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, 2026—Georgia

The next few days were rainy and the climb was slight but incessant with gorgeous, dripping views all around. One day, we were high up in a cloud and a storm crept up on us along with a hail shower. We found cover below a concrete bridge until it mellowed out, then continued pedaling into the thick fog. By the end of that day, Santi started to feel a little sick, and the weather wasn't letting up so the next rainy morning in the Caucasus mountains, we decided to hitchhike.

After about twenty minutes standing with our thumbs out, a tiny red car with two boys pulled over and they said they could take us until Gudauri. I looked at the tiny car, then at the four of us, then at our two fully packed bikes, and couldn't imagine how it would work, but the boys seemed to have it all figured out. We crammed our bags in the back with us and they tied our bikes to the roof of the car. It wasn't their first time hauling large items on this thing. Once all packed in—and on—I felt like I was in one of those clown cars where despite physics, an endless amount of things could fit.

They dropped us off in the parking lot of a supermarket, and as we were getting our bikes and bags all set up, they came out with a bag of food for us. We stayed in town for the next two days, mostly working online and we went for a hike in the mountains nearby. At the hotel, we met a bikepacking couple from the UK, also in town for some downtime while one of them recovered from a sprained arm. They are pedaling to Australia.

On Saturday morning, we got back on the saddles and pushed our way up the narrow, winding mountain road, cars passing too close for my liking. After about 10 kilometers of stress, I had had enough. I stuck my thumb out again and we were back in a motorized vehicle, this time a spacious white van with two brothers with a thirty-year age gap.

They dropped us off in Stepantsminda, just twelve kilometers away from the border with Russia. It was only 1 p.m., so we had more than enough time to pedal into Russia. Before leaving the town, Santi went to a shop to spend the last of our Georgian Laris on some chocolate and iced tea. I stayed outside with the bikes and a fellow cyclist came to talk with me. He was also heading to Russia in a couple of days and continuing toward Mongolia. When I told him about our route, he was surprised that with an e-visa, I could leave through the Russia-Kazakhstan border. He said that maybe the rules had changed but when he last checked, one couldn't exit Russia with an e-visa through that border. Santi joined us at that moment and all three of us checked the list of authorised crossing points for people travelling on a Russian e-visa. Turned out I didn't do my homework well and in the blink of a conversation, we had to replan our entire route. 

If that wasn't enough, Chris also informed us that we wouldn't be able to use our debit card in Russia and that buying a SIM card is impossible for tourists. Once more, impeccable timing from the universe to meet this fellow bike traveler right before entering Russia.

We went from feeling gutted to elated in the span of two minutes: dissapointed that we wouldn't be in the 'Stans' in the next month, but then excited that we would visit Mongolia and make it to Japan before the end of 2026, when we thought we had at least another year to go. It felt like a whole new trip. The only catch was that we had to head back to Tbilisi so Santi could apply for his Chinese visa, since we would be there in just under two months now.

We weren't exactly sure how it would all play out but the next morning, as we were asking our host if we could stay another night, we got to talking and she said she was heading to Tbilisi later to see her daughter. The decision was made for us then and there to go with her that afternoon. We secured our bikes in her yard and left some bags with her and a few hours later, the three of us were in a minibus on our way back to our beloved city.

June 13-July 5, 2026—Georgia

We arrived to Tbilisi in the late evening after a long day of pedaling and several flat tires from Santi's bike. So many that we exhausted our supply of spare inner tubes and patches and had to walk the last seven kilometers to the guesthouse in Marjashvili.

With sweat beading down our backs and hands covered in dirt and grime from bicycle maintenance, we somehow enjoyed our three-hour walk, hauling bikes and bags across the busy streets of the capital. The whole situation felt right on point for our last day before settling down for a while. We could already tell that we would love this city.

By 11 p.m., we finally arrived at our rental. The host greeted us warmly and, after giving us a quick tour of the place, mentioned that there was an issue with the water and it would be off for a couple of hours. A couple of hours turned into a couple of days until on day two, early in the wee hours, I heard the glorious sound of liquid rushing through pipes and the toilet basin filling up. I stripped down and ran to the shower. My skin's microbiome thanking me for the rejuvenation.

