JC Bici

The trip in numbers

2007-10-18T14:41:00.000-04:00

Hi everyone,

I am home, safe and sound. It's been one week since I last rode the bike, and I think my body's reacting by dropping its deffenses. I'm harboring a cold and some fever, but those will go away soon. With the trip over, I now face the challenge of readjusting a bit to life in Boston, and how my immediate future will shape up, specifically getting a job and organizing my living situation. In the meantime, my brother's house in Wellesley is a great interim, especially now that I'm almost (finally!) done remodeling the basement. It will be a bit of my own space to settle into.

With the benefit of hindsight, there are many, many things that I could say about the trip, but I doubt any one paragraph description would do justice. To those of you who have been keeping up with the blog, I hope it's been a way to not only follow along, but also to come along and enjoy, albeit from a distance, the adventures I have found and the things I have seen. Given that pictures really are worth a thousand words, at least, I think the photos I have posted do a good job. It's reassuring to know that when I tell a story or describe a situation, in many cases there is an image to latch onto for friends and family to enjoy.

Perhaps the single biggest thing that I take away from the trip is the knowledge that there is adventure out there waiting to be had, and that it's important to embrace that adventure every now and then, to go into the unknown and remind yourself that we can survive outside of our comfort zones. Doing so gives you a fresh perspective both on the adventure, but also on the life and routine we keep at home. It's a bit cliche to point to famous quotes, but the words of T.S. Eliot's "The Little Gidding" ring true:

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

With that said, I feel like I can sign off the blog, which I don't intend to keep now that I'm home, thank everyone for tuning in, and leave you with some numbers.

Days spent traveling: 70

Days spent biking: 34

Money spent: $2261 (average of $32.31 daily, which is less than 30 euros, which was my budget!!) + $1075 airfare = $3336

Spanish communities visited: 12 of 17

Distance traveled: 2503 miles

Time on the saddle: 7 days, 13 hours, 35 minutes, 25 seconds

Average distance per day: 73.6 miles

Average speed: About 13 mph

Mechanical incidents: 4 (2 flat tires, 2 broken spokes, all on the rear wheel)

Weight change: -2 lbs. I think I traded some fat for muscle mass in my legs.

Photos taken: 1255

Thursday, October 11, 2007: Grand Finale

2007-10-14T17:23:00.001-04:00

5:45 - I wake up to an alarm. My roommate for the night at the youth hostel, Renato, is up early to head to La Alhamabra and wait in line for a ticket to get in. I tipped him off that the lines were long, and after calling the tourist info line, they told him he had better be there before 7am if he hoped to get a ticket. In his little Spanish, he says goodbye, and I wish him good luck.

7:53 - After tossing and turning and not getting much more sleep, I decide to get up and get going.

8:29 - Packed, dressed, and ready to go, I am just in time to hit up the complementary continental breakfast. I realize it´s going to be a day tight in time, as I have 100km to cover before 3:30 to catch a train to Madrid.

9:11 - After checking out of the hostel and stretching, I straddle the bike, reset my bike computer, and head start the ride.

9:23 - I realize I am lost on my way out of the city. I stop to ask for directions, and am told that the road I plan on taking out of the city has a lot of traffic, but it´s really the only way to avoid the highway.

10:40 - After finding the road, I am making good time. The wind is behind me, there are no hills to climb, and even though traffic has been busy, I have an ample, well-paved shoulder.

11:46 - Despite having made great time to the first small city where I planned to have lunch, Alcalá la Real, I get lost finding the road I want to be on. I ask a cop dressed in a bright yellow vest for directions.

12:08 - The cop´s directions were poor. After following his signals, I am well out of the city, but I don´t see the signs I expect. It feels like I´m going too far west and not far enough north. I am also heading uphill. After getting to what I think is the top of the climb, I look out at the landscape and decide that I am going the wrong way. I head back downhill.

12:17 - I find a road sign that points me in what I think is the right direction. Three uphill kilometers to the next town where I will stop and ask.

12:22 - The first person I see tells me that I can get to where I want to go on the road I´m on, but that it´s unpaved and probably will have to walk my bike most of the way. He suggests turning around, and going back up the same hill that I had climbed previously. The cop´s directions, though not very descriptive, were correct. In second guessing, I had lost 30 minutes. All of the sudden, the good time I had made earlier is erased, and I realize that I have 3 hours to cover something like 55km. That´s about 20kph, which is a tough pace, especially if there´s any climbing involved. My heart starts pounding harder.

12:35 - After setting a blitzkrieg pace uphill, I make it back to the point where I had stopped before and turned around. This time, I don´t even stop to admire the view. I realize it had been a false summit, and after a tiny bit more climbing, I head back down on the other side of the climb at 45kph. From my long downhill, it looks like I will have to climb out of the town, as it is located in a valley.

1:48 - I have kept up a good pace, but not 20kph. Indeed, I had to climb out of the town, and about the best I can muster uphill is 14kph. I have less than two hours with some 38km to go.

2:00 - I don't know what time it is, but I sense it must be getting close to 2. I look, and I am spot on. I had told myself that if at 2 I didn't think I could make it, that I would stop pushing myself so hard, and just plan on taking a later train, making Ana wait for me until about 11pm. I am cold. It's October, I'm at about the same latitude as Washington, DC, but I´m 1000 meters (3300 feet) up in the mountains. Even though the sun in shining brightly, there is a cool breeze, and heading downhill it's just plain cold. Passing clouds make it worse. Me right quad and both of my calves feel like they might cramp up. I decide that this last stage of my bike ride in Spain is a test, physical and mental, and that I´m just going to push myself as hard as I can. I look up at the sky, not in prayer, but just hoping that the sun warms me up a bit.

2:22 - Not looking at my speed, I know I am making good time, and that I might have a chance to make it. The pattern seems to be that there are mountains to climb, and in between there are towns in the valleys. I am about to descend into Villares, the last town before my destination of the city of Jaén, 28km away. Just over an hour left.

3:01 - The climb has been less than tough, and I am looking down on Jaén from the southern hills. No more climbing left, and I have about 8 km to the train station. It's in the bag, provided I don't get lost in the city. Fortunately, I was here two weeks earlier when I came on train from Zaragoza, and I remember exactly where the train station is. As I cross into the city, I see two other people on bikes. I slow down to ask them where they're from. They're and older couple from Austin, TX, complete with the southern twang and all, and they're here with a big group. At a traffic light, I tell them I really want to visit Austin, and that this is my last day of biking after 2 months. The light turns green, and I speed off. The last thing I hear is the man telling his wife that he thinks they have to turn left, and climb a small hill which he describes as 20% incline, but it really is not more than 10%. She disagrees with his sense of orientation. I look back to see that they have moved to the sidewalk to sort things out.

3:16 - I arrive at the train station, with time to spare, and buy my ticket. The train leaves in 13 minutes. Just out of curiosity, I ask the person at the counter if there are seats available on the later train. He explains that the later train is sold out because it's the first train to leave after people get out of work, and the last train to Madrid that day before the Friday holiday. I smile, say thanks, and take my ticket and head to the train.

