my innocent, naive idealism and how trusting I was. I am not saying that The Alchemist proved false; in fact, it didn’t (I’ll get into this later). I just have to laugh because, at the time, I thought my journey would be a happy-go-lucky fairy tale. I had no idea of the darker and discerning man I would become, the one I am now.

At that point in my life, I had seven hundred dollars in my bank account. I had saved it by selling most of my belongings in Boston and also by participating in academic research studies. Another great thing about Boston is that there are so many studies that pay you good money to be a subject.

In my experience, having money on the road provides opportunity, but it can also take opportunity away, depending on what kind of day or night you would like to have. For example, one road kid I would meet on my journey told me how he would go into supermarket parking lots and ask old women if he could help put their grocery bags in the trunk for them—for a small donation. More often than not, he said, by the end of the day, one or two of the women would offer him dinner and a bed to sleep in for the night. By not having money and offering a helping hand, he met someone new and was offered a free meal, a bed to sleep on, plus a few tips throughout the day. Conversely, if all of the friends you just met are going to the bar and you’re broke, then you miss out on opportunity. Therefore, I knew that having this amount of money was a good thing and a bad thing.

To start off my journey, I purchased a bus ticket from Norfolk, Virginia, close to where my parents live, to take me to the western part of Virginia, close to Tennessee and Kentucky. It was leaving on August 17 at 1:00 a.m. It would get me going and put me in a new environment. The last thing I wanted was to put on my backpack and leave from my house. I could just imagine myself walking down the interstate with my thumb out, ten minutes from my parents’ home, and all of a sudden an old friend from high school pulling over and saying, Adam, what the fuck are you doing?

The days passed quickly. I mostly spent them relaxing and calling a few friends and telling them about my plans to hitchhike across the country. I remember one friend telling me that he didn’t think I was going to last a week. I didn’t care what he said. I knew what everybody thought: that I was a rich kid incapable of roughing it. Little did everyone know that I was a philosopher and spiritual person inside. Everybody has an opinion these days, and, just like everyone’s assholes, they all stink. And when most people doubt that you can do something, they are usually just projecting their own insecurities onto you.

August 16th came and I was packed and ready; I had been ready for eight years. My mom, an excellent cook, made me one last big, delicious dinner. I ate all of it, not knowing the next time I would be eating that well. One o’clock in the morning was approaching, and the sixteenth became the seventeenth. My parents took me to the bus station. I checked in and then walked back outside to see that the bus had arrived and people were boarding. I gave my parents each a big hug and a kiss.

You are sure this is what you want, right, Adam? my mother and father asked.

Yes, Mom and Dad. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life, I replied seriously.

They still needed to be reassured; I couldn’t blame them. I had been blessed. My parents were always supportive of me in whatever I did. I realized at that moment how much I loved them. I could tell that they were worried about this whole thing, probably horrified. But what could they do? I was twenty-three and had a dream. They had no choice but to let go. I boarded the bus and waved to them one last time. My heart was beating. This was it. No more bullshit. I was actually doing it, going into the unknown! I walked through that bus doorway like it was a portal to my fate, and it was. I had never felt so alive in my life. Tingles were rushing all over my body. It felt good and exciting. My body knew it was right; the body does not lie. Knowledge is known with the mind, and truth and wisdom are felt by the body and the heart. The next two years were going to be an adventure. My life would never be the same.

The bus driver boarded and put on his seat belt, and we were off, headed west on Interstate 64, which was to connect to Interstate 81 and take me to my destination: Marion, Virginia. It was a pleasant ride through the night. I had the whole seat to myself. A guy who sat across from me even offered me half of his sandwich. The only time I awoke was when a teenager sitting behind me kept making these weird noises. At one point, the kid made a big sound, Burrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppiiiiiiiii.

I started giggling. Looking back now, I think that the kid had Tourette’s syndrome, the condition marked by a lack of control over making sounds or saying things involuntarily.

The bus driver pulled over on the side of the road, parked, got up, and walked over to the kid and said, If I hear another peep out of you, you’re off the bus!

I guess he didn’t find it as amusing as I did. I didn’t hear another peep for the rest of the night.

