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From Portugal to Japan on Wheels: A Vagabond's Travelogue
Back on the Saddles and into the Middle East
March 31-April 4, 2026—Turkey
Morning came around in Athens, cold and moody, luring us to stay put a little longer. We packed anyway, trying to remember how all of our things once fit seamlessly into our dusty panniers, moving with quiet hesitation and dragging out every moment until departure. Our ferry from Piraeus to Çesme was only scheduled for 8 p.m. that evening.
Once the bikes all saddled up and out the door, we headed to a café with the tenants from our sublet for the past month and a half, who returned that morning. By 3 p.m., we finally took off and pedaled our way to the coast, half wondering how the hell we were able to cross the European continent this way, half eager to see what will come next.
* * *
Neither of us had ever been on such a grand ferry for a long crossing and in our cabin, we felt fancy for a while, then, nausea gradually crept in. We slept it off. By the time we docked at our transit island, light still tucked behind the horizon and air so crisp you could crunch it, we were good to go.
After a 30-minute ride on a much more modest vessel, we were in our promised land.
From the bike, everything looked the same: trees woody and green, pavement solid and worn, sky in its usual location, rain still pouring and cold. Only here, when we arrived to our destination for the night, strangers handed out free food and drinks, locals welcomed us with black tea and fried dough balls drenched in syrup, and their hospitality exceeded anything we had experienced so far.
After this festive welcome to Turkey, we pedaled a few more meters to Tolga’s place, his home overflowing with cats. In every corner something was unfolding: a cat drank from the leaky kitchen faucet, two wrestled across the living room carpet, one licked Tolga’s face as he spoke to us completely unfazed, another ran away with a fork in his mouth, ... Between the art-covered walls and the constant feline chaos, the place felt like a funhouse.
By candlelight, with Marcello curled on his lap, Tolga told us stories from his time as a geologist in Africa—stories that went from wild camping in remote land to the gold-mining misunderstanding that landed him in jail. Something about permits and sampling rights that escalated far beyond what he could have imagined. He spoke about it lightly, as if it belonged to another lifetime, while Marcello purred under his hand and the room flickered with warm light.
The following day, we were off toward our next WS hosts, a lovely family of four. Umut and Demet introduced us to raki, a Turkish anis-flavored spirit, and we spent the evening eating and chatting. They invited us to stay an extra day due to the relentless rain. We rested, played with little Çinar for hours, and helped finish a sewing project.
When morning came, the sky was still grey but good enough to carry on. It was an easy ride through scattered rain showers and by afternoon we rolled into our first Turkish city: Izmir. We wandered aimlessly for a while before booking a place in a mediocre hostel we paid too much for. With all our things crammed in the Barney-purple room, we enjoyed an evening walk before bed.
We woke around nine-ish to no water in the hostel. I complained to the receptionist, packed up and tried the water again, it was back. We showered and left. Outside, we joined an interminable line leading to a bakery and got some traditional baked goods and two çays before heading to the bazaar. Santi's motivation hadn't fully returned since we got back on the bikes, so when Umut had suggested taking a train past some long, uneventful stretches out of Izmir, he saw it as validation. We took a train to Selçuk and just outside town, found a camp spot among the olive trees. Our first night back in the tent after many months: unpleasantly cold yet delightfully homely.
A Greek Interlude
December 15-March 30, 2026—Greece
By the time the weather morphed into winter, we had arrived in Greece. The plan was to make it to Kefalonia, an island off the west coast, where two furry friends and a housesitting break were already lined up for us. By this point, our bodies and minds were eagerly anticipating the mundane routine of four weeks in a house, taking care of animals, and replenishing our bank accounts by working online. But we still had some chilly kilometers ahead of us before arriving.
Somewhere along the Ionian Coast, we pedaled right into a cycling couple we had met a while back in Albania. A happy coincidence, especially because we had been bitching about our sluggish start that day and were somehow running late... late for what, who knows, but it turned out we were right on time and exactly where we had to be. The four of us pedaled as a pack, chatting on wheels into the evening until we arrived to our last town with the ferry that would take us to our holiday island. We booked a place in Astakos and grabbed some beers and pizzas; sort of an impromptu mish-mash celebration of our meeting again, Santi and my crossing Europe by bike, and their bike trip shortly coming to an end in this country.
The next morning, lazily, we parted ways, them by land, us by sea.
The views from the top of the ferry were spectacular. Nothing but blue water and a scatter of islands of every size. One overpriced café latte and some hours later, we docked in Kefalonia.
As we arrived earlier than planned with our housesit host, we rented a guesthouse for a couple of days in Sami. The town was quiet and the view from our balcony stretched over the mountainous landscape.
The morning came to make our way to the other side of the island. It was our last ride of the year. We pedaled along quiet coastal roads for 60 kilometers or so, and arrived in a small town where we met Yvonne. She let us stay in her mom’s summer house until they left, in a few days. Turned out to be more like over a week because her son got sick, then she caught it, … eventually we moved into her beautiful and oh-so-cozy home.
