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 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.

May 3-May 10, 2025—Portugal

Departure day, and the temperamental sky above Setúbal shed heavy showers on and off, erratically, as if to test us, as if to check if we were really sure about the adventure that lay ahead. But it didn't dampen our moods. All packed up to the brim with the things we thought we'd need, and the things we weren't sure we did but brought anyway because who knows, we got ready to set off, say our goodbyes, give our hugs and promises to keep in touch, not convinced whether the latter were sincere. We pedaled wholeheartedly towards the unknown.

Fifty wet and dry, up, down, and winding kilometers later, we decided it was about time to settle for the night. We ended up near a forgettable town called Vendas Novas. Unsure how this wild camping thing goes, we pitched our tent in a dubious spot littered with broken liquor bottles and a lonely worn-out shoe, among some bushes near the train tracks. Hesitant but happy, alert but content. Me reassuring him, offering comfort born only from the quiet conviction that “it has to be fine." Not the most picturesque place but it served its purpose for the night.

The next day, in the overcrowded haphazard interior of the tent wet and cold from condensation, we woke groggily and packed our things clumsily, still getting used to cramming all our belongings into four panniers, in some sort of order, so that we could easily access the things we might need during the day, without a clue yet of what those things might be. We got on the saddles of our bargained bicycles and pushed on for some thirty kilometers or so.

Tired legs, merciless weather, wet everything: it all prompted us to search for an Alojamento Local. Checked in, we laid our weary bodies and reveled in the luxury of a shabby guest room. Tomorrow, we'd certainly be replenished and ready to head to Évora.

By morning, after about three hours of pedaling, we stopped at a shop for some bits and bobs to improve our less-than-prepared, deal-with-it-as-it-comes setup. Later, we made ourselves at home in a large field with oak trees and high grasses galore and cooked our first hot meal under the open sky: noodles and chickpeas in a peanut butter sauce, with a bottle of red, courtesy of Jacinto and Margareta in Setúbal. We swigged generously, satisfied in all the senses. This spot was good to us. The night was fresh, open, starry, and calm. My mind silent.

We rolled through the city center with its cobbled streets, Roman remains, and tourist tours by day and returned to rest in that same sleepy secluded oak-filled stretch by nightfall.

Lazy and slow morning, packing and wandering around the field as if half wanting to leave, we started cycling at around 2 p.m. and journeyed about forty kilometers on an undulating road to the quaint town of Redondo. That night, we wild camped in a ubiquitous roadside field, filled our bellies, dozed off until daybreak.

About two dozen slow-going kilometers down the road, tired and worn, we once again opted for civilized sleeping quarters so we could rest our bodies and hand-wash our trail-dusted clothes. We fell asleep in a comfy and surprisingly plush bed, the TV watching us.

The next day, our freshly cleaned clothes still damp, we checked out and rode to the nearest park to lay them in the sun and sew some makeshift straps to the four corners of our sleeping bag to secure it to the mattress, preventing the whole thing from slipping and sliding and bundling up around our bodies during the night. In the late afternoon, we pedaled twenty-eight kilometers, set up camp in an odd and narrow location, and drifted off, far too pleased with our scrappy engineering.

In the dead of night, 1:30 a.m., we were woken by the unmistakable rumble of a stampede of wild boar. We heard them once, half asleep and dazed, running toward the tent, probably curious about this blue and orange shape on their path, then I shifted and turned and heard them, this time fully aware, running away, probably startled by the movement from inside. We whispered confirmations to each other of the spectacle we'd just witnessed and somewhat uneasy, went back to sleep. Later we would make it to our last Portuguese town before crossing over to Spain.