CHAPTER 2

The Dream Becomes a Reality

I awoke with the rising sun. Given that I had been on a bus all night, I had slept decently. I sat and looked out the window at the sun’s rising. I will never forget that sight that morning. The rising sun didn’t just mark a new day; for me, it marked a new life. I pulled a granola bar (which I had brought with me from home) from my pocket and had some water from my jug. Before I could finish my breakfast, the bus pulled off and into the bus stop. It was the end of the road. We had reached our destination, Marion, Virginia. I got off the moving bubble of air conditioned security and grabbed my bag from underneath the bus. I walked into the bus stop bathroom, washed my face, filled my water jug in the sink, and stepped back outside. The bus was taking off again. Most of the people who had gotten off it had already disappeared. I was basically all by myself, standing there at a desolate bus stop with a backpack on. I took a seat, got out my tobacco, rolled a cigarette, and had a smoke.

Well, Adam. Here you are. This is what you wanted. Backpack on and nothing but the open road, I thought to myself.

I had gone from having every comfort in the world to being without a home and having only one intention: to get to California. I admit, at that point in my trip, the very beginning, that I hadn’t the slightest idea of what I was doing. So, I did the only thing that made sense. I started walking west on the interstate. Eventually, I would get to California, right?

All day I walked. I walked for ten hours along the interstate. I didn’t stick out my thumb because I didn’t know if it was illegal to hitchhike. Like I said, when I first started my journey, I didn’t know shit. But by the end, I would be a pro.

They say that a human being can walk at a normal pace at about three miles per hour. So, I had been walking since eight in the morning and the time was now noon. I was hungry. Luckily, a Whole Foods Market was to my right at that time. I walked in and immediately noticed three stands of free samples: one with organic, but shitty tasting popcorn, one with cheddar cheese, and one with gluten-free crackers. I walked over to each stand and ate all the samples, shoved all the food into my mouth. I didn’t leave one morsel behind. So as not to look like a bum, I decided to put a dent in my seven hundred dollars. I bought a bagel and a banana, costing me about $1.50 altogether. I slathered my bagel with the free honey by the coffee and tea station instead of paying fifty cents extra for cream cheese. Then, I walked over to a seat with an outlet nearby so I could charge my phone. Wow, I thought to myself, even though I made a purchase, I still think I’m costing this place money.

You might think that I’m cheap or frugal. However, one thing I learned on the road was how quickly money can go—or how slowly. If, every day, I spent an extra fifty cents on something I didn’t truly need, then in sixty days I would be short thirty dollars I otherwise would have had. And for the road kid I was, thirty dollars is a small fortune. I used Whole Foods’ bathroom and filled up my water jug. If there is one piece of advice I can offer to a traveler, it is this: Always fill up your water bottle when you have a chance. I would learn this the hard way.

So, I continued walking on the highway, with cars whizzing past just feet away from me. Even though I was walking all day without a ride, I enjoyed myself. Why should I be in a hurry? At one point, at about three in the afternoon, it started raining heavily. I became drenched. Yet, I hadn’t a care or complaint in the world. That rain might as well have been a baptism, washing away who I was and making me a fresh canvas, ready to absorb the paints of the road.

Eventually, it stopped raining. I walked over a bridge and saw a beautiful river. It was large, calm, and surrounded by Virginian mountainous woods. I decided that that’s where I was going to spend the night, right beside the river. By the time I got to the riverside, night was falling. I set up my tent and my sleeping bag, rolled and smoked a cigarette, and climbed into bed. I was tired and beat from walking all day. I estimated that I had tramped about twenty miles. In addition, because, like an idiot, I hadn’t broken in my boots before I left, I had blisters all over my feet and would have to wear flip-flops for a few days to let them heal. I got in my tent and closed my eyes, dozing off to the sound of crickets chirping and a calm river moving past. Getting in my sleeping bag that night felt better than any night I had slept in any bed. I was exhausted, I was happy, I was free. Not bad for a first day. Not bad.

I again awoke with the sun. That was something very new to me. Most of my life, I’d slept in. However, for the past two nights—and for all the nights when I was headed to California—I found myself arising when night turned into day, the dark into the light, and the moon into the sun. I came out of my tent and noticed that it had rained during the night. I was happy to see that my tent was nice and waterproof. I took a bath in the river beside me, brushed my teeth, and put on baking soda as deodorant. Baking soda can be a vagabond’s best friend. It’s great for bug bites; can be used as toothpaste or shaving cream; and makes a powerful deodorant. Just add water. I’ve seen baking soda outlast many five-dollar deodorants. Lime juice also works great. Of course, as you gain experience on the road, the less you care about and carry those sort of things. You start to toss away things, your bag becomes lighter, and, thus, the weight comes off your shoulders.

