I made up my mind, and one day we hitchhiked to St. Petersburg. We left in the morning, got to the station and ... decided to spend our last money on the train. We visited the cultural capital, saw friends, but still had to hitchhike back. As luck would have it, a north wind blew in and, despite it being April, some kind of salty blizzard began. We immediately froze to the road and forgot that it would take a lot of effort to stop those who wanted to give us a ride. I used to think that it wasn't that hard for girls, that being pretty would at least provide comfort on the road, but our faces weren't visible because of the snowstorm, and the chance to use our looks was slim.
Luck smiled on us about thirty minutes later. All this time we were yelling, trying to reach the frozen hearts of the motorists, and also jumping so that they could see the frozen girls. In the end, it happened. A compassionate truck driver, looking at us with kind eyes, sat us down next to him, gave us hot coffee, thanks to which we finally started talking normally, and set a condition: we had to tell stories the whole way. Many truckers take "riders" so that the ride is not boring. They also like to chat.
After our dorm-room tales of unhappy loves, our benefactor told us about his childhood, youth and wife, and then began asking questions. We were so happy that we had finally managed to warm up, and also about the imminent prospect of being home in Moscow, with friends to whom we so wanted to tell everything, that at first we listened without complaint and even gratefully, but after two hours our enthusiasm dried up, and my friend and I began to embarrassedly and incoherently "told" stories again, just to make him shut up. At the same time, we were terribly afraid that he would drop us off for such blatant pretense.
The driver somehow understood our fears, promised not to drop us off and fell silent himself. Moreover, he wanted to listen to his favorite radio "Russian Chanson". Then we felt sick. "Lesopoval", Lyubov Uspenskaya, Mikhail Krug - songs of a certain genre were croaking out at the top of their lungs, periodically interrupted by calls from outside. Someone ordered them a second time, sent greetings, once even our truck driver received greetings, and he was incredibly happy about it. After ten hours, we were so fed up with these shrill sounds that we already wanted to go outside, out of the stuffy cabin, where the thick smells of leather, sweat and sour milk nested.
We were already calmly thinking about the snowstorm and the cold, just so as not to hear Russian chanson works. Having reached the nearest traffic police station, we got out, barely moving our numb legs, having received a really good piece of advice as a farewell to ask to get into cars when they are stopped by a road policeman. Our driver was reasonable and, apparently, an experienced person, but he did not warn us that we might have competitors. Near the road, next to the inspectors, there were two guys in military uniforms and they were also hitchhiking. We approached to chat, but did not see any particular desire to talk on their part.
It turned out that according to the law of the highway, no more than two people should catch transport, otherwise they simply will not take you. No one wants to take a bunch of people into the car. My friend and I, accustomed to the increased attention of guys, were offended, but we still had to move away from our unfriendly colleagues. Our next driver is a private driver. Such people do not always see young people on the roads and are very surprised when they meet them. We, in puffy jackets, wrinkled jeans and caps up to our eyes, looked like abandoned fifteen-year-old girls who were suddenly left without parents.
He quickly shoved a sandwich at us, which came in very handy because our hunger was becoming almost unbearable, and, worried, began asking where and why we were going. When we said that we were returning to Moscow, he was terribly surprised and gave us a lecture on disobeying parents and that one should not stupidly seek adventures on one's ... head, this could be fraught with danger. We were so tired that we did not take his words seriously, but we took the presence of dangers into account for the future.
We rode with this talker for four hours, he tired us out beyond belief - it is simply amazing how many words a person can throw out, and not very smart ones at that. When we were dropped off again in a small town near Moscow, we simply fell off our feet from fatigue and the desire to sleep. Swollen and sluggish from fitful sleep, we literally crawled into the first eatery we came across. Having bought a pie and a cup of bad instant coffee in plastic cups, we sat down on the spit-covered benches and suddenly saw those same hitchhikers who had treated us so rudely at the traffic police post.
Of course, we, proud and unapproachable, tried to pretend that we didn't notice them, but they came up to us and turned out to be so sociable that they made us forget about the unpleasantness. The four of us chatted for a long time in the cafe until it began to close. We went outside again, plunging headlong into the cold, and then (what a shame!) I suggested having a competition on the highway to find out whose fight for cars would be more fruitful. Our companions agreed. A crazy race began.
There were still two hours left to get to Moscow, and during that time my friend and I changed seven cars, and our rivals about ten. We often caught another private driver twenty meters from each other. In the end, we, as girls, who are still more willing to take, were luckier, and we got there faster. Thus, hitchhiking is not at all a scary and not such a dangerous activity. For inquisitive students who do not have money for tickets even in general carriages, this is the best way to travel. You see a lot, communicate a lot, have a lot of emotions - is that bad?
Yakhan Izyan