The online travel magazine for travelers, artists, and vagabonds alike. For those who live outside the box; those who refuse to accept mediocrity as the norm; those who know that life is what you make it; those who want to experience it all.

June 8-June 14, 2025—Spain

By Sunday morning, we finally peeled ourselves out of the tapestry of these untamed grounds and back onto our antsy bikes covered in the dust of four days. The heat had already engulfed any sign of freshness and we pushed against a hot wind, insisting we stay put another day. Some pedal strokes later and already out of breath from the climb, shirts clinging to our bodies, drenched. We pedaled like this for the next fifty-something kilometers. 

Along the edge of a fast road where trash and lost things blend with the patchy grasses, I caught the blinding reflection of the sun on metal. Cars zooming by, I stopped to pick it up, a fully intact clown horn! Just what was missing on my setup. Santi was far ahead, stopped below a small sliver of shade, waiting for me. I honked and he looked confused, then enthused, "No way!"

We pulled up at a restaurant and ate like kings in our sweat-ridden threads. A few heavy kilometers more and we pulled in to land, set up camp near a roofless ruin reclaimed by Mama nature.

After a sleepless night, we packed and pedaled through more rising roads of gravel and beaten tarmac under a smoky sky. One of the bikes gave up twice already, defeated and wheels depleted like our moods. We finally arrived at a smooth road, where a man in a fluorescent vest stopped us, sending us back with no way around. We forged a path through bushes and brook, lifted bicycles over a guardrail to land back on fresh pavement. Some detours and dirt later, the inner tube goes flat again. Water supply low and sun high. Bike flipped, tools and tires scattered among the fallen pine needles and busy insects, bodies melting like ice cream off the cone, we dreamt of fresh juicy fruit. 

The universe obliged, in the form of a sweet old lady. She asked if we needed anything, offered cold water and a table multicolored with chilled cherries, grapes, loquat, and bananas at her place, conversation as smooth as with an old friend. Energy replenished and bike seemingly fixed, we pedaled eighty kilometers to our friend's place in Valencia, the ocean line sharpening on the horizon.

The light of day peeked through the curtains, gently nudging me awake, eyelids sticky with sleep, consciousness just remembering where I am, the sound of a baby cooing in the other room. 

We had breakfast with Ari and little Elba—yogurt and muesli, easy chatter of old friends reminiscing over fleeted moments—and headed out to the iconic city center. Lively and vibrant. Old bones humming with a modern beat. Brimming with flavors and sand colored monuments. We strolled the streets and stretched out in the park's green calm until daylight's edge softened and faded quietly.

The next day, the beach was calling. Golden sand, soft waves, salty ocean breeze, and there, sitting as if part of the surroundings, was Naufra G. I squinted, "That looks like..." He squinted back. "How the hell!?" Crazy coincidence. Spent the day with him, still baffled by the odds, picnicked in a park, and spent the night under Ari and Naxo's roof, all bundled in together, a family of old and new friends, delighted.

The next day, it was time to move on, but first, a massive traditional bocadillo, beer, and coffee to see us off. We parted with gentle words, the bittersweet kind you share with old friends when you don't know the next time you'll meet. Naufra G. pedaled a few kilometers with us, then left. "See you soon!" I smirked, strangely convinced the universe would throw us together again. We pedaled twenty more kilometers to a camping site to work quietly for the next two days.

By Saturday morning, we were on the move again. Our coastal journey begins.

May 31-June 7, 2025—Spain

In the late morning we checked out of our tacky pharaonic temple—complete with a gold painted sarcophagus and framed hieroglyphics on papyrus—and into the blazing streets of the city. Santi's tire had gone flat from the last two days spent indoors so we patched it up and had a bite to eat. At 4:00 p.m., we took off. Rested and rolling easy for kilometers, the sky suddenly had a change of heart and poured itself out onto us. Our tires swam through freezing, heavy raindrops until we dove under a large tree and held our tarp over us and the bikes, repeating again and again how this cheap, simple piece of plastic was undoubtedly the best item in our entire kit! When the sun came back out, we glided further on to our camp spot for the night, filled our bellies and sipped some wine among the resinous scent of wild rosemary and thyme all around us. Sleep came soft and sweet that night.

It was 10 a.m. when we started moving the next morning after picking handfuls of fresh herbs to go. We glided smoothly through golden countryside landscapes speckled with old stone farmhouses and the occasional sleepy town, fifty-four kilometers until Barrax. We found camp as the evening was settling in. Boiled some noodles with the last of our DIY bouillon powder and a couple of spoonfuls of peanut butter under the pine trees. We fell asleep to the cinema of lightning bolts painting the sky in the far distance.

By the time the sunlight filtered through the open canopy the next morning, we were packed and on our way to the nearest cafe. Two cafes con leche and some brainstorming later, we decided we would start doing short interviews to the people we met along the way. 

Cafeinated and inspired, we pedaled to Albacete where we met our host, Gonzalo, with his disheveled hair, scraggly beard, and empathic demeanor. His 1920's apartment was a beautiful mess: unkempt, piles of books and potted plants in every room, lived in. We took a shower and had a siesta. When the midday Castilian heat started to die down, we all headed out to visit the city. Gonzalo guided us through its streets, speaking of its shortcomings, the politics and culture of Albacete, and the slow decline of a place he felt was losing its soul. We grabbed a beer at a cheap spot he liked and interviewed our new friend, the self-proclaimed "naufrago," ("castaway"). We baptized him Naufra G. that night and it stuck.