I got dressed, rolled up my tent and sleeping bag, and took off again to the interstate. Again, I started walking. I was still in western Virginia, just outside of Tennessee. Just as I was an hour into my walk and thinking to myself, Well, Adam, guess you’ll be walking to California, not going to go back with your tail between your legs, it happened.

I looked over to a SUV that was slowing down. A woman in the backseat shouted to me, Hey! Wanna ride?

Yeah, sure, I yelled.

I hopped in the backseat with my pack. The first thing I noticed when I got in the car was the odor. There were four other kids my age in the car, and each was pouring his or her own blend of body odor into the mix. The only word to describe it is spicy; it burned the inside of my nose. If I hadn’t put on baking soda, then I would have smelled just as bad, I’m sure. The woman who had shouted, asking if I wanted a ride, was sitting next to me. She said, Hi! My name is Giggles. These are my road dogs, Matt, Nikol, and Kelly.

Nice to meet you, guys. Thank you for the ride, I said.

No problem, man. Road kids take care of their own. You know the drill, she said.

Actually, I didn’t. Little did I know that all of them had been on the road, at one point or another in their lives, for months or even years at a time, traveling the United States without money. Right now, I would find out that they were just out for the summer, taking a road trip. Later, I would come to learn that they were doing a technique called jugging. This is where a person walks up to a gas station with a portable gas tank and asks people if they might be able to spare a bit of gas. A lot of road kids might make up a story and say that their wallet was stolen and they need help with gas, but these kids believed in honesty and karma. When they stopped at a gas station, they just asked people, giving no explanation. If somebody would ask them why they couldn’t buy gas, they would just reply that they were poor. You may be wondering if this sort of thing works. Yes, it does. My new companions had started off in New York and were now almost in Tennessee without having spent a dollar on gas. These guys made me look like the newbie I was.

They asked me where I was going, and I told them California. I asked them where they were going. Giggles told me that she and Nikol were headed to Tennessee to see some friends and that Kelly and Matt were headed to Colombia.

Colombia, wow, that’s pretty hard core. I’ve never been to South America, I said.

They all started laughing.

No, Adam. Columbia, South Carolina, Nikol said.

Nikol started laughing again. She had a good laugh, straight from the bottom of the belly. A bigger woman, but fit, she had black hair and the brightest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. I’ve always loved that combination, black hair and blue eyes, as it’s so rare. Giggles was a skinnier woman than Nikol, and probably the happiest and giggliest woman I’ve ever met. She had dark hair and round glasses sitting on top of a pointy nose, making her appear to be a better-looking, female version of John Lennon. She poured good vibes from every pore of her body. It just felt good to be around her. We kept talking, and the ride was going smoothly. Eventually, the topic arose that we would separate, with Giggles and Nikol going to Tennessee, and Kelly and Matt headed to South Carolina. So, I turned to Giggles and asked, So, would it be okay if I tagged along with you and Nikol to Tennessee? I’m pretty new at this, and I would love to learn a thing or two from you girls. I feel like I’m pretty lucky to have gotten this ride.

Giggles replied, Duh, Adam. I thought that was already implied, man. Do you think this was a coincidence, your running into us? You manifested it. Tennessee is on the way to California, so you should, of course, come along with us. And we can tell this is your first time on the road. We would love to take you under our wing. We’re gonna teach you to ‘presto manifesto’ and also take you to the ‘Universe University.’

I started laughing. That was probably the most hipped-out thing I had ever heard, but the funny thing was that she may have been right. I still look back on that day and see that it was a stroke of luck that they picked me up. Nikol and Giggles taught me, and introduced me to people who would teach me, almost everything I needed to know about surviving on the road in the United States. I was a first-timer out on his second day, with no clue about what he was doing, and the first people who picked me up happened to be a group of veteran road kids. Amazing. At the time, I couldn’t help but think of The Alchemist. Perhaps Coelho was right; perhaps the universe was taking care of me. Furthermore, this would be only the first of many strange coincidences I encountered on the road. Throughout my journey, things and people would appear as if by magic to help me along my way. Furthermore, I have come to find that the less you have, the more things are presented to you and the more food or shelter you are given. Also, specific people will cross your path, for better or for worse. In other words, the greater your need, the greater the result.