3:38 - The train leaves late.

4:01 - After putting on pants on top of my spandex, slipping into my Crocs, and changing the jersey for a t-shirt, I go to the WC and wash my face. I am at the front of the train car, and everyone looks at me funny when I stand up to stretch. Out of curiosity, I look at my odometer, and realize that right before arriving at the train station, I had hit 4005km (2503 miles). The extra distance from getting lost pushed me over the mark, which I had previously thought I would fall short of.

4:10 - Because I didn't make many stops on my ride, I have lots of food left. I grub it all, and take a nap.

6:12 - I wake up, and the train is totally full. I read some, and look out at the wide plains heading into Madrid.

7:40 - Bright orange and purple dominate the sky as the sun sets. Reflecting on my trip, I feel pride, happiness, and an overwhelming feeling that I have changed, and I am glad for it.

8:15 - The train arrives late. I can't find the elevator exit, so I work the bike onto the escalators. It's a madhouse, the largest station in Madrid before a long weekend.

8:48 - After making my way out to the street, I have some trouble finding a payphone to call Ana. There is a protest going on outside the train station.

9:01 - I call Ana. She is waiting for me at another part of the train station. We meet up, head to her apartment just outside of Mardid in the suburb of Boadilla.

9:53 - I appreciate the shower with personal items, unlike the empty campsite showers. I appreciate having a big fluffy towel instead of my quick dry camping towel. I appreciate the wool top, jeans, and my black casual dress shoes that Ana has brought me from Burgos.

10ish - We meet up with some of Ana´s friends (Beatriz, Yara, and Nuri) for drinks and tapas. I have a caña (beer from tap), and we all share toasted bread with sundried tomatoes and foie gras, as well as some goat cheese with caramelized onions.

11ish - We head to the fairgrounds of the suburb of Boadilla, which is celebrating their annual fiestas. There is a little open-air market set up, and their is a covered arena with lots of young people dancing to spanish pop and reggaeton. The DJ is on a stage pumping out fake smoke and bright lights. I am struck by the contrast from when I woke up to where I am, hundreds of miles away, no longer alone, done with the bike ride, and 6 days away from heading back to Boston.

12ish - We head home, for what would be the first full night of uninterrupted sleep I have had in a really, really long time.

Continuing the pain

2007-10-09T15:07:00.001-04:00

I left Torre del Mar in Málaga this morning ready for some climbing. I wasn´t sure how much, but I was ready and well rested. At first, the road was smooth, and I looked northwest, in the direction of Granada, and seeing no mountains, I thought, "oh this is going to be a cinch". About 30km in, the road turned north and up (different things). First it was a tough 8km climb on a road that is barely wide enough for a single lane, yet this was a two-way road frequented by truck drivers looking to cut off some distance. Add to that the absence of a shoulder, and steep drop offs... the combined physical exertion with the mental stress of not getting hurt was draining.

At the top was the border crossing into the department of Granada, not to be confused with the city of Granada, which was still a good 80km away. But I figured most of the climbing had been done, again looking in the direction of the city and not seeing any big climbs, a strategy that I should know by now is not reliable. So I pleasantly trucked on, and found that the road went steeply downhill into the town of Alhama. By now I know that any downhills means that I will later have to climb, making both the descent and following ascent less pleasant than if I didn´t know that. On the climb out of Alhama, I missed a turn, and found myself on a path leading straight to the highway. D'oh!

But, as has been the case several times, fate, luck, God, the heavens, or whatever other supernatural force you want to invoke, smiled on me. Two km before hitting the road, I was on a climb, and I saw a rider on a nice road bike stopped, fiddling with something on his bike on the downhill side of the road. I stopped to ask if all was well, and realized this guy knew no Spanish. Turns out the guy was English, with a bit of a Scottish or Irish lilt to his accent. Paul, who was probably in his early 50s but looked a decade younger, and who was riding some sweet carbon bike tricked out with nice gear, turned out to be just the guy I was looking for. He moved 8 years ago to this part of Spain, and started a business where he leads running, cycling, and hiking training camps for people who are looking for that sort of stuff. The landscape is perfect for it, and it sounds like he makes a pretty decent living doing something he loves. It also turns out that he knows the roads in the area like the back of his hand, so after chit-chatting a bit, he pointed me to the best way to Granada, including descriptions like "past a road lined with poplars" or "up the road with newly laid pavement", things that are meaningful to a cyclist. So, to Paul, who pointed me on my way, if he ever reads this, thanks!

I arrived, short of food and tired from all the climbing, a bit bonked and zombie-like. I wasn´t in a mood to look for a campsite, so I balked, looked at the map that I have to find an are with pensiones, knowing I might have to dish out 25€. Another sign from the gods, as I looked in the map´s legend for the symbol, there, right next to the legend, was the youth hostel. I headed straight there, and for 15€ got myself a decent bed for the night, in a part of town full of students. Tonight, I am feeling like Italian or Chinese. I know it´s not typical, but a Chinese buffet would be soooo perfect right now. It´s 9pm here, so I should go and look for dinner options before they close.

The beautiful mountains

2007-10-08T14:55:00.001-04:00

First, I really do apologize that I haven´t uploaded photos. I haven´t been able to find computers that allow me to plug in my USB card, and also, since right after leaving Zaragoza, I ran out of space on my 1GB card that is USB ready, and have been using a standard SD card that I can´t plug into a USB port because I don´t have the cable. The good news is that I´ve taken a bunch of great shots, and will upload them when I can, probably back in Burgos just before my return to Boston.

Right now, I left Cádiz´s beautiful and awesome Atlantic coast, and went along the coast all the way to the Strait of Gibraltar. In Tarifa, I hopped in the water, thinking that it would be the last time I would see the Mediterrannean. Howevewr, I was wrong. While in Ronda, I realized that there were no campsites on the straightest route between there and Granada, so I would have to detour. The detour today takes me to a little town called Torre del Mar, about 20km east of Málaga. Multiple people had told me that Málaga was not worth going out of my way to visit, and that the same went to most of the Mediterrannean Coast. This was when I thought I would go south from Barcelona all the way to Tarifa. I´m glad those people gave me that advice, because, honestly, there isn´t all that much to see here. It´s overdeveloped beachfront, replete with intermittent casinos, gas stations, and gaudy hotels. To top it off, the beach isn´t even all that good. Not that I´m complaining, because I´m just here for the night, before turning back up into the mountains to Granada, which everyone raves about. After having seen Jaén, Córdoba, Sevilla, Cádiz and Ronda, I am really looking forward to seeing what is different about Granada.