Our apartment wasn't the best, but I loved it there. I would wake up around 9 a.m., sit in the kitchen area engulfed in sunlight, read and make tea in this borrowed resemblance of the ordinary. We spent a lot of time outside, the whole of Tbilisi—or at least what we enjoyed of it—was right at the building's front door: fruit and vegetable vendors on the sidewalks, second-hand shops every few meters, cafés, grocery shops, and interesting makeshift buildings, all in our neighborhood. We often wandered around, fascinated by the wonky constructions and how they had ever passed inspection, or were even still standing.

We intentionally rented the place on Marjashvili only for seven days so that we could explore other parts of the city. By week two, we were on the right bank of the river. We didn't like it much. The area felt commercial, with wide avenues and little character. But Santi was happy because from our apartment window he could see the football pitches and when he saw players, he would join them. Language barriers and unfamiliar surroundings didn't seem to matter much. Football is always his comfort zone.

For our third and last week, we returned to the neighborhood we loved and focused on getting ready for our journey towards Russia. We stocked up on spare bike parts, organized our setup, and got rid of unused items.

Saturday came and we set off after a long morning of shenanigans. A few pedal strokes later, we were off the bikes again, tinkering with my setup. I had padded the space between my handlebar and basket with a block of styrofoam I'd picked up from the trash to prevent them from clanging together over bumps. It fixed one problem and created a new one. Now I had a deafening screeching sound when I turned my handlebar either way. 

After some adjustments, we were finally on our way. We managed about twenty-five kilometers or so before renting a room in a quiet villa. We ate on the balcony and called it a day. 

April 6-April 12, 2026—Turkey

Morning arrived crisp and alive. After packing, we rolled into town for some bread, labneh, and steaming hot çays, then set off. As we were pedaling along a dirt road through kilometers of agricultural land with rows of shiny red strawberries stretching beside us, we met a young family who handed us a bag of freshly picked fruit. We sat with them for a while, enjoying juicy berries and soft conversation. With stained and sticky fingers, we carried on a few more kilometers and set up camp at another olive grove, this one near a highway just before Aydin. I fell asleep to the tune of Strawberry Fields Forever in my head.

The next day, we made it to the city tired and dusty, rented a place, and let laziness take over until morning.

We got on our bikes late and stopped for a quick bite to eat at a café in the city’s main park. Santi noticed that the family at the next table was staring at us, at our bikes, at our trip Instagram page. He was right. The lady came over with her phone’s translation app, asking: “Do you need anything? Be our guest." I thought the “Be our guest” part meant something like “Welcome to our country." I replied with: “Thank you, we are fine." She looked at her phone, a little annoyed and sat back down. We ate our cheese and tomato toasties and continued to communicate with them. The older woman finally said: “I want you to be my guests at my home."

We spent the next three days with them. They fed us like royalty, took us around the city, brought us coffee while we worked online, and shared çay around an evening fire in their yard. We tried to help out with small things around the house and I helped Esra open an online shop to sell her beautiful art.

By April 11, it was time to carry on our journey. As we packed our bikes, the whole family joined in. Toprak passed us our panniers, Çinar wiped dry mud off our rims, Esra picked fruit from her fruit trees for us, and grandma stuffed our bikes with food she had prepared. We hugged grandma tightly and pedaled off with Esra and the boys joining us for the first few meters.

We gave our last heartfelt goodbyes and tight hugs to the family, wishing to cross paths again and stay in touch. After a last wave back, we followed the road to Nazilli, an easy forty kilometers or so. 

On the way, we got offered more strawberries, a truck pulled over to give us bottles of water, and a gym owner invited us in for coffee.

We arrived in town and booked a cheap apartment in a pansiyon, made some food, and took it easy.

The next day started with some maintenance on our bicycles, tightening our handlebar baskets with some more zip ties we found on the road and recycled inner tubes. A man on a bicycle approached us, asking about our trip. We spoke for a while and he pedaled off. Just as we were heading out, he reappeared and offered us tea and breakfast. We sat at the restaurant terrace with him, eating menemen and bread, sipping çay, and talking through the translator app. He said that he dreams about one day doing a trip like ours but his circumstances won’t let him. "Or maybe I am just good at finding excuses," he confessed.

Just before we left, the curious waitress who had been lingering around our table, mesmerized by our lifestyle, gave me the blue-beaded necklace she was wearing. “For you to remember me,” she said.

Bellies and hearts full again, we continued east. The route unfolded along dirt paths and across shallow streams until we found camp in a dreamy olive field dotted with wild flowers. That night, lying awake beneath the stars, my mind kept trying to make sense of all the warm hospitality we had received in this country. I couldn't crack it.