Life was slow and ordinary, and it was a nice contrast for a while. Every morning, Hendrix the dog woke us gently at 7:00 a.m., time to eat and walk, Mickey the cat stared out the door to be let out, we worked on our projects or taught online, ate, went on another walk around the neighborhood, watched a movie while cuddling the cat, slept, repeat. Even after the housesit gig was up, we hibernated on the island thanks to Yvonne, who let us stay in a studio of hers for as long as we needed.
Santi had to fly out to Rome to renew his passport, and on his way back to the island, he made a friend on the ferry who lived near us with her partner. We spent some good times with the Greek couple exploring the nearby mountain trails, local cafés and eateries, and learning about their culture.
Finally, we traded the quiet island for the iconic “cradle of Western civilization”: Athens. It was the end of February and the weather still wasn’t ideal for being intentionally homeless so we decided to rent an apartment just outside the center. The historical monuments are wondrous and all, but we preferred spending our time wandering our local neighborhood, people-watching, and just being.
Around that time, friends and family were warning us about tensions between the US and Iran and the possible danger zones on our way east. After crossing Turkey, we were hoping to go through Iran and get to know the country and its people that we had heard so many beautiful things about. Instead, we will be heading north towards Georgia and will probably go around the Caspian Sea through Russia. But all that is to be discovered on the road.
What is certain: today, Monday, March 30, 2026—one day before we ride again, bikes packed and waiting at the door—I feel that electric charge in my body, gratitude for the freedom of the open road and the wonder it awakens in my soul.
Onward into the unknown.
Week Twenty-Three: After the Howls
October 11-October 17, 2025—Croatia
Saturday morning, packed and ready to go, we pedaled toward Zadar. Wandered the city, lazy and unmotivated, the sun setting soon, still unsure where to sleep. A quiet place to rest would be nice. We remembered a WarmShower host that we contacted some days ago, who allowed us to set up camp on his untamed land near a small beach, secluded and unbothered, some forty-something kilometers from us. Apart from the distance, it sounded perfect. The journey started on tarmac, then kilometers of bumpy dirt road through dark forests. Headlamps on, honking bicycle horns, pushing on clumsily but steady, mindful that large carnivores live here. We eventually made it to the wild land on the beach and set up. At peace.
The next morning, we brewed our coffee on the forgotten stony beach, nothing but sun, water, and silence. Still lazy, we decided to stay another night but we needed drinking water. We pedaled with naked bikes and empty bottles to the nearest town. Cute little place with a marina and a pekara with the best burek sa sirom so far. Ordered another one and made our way back to our lost corner. Silvio wrote to us that another cyclist was also going to crash there for the night.
After the sun set and the dark cut in, we lit a fire on the beach and chilled there with Henning, the flames swaying to the flow of the ocean. Conversation rolling on tempo then fading along with the firelight.
Back in the tent, bed sheets evoked fire smoke and sea salt, then sleep.
In the depths of the night, I was woken by the chilling but awesome sound of wolves howling too close for comfort. Santi heard it too. Do wolves howl to plot, or to celebrate a hunt? What do I do if they come close? We both lay there silently, without saying a word about it, pretending to be asleep until daylight.
I unzipped the tent, amused at my mind and how suddenly yesterday's peaceful oasis and desire to linger had now shifted into a sense of urgency to hurry back to civilization. We packed up, however slow as ever, excessively aware of any sound nearby.
Finally out of there, we trundled on to Sibenik and decided to rent a room. Our bikes resting safely at the rental, we got lost in the charming old town, falling in love with every turn. By early evening, bed was calling. I fell asleep thinking about the howls, about how they awakened something visceral and ancient in me—a glimpse into another timeline—and grateful for the rawness of it all. Sweet, sweet sleep ensued.
The next morning, a greasy burek in one hand, a pen in the other, I wrote a postcard to my brother. We bumped into the old Swiss couple from a few days ago, exchanged smiles and hugs, and hit the road. Three kilometers in, a sharp twang, like guitar strings snapping, from Santiago's rear tire. Two or three more broken spokes. We detoured to the nearest bicycle shop. No luck. Santi took off the rim and pedaled my bike to another shop while I waited, guarding our things, sat outside a mall. I watched the world go by for two hours. The sun was already setting when he came back with fixed spokes and a booked room back in Sibenik. Seemed our beloved town wasn't finished with us just yet.
Just as sunlight was piercing through the dense cluster of buildings, we were already enjoying the quiet echo of our footsteps against cobblestones, street cats stretching awake. We stopped for breakfast at a small restaurant, then on toward Trogir, where we were going to catch a ferry to Split. Sixty long kilometers later, we learned there were no more ferries until morning. We fueled up on yogurt and muesli, the last thirty kilometers a fast blur of cars and streetlights through the night. And then, the big city. Just past 8 p.m., we were in our rental studio, had a quick shower, then back out for a wander and some food. Finally, our bodies melted into the mattress along with our minds.
On Thursday, we walked around the city—full of ancient beauty and guided tourist tours—and found a bike repair shop that could change Santi's rim, strolled around mindlessly, then worked.
The next day, Santi got his bike back—a new rim and new motivation. We worked into the evening but our minds were already on the road, ready to embrace whatever may come next.
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