Ronda was a great place for a rest. Some caves nearby have early human cave paintings of horses and people with arrows, just like you see in geography books, except this is so very real. You have to walk into the cave, tread through some water (not like the caves in Colombia), and eventually you get to the cave paintings, which are a sadly kind of far away for preservation reasons. I know this not because I went (I would have liked to, but they only open a few days a week, exactly those which I was not there), but I was told all this at the tourist office. What I did get to see in person is the abyss. I had previously described it as a cliff, but I think abyss is a much better word. The story is that there was an enormous rock just sticking out of the ground. Really, it was more of a small hill, but with very pronounced ends. And then there was a river headed straight for the hill/rock. Usually when this happens, the river goes around, but in this case, the river went right through, and eventually, over eons, it eroded an enormous path through the rock. Humans enter into the picture and settle on both sides of the path, but were separated by this 120 meter (appx 400 feet). Multiple bridges are build throughout history, but either the river, or some other natural force like an earthquake, do away with the bridge. One side of the river is called Ronda, a city dating back to the Romans. The other side is called Marcella, a city that developed later than Ronda, and by the 18th century had become a place to escape the tax laws that applied in Ronda, but not across the abyss. So, in 1750, the construction of a permanent bridge was commissioned and started. The bridge, called the New Bridge even though it´s over 200 years old, is now a symbol of the city, and a powerful one at that. Looking over the edge, down 400 feet to where the river still rushes through, you can´t help but feel some vertigo. From the bridge, you also get a great vantage point of the mountains on both sides, making it the tourist destination in Ronda. You can still sense how this all developed, with the older side of Ronda a maze of uneven, steep, cobbled streets that dates back to the 12th century or so, and the newer side across the bridge, where most people live now, is modernly designed with gridded, paved, and relatively even streets. Two worlds, so close together, so far apart, and linked by a bridge.

The ride out of Ronda was just as spectacular as the views. Of course, my perspective is a little skewed because I did descend something like 1200 meters to the coast. Everything looks nicer when you´re not climbing hard on the bike, and are able to look up and enjoy the scenery at a normal heart rate. To my credit, though, the ride up into Ronda was really nice, and I was climbing hard. But today, the scenery was spectacular, while the mountains drifted off into the background, I could see the coast approaching, awaiting with excitement. In the end, the coast itself was a bit of a disappointment, but the beauty of the ride stands on its own. Even though tomorrow is back up into the mountains on my way to Granada, I am excited about seeing beautiful landscapes again, away from hotels and neon lights.

I have updated the map, for all of you to get an idea of what path I have traced through Andalucia. The only things left are Granada and Jaén, and then a train ride to Madrid, a car ride to Burgos and back to Madrid, and a long flight back to Boston.

Ronda

2007-10-07T13:28:00.001-04:00

It was a long (130km) and painful (1000 meters) climb to Ronda, but the view was well worth it. It´s a cool little city, a bit overrrun with tourists, but a great setting for my day of rest. No time to write longer now, unfortunately at an expensive internet connection in the only campground near the city. I am headed downhill tomorrow towards Malaga before heading up again into Granada after that. PEACE!!

Seeing Africa

2007-10-06T05:06:00.001-04:00

Leaving Cádiz was not easy. Carlos and I went out to a wonderful bar called La Cambalacha where they had live jazz. The whole scene was very much like Wally´s, one of my favorite places in all of Boston. Small, simple bar, with a small, simple stage at the front, and a few guys just bustin´out. The guy on keys and the guy on bass were both Berklee alumni, so it was basically like being at home. We kicked back a few brews and enjoyed the music until 2am when the band stopped. I doubt there are many other people in all of Cádiz that I would get along with as well as Carlos, whose blog you should check out at: http://afrogaditano.spaces.live.com/

The road out was made easier by the fact that I was bordering the beautiful Atlantic Ocean, to my right hand for the entire day. At one point I couldn´t resist and put my bike down, took off my jersey and shoes, and hopped in the cool, clear water. It was awesome, although I was a little more salty than usual the rest of the day. Another adventure of the day was when I realized there was a break in the road, and I woud have to bushwack for about 1km over a little ridge. The only witness was a lost cow who dumbly stared at me. I made three trips, one to scout out how long and tough it would be to get across, one with my panniers, and one with the bike. The whole ordeal took about 45 minutes, and wort the adventure, especially since I got to see some awesome ruins on the other side.

Because I got a late start, and also because of the day´s adventures, I got in a little late to a campsite Carlos recommended. From my tent, I could see the lights flickering across the Strait of Gibraltar. Seeing Africa was powerful. Something about reaching these destinations that stand out in history and geography, and doing so by bicycle, is deeply moving. I also caught sunset from the top of an ancient tower from where I could scout out the entire area. Sweet!

Today, I break off from the ocean, and head up into the mountains to a little city called Ronda, which is apparently beautiful.

Kickin´ it in Cadiz

2007-10-04T09:08:00.001-04:00

I called my CouchSurfing host from a payphone in Cádiz, and he immediately knew who it was. "Juan Carlos?" "Juan Camilo", I corrected. Not five minutes later, we were chatting at a little café in the center of the city. Carlos, 31, is a surfer at heart working for his family´s customs business. A Cádiz native, he immediately makes you feel at home. Our coffee date was shared with a Polish couple who had CouchSurfed at his place the night before. Without much fanfare, Carlos gave me the keys to his place, pointed it out on a map, told me to make myself at home, explained that he had to run back to work, and asked if I wanted to meet up with him and some friends later that night to watch the Madrid-Lazio game. The whole thing was slightly surreal, and too good to be true.

The initial plan was to spend about 24 hours in Cádiz, and take off today for Tarifa. Plans change. Carlos´s hospitality, the promise of seeing some live jazz tonight at a little local bar, and also a bicicyle rally promoting better cycling facilities in the city all have convinced me that I should stay tonight, and leave early in the morning. Oh, that, and also the fact that although yesterday was a little cloudy, today the weather is impecable, proving why Cádiz boasts about its ample number of sunlight hours.

Again, like many other cities, there are layers. Phoenicians, Romans, Moors, Christians, etc. It is reputedly the oldest city in western Europe dating back to a millenium before Christ. Like Sevilla, in modern times the main dynamic that shapes the history of this city is the trade with the Americas, which has brought wealth and diversity to the city. The gitanos (gypsies), the nearby Africans, and other people attracted to the city´s lively economy have all intermingled to create a unique cultural panorama. Another important feature is that the city is on a penninsula, so it can´t really grow much more, allowing it to retain some of its charm from the late XIX and XX centuries.

Okay, that said, I am about to continue enjoying the city rather than being holed up in this internet cafe. I am hoping for good weather through the weekend, as I will head to Tarifa and then up into the moutains of Andalucia to Ronda and then back down to Granada. In one week I will be done with my cycling, and headed to Madrid. Bittersweet, but there´s still lots to do between now and then.

Into flamenco country

2007-10-03T07:45:00.001-04:00

Ships full of silver and gold left the Americas, and docked at Sevilla. Those were the golden years of the city, so to speak, when all traffic from the Americas stopped though, when the King and Queen used their palance in the city to greet explorers of the New World. Several centuries later, Spanish, African, even American people all lived together in the crowded streets of Sevilla and other cities in Andlucia. The New World was no longer providing riches, and all that remained was a legacy of mixed peoples.

