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 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.

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.