(Manifestation may sound like a strange concept to you. However, it is a term most every road kid and spiritual person knows well. It is basically attracting certain energy paths into your life. These physically manifest. For a simple example, I can tell you that once when I was hitchhiking along an interstate, I had dropped my tobacco pouch in a puddle and it had gotten soaking wet. Thus, I couldn’t roll a cigarette. However, as I was walking, I found an almost full pack of cigarettes laying on the road. This is an elementary example of what manifestation is. You, a human, have an intention or wish, and then, by way of seemingly rare coincidences, the universe fulfills it. When this happens, it feels divine, like god has your back. The question is, is it divine?)

I should note here that, throughout my journey, I also had some very bad and disappointing experiences because I attracted certain individuals into my life. They were perhaps karmic encounters and were mirrors of the darker parts of myself I had to embrace. Does this sound new age to you? Put on a backpack and hitchhike the United States with little, and I guarantee that you’ll experience it for yourself. People are so very dependent on money. When they want something, they simply go to the store and buy it. However, when you choose not to live this way, it’s amazing what will come to you free of charge.

Eventually, my fellow travelers and I were right on the border of Virginia and Tennessee. Kelly pulled off of Interstate 81 right before it turned into 40 West to drop me, Giggles, and Nikol at a truck stop called Flying J. We got our stuff out of the car and set it down. I went up and thanked Kelly for the ride. Then, I went over to Matt and told him it was nice to meet him.

Matt put his guitar, which missing two strings, over his shoulder and said, Likewise, man. If you ever need a train schedule, get Gigs or Nikol to give me a call and I’ll help you out.

I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I just said, Okay. Then, Matt and Kelly were off to South Carolina, and it was Giggles, Nikol, and I left at the Flying J.

As soon as Kelly and Matt took off, I watched Nikol head for the Dumpster behind the convenience store at the truck stop.

I rolled myself and Giggles a cigarette. Before I could light mine, Nikol emerged from the Dumpster with a piece of cardboard. She took out her magic marker and wrote Tennessee on it, in boldface and capital letters. I was mentally taking notes.

Wow, you girls are awesome, I declared.

I was not used to this type of woman. Most of the women I had met in the past year, and most of the guys, too, for that matter, only knew how to go to school and drink at bars on the weekends. These women were tough.

Nikol replied, Adam, you’re going to learn a lot from watching. Just watch and learn. And from now on, your name is no longer Adam. Your new road name is Cabbage. She was referring to my hair. At that time, I had been growing it out for about a year. It was like an afro, and a Jewish one at that.

Okay, Cabbage, this is how you get a ride at a truck stop. You always get on the interstate that you want. If you want to travel on Interstate 40, like us, it makes no sense to try and get a ride at a truck stop on Interstate 80, does it? Okay, always walk to the exit of the truck stop, where the trucks are exiting to get back on the interstate. Have your sign, wave it, put a smile on your face, and have fun, Nikol said matter-of-factly.

So, that’s exactly what we did. We all three stood at the exit, waving and dancing in front of the truck drivers as they went by and basically just making them laugh. It wasn’t only about getting a ride; it was about having fun. Even if the driver doesn’t pick you up, nine times out of ten, he or she will start smiling. And really, that’s what life on the road is all about: spreading smiles. While waiting for a ride, we were getting to know each other really well; our three-person dynamic was a good one. I also took the time to ask my companions what Matt meant when he told me to call him if I needed a train schedule.

Giggles replied, "Matt’s got a train bible."

What is that? I asked.

It’s an ‘underground’ train directory, the Holy Grail to free travel in the US. Basically, once upon a time, there was a train hopper. All his life, he had been traveling on freight trains throughout the US, going from place to place. In his old age, after, say, fifty to sixty years of train hopping, he decided to document every single train yard’s location in the US and also when the trains arrive and leave. It’s perhaps one of the most valuable documents a road kid can have, Giggles said.

Wow, that’s fucking awesome, I said.

I had heard of train hopping. One hops into one of the empty train cars or even climbs on top of the train and then watches the countryside go by, traveling for miles and miles. It’s probably one of the most romantic ways for a road kid to travel.

So, how do I get one of those? I innocently asked.

They both started laughing again.