This mixed peoples created a mixed culture, and music was no exception. Out of that fusion was born flamenco, a mixture of equal parts singing, guitar, and dance. I walked through the neighborhood in Sevilla that claims to be the home of flamenco, then 100km south I had some beers at La Taverna Flamenco, where bulería supposedly originated. Cádiz, where I am today, is not to be left behind, providing a walking tour of the flamenco neighborhood where renown artists were born, raised, where they learned their craft, and where the music and its mesmerizing beat is everywhere.

The episode at La Taverna Flamenco is worth telling in detail. The tourist map actually had a symbol for places of flamenco importance, and I was walking around seeing if any of them had live music. At one of these places, a guy who readily introduced himself as a traveling salesman told me that the musicians were about to go on stage and that I should stick around. Waiting for the music to start, he gave me his sales pitch for these gaudy-looking necklaces which he claimed my girlfriend would love. He pulled out from under his shirt, tucked into his pants, a brown bag with the product, which he laid out before me. Unable to tell him that I thought they were horrendous, I just smiled and nodded, while he held a dialogue with himself where he lowered the price from 15€ to 5€. He continued saying they were "precious", obviously unaware of my lack of interest. Then the music came on.

Unable to resist the touristy urge, I pulled out the camera and took some video and photos, all while insisting to the salesman that I was not going to buy any of his necklaces. I think that this guy was somehow connected to the bartender, and when it became obvious that I would buy nothing, I think the salesman signaled to the bartender that I was not going to consume anything other than beers and flamenco, at which the bartender called me over and pointed to the sign (which I had not seen), that the flamenco show cost 18€ if at the bar, or 30€ if at a table with dinner. Having already eaten, and with 10€ in my pocket, I explained that no one had informed me of this when I walked in, and that I would just finish my beer and bounce. On my way out, asking how much the beers were, the bartender said they were on the house, and I just walked out quickly to escape being accosted by the salesman again on the way out. WIth the kind of smile on your face that you can only have when you realize that you have gotten something for nothing, I walked home to the youth hostel and had a long night´s sleep.

Traveling with all five senses

2007-10-03T07:31:00.001-04:00

SEEING: Have you ever tried looking at the sky directly above your head when you´re in a car. Why would you? On a bike, looking up and seeing the immensity of the sky is an incredible feeling. You geat a real sense of your place in the world, how big you are, and also how small you are. The space around you is both all yours, and at the same time it totally swallows you up.

HEARING: In a car, you mostly hear whatever is on the stereo, with a faint background white noise of traffic rushing by (unless you were in my Volvo during its last days, when the background noise was not so faint because of a bad window seal). On bike, you hear the unmuffled sound of cars, which makes you aware of just how nasty big, congested roads are. You hear the sound of factories as you pass them by, and you hear the sound of dogs barking at you as they protect their turf. You hear the wind rustling, and you sometimes even hear silence, total and absolute, like nothing you´ve ever not heard before.

SMELLING: This is perhaps the best advantage of traveling by bike. Sure, sometimes you have to put up with roadkill, the unpleasant stench of a rotting carcass on the side of the road is not something to take lightly. But more often than not, the smells are varied, and they invade you, like the olive fields in Andalucia, or the smell of the sea whenever you approach it. It makes me wish that, just like cameras capture sight and audio recorder capture sound, there were some way to capture the smell of a place.

TOUCHING: One of the more refined senses, yet also one of the harder ones to describe. I am going to extend this to "feeling" a landscape and a place. On bike, you really are in touch with the profile of a landscape, the force of the wind, the coolness that a breeze brings, and the oppressive heat of the sun directly overhead. When you stop, your sense of touch is waiting to be fed. What does a 2000 year old stone column feel like? Did Columbus´s feet walk this same road? Where does the marble that makes up this temple come from?

TASTE: Whatever the method of transportation, when you travel perhaps the most intimate exchange with another culture is eating local food. I am glad I didn´t bring a camping stove, because I would miss out on lots of local dishes. The nice thing about biking, though, is that you build up such an appetite, that all the food tastes a lot better. Your body craves all food, regardless, and something hot for dinner really brings a smile to your face, in stark contrast of the bread and fruit that usually power me through my day.

Last night

2007-10-01T10:11:00.000-04:00

Camping outside of Sevilla was not something that I was looking forward to after a 100-mile (160km) ride from Córdoba. Even though I made good time into the city, I did not arrive in time to hit up the tourist info center, and I was left to my own bearings to find lodging. With hostels starting at 30€ per night (seems to be standard), and the nearest campsite being 10km outside of downtown, I wandered aimlessly for a while thinking of what better options there could be, when there it was, right beneath my fee. No, not the floor. Instead, I saw the shell that marks the Camino de Santiago, my old friend. One of the less-traveled routes to Santiago goes through Sevilla, so here there is an albergue. After much wandering around looking for it (most locals don't even know it exists, or what the Camino is), I discovered that the albergue is in a convent and closed for the seasons. But they pointed me to a youth hostel that hosts pilgrims. With my pilgrim credentials, they put me up for 15€ per night, breakfast included. So, even though it´s a little more than I wanted to pay, it´s a good deal.

A striking thing about youth hostels is that, as far as travelers go, it's probably the most common form of lodging for young, budget travelers. This, I imagine, is only striking to me, being this the first one I have hit up in my many weeks traveling. Although it's fairly sterile, one really nice thing about it, like with the albergues on Camino de Santiago is that arriving there guarantees you a community of people who are ready and willing to share their experiences with you. It's not traditional Seville, but it's a big part of what traveling is about.

My roommates last night were two great characters. Toni, 27, is a flamenco guitarrist from Valencia. I knew we´d hit it off the minute he walked through the door with a guitar in hand. He is here for a year of studying at a flamenco-specific institute, and after a little while trading stories, it was only a matter of time before we traded some licks and taught each other some music. At midnight we were interrupted by a knock which we though was intended to quiet us down, but instead it was our third roommate, Pablo, a Chilean guy in his 50s who moved to Spain 6 years ago and has been working for a traveling fair that is set up in town for another month. The whole scene reminded me of how you begin making friends in institutional settings like arriving at college. We talked until we were too tired to continue, and as we were going to bed, Pablo, said something that stuck with me. He said that traveling is like reading books, you learn something and you learn something about yourself. Engrossed in "Don Quixote", his words rang true, and suddenly I was no longer sad that this trip is coming to an end.

I also realized that my long held belief that my three most sacred posessions are my guitar, bike, and laptop has lots of grounding in the fact that they are all three items that allow me to create and through which I create my own identity. It felt like a deep realization, good enough to put to bed and see if it would stand in the morning.

Córdoba

2007-10-01T08:27:00.000-04:00

I am the kind of guy who picks olives off his pizza and plucks them out of his salad. But in the hillside between Jaén and Córdoba, surrounded in all directions by olive fields, neatly planted in rows that when seen from above must make the undulating hillside look like a grid, I could not avoid the overwhelming scent. I just gave in, and for a few wonderful kilometers, I fell in love with that smell. Though not a total convert, I now have much more respect for the olive.

