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.

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.

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.

October 4-October 10, 2025—Croatia

In the morning, the shining sun softened the crisp air in Rijeka. We glided along the coast, taking our time, happy to be back on the bikes, the path welcoming us with crystal clear waters and mountainous views until our final stop of the day in a rocky green field a few meters from the road. We cooked a warm meal and let sleep carry us into the cold night.

At one in the morning, the rain came in sharp and hard, pounding against the tent like a million little insects knocking, begging to be let in. It went on for hours. The wind joined the symphony, howling through the seams and soon our fabric home began to dance—wild, erratic, possessed. We waited for the rain to stop, or the wind to stop; something had to stop eventually, but neither did. It was time to make a break for it.

We made a plan, unzipped the tent and the chaos swallowed us whole. Santi went first, shouted that the tent was wounded but I already knew that from the way it moved. I passed him the bags and stepped out into a muddy pit, rain slapping my face, and wind blowing anything that wasn't weighted down. Clothes soaked in seconds, we packed with numb fingers, impressed by the absurdity of the moment. We fought against the wind to fold away our tent but the wind won; we bundled our muddy home up into a ball and stuck it into a plastic bag, heavy and sad-looking. 

Cars zoomed by as we pushed our bikes along the guard rail. The wind was hitting me from the left side, forcing me to crouch down to avoid being wiped off the road and into the steep fall below. Santi shouted something—couldn't hear, only saw his mouth moving, lips blue. We kept pushing for kilometers, not knowing to where but anywhere had to show up sooner or later. Then, right off the road, we spotted a guest house with a roofed patio, ground level. The place was closed. We stripped down and put on any dry clothes we had left, puddles spreading on the tiles below our bikes. The owner pulled up and saw us there. I apologized and explained that we just needed a moment to warm up and we would be on our way. She looked at us, understanding, and translated on her phone: "The place is closed, but there is no way you can continue pedaling in this storm. I want to offer you a room for the night."

Entirely grateful, we grabbed some things and embraced the warmth. Heater on high, feet on dry land, and the buzzing in our ears finally fading, we reveled in the paradox of the situation. 

By 4 p.m., the sun came out and the wind calmed down. If it wasn't for our soaking wet gear and tired faces, we might have felt like this morning never really happened. A few hours of sunlight left, we opened up and rinsed the mud out of our things, gear sprawled out everywhere, sun-drying. We made a soup and slept deeply in the lush king-sized bed, the room a warm cocoon.

The next day, all was well again and after packing up, we were back on our saddles. First stop: the nearest supermarket for some greasy burek sa sirom and yogurt. We ate it in the sun at the marina, Santi commenting about owning a small boat one day. Shoes soaked through, still holding yesterday's storm, we pedaled in our socks and flip-flops through busy roads, fast cars, and narrow shoulders. The glorious landscape kept us company all the way. After a few stops for coffee, food, and a wander through a small town, we reached a closed camping ground, gated and locked. We set up our tent in a corner of the parking lot, ate some hot food, and huddled together in our joined sleeping bags.

Some morning kilometers later, arriving at the foot of a mountain range, the sun glinted off a sign with cartoon animals: Welcome to Velebit, home of three large carnivores. There was a bear in swim shorts enjoying a drink, a wolf windsurfing, and a lynx taking a selfie. For two vagabonds on bikes, camping wild, it wasn't too comical. A quick stop at a stony micro-beach and our GPS led us to a ferry where we met a Swiss couple bikepacking a couple of weeks every year since 1990. We somehow recognized ourselves in them.

On the other side, we joined two young German boys who had a similar plan as ours for the night—grocery shop and set up camp somewhere wild and free. Riding and talking, awed by the beauty of the pink sunlight reflecting off pale stone and the single black strip of asphalt cutting through it all. As night fell, we arrived back to civilization and found camp somewhere flat and green. It was nice to have some company for the night.

The first sounds that morning were our neighbors unzipping their tent. We lingered in a little longer, enjoying the warmth, then started our day. The familiar packing routine, this time with some conversation and a little drone photo session between coffee and teeth brushing. By 11 a.m., we were out of there and, preferring to keep our slow, leisurely pace, said our goodbyes to the speedy cyclists.

Around noon, we were in a little town with a cheese shop, bought a wedge of local goat cheese and enjoyed it with some fresh bread. We rode until nightfall at around 6:30 p.m., arriving at a cluster of houses. The place was dead except for one man in his driveway. We asked where we could set up our tent and we didn't speak the same language but we understood that it was not possible there. He brought us three kilometers back to another little town with a small campsite. The owner asked us how much we wanted to pay. We said ten. He said, "That's too low." Why ask, then? All we needed was a safe place to sleep—nothing else. He agreed on ten euros. At dawn before heading out, we emptied our wallet onto the table: seven-something and a lonely rolling button. That's all we had. We offered to go to the nearest ATM, fifteen kilometers back. He tsked, unimpressed, and bid us farewell.

Slightly embarrassed, we grabbed our things and pedaled out of there, toward our rental for the next couple of days—an interval of work, rest, eat, work, rest, eat.