Oh, Cabbage, you don’t get one of them, you are given it. It’s a very secret document. The people who have them don’t even like to talk about it. He probably mentioned it to you because he knew you were a newbie and might need help. But seriously, Cabbage, it’s really not a good idea to try train hopping unless you do it with experienced train kids. It’s dangerous. We’ve known people who have died trying it. Matt got one because he’s a trusted veteran train kid, Giggles said.

So, we kept moving the sign with Tennessee written on it up and down. A bunch of truckers stopped, but most of them were headed east, not west. One trucker said that he was really sorry that he couldn’t take us. He handed us ten bucks.

Wow, that was really nice of him, I said.

Nikol turned to me and said, Oh, you just wait, Cabbage, you haven’t even begun to see the gifts of the road.

Finally, after we waited for about two hours, a trucker pulled over.

Headed west? Me, too; hop in! he said from the driver seat of his eighteen-wheeler.

We hopped in the truck. Giggles and I sat in the back, and Nikol sat in the front seat next to the driver. Giggles and Nikol told me that the first thing you always do before accepting a ride is check out the driver. How does he look? Does he have a good vibe? Your first instincts and your gut feelings are usually correct. The next thing you ask is where the trucker is headed. In our case, we were going to get a good ride into Knoxville, Tennessee, about four hours away.

The trucker was a short guy. I guessed he was probably about fifty to fifty-five years old. If I remember correctly, his name was Jerry. It was cool being inside of a truck for the first time. In the back of the cab is a bunk bed and plenty of storage space. Most truckers have a minifridge and a TV so they can watch movies at night or during the day, depending on their shift.

We continued talking and having fun. Jerry freely offered us his cigarettes to smoke. Eventually, we pulled off at a truck stop so Jerry could get some late lunch. He got out to go into the restaurant and eventually returned to his truck with his food. He had three chili-cheese hot dogs and a jumbo Mountain Dew. Before digging in, he said, If you guys are hungry, I’ve got a box of snacks up there.

We were hungry. We hadn’t eaten much of anything all day, and I was seconds away from spending more from my savings. After Jerry said that, Giggles got my attention and started moving her fingers like a magician. She whispered to me, Presto manifesto.

So, we were all enjoying our snack time and sharing, food, water, and cigarettes. Everything.

Just when we were about finished, Jerry asked, So, how old are you guys?

Giggles and Nikol were twenty-six, if my memory serves me. However, I do remember exactly how old Jerry was.

I’m thirty-two, Jerry declared.

Holy shit, I thought to myself.

The guy looked like he was in his fifties. I couldn’t believe that he was just a mere eleven years older than I. But then again, when you smoke two packs a day, don’t get any exercise, sit all day driving a truck, and then eat shit like three chili-cheese dogs and a grande Mountain Dew, I suppose that you age quite a bit.

We took off again. Soon enough, we were in Knoxville and pulled into a truck stop. Jerry asked if we wanted to spend the night in his cab, but the women turned down his offer. We got Jerry’s number in case he were heading west again and wanted to call him. When getting out, he proceeded to compliment Nikol’s blue eyes.

And don’t be scared to call me, Nikol. It’s you with the eyes.

Thanks, Jerry, she said. I’ll be sure and do that.

She never would. We all thanked Jerry.

We walked behind the truck stop. Nikol got some cardboard and made another sign. This time, she wrote Nashville on it. That was where we were going to spend a few days with Giggles’s friends.

We went back to the truck stop’s exit, where truckers leave to get back on the interstate, to get another ride.

So, do you guys always hitchhike with truckers? I asked.

No, but we prefer them. Truckers always go long distances. Also, they drop you off at truck stops so you can immediately start looking for another ride. Sometimes, they even radio other truckers to see if they want to give you a ride, also, Nikol said.

Have you guys ever had a bad ride or a ride that freaked you out? I asked.

Yeah, one time. This trucker picked me up. An hour into the ride, he asked, So do you suck, fuck, or what?" Nikol said.

Oh, man. Sorry to hear that, I said.

She told me that it wasn’t that bad. After he asked, she just steered the conversation and asked the trucker about his mom and family. He seemed to get the point.

Is there a best combination dynamic for hitchhikers? For example, is it easier to get rides if it’s two girls or two guys? I asked.

