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.

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.

May 17-May 23, 2025—Spain

We left the ruin-studded city behind and pedaled and pushed kilometers under the blazing sun. Legs burning, breath shallow, road steady and long until we could see Medellín in the distance. We'd noticed it on Lola's map of Spain when she pointed out where we could go next and Santi being from Medellín, Colombia, felt drawn to its Spanish namesake. We entered through a long solemn bridge, each weathered stone brushing stories of centuries past against our wheels, and spotted an open field next to the river with a few caravans parked comfortably for the night. We had a quick stroll through town, then, set up our little tent among them. Exhausted.

Morning came around soft and smooth and at some point, we peeled ourselves out of bed. We left everything as it was: tent out, sleeping bags freshly creased with sleep, bikes resting under a tree, and roamed freely through crumbled ruins and coffee shops, picked mulberries with stained fingers and burnt faces. The air here was kind, nurturing, like a gentle reminder that we were exactly where we needed to be. Our camp spot, out in plain sight, tucked between the bridge and river among the weekend dwellers and retired nomads felt easy, homely, like it wanted us there. So we stayed another night.

We packed slow the next morning, our things scattered around like they were part of the lawn and fallen leaves, the tent sun-warmed and rooted into the ground, two days deep. Picked more sweet berries for the road, and cycled some fifty-something kilometers to another river town, the last stretch a never-ending, soul-wrenching upward feat. When my feet finally touched land, my legs melted and resigned. We sat a while at the river's edge before searching for a spot to settle. There weren't any flat places on the riverbank so we staked the tent onto a slope, laughing at the angle. A defeated, it-is-what-it-is kind of laugh. The fiery sunset spilled into the still river to the soundtrack of frantic birdsong and buzzing insects. We sat quietly enjoying the spectacle, already knowing sleep would be restless and sore.

Woke up after barely sleeping. Bought some breakfast and ate it in a bar with a café con leche. Late 90's American hits playing on the radio creating a welcomed symphonic clash in this sleepy Spanish tavern. Heads full of sleep and nostalgia, we rode until Puebla de Alcocer. 

Our bikes didn't stand a chance in this steep old town so we retired them somewhere along the way and wandered uphill to the local library and cultural center for some information. We asked about somewhere to lay our heads for the night and the kind librarian, amused by the idea of two strangers pitching a tent in her quiet corner of the world, made some calls to the town hall. They sent us to a park downhill, beside a small chapel, said the night would be gentle there, and there’d be water too. We fell asleep to the croaking of frogs and the next morning, a noisy flock of brown sheep saw us off. 

We journeyed on to a small pueblo cradled by mountains. The views were soft and wispy, the people a little drier. Maybe we were tired or maybe some places just carry a quiet hostility, but though we were there some days, we never really got in. The locals’ stern demeanor never quite melted, even in the face of Santi’s open smile and persistent kindness, his every gesture gently reassuring them that we came in peace. We asked the young Colombian waitress at a local bar how she liked it here. She hesitated, searching for the right words:
"Agudo es... pues... es Agudo."
As if the name alone explained everything.

We left town eager to see what would come next, the road pulling us toward the unknown.

May 10-May 16, 2025—Spain

We had already been pedaling for a few kilometers before realizing that we entered Spain. No border control, no welcome signs, just a subtle change in style and eventually a panel with Spanish words on it.

"We are in Badajoz! We crossed an entire country on our bikes!"

Somehow, it felt like a new chapter. 

The next day, after visiting Badajoz, we pedaled happily for a while and eventually settled at a plum grove bordering a busy road, plums still young and green. We heard voices far off and Santi went to have a look. Turned out to be a bunch of prepubescent teens in a long-abandoned farmhouse, shouting and smashing fallen chunks of masonry, wild and free like the Lost Boys of Neverland. This abandoned ruin: their kingdom. Curious about why we were going to spend the night on the land, they insisted we stay in their crumbling playground, eager to arrange a cozy spot for us at the further end. We declined, preferring to sleep in the open air. We cooked up some hot food and let the night fall around us, the boys' youth echoing beyond the trees.

At dawn, we got woken up by the low, chugging growl of a tractor a little too near to us, packed in record time, and set off unseen. We stopped in a few forgotten towns along the way until our final stop of the day in Garrovilla. After climbing to the highest point of this little pueblo, we met Lola, a retired rancher, and her dogs up there among the olive trees and wild asparagus. She seemed happy to see us, happy to spend some time with two strangers, talking politics, plants, and better days. Smoking rolled cigarettes, right there in her happy place. She left us along with the sun, and we were greeted by the bright full moon. This spot was perfect, everything leading to this moment was perfect.

The next morning, I went off to forage some wild asparagus and left a "Gracias Lola" engraved in a stone and two freshly plucked, atomic red poppies at her spot. We pedaled into town and met Juan and his hand-painted neon-green, undersized and under-construction bicycle at a café. He asked about every detail of our trip and gear, daydreaming of hitting the road himself one day, begrudgingly wanting to get away from this small town, it seemed.

We said our goodbyes and at around 5 p.m., pedaled toward Mérida. It was late and dark and we didn't know where to go. We pedaled at night, the city passing us like a slow blur, and managed to find some farmland on the other end. With just one headlamp and the moon guiding us, we pushed up a dirt path until we could see an overview of the city lights in the distance. Satisfied to the core of our being, we watched the moon in all its glory before nodding off.

For the next two days, we rented a small studio fully equipped with a kitchen, washing machine, leopard wallpaper, a rotating disco ball, and optional red and blue lighting. We scrubbed the wild off our skin, explored the historic streets, caught up on work, and got ready to get back on the road again.