The 100 kilometers to Córdoba were still, quiet, and generally flat. Only a small hill entering the city made me go into the smallest gear, but it was well worth it given the amazing panoramic view of the city. It also happened to coincide with hitting exactly 3000km, worthy of a small celebration consisting of banana covered in nutella.

The first sign that Córdoba was a tourist destination was that I was unable to find a room, something I have gotten in the habit of doing, even though I have all my camping gear, just in case I find a bargain. The second sign was that the only campsite near the city charged more than what hostels charged in other city: 18.75€ per night! I made the most of my small parcel of land and hot shower, though, and was able to justify some of the cost thanks to the generosity of the guy at the desk who told me that I could save 8€ by visiting the cathedral before 9am on Saturday morning. After the warm shower and a freshly baked baguette, I was overcome with fatigue, and at 8pm decided to "take a nap".

Well-rested and hungry, I was up and out ealry to see the Cathedral. Originally a Mosque, after the reconquest, a Cathedral was built inside of the Mosque. Maybe it was the enormous historical weight of the building, or perhaps the sheer sanctity of the space, or maybe even the parallels with that underground city of the dwaves that Frodo and crew visit in Lord of the Rings. Whatever it was, I was overwhelmed to the verge of tears, filled with the thought that I did not deserve to be there. Then I realized that after my journey, I probably deserved to be there as much if not more than most shutter-happy tourists. I gave myself to the space, and let it guide me in a wandering stroll that let me see its contrasts, its beautiful arches and inscriptions bathed in a cool morning light. All I could think of was, "what were the Christian architects thinking when they tore down part of the Mosque to build a Cathedral inside?"

After my intense experience with the Mosque-Cathedral, I realized that it was not worth rushing to hit up a bunch of tourist sites. I was happy to stroll, and just take in every breath and every sight. If time would not permit me to see everything, I would at least see something new every second. And so it was that I only made it to one other tourist "destination" later that day, the Alcazar de los Reyes Cristianos, a summer palace for Medieval Spanish royalty. But the entire day I walked around, looking up at the buildings, directly into people´s faces, getting a good feel for what this city is like.

In hindsight, the memories that I will take away from Córdoba are mixed. Similar in size to Burgos, it felt as if there were more tourists than locals. Of course, I am included in the bunch, but this kind demographic really changes a place. I don´t know how I feel about a Burger King right across from the Cathedral, or about a place that sells traditional Córdoba goodies that upon closer inspection are made in China.

Another unpleasant memory is the noise. Narrow streets and tall buildings don't dissipate sound well, especially when that sound is the hair-raising thunder of approaching dirtbikes piloted by teenage kids who get a kick out of scaring tourists. Small cars also contribute to the noise with overamplified reggaeton. Don't get me wrong, I like reggaeton, but the contrast between the history and grandeur of the place don't mix well with these modern noises.

Against these, though, are also the pleasant memories, starting with the breathtaking cathedral, all the way through to the unbelievable sunset from the tower of the Alcazar. This was the first city where I really felt that I just plesantly gave in and let myself be pushed around by the wind without an agenda. Also I will remember the soup that I already mentioned, and a little walk through a park when the sun popped out and made me real happy. There is a reson why UNESCO named this place a world heritage site, and just being here is a treat for the soul.

Sevilla

2007-09-30T11:30:00.001-04:00

After a really long day in the saddle, I am in Seville. No one from CouchSurfing can put me up for the night, so I´m camping in a suburban town before heading into town tomorrow to do some sightseeing. If I find something more affordable than 1€ for 20 minutes of internet, I´ll write up a decent blurb tomorrow about Cordoba and the ride to Sevilla. Of important news, though, is that I have started on "Don Quixote", which I am fortunate enough to read in the original Spanish. It´s like reading Chaucer for a modern English speaker, though, so it takes some time. But it´s well worth it. The introduction to the book qualified it the first modern novel, by modern meaning that it establishes the problem of the appearance of reality for the characters. Literary criticisms aside, the first three chapters made me laugh out loud yesterday in a restauranta while I was eating a gazpacho-esque soup that was thickened with breadcrumbs. Yummy!!!

Twelve hours in Madrid before Andalucia

2007-09-28T11:47:00.001-04:00

I caught my first train to Madrid, but missed the connection to Cordoba. Unlike airlines, RENFE, the national rail company does not put you up for the night. So, there I was, 10pm in Madrid, and I had to catch a 9am train out. Where to sleep? In the US, I might have considered spending the night in the station, but they would kick me out. I called Ana in Burgos to see if she had anyone who could put me up last minute, but she didn´t pick up. The nearest net cafe told me that there was a campsite just outside the city. Camping is a totally different experience when you´re just a couple hundred yards from the airport and the highway...

Getting to the campsite required stopping regularly at bus stops to check against the city map making sure I was on course. This was no place or time to get lost. After an hour of that, I made my way to the campsite, just on the edge of the city map. Next obstacle was to find food, and that was an easy one, because the campsite was neighbors with a bar. The nice bartender made me two tostadas (toasted fench bread), one with paté and raspberry sauce and the other with goat cheese and red peppers. Along with a beer spritzer (I figure that as long as the lager on tap is as bad as it is, it´s not a crime to cut it with some tonic water to add flavor), the meal was ideal. The whole thing was made better when the bartender changed the music to some early 90s rock. Nothing like Spin Doctors, REM, and early U2 to top off a night.

The hour-long morning ride to the train station, basically a commute into the city, was not too bad, although dealing with such intense city traffic was a bit of a shock to the system. It was also cold and dark, but I made it to the station just in time to stand in line and get my ticket, and make the train with about 5 minutes to spare. Being a slave to a clock is also a bit of a shock to the system after so much liberty of coming and going as I please.

Destination: Jaen. This is the furthest south that the train will take me and my bike, and one day´s ride from Cordoba, which is where I wanted to be. My day in Jaen was nice, and I am now in Cordoba, but those adventures will have to wait for another day because I am out of change, and my internet is out of time.

Figueres-Zaragoza: a week in review

2007-09-26T07:00:00.000-04:00

You know that scene in Forrest Gump where, after years of running from coast to coast and back, he stops somewhere on a road in what can only be Utah and says, "I think I´m going home."? I feel like the last few days I have reached that scene in my journey. Somewhere in between the mountainscape of the Pyrenees and the dry valleys of the Ebro river outside of Zaragoza, I was overcome with a sense that I have seen and experienced what I think I wanted to. I´m not sure if it was the contrast of landscapes, or maybe the though of having a couple thousand kilometers left to ride, but, just like Forrest, the thought of going home entered my mind, and there it has stayed.

Unlike Forrest, I cannot simply point my bike home and go. I have three weeks left, and I am excited to see the south of Spain, Andalucia, full of history and a certain flamenco allure that inspires me. What has changed is that I am not going to bike to Andalucia. Instead, I will take a train there, then do a 2-week loop before returning to Madrid for the last week.

