Once dismissed as risky, hitchhiking is finding new life among a younger generation of travelers drawn to its promise of human connection, adventure, and a low-carbon way to explore the world.
In 2022, travelers Alexandra Menz and Bernhard Endlicher stood under the blazing sun near the Turkish-Syrian border, trying to reach Mardin. Walking was out of the question in the heat, so they flashed their warmest smiles and raised their thumbs. Moments later, a car screeched to a stop—inside were a bride in a white gown and a groom in a tuxedo.
“Hop in! We’re on our way to our wedding,” the couple called. An hour later, Menz and Endlicher were in the Kurdish city of Nusaybin, unexpectedly celebrating as wedding guests.
It was just another day in the nomadic lives of the Austrian pair, who have chronicled more than 4,000 hitchhiked rides across 65+ countries on social media. Drawn by the minimal environmental impact and the rich opportunities for genuine encounters, they’ve embraced hitchhiking as both their literal means of travel and their metaphor for the journey itself.
“Hitchhiking isn’t a relic of the past – it’s a vision for the future,” Menz tells the BBC.
Still, the two 25-year-olds know their enthusiasm isn’t universal. Once a common way to get around, hitchhiking has since been stigmatized as unsafe in the US and parts of Europe. And while it’s an inexpensive way to travel, it’s also a privilege not everyone can afford.
For many in remote or rural areas, hitchhiking isn’t a choice but a necessity—the only way to reach work, school, or the nearest town when public transport is scarce. But for young travelers like Menz, Endlicher, and a growing wave of adventure-seekers with the time, resources, and passports that open borders, it offers a budget-friendly, eco-conscious way to journey through the world while forging connections with strangers.
A brief history of hitchhiking
The practice dates back to the early 20th century, becoming widespread in the US by the 1930s. During the Great Depression, with jobs scarce and money tighter still, many Americans relied on catching rides—or hopping freight trains—to travel long distances in search of work. In World War Two, it even became a patriotic act to save fuel for the war effort, famously captured in a US poster warning solo drivers: “If you ride alone, you ride with Hitler.”
By the 1950s, however, the tone had shifted. The FBI labeled hitchhiking a “menace,” with director J. Edgar Hoover portraying it as both a safety hazard and a national security risk, fearing undercover agents could move undetected across the country. As Jack Reid, author of Roadside Americans, notes, Hoover’s fear campaign left a lasting mark on the US mindset. In the decades that followed, sensational coverage of crimes—like those committed by US serial killer Edmund Kemper and Australia’s “backpacker killer” Ivan Milat, who targeted hitchhikers—cemented its dangerous reputation.
Elsewhere, the culture persisted. In Communist Poland and the USSR, drivers were given vouchers to pick up hitchhikers; in Cuba, hacer botella became essential during 1990s fuel shortages; and in Ireland, the warmth of roadside hospitality was famously captured in Tony Hawks’ best-selling memoir Round Ireland with a Fridge.
By the 2000s, however, rising car ownership and expanded highways had pushed hitchhiking to the margins—at least in much of the developed world.
The new wave
Now, social media hints at a revival: nearly half a million Instagram posts are tagged #hitchhiking. Among them is 26-year-old Canadian traveler Courtney Allan—known as @hitchhikercourtney to her 75,000+ followers—who embarks on months-long journeys across continents. She’s currently making her way from Guangzhou, China, to Cape Town, South Africa.
“Hitchhiking is a simple way to invite the world into your life,” Allan tells the BBC during a ride from Tbilisi, Georgia.
Often asked about the risks of hitchhiking as a woman, she says her “only precaution” is trusting her gut. She looks for quick signs—a child’s car seat, a wedding ring—and says she can usually size up a driver in 15 seconds.
Lorenza D’Agostino, who is 27 and has hitchhiked more than 25,000km over the last decade across South America and Europe, also doesn’t believe that solo hitchhiking is necessarily unsafe for women. She says she has only encountered two uncomfortable moments.
“Of course, I’ve had a few uncomfortable encounters with men, but never anything truly dangerous,” Allan says. “I want women to know the world is just as beautiful and safe for them as it is for men.”
She admits that, in the beginning, she felt nervous because of warnings about solo female travelers. “But these days, people are more open-minded,” she says.
While most experts agree hitchhiking declined after the 1970s, it still thrives in certain regions—such as parts of southern Africa (where rides aren’t always free), Patagonia, and rural pockets of Europe. In areas of Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and Belgium with limited public transport, ride-sharing benches have appeared in the past decade. In the US, five states now explicitly ban the practice, though it remains surprisingly common on St John in the US Virgin Islands. In the UK, hitchhiking lingers on in remote corners of Scotland and Wales.
Hitchhiking is rarely efficient, but for those who do it, detours are part of the adventure. In Patagonia, traveler D’Agostino set out from a petrol station for the Argentine mountain village of El Chaltén, catching a ride along the vast Ruta 40 before being dropped in the middle of nowhere. With no other option, she put her thumb out again.
“While I was hitchhiking, I thought, ‘I trust humanity,’” she recalls. Her next ride didn’t take her to El Chaltén but to a remote Mapuche home, where she was invited to a memorial for a late elder. “You discover so many beautiful hearts out there,” she says.
A new wave of hitchhiking innovation
Adam Renak, a UK hitchhiker, believes the practice is far from obsolete. Two decades after hitchhikers created Hitchwiki, a global crowdsourced guide, Renak is co-developing a new app for 22- to 36-year-old travelers that uses shared data to improve safety and pinpoint good hitching spots.
He recalls his first hitchhike three years ago in Australia, when he was stuck at a service station trying to reach Far North Queensland. Just as he was losing hope, a dog ran up to him—followed by a woman in a van who offered him a two-hour ride while reminiscing about her own hitchhiking days. Since then, he says, he grabs any chance he can to hitch rides—in places as far apart as New Zealand and Norway.
“In the past few years, travel has become more social, ethical, and budget-conscious—and hitchhiking ticks all those boxes,” he tells the BBC, calling it “the greenest way to travel.”
According to Jack Reid, the rise of ride-sharing apps like Uber, Lyft, and Liftshare may also be making traditional hitchhiking seem less intimidating. “These commodified forms of hitchhiking might have softened people to the idea,” he says. “You still don’t know much about the person, but you’re willing to get in the car with them.”
More localized, low-tech versions have also emerged. In Washington DC, “slugging”—an informal commuter carpool system—has grown in response to post-pandemic return-to-office mandates. And in parts of central Europe, ride-sharing benches offer an eco-friendly mobility option for residents without regular bus or train service.
Whatever the reason, Reid believes hitchhiking is quietly regaining ground. “It’s a populist moment. Times are tough,” he says. “Some people are ready to look past old fears and say, ‘I need to get there, I can’t afford it, and I’ll see what happens.’”
Still, Menz and Endlicher are careful not to over-romanticize the practice. They’re open about the privilege that makes their travels possible. Now several years into their journey—and currently couch-surfing in Moscow—they remain convinced hitchhiking isn’t just a relic of the past, but an adventure worth experiencing.
“Hitchhiking creates this positive feedback loop,” Endlicher says. “At a time when we seem more divided than ever, it can bridge gaps. No matter where you’re from, you can help a stranger—and maybe, one day, another stranger will help you.”
