We’ve been on the road for about three weeks, and I’m continually amazed at how cool people can be. I know I shouldn’t be, but with all the cynical rhetoric filling the air – beware suspicious (read: different) persons! Alert! Alert! – it’s hard not to become a bit jaded. Rolling across the U.S. of A. has definitely restored my optimism in humanity, as well as cementing my firm belief that difference is something to be celebrated, not feared. It’s what makes meeting people exciting, it’s what makes traveling (if only down the block) an adventure.

Take Robert and Lauren, for example. It’s their lot we’re squatting on here in El Cerrito, CA. Robert’s a hippie cum PTA magnate, Lauren’s an artist, gardener and martial artist. They have two kids and two cats, and their lives don’t revolve around weekends and 9 to 5. Being a part of their corner of the world has been great – work melds with play, a parade of friends drifts in and out and, although life isn’t seamless, it’s more about what you’re doing, not what you “have” to do.

Maurice and I were negotiating the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) several days ago. Standing with our bikes and befuddled expressions, we got a few looks but no remarks. The woman who did give us some tips was toting a tuba, almost as large as she was. In front of the ticket machines, the sight of the three of us made me laugh.

Some time ago, we were at Stoudt’s Brewery in Adamstown, PA. We were enjoying some beers in the biergarten, but the kitchen had closed and we were famished. There weren’t many people there, it being late and off season, but there was a couple next to us who overheard out hunger pangs. For some reason, they happened to have an entire loaf of nutty bread with them, which they immediately tore and handed half to us. So weird, so welcome.

We were stuck in a small town in Spain last November, and our choices were to backtrack via public transport or hitchhike. After about an hour of trying to flag a ride, we were pretty much resigned to sitting on a bus for most of the day. As we gathered our packs, I noticed a single woman in a small car approaching. I halfheartedly thumbed at her saying to Maurice, “she’s the last person who’s going to pick us up.” The car passed, and we began to walk away. About 50 feet from us, she came to an abrupt stop and backed up. There were two of us, Maurice is a big person, and our Spanish was marginally better than her English (which she didn’t speak). Still, she picked us up. We spent a quiet ten miles zipping through amazing scenery, after which she took us directly to our trailhead. All we could say was Muchas Gracias. Just didn’t seem like enough.

Sure, there a bunch of jerks out there. But I don’t spend much time remembering them. Since this is a brain fart, I hope you’ll forgive me for being circuitous. I suppose my point is that I love to travel. Sure, it’s great to ride new trail, sample new food, and see new sights. But it’s the unexpected kindnesses of people – often strangers – along that way that make it all so, so worth while.