The next day we said our goodbyes, grabbed a tortilla and salad at a shop and ate it in a park. We left around 3 p.m., following the path Naufra G. suggested to us. The road curled along the river, steep rock faces rising over us, caves carved into the cliffs, some still dusted in the memories of their old inhabitants. We picked sun-warmed nísperos off the trees, amazed and thankful to our friend for sending us here. About sixty slow kilometers later, we pulled into a charming little town lost among the cliffs with panoramic views that stopped our pedals, La Recueja. We set up camp facing a towering off-white monolith, the pink and gold sunset projected on its blank canvas. I fell asleep that night, wondering if the people who lived there were aware of how lucky they are.

In the morning, we put our things away, excited to continue this stretch of jaw-dropping landscape.

We made our way back toward the main road and arrived at a wine bottling factory on wheels, in front of Maria's shop. As we watched the semi-mechanical production line in a truck, clinking bottles and the hum of a small motor in this quiet, picturesque town from a painting, we were amused at how our time here just kept getting better and better. We bought a bottle of red straight from Maria herself. 

Some breakfast and handfuls of sweet, sticky mulberries later, we pedaled to Alcalá del Júcar, an ancient town perched dramatically on a cliff of white limestone. With bicycles resting in a shaded spot, we entered the maze, paths curling and doubling back like they'd been dreamed up by a drunk poet, all leading up to the castle.

When we'd seen it all, we pedaled up and out of the scenic valley and toward Casas de Vez at a campsite we found online. The town was sleepy and the camping grounds deserted except for a lonely housekeeper and his two scruffy companions. We asked him about a place to stake our tent and he said the land wasn't ready to receive campers but that we could stay in a studio. We booked one for the next three nights. Santi edited videos while I wrote, both drinking Maria's wine into the morning hours to keep the creative juices flowing.

By day three, we were lazy and spent, still editing videos and words. Left the apartment but stayed at the restaurant downstairs. The overly accommodating housekeeper brought cold beer and tapas, adjusted lighting, and shooed mosquitos away. He didn't say much, he hovered silently, attentively, ready to oblige. By the time darkness crept in, we gave up on leaving, hauled our bags back into the rental studio, still as we'd left it. Tomorrow we would be ready to carry on.

May 24-May 30, 2025—Spain

Our morning started late. With the now ceremonial "dos cafés con leche" and some bread and smoked fish from the grocery shop, we were fueled up and ready to go. The GPS guided us to an off-road path away from cars and into long stretches of fields and forests. Some kilometers in and I was cursing my way through an unpaved path with loose cobbled stones rolling around under my wobbly tires with every pedal stroke, the road rising high and falling low for kilometers on end. My bike, panniers, and body all covered and dusted in the terra cotta-colored ground. We eventually made it to a brand new, shiny and smooth road and glided through to Saceruela, recharged batteries and bodies in a local cerveceria and camped.

We started pedaling at around 1 p.m. the next day. Thirty-two kilometers later, the heat of the blistering sun got to Santi, hitting him like a wall of fire. We had to find somewhere cool and shady to rest. After a few pedal strokes, we veered through a small opening in the bushes on the side of the national road into an open field dotted with white chamomile flowers and one towering oak, its branches draping over to the ground. We stepped inside, taking shelter in its leafy cave, and had a siesta under the canopy. I awoke to some ants and other small insects exploring my skin, wandering around like visitors on a new island, while Santi rested deeply beside me. 

In the evening, after setting up our tent, we were startled by the guttural call of an animal we had never heard before. Looking around, we eventually spotted it: a graceful deer curiously hopping nearby. We watched in disbelief as a raw, coarse sound came from such an elegant creature. Night came and we dozed off with a dreamy view of leaves and stars.

The morning light was just reaching our tent as we packed our last things away and pedaled cheerfully to Poblete. Our skin sticky from sweat and suncream, and covered in layers of the past two days' dirt roads. We needed a shower. With the sun at its highest point in the sky, we took refuge in the local library and Santi asked the bubbly librarian, Raquel, about where we could possibly clean ourselves and she made phone calls and sent messages determined to help. She came back to us with a place to shower and tips on where to set up for the night. We chatted a while, met a few more people in that library, and headed to the sports center for a shower. The cool soapy water ran off my body, bubbly and brown, down into the drain. My pores could breathe again.

After a quick stop for some bread and beer, we pushed ourselves up toward the Ermita where our new friends suggested we pitch our tent. One blissful swig of beer later, Raquel and her husband, Moi, appeared, offering us to spend the night in their home instead.

We drank, ate, and spoke into the early morning. That night we slept in their little backyard studio, faith in humanity restored.

The next day, after saying our goodbyes, we pedaled to the vía verde leading to Ciudad Real. We rolled through the city, uninspired by the fast-paced and insipid vibe, sat on a bench for a quick bite and a tired argument, then carried on passed Manzanares, late and spent. Sixty tired and hungry kilometers later, still searching for a place to rest in the dark, we finally gave in and pitched the tent in a lousy spot. It was midnight. We didn't bother opening the mattress knowing we would have to leave at the break of dawn.

Woke up before the sun, grumpy and silent. Packed, and dragged ourselves back to Manzanares. Stopped in one of the few cafés open at that time and had some churros and hot chocolate, listening to the chatter of the old patrons sitting at the bar in what seemed to be their familiar morning ritual. After a quick visit of the city and some fresh threads from the second-hand shop, we pedaled thirty-something kilometers and stopped early for the night. The place looked picture-perfect: trees and silence, seclusion and peace, until ticks started crawling up our legs, too many of them. We didn't leave the tent, not even to pee.

The next morning, we pedaled to Tomelloso in record time, checked into a kitsch Egyptian-themed rental apartment with three bedrooms, worked, visited, slept, repeated.