Giggles answered, Anything is possible. Two girls are probably the best. But it also attracts rides where the drivers may want something sexual from them. Probably the best would be one guy and two girls; two girls; or one guy. Getting rides with two guys traveling together is a little harder. You’ll definitely have trouble getting rides, though, if you’re traveling with more than three people. But anything can happen, and eventually someone will pick you up. The good part is, if you are traveling with two guys and someone wants to give you a ride, you will know it will be a nice person just helping, because no pervert would pick up two guys.

I laughed.

Although these women preferred hitching rides from truckers at truck stops, I—later, when I left them to continue my journey to California—I didn’t frequently get rides from truckers. I would develop a style of hitchhiking that was quite different from Giggles’s and Nikol’s truck-stop method.

In less than twenty minutes, we got our next ride with another trucker and continued our journey, getting closer to Nashville. This trucker happened to be a much healthier guy than Jerry.

I almost pissed my pants from laughing when he showed us his trucker trading card. It was a collectible card with his face and truck on it—like a baseball card, except for truckers. I asked him if there were a lot of those things out there.

Oh yeah, there’s a company that does them. They take a picture of you and your truck and then put a biography of you and your family on the back. See? he said.

I looked and, no kidding, there it was. I couldn’t help but think to myself, You just might be a redneck if you collect trucker tractor-trailer trading cards.

This trucker was probably one of the classiest ones I would meet, if that is not an oxymoron. Time flew by with him. We were just outside of Nashville in no time. He dropped us off at a truck stop. Before leaving, he asked if we wanted to stay at his place, drink some beer, and go four-wheeling the next day. It sounded good to me, but Giggles and Nikol turned him down.

It was now nightfall. We had ten dollars, which the trucker from earlier had given us, so we decided to get some food at the Denny’s right across from the truck stop. We wanted to find a better place to get food, but our feet were tired. Denny’s had a special going on. We could get a meal for two dollars each. I got pancakes, Giggles got hash browns, and Nikol got biscuits and gravy. We all ordered ice water and shared our plates so we could try each dish. We had good conversation at the dinner table, learning more and getting to know each other better. At one point, I took a big gulp of water and Nikol said something to make me laugh. I spewed water all over everything and started coughing and laughing at the same time. Consequently, Nikol and Giggles laughed uncontrollably, too. I think it was at that point that they really started to trust me, and I them.

The bill came to seven dollars with tax. We left the remaining three dollars for the waitress as a tip. We left and found a patch of woods near the truck stop to sleep in. Nikol got out her tarp and spread it out over the ground. I noticed how light these women had packed. Nikol had a toothbrush, blanket, tarp, and hoodie—and that was basically it. I got out my sleeping bag and laid it over the tarp. They then realized how heavy I had packed.

God, Cabbage, did you bring the whole store of Wal-Mart in your bag? Nikol asked.

I said that I might have over packed. Giggles proceeded to tell me not to worry. Everybody takes way too much stuff their first time out. No worries. By the time you make it to California, you’ll have less than half of that.

Maybe, I said.

We got on the tarp and lay down under the stars. It was funny. I had known these women for less than twenty-four hours. But it felt like I had known them my whole life. I felt a closeness and trust with them that I hadn’t felt with people I had known for years.

CHAPTER 3

Nashville

We all awoke with the rising sun. When you sleep outside, it’s hard not to. Giggles was in her bra and panties, and I checked her out a little. I thought she was cute, but I valued her more as a friend. In addition, she was a straight-up hippy. She didn’t shave one inch of her body—not her armpit hair, leg hair, or anything. For me, the novice road kid, it was a bit off-putting. But I respected her for not giving a shit. I went inside the truck stop’s bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. We went in one at a time so as not to attract too much attention. Giggles informed me that she’d been kicked off properties for loitering and flying a sign, and that it was always good not to attract too much attention.

Again, Nikol went and got some cardboard out of the Dumpster. This time, she wrote Just Nashville on it. We were only about twenty minutes away. We walked to the exit once again and did our routine. We were so close, but, unfortunately, it was taking us hours to find a ride. We were having no luck. Then, to make matters worse, some home bums emerged and started asking the truckers in the parking lot for money. Giggles informed me that home bums and lot lizards are usually a road kid’s enemy when trying to get rides. A home bum is someone who is homeless but stays in the same place—usually alcoholic or addicted to other drugs. Lot lizards are whores who fuck truckers for money. If there is a home bum in the vicinity, then it makes road kids look bad, because the truckers associate the home bums with the road kids, even though there is usually a big difference between the two.