But this post, which I will try to keep to a manageable size, is not about what I am about to do, but rather what I have done. I think the trail left off at the Dali Museum in Figueres.

Thursday, September 20: Figueres - Camprodon
This museum was unique in that it opened before Dali´s death, so he played a major role in designing the museum, almost to the point where the museum itself becomes a work of art. An old theater-turned-museum, the building is full of strange nooks with Dali´s unique touch and some of his most famous pieces of art. You leave the building with a sense of having stepped into and walked around his head for a bit, a stark contrast from the Picasso Museum in Barcelona where you leave with a sense of having read a book about the artist´s life and development.

The road turned north, basically only for the explicit purpose of seeing what the French border was like. Would I be stopped at the border because of my stupid visa difficulties? Would I be allowed in by an unknowing officer, only to be denied re-entry into Spain later that day? Would there even be a problem? The tension increased with every kilometer, especially when I realized that if denied entry, I would have to return all the way to Figueres, tail between my legs, and basically a full day of riding to end up where I started. Comparing the distance markers on the road, my map, and my cyclocomputer, I realized that I was close to the border, and I could see nothing ahead but a long downhill and a bend in the road to the left. After the descent, the road turned slightly upwards, and there it was. A sign that one kilometer earlier had read "Coustouges a 6km" now read "Coustouge à 5km". That little accent was my first sign that I was in France.

Had this little accent presented itself months ago, my itinerary might have been different. I might have "snuck" into France and stayed there, practicing my rusty French. But like Frost´s poem, the road diverged a different way. I am sorry I could not travel both, but I am not in the least bit sorry that I took the one less traveled. That decision was the first moment of letting go, and letting the wind take me where it would. Since the accent mark came when it did, my stay in France would be short, a couple hours at most, but memorable. I traveled to the closest town, Amélie-sur-Tech, where I sent some postcards, bought a baguette, and traded bonjours with the locals. Really, though, it wasn´t significantly different because everyone spoke Spanish and Catalan as well, and apparently my skin tone and accent are a dead giveaway that I am not French.

France would not say goodbye without a memorable road moment. The maps I have been using are the equivalent of a Rand McNally US Road Atlas, but for Spain and Portugal. For France, they show very little information. So it was that I found myself fighting uphill in the late afternoon, unaware that there was a large mountain pass to cross in order to enter back into Spain. What I thought would be a quick 30km back to Spain turned into a gruelling climb with switchbacks reminiscent of stages of the Tour de France. The setting sun was hidden behind the mountain pass, and the shadows cooled the sweat on my skin. I could count and see the 6 switchbacks in the road before arriving at the top, where, again, there was not even a sign indicating that I had reached Spain. Only the marker that I had reached 1,500 meters and a closed tourist info center up ahead.

The sun had set, and with dusk lighting, I raced downhill to the first town in order to set myself up for the night. That turned out to be Camprodon, where I was happy to be greeted by a "Camping a 200m¨sign. Two hundred meters later, the campground was there, but it looked closed. Before continuing, I have to explain something about camgrounds in Spain, and what I assume is most of Europe. In Spain, it is illegal to camp on public land that is below 1,500 meters or closer than 1km to a road. Basically, it´s illegal to camp in the US sense of camping where you go down a trail and set up a tent in a clearing. Campgrounds, then, have to accomodate both the people who are camping in tents as well as those who are camping in campers and RV´s. And many of those people leave their RV´s and campers set up at the campsites year round so they can just come and stay there, almost like a country cottage. So, back to Camprodon, the closed campsite was actually full of campers and RV´s, but they were just all off and no one was around. So I assumed that it would be ok to set up a tent there, at leave in the morning.

With that security, I went into the town of Camprodon, got some food, talked to a Colombian lady at the supermarket, and even went to a bar for a beer before returning to the campground. I took a cold "shower", in quotes because due to my downright deathly fear of cold showers, it was really more splashing water on me than anything else. Then, I realized that if no one was around, the bathrooms were pretty nice, almost like a wooden cottage with ceramic tile floors. And it was pretty cold outside. And the bathrooms had electric light. And, again, no one was around. So I decided that, since no one would know, I would skip the tent and just set up the sleeping pad and bag in the bathroom.

About 1o minutes later, the bubble that carried this lovely idea was burst when an elderly woman walked into the (men´s) bathroom, and scandalized, kept asking "hombre, que haces aqui?!" Then the screams turned to "que miedo! que miedo!" I managed to calm her down, and explain the situation, that I was traveling by bike, that it had gotten late, that the campground door was open, that it was too late to look for other lodging. After about 15 minutes of pupy dog eyes, she agreed to let me stay and pitch my tent, saying that I needed to be out by 9am because that´s when maintenance people were coming to do some work. She also took my passport and signed me in at the office, but was gracious enough to charge me nothing.

After she left, even though I had been warned about the maintenance people, I insisted to myself that if the bathroom would be unused for the night, there was no reason to stay outside as long as I was out by 9am. So it was that the bubble with my idea reappeared, this time to stay. Nine hours later, at exactly 8:17 am, the bubble burst again when I heard a car pull into the campground and two, distinctly male, distinctly maintenance workers start muddling around. My heart raced, and I proceeded to start packing up everything to try and sneak out without being seen. I don´t know why I was afraid to be found, perhaps in fear that they would be surprised to find me and ask me to stay until they verified that I was allowed to stay there. Or perhaps my fear was that the woman from the night before would find out and call me out on the fact that I decidedly disobeyed her by staying in the bathroom. Either way, the consequences were not grave, but at the time it felt important to leave unseen. In a record-breaking packing job, at 8:31 I was putting the last of the bags on my bike, when one of the men walked into the bathroom. Because of the layout, he could not see me. I heard him walk around, then pull up to one of the urinals, relieve himself, and, satisfied, walk back out, unaware that he was being listened to. A few minutes later, I snuck out as quietly as one can while guiding a 28-lb bike with 25-lbs of cargo that rattle around on dirt roads. Unseen, I headed back into town where I had a lovely breakfast before hitting the road.

Friday, September 21: Camprodon - St Lorenc
The memorable few days between Barcelona and Camprodon were a highlight of the trip, with lots of stops, museums, and adventures. However, I knew that if I wanted to make it to Pamplona by the weekend, I had to put in some miles. So I hit the road hard, due west. It wasn´t long before I realized that hitting the road that hard was not worth it, so I took it down a notch, winding my way up and down mountains. It felt great to be in the routing of cycling 30-40km at a comfortable pace, then stopping for a bit, a stretch, and continuing. The only catch is that the routine had to sync with a good place to stay, which that night, meant St. Lorenc de Morenys. This proved to be an ideal place, a fantastic little mountain town set in some mountains at the base of a ski resort and a bunch of mountain bike trails. St Lorenc also had a campground, but this one was not closed. I had the fortune of walking in at 6pm right when the owner was leaving, and he was taken by the story of my trip, tha he offered me a parcel for free. Even though it was a Friday and the campground was busy, it was heading into the slow season
and he was happy to let me stay the night.

