Anyone who's ever had to hitchhike: stand on the side of the road, thumb out, and cars rudely flying by, has dreamed of that perfect ride - the sleek Mercedes pulling up, cruising you to your destination in air-conditioned bliss, genial conversation, and safety. The problem is the very nature of dreams - they are rarely connected to reality. Anyone who hitchhikes must first love to walk. There's a mythic quality about hitchhiking, the freedom, the spontaneity, the risk, particularly in the States, where car culture and the road trip are part of the American lexicon. In cultures worldwide, catching a ride with someone passing your way is either a rarity, or a matter of course. In China, where personal automobiles are almost non-existent, don't count on covering many miles hitchhiking. There are even severe laws against hitchhikers in the region of the Tibetan plateau. Test your thumb in Thailand, or on the Mediterranean coast of France, where cars are plentiful, and people friendly, and the roads fairly safe. There is an inherent risk in hitchhiking that can't be ignored. It is also part of the rush. Meeting a stranger in the middle of nowhere, the trust that's inherent in accepting a ride, the unique confines of a fast moving vehicle. There is no excuse for taking a ride that you don't feel comfortable with. Your personal barometer of a situation, whether it feels right for you, is the best way to decide whether you open that door and climb in, or say no thanks. Single women in particular need to learn to decide, very quickly, whether it's worth accepting a ride. Ask where the driver's going first - if something strikes you strange, simply decline and say you're heading elsewhere. I've known people who have encountered bad situations, and had to force the driver to let them out quickly. Personally, I've never had any real problems, except for a Sumatran logging truck driver who kept offering me morphine while he careened along hilltop ridges. I've been both lucky, and smart in choosing my rides. Getting people to stop in the first place is the whole art though. Research and a smile pay off exponentially sometimes. In many cities where hitchers are common, there are classic waiting spots near highways and major roads, with long pull off areas. Ask around where the best corners to wait on are. Be nice, remember, people are taking a risk on you too. Pay attention to local customs, since little differences can translate into wasted hours and lungfulls of inhaled exhaust as cars barrel by. I waited many long hours on a road in Indonesia, walking along the right side of the road, left hand jutting out, thumb pointing hopefully. Cars didn't even slow. The public bus, which I would have gladly taken, swerved towards me blaring his horn, and left me in a cloud of dust. World Hitchhiking Lesson 1 - don't use your left hand for anything in Indonesia, especially flagging down rides. The left hand is reserved only for bodily uses, NOT eating, changing money, shaking hands, or hitchhiking. In the south of Italy, near Sicily, the familiar thumb stuck out is actually an offensive sexual sign. In Greece, a driver may nod his head side to side, (as if saying "no") but that means he'll stop if you wave him down. In other places, an open palm, or waving a few fingers downward are the signs that you're looking to catch a ride. For the explicit, you can scrawl out a sign with your hoped for destination. Most often though, if you have a bulging backpack, a wearied look, a nice smile and some sort of hopeful beckoning motion, people get the idea. Possibly the best ride I've ever caught was outside Phenom Rung, an ancient Khmer era temple in central Thailand. A dozen young Buddhist monks were piling into the back of a pickup truck. Buddhist monks - how much safer could I ask for? My friend and I asked, then squeezed into the bed with the others. One of the novice monks pulled out his harmonica, and I fished mine out from the depths of my pack. The sun was setting as we flew along a dirt road between fallow rice paddies, and the cloud of reddish dust was like a monk's robe itself, flowing between the fiery sun and us. We played the blues on our harmonicas, the wind whipping the sound away, leaving the notes hovering over the fields. We reached Buriram and climbed out on a street corner, the truck of monks drove away. That was more than a ride, it was an experience.