A cop had started circling the parking lot. He didn’t say anything to us, but, because there were home bums in the vicinity and now a cop, we decided to try the next technique to get a ride.

Here is the basic procedure and protocol for getting rides with Giggles and Nikol: First, try to get a ride with a trucker at a truck stop by standing at the exit and holding a sign that names your destination. It can take a while, but when you finally get a ride, it’s usually a good one, well worth the wait. If this fails, then proceed with your sign to an entrance ramp leading to an interstate. In most states, it’s illegal to walk on an interstate, but if you are on an entrance ramp, it’s legal. If this fails, then just start walking with your thumb out.

Once I separated from Giggles and Nikol and was on my own, headed to California, I actually preferred to reverse this procedure. I got rides by walking on the interstate with my thumb out. If, for some reason, this failed, then I would go to an entrance ramp—and then to a truck stop, if that failed. You have to find what works best for you.

We proceeded to the entry ramp and started flying our sign. Meanwhile, I still had some bread and peanut butter in my bag from home, so I made us breakfast sandwiches. It took us a while to get a ride that day, but finally we got one. It was a nice older woman in a station wagon who ultimately picked us up. I don’t remember much of the ride because I was spacing out, staring out the window. I remember being really happy and saying to myself, I’m doing it, it’s working. I was in a state of bliss.

We made it to Nashville, Tennessee. Giggles called her friend, and he informed us that he was at work and would be home in the evening. He said to go ahead and make our way to his house. His roommate would be there to welcome us.

We were still pretty far from Giggles’s friend’s house, but, using Nikol’s iPhone, we typed his address in the navigation application and then took a bus for a dollar each.

I always thought that people from Virginia were really friendly. In the South, it’s not uncommon for a complete stranger to just start having a friendly conversation with you. But, after what I encountered in Tennessee, this was on a whole other level. I think that Giggles, Nikol, and I must’ve had ten different conversations with ten different people on a ten-minute bus ride.

We got off the bus and made the ten-minute walk to the guy’s house. We stopped off at a convenience store and bought a case of beer for the night to celebrate a successful and safe trip to Nashville. Nikol bought a pack of commercial cigarettes; she said she couldn’t handle my rolled ones anymore. We walked up to the house whose address matched that of Giggles’s friend and were greeted by the roommate.

His name was Santana. He wore a cutoff denim shirt with patches sewn all over it, saying things like Fuck cops and Party’s over. He also wore a pair of brown shorts and a pair of black boots. For the next three days I stayed there, I never saw him wear anything else.

In a deep Southern accent, he said, Hi, y’all, my name’s Santana; it’s a pleasure to meet you guys. I’ve heard a lot of good things from Derrick.

We all got acquainted as Santana welcomed us into his house. It was equipped with a full art studio, a full garden out back, and a huge collection of VHS tapes for our viewing pleasure. Among the great titles were Killer Clowns from Outer Space and Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. Apparently, someone was a fan of bad horror/science-fiction movies.

We kept chatting until night began to fall. No sooner had the last ray of light disappeared when Giggles’s friend Derrick finally showed up. He walked in with a big bottle of Dickel Tennessee whiskey and a big smile on his face. He gave Giggles and Nikol a huge bear hug and me a firm, friendly handshake, saying, Mi casa, su casa.

Apparently, Giggles and Derrick had met on the road some years ago. In fact, everybody in the house besides me was a seasoned road kid. I was looking forward to talking to Derrick more so I could get a guy’s perspective of being on the road. But tonight was just a night for fun, not too much serious conversation. I had a few pounds of pasta in my bag, so I offered it for dinner for all of us. That was the last of the food I had brought in my pack. We all cooked, ate, and finished dinner. We dined on straight pasta, doused with olive oil, lemon juice procured from the lemons of their garden, and seasoned with salt and pepper. After dinner, we celebrated, drinking cold beer and fresh Dickel whiskey straight out of the bottle. Derrick would scream, Suck that Dickel! to whoever was drinking. Besides the fact that it was from Tennessee, Derrick liked buying that brand, I think, just so he could say that while someone was chugging it. We partied until two in the morning. I passed out on the couch, and Nikol and Giggles passed out with Derrick on his lone mattress in the middle of his bedroom floor.

We all awoke at a similar time. Santana, a coffee lover, fired up the industrial coffeepot he had found at a garage sale some years ago. I felt good even though