There was a time, not long ago, when you could walk to the highway, stick out your thumb and catch a ride with a total stranger. Those were the days when sex was safe and rock and roll was the soundtrack for the revolution. Young people from all backgrounds hit the road with nothing but packs on their backs to find enlightenment and somehow end the war in Vietnam.
When I left on my journey I wasn't sure if I was an intrepid explorer or just another fugitive from justice. I had no idea I would end up meeting John Lennon, hitchhiking through the Iron Curtain, working on a collective farm in Hungary, living on a nude beach in Greece, nearly dying in a storm at sea, smoking opium in Iran, finding my soul in the music of Afghanistan, smuggling turquoise over the Khyber Pass into Pakistan and nearly dying from dysentery and the dagger of my Argentinian lover in India.
I also had no idea that the women I would fall in love with along the way would change my life forever.
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Patched jeans from The Hitchhike. By the time I got to India in 1972, these jeans were a walking memorial to the hippie wanderers who helped me sew on the patches.