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.

July 6-July 12, 2025—France

Woke up to a flat mattress laid flaccidly under our stiff bodies, empty and resigned, and the wind blowing through our fabric walls. I filled in some pages of my travel journal and Santi determinedly added another patch to the airless baby blue piece of vinyl we sleep on. We packed our things and pedaled under a cloudy sky with rowdy winds blowing against us. Tired, sore, and entirely thankful for the life we chose, we pedaled playfully against nature's wrath, celebrating whatever adversities that come our way, the swift pouring rainfall, a holy bath to solidify our faith. The road stretched on through a variety of natural paths all the way to our final stop for the day. We pitched our home facing the spectacular view of rocky cliffs and green hills before us, and a family of wild boars made theirs in the bushes to our left. The relentless wind and fidgety boars made sleep impossible. At least we had the view.

The next morning was a coffee and croissant kind of morning, we both had two of each. Satisfied and satiated, we pushed our pedals for the next few hours until hunger struck again. We got a bunch of items from the grocery store and picnicked under the trees across from the parking lot. The dizzying wind, sleepless nights, and our full bellies incited us to find a cheap place with a bed for the night. We booked it and pushed on for eleven kilometers through smoke-filled skies from wildfires in towns along our way.

We pedaled right into a road packed with tourists and the glitzy, lit shops filled with things only 9 to fivers buy when intoxicated on the bliss of their yearly summer vacation, complete with all-you-can-eat mussel restaurants and ice cream shops every few meters. We took a turn into a small road just off of this funfair and found ourselves in Patrick's peaceful oasis at our sleeping quarters. A collection of things to restore among plants and repurposed treasures sprawled organically across the concrete driveway and paths to the three rentals. He showed us to our studio, still tidying up a few things in the rooms as he spoke. We put together a quick meal with some things at the bottom of our kitchen pannier and slept like babies.

By 10 a.m., we finally peeled ourselves out of bed and wandered down to the beach, the sand warm beneath our feet. Come lunch time, we each sat before a pile of mussels in white garlic sauce. Santi ate slowly, talking on the phone with his family, while I tore through my share of mollusks like a savage, unsure when I might eat like this again. When it became clear we weren't going anywhere after that meal, Patrick offered us to stay in another house. It wasn't tidy or well equipped, but it had a bed, a roof, and it was free—that's all we needed.

The next morning, up and packed, pedaling toward the familiar unknown, we got a message from a WS host, inviting us to camp in his backyard for the night. After buying two single mattresses and reluctantly retiring our battered one, we rode on to Saint-Jean-de-Védas, arriving by evening. New mattresses inflated to their full capacity—a habit formed after so many nights of slow deflation. l lay stiffly on mine and started thinking of different ways to fix our old baby blue, though deep down I knew there was no hope for her anymore.

Woke up sore and resentful of the new addition to our gear. Had breakfast with our host, Vincent, and left around noon. We had already booked our place to work for the next two days. After a steep climb, the gate opened up onto a stunning villa. An oval underground pool shimmered below light earthy tones, Mediterranean plants decorating the grounds, and our little rental studio sat perched with a balcony overlooking the peaceful view of verdant hills ahead: we hit the jackpot! This was home and office for the next two days. 

Our last evening there, we sat on our little balcony below the stars, the moon mirrored in the still pool below, and talked about the many layers of this life we're living. One day, we're sleeping in a tent with a patched-up mattress that looks like it fell out of a dumpster; the next, we're resting in a villa in the hills that looks like it came out of a Mediterranean dream, having cheese and wine that tastes like summer. Each moment as rich as the next.

Later, we slipped into the pool's cool water, the world quiet around us, and went to bed.

The next day, we were back on our saddles, eastbound, chasing the road and all its glory.

June 28-July 5, 2025—Spain/France

Morning spilled through the sliding glass doors of the living room and gently nudged us awake; the comforting smell of toast and coffee soon followed. After breakfast and easy chatter, Lucas taught us to tune our gears, just enough to keep our old rusty bikes humming along. Bikes and bodies reset, goodbyes and the customary wishes to cross paths again were exchanged with the French-Argentinian couple. Yerba mate stocked for the days ahead, we pedaled off through lively towns, past a funfair on the beach, festivities filling the air with music and chatter all the way to Calella to our WS host Xavi's place.

In the evening's fading light, we rolled up to a quiet building away from the tourist crowds. Inside, the oversized doorways opened into high ceilings, crisp white walls, and mustard yellow kitchen cabinets—a refurbished shell breathing inside the unfinished bones of the old building his grandparents left behind. It seemed to ooze stories from every corner. Our room was on the third floor. He served us pasta and pesto, cheese, white wine, and a side of history about the place for dinner. In the morning, coffee, croissants, and another round of goodbyes.

The sun was already blistering hot when we stepped outside. First stop: nudist beach, followed by forty kilometers of sandy paths, melting tarmac, and neon-colored popsicles dissolving faster than we could eat them. We set up camp in a forested area, on a narrow path cutting through the density, ate bread and peanut butter while mosquitoes feasted on our blood. That night, the warm air was thick with the resinous sun-baked green aroma of Catalonian flora.

Woke with skin and sleeping bag melding into one, packed and stopped at a roadside café, Santi had a coffee, filled water bottles. A sweaty twenty kilometers later, we pulled into a library in Girona, escaping the wave of heat. I wrote while Santi edited videos; the cool, quiet space, a stark contrast to the heat and chaos outside. When the day's intensity softened, we grabbed a bite to eat at the grocery shop, then rode uphill searching for somewhere green and sound for the night. We found a sloped spot overlooking the city, set up in the dark, lights twinkling below.

In the morning, my tire was flat from rolling blind through wild grounds the night before. Patched it up and pedaled on, arriving to a charming rustic town by midday. We found a place to nap below the trees and swam in a lake, had tortilla and passed around a cold beer, then headed forty-something kilometers to Figueres, a town where Salvador Dalí's presence still echoes loudly. We sat in the square watching life unspool, then gave in—rented a cheap room, scrubbed the dust from our bodies and clothes, edited, rested. Slept in a bed with a perfect view of the Pyrenees.

The next day, we ate an overpriced Colombian breakfast, had vegan ice cream, filled our bottles in a cold fountain, and headed for the mountains. We had prepared mentally for the journey through the Pyrenees but it turned out to be a smooth ride and before we knew it, the blue starry sign: France. We made it! We pushed on, too ecstatic about everything we passed, devouring the glorious landscape until Maureillas las Illas at our WS hosts and camped in their backyard. A happy night under the French stars.

The next day, the ocean lulled us toward it. Beach towns lined with packed terraces, a gentle, salty breeze, and a sense of freedom stretching out beyond the horizon. 

By morning, we were on the clock again, laptops open, this time in the chilled lobby of a 5-star hotel. We sipped expensive coffee, refilled bottles with on-tap sparkling water, and blended in like two scruffy vagabonds against the pristine tapestry of the place. By evening, we found a field where tall grasses swayed and rocked our fabric home to sleep.

Saturday unraveled in fragments—quick stop at a grocery shop, a call with an old friend, pedaled, ate, waited out the rain. Another stretch brought us to a naturiste village where we swam and waved to the bare-bodied inhabitants strolling by, then back on the saddle, thirty-nine more kilometers until the horizon opened into the perfect camp spot. We patched the mattress, lay down, and let the quiet swallow us whole.

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.