Absolutely tired of the bike, after setting up the tent and taking a shower, I decided to walk the 2km into town. During the walk, the church bells rung 7pm just as a few drops of rain hit me, reminding me that we were in the mountains and that rain comes in and out without warning. Pulling out my long sleeve shirt, I wished that I had put on wool socks with my Crocs. It was cool, and getting cooler. But the rain went away, leaving me to breathe a sigh of relief. I walked around the town, found a market to get ingredients for a sandwich, and went to a bench in the middle of town to have dinner. People-watching is a wonderful way to pass time. There was a couple sitting on a nearby bench, making out, the girl obviously worried that her dad would see her. A family pulled up in a car, got their kids out of the back, and as the mom was leaving, she told me to enjoy my dinner. An older man was walking a little dog, and the dog was quickly drawn to a little girl, obviously the daughter of some tourists in town for the night. All of this happened while the sky grew dark, trading the bleak gray light of a cloudy evening for the hazy, yellow tones of the town´s streetlamps reflected on stone. I also put in a good effort on my new book, Jose Saramago´s Blindness. At about 9pm I finished dinner, and went to a bar for a beer before heading to bed.

I woke up at some point in the middle of the night. After losing my heart reate monitor on the first day of biking, I was left without an alarm and without any sort of time telling device with backlighting, so in the dark of the tent it was hard to know what time it was. I could rely on my digital camera or my cyclocomputer, but inevitable neither was near. It didn´t matter. The sounds that had awoken me became clear. Cats meowing, dogs barking, roosters crowing, and the sound of cowbells actually on cows. The animals were having a party! Well, not really, but they all seemed to sense something similar. Sure enough, a few seconds later, the pitter-patter of raindrops on my tent made everything clear. I had been in this situation about a month earlier, in a tent, waiting to see how the rain would affect my night of sleep. Happily, other than the pitter-patter sound, which was annoying but eventually manageable, the water did not make it into the tent. This night alone made the investment on the tent worthwhile.

Saturday, September 22: St Lorenc - Tremp
The next morning was a slow start, dealing with the wet tent fly, and also fighting the inertia of knowing that my morning would consist of climbing over the mountain that is the ski resort. On the way up, I stopped to chat with an Australian couple touring on mountain bikes that agreed with my assessment that such a climb early in the morning is a tough shock to the system. Once at the top, though, I got a sense that the worst was over, and the day would be good. I was right. Also, it was Saturday, and that meant there were lots of other bikers out, making my day more interesting, if only to provide eye candy. On more than one occasion friends have noted that I gawk at bikes the way some guys gawk at women.

My sense that the day would be good held true. The roads were beautiful ridge roads, with scenic overlooks, few climbs or descents, and little traffic other than ocasional compact european cars or touring motorcycles. All that, however, ended abruptly in the little town of Organyà, where tourists were sipping their afternoon coffees and I was left looking for the road that appeared on my map, but not in real life. I asked around, to no avail. A topographical map of the area that was placed in the center of town showed the road, but it seemed to indicate that it wasn´t paved. Just when I was about to change routes, I saw a small sign, more akin to something scratched on the side of a building, pointing me in the direction of the route I wanted to take. Again, adopting the spirit of letting the wind take me, I let this sign be a... well, a sign that I should go this way. Bad idea.

Twelve slow, windy, uphill and poorly paved kilometers later, I found myself at a place where the road ended, giving way to an unmarked dirt path. Do I follow the dirth path, or descend to the town, eliminating all the uphill progress I had made? The dirt path was unpleasant, and I had no idea where it was leading me, but each moment I tried to convince myself that it was better than going back. Going back is almost never good. Then I would hit a big bump or a big rock, and worry that my rear wheel would break another spoke. (I think I forgot to mention that I broke a second spoke outside of Barcelona...) After a solid hour of battling with the dirt, sometime walking my bike, the road returned to a paved road. I flagged down a car to ask them where I was, and they gave me the good news that I was on the western side of a pass. At least the dirt road had gotten me over the mountain. But now I had another problem, which is that the road had delayed my progress, and I would not make it to the nearest town with a campsite.

I arrived in the small city of Tremp, which I am uncertain how the locals pronounce it because I heard about four different varieties while I was there. It was a weeked, and the tourist info center in town was closed. There had been no marks of a campground nearby, and I began to grow worried. I asked around at hotels, and they all quoted me in the 40€ ballpark for the night. Finally, I was told to ask for a room at a restaurant, a pensión. For 24€ that night I had a buffet dinner, a bed to sleep on, and a place to watch the Barcelona soccer game that night. After my up-and-down day, both physically and mentally, because the degree of the terrain has a direct effect on my mood, I was happy to sleep indoors. I kicked back a beer after dinner while watching the game and having locals explain to me all their gripes with Barcelona. Soccer is undoubtedly the biggest sport draw here, Barcelona being arguably one of the best teams in the world, and people worship Ronaldinho, Deco, Messi, and the rest of the gang. But I couldn´t stay up to watch the end of the game, which would be after midnight, so I tucked in when the score was 0-0 at the half. I did not hear the celebration when Barcelona won 2-1.

Sunday, September 23: Tremp - Sariñena
A common thought in this trip has been about why I wanted to do this long bike ride. Usually my gut reaction is to remember the monotony of the routine of waking up and going to the office to see the days fly by, melting away one into the next, somewhat empty and without any markers to refer to and say, "remember that day when..." Those kinds of markers were reserved for nights and weekends, which also seemed to be scheduled in and losing authenticity. Well, today was one of the days that will stand out in my mind, like the day that I tried to go really fast into the town of Fallon, Nevada, or the day that I biked to Cape Ann trying and failing to do a century.

It began with the road. The road was the kind of road that people pick to take a drive through because the road is so beautiful. Immediately out of Tremp there was some climbing, followed by a ridge road that gave way to some awesome gorges. Then, following the sounds of a nearby river, the road plunged slowly down, into an landscape that reminds me of my visit to North Idaho, where you are somewhere between mountains and plains, somewhere between pines and farmland, somewhere between the air above and the water below. The road was full of fun tunnels through sides of mountains, none very long, but all a reminder that I was leaving the mountains and changing landscape. And just like that, in about 30km of descent, I was out in a vast plain, part of the dry Ebro River valley.

This is where that Forrest Gump feeling set in. The drastic change in everything from the mountains to the plain made everything become clear. I had overcome, I was on the other side. It´s tough when you have to push hard on a small gear to go 5mph on a windy road in cloudy weather. It´s another feeling altogether when you hardly push and you´re going 20mph on a beautiful, straigh road, blue skies, and farmland as far as the eye can see. I felt that the road was with me, the wind was behind me, my fitness had improved drastically, and I was somewhat transformed. Pushing hard was no longer difficult, and I made the 140+km day to Sariñena with ample time. Sariñena, again, was a town without camping, but I decided this would be my stay for the night, and I would be able to find a place to stay without any problems.

