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 21-June 27, 2025—Spain 

In the breezy coastal warmth of the night, we arrived at our Warmshowers host's place. Sweat, dirt, and kilometers swirled down the shower drain and we barely exchanged names with Joan before falling into a heavy sleep. The next morning, sat in his sunlit living room, table adorned with cherries, coffee, and cake, the three of us exchanged light, scattered conversation. We left his place around noon. 

One of the bikes started showing signs of protest, broken spokes were replaced. After enjoying a traditional seafood paella and a couple of beers, the next blow: a flat tire. We patched it up, flipped the bike back on its wheels—deflated. Another patch, this time a different method, waited there in the heat—dispirited. Two boys cycling by asked if we needed help, said they saw us sitting there, bike apart for a while now. One of them decided to have a go at patching the inner tube, grinning smugly, like he had the secret—no luck. A quick stop at a local bicycle shop, a brand new inner tube got us to our camp spot for the night in Tarragona. 

The forest where we set up was unremarkable until the sky began to drip. By nightfall, under pounding rain, we learned—begrudgingly—that our third-hand tent had long since lost its waterproofing. The storm seeped through our fabric home, soaking mattress and bags as we cursed our obsession with using things until they fail.

Sunrise finally came as we unzipped into the open, soaked and nauseous. I wrung out last night's clothes that were sacrificed to soak up puddles in our tent and Santi threw up a little. The night still pressing heavy on us, we searched for somewhere dry and tranquil with a bed and shelter. Eleven rocky off-path kilometers later, half lost, half delirious, we arrived at Valentin's part of the woods. He wasn't home but he had given us instructions on how to unlock the rusty lockpad on the gate, his dog relentlessly barking at us until we figured out how to get in. We dragged our bikes to the yurt, the interior a patchwork of colorful fabrics and Tibetan figurines, somewhere between bohemian dream and makeshift ashram, and it felt like heaven, at least for a night.

I woke around 8 a.m., dawdled around the land with Tronko the dog. When Santi woke, we chilled in the shadow of the tall fig tree for hours and decided to make lunch for our hosts. Chickpeas, cherry tomatoes, chopped cucumbers, arugula, and olive oil salad with a generous helping of rolled tobacco and existential conversation. We packed and left around 6 p.m., reflections and smoke still clinging to us, and pedaled forty-four kilometers to Cubelles at another WS host, Daniel and his bikepacking, nomadic family of four.

We woke in the children's bunk beds and after a quick chat, were off to Barcelona to meet Santi's friend. A few steps from her apartment, we settled at her favorite bar, cold beers at hand and conversed with our neighboring table, an old gay couple—a journalist and a masseur—modern, sharp, and curious. We drifted through a mess of topics, frivolous and earnest, until the last chair was stacked and the bar's lights went out. 

Back at her place, she pried open the antique sofa bed, springs forming little mountains and craters across the surface, and we fell asleep next to her caged parrot amid decades' worth of gathered memories.

The next day, around noon, we cut our stay short, leaving on a sour note. With online classes looming, we rushed to find a spot to work on short notice. After a few dead ends, we landed at a hotel and asked to use the lobby—they said yes. Work done, we pedaled toward the river to set up camp for the night, returning the next day to the same spot to work again.

After a long day at our laptops, we pedaled deep into the bustling city streets, historical buildings and car horns blending with the fading sun, arriving at our next hosts' place. Late dinner, shower, and sleep creeping in. I lay there, slightly buzzed from the vermouth and the last few days, and somehow, it all felt like home—the people, the places, the roads, forests, and disasters—a symphonic collection of the life I've chosen and keep choosing every day.

June 15-June 21, 2025—Spain

Cruising along beach walks, the salty ocean air and endless views of sand and blue slowed our rhythm down and encouraged us to pause often. We bathed at a beach of stones and bare bodies, the sea wrapping us up as part of its holdings, water crystal clear. I swam far out, almost hypnotized by the freedom of the calm waters, when I spotted a jellyfish floating elegantly by. Both dazzled and horrified, I lunged back toward the shoreline, the ethereal creature drifting behind me, then back out into the vastness. We lay among the tumbled stones, sun-kissed.

We pedaled all the merry way to Castelló, where a broken and abandoned beach chair slumped by the trash bins, ready to be forgotten. Santi adopted it, sewed it up, good as new. The night fell, windy and fresh.

The next morning, we pedaled to the beach, swam, showered, and passed beautiful coastal towns. At some point, we got onto the Eurovelo8 trail and it took us through a peaceful via verde carved into the cliffs, then, more beaches. As night was nearing, we started setting up camp in a natural reserve. Feeling shaky, I sat on our new-old beach chair, among the trees and bushes in the depths of the forest. I can't see but I can hear the breathing of an animal near me. Santi was setting up our bed in the tent and I whispered to him that there is something here, and then, a deep grunt. He unzipped the tent and flashed the flashlight to scare the boar away. Another grunt. I was already thinking of which tree to climb if things got crazy. Eventually, we heard it get further away. High on primal adrenaline, Santi packed up faster than ever and we zoomed to the nearest campsite and slept it off.

We couldn't evade sleep in the morning and finally left around 2 pm, pedaled in scorching heat through rocky paths, then paved, then sandy, then paved. From far across the immense bay, we spotted a small cluster of buildings crammed on what seemed like a small island, with a castle atop. We finally reached the town and thought, some things are nicer from afar. We set up camp in the next town in a nice patch of bushes and trees littered here and there with some broken glass bottles. Santi tossed through the night, the crackling of branches and glittering glass shards painting uneasy pictures in his mind.

Morning eventually came, and we dipped our bodies in the familiar cold of the sea. Once replenished, we searched for a campsite to work and rest for the next days. We grabbed a bocadillo de tortilla, pedaled fifty-five kilometers to L'Ampolla at camping Finca Ermita, a 10-hectare piece of land owned by a French guy passionate about olive oil. We arrived in the late afternoon after riding through kilometers of peace and quiet, the occasional car rolling by. The land was vast and there were only a handful of caravans scattered spaciously between rows of aged olive trees. We settled in and relaxed, the only animal we had to beware of was the playful cat who lingered around our tent, bringing us gifts of dead mice and birds.

The next three days were a pattern of work, rest, and unrelenting sun.

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.