I found a 16€ pensión that suited the bill, and ate a pizza for dinner. Still hungry, I repeated with burger and later a beer while I watched a Real Madrid soccer game. The town was celebrating an agrarian fair, so there were lots of people out and about, and although I talked to a few, I continued to enjoy people-watching more than anything else. That night I went to bed with a smile on my face, a full stomach, and had the first full, uninterrupted night of sleep since I left Burgos almost two weeks ago.

Monday, September 24 and Tuesday, September 25: Sariñena - Zaragoza
The plain road into Sariñena is exactly like the one out, into Zaragoza. Flat, straight, and downwind. Really nothing to tell until I get into the city. Zaragoza is Spain´s 5th largest city, and it´s growing in size, population, and importance. Strategically located at the intersection of three rivers, and also almost equidistant between Madrid and Barcelona, it´s always held an important place in the Iberian Penninsula. Although there are only about 700,000 residents, the city is counting on growth, parth of the same growth that is overcoming most of Spain. The International Expo Zaragoza 2008, I think roughly a descendent of the World´s Fair, is also making the city a focal point for the country. The theme of the Expo is water and sustainable development.

One of the most striking things about Zaragoza is that it´s a city where you can see the layers of development. Long before the Romans settled here in the first century BC, humans had settled here on the banks of the river. But it was the Romans who made it a major city in their empire. The Moors later also made it a capital of their Iberian expansion, a time when the city was apparetly a paradise for thinkers, scietists, and artists from all creeds and languages. It was later the capital of the Aragonese Kingdom, which when it merged with Castille became just Aragon. The city architecture reflects this history, but to see it you need look no further than its name: Romans named it Casaraugusta after Emperor Augustus Ceasr, Muslims phoenetically renamed it Ca-Saragussa, then the Aragonese called it Çasagoça, and from there, it was only a small, Castillian step to Zaragoza.

Zaragoza was also site of my first CouchSurfing adventure. CouchSurfing.com is a internet service that aims to connect backpackers looking for lodging with like-minded people able to host them on couches. I signed up for the service about a month ago when my friend Tim informed me about it, and I haven´t used it so far because I have been going through places too remote to have a good CouchSurfing community. However, I have heard from other travelers that they have traveled cheap all around Europe using this service, which surprises me because I hadn´t heard about it until recently. Anyways, though the service, I found a guy in Zaragoza who has hosted several travelers, and I simply wrote him asking if he would host me for a couple of days, especially worried that it might be difficult for him to accomodate my bike. I received a prompt reply saying it was all no problem, and I should give him a call when I got into the city. That easy.

It´s that easy because Jorge is an awesome guy. He´s single, 33, self-employed with a background in marketing and business, and he has done a fair bit of traveling himself. We agreed to meet up on Monday night, and he easily spotted the guy with the bike. Easygoing and interesting, we went out for a bite and some beers, and got along well. We shared stories about traveling in Colombia, which was a stop on a trip he took around the world a few years ago. He speaks perfect English from having lived in London for a bit, but we stuck to comfortable Spanish and also talked about his work, my work, etc., etc. He provided me with a bed, and a bedroom, and a light fare breakfast. This was undoubtedly about as good as first experiences can be with this service, and I look forward not only to using it again, but also to being able to return the favor, if not to Jorge, then at least to some future traveler I might be able to host.

All this brings me to where I am now, in an internet cafe, waiting for the time to arrive when I have to catch a train to Madrid. Before signging off, I want to leave some thoughts I have jotted while on the road:

the nicest places i have see are usually also those where people use the horns in their cars almost exclusively for greeting others.
i have a new understanding of "carpe diem", which is not to try and do everything there is to do, but to try and make each day meaningful.
being devoid of music, especially my music, is tough. but when i catch a brief earful of something familiar, whether blues, latin, jazz, whatever, it fills my heart with joy and brings me close to home.
i now understand why in Spain I speak Castellano (castillian) and not Español (spanish).
being disconnected from world news makes me wonder if people in the little towns that i go through are also as disconnected.
traveling at this pace allows you to see how physical traits, especially those on faces, migrate and diffuse.
if you see a biker on the road, especially if it looks like they are on a touring bike, and especially if they´re going uphill, give them encouragement. honk lightly, give them a thumbs up, open the window and say something or applaud them on. it will make both of you feel better.

Oh, and sadly, I can´t upload new photos because the USB port on this computer doesn´t work... But I will as soon as possible. If you have read this far, thanks for following, and hugs to all of you.

Still alive and well

2007-09-22T14:32:00.001-04:00

I´m living in the lap of luxury tonight. After a few long days of climbing and descending, climbing and descending, climbing and descending, my legs are shot, and I am realizing Zaragoza is one day further away than I expected. Combined with the fact that:

I haven´t paid for lodging the past two nights
Sleeping in a tent, on a thin inflatable mattress does not compare with sleeping in a bed
Last night I camped and it rained a lot (though the inside of the tent stayed nice and dry!)
Through a service called CouchSurfing it looks like I found someone who can put me up on their couch for the one or two nights that I´ll be in Zaragoza

I decided to splurge tonight and stay in a hostel, or a pensión, as it´s called here. Basically it´s a commercial local that rents out rooms upstairs. For the grand cost of €14, I have two twin beds, electric lighting, and a shared bathroom with hot water that made for a wonderful shower.

This particular internet cafe is cutting into my budget, so I´m going to cut it short, but stay tuned for more in-depth analysis and behind the scenes footage.

Mountain High

2007-09-21T07:47:00.001-04:00

I am in the Pyrennees. The high, high mountains are a bit further north, and I am avoiding them not only to spare my legs but also because going there would take me away from my next major destination, Zaragoza. Despite not being in the highest of high points around, there is a lot of climbing and lots of descending, but also lots of beautiful roads and scenery. The culture here feels more insulated from the Catalunya that I witnessed in Barcelona and Figueres. It´s amazing what mountains can do.

This is a short post, because I´m taking an unusual lunch-time break to write because I don´t know where I will next find internet. This small city of Berga was a surefire bet. I might not see a city this big until Sunday or Monday. But I am taking good notes of the highlights and thoughts of my days, and rest assured a typically long-winded update is forthcoming. So stay tuned for:

... my adventures in France

... the highest mountain pass so far, and probably for the entire trip

... why i slept in a bathroom last night

... more photos!!

Costa Brava

2007-09-19T15:12:00.000-04:00

The many coasts of Spain have names. The western coast near Santiago is La Costa de Morte, because it´s where ancients believes the sun died. The northern and southern coasts are named after colors, after the dominant color in the landscape. Noth of Barcelona, it´s called La Costa Brava, which can be translate as the Brave Coast or the Angry Coast. However, I can´t tell where the name comes from because based on the beautiful beaches and amazing green landscape neither name applies.

Getting out of Barcelona was a challenge. I realized after the fact that I had been overcome by inertia in Sitges, and I was fighting hard to overcome it. After a late morning, cleaning my cousin´s house a bit, and packing up, by the time I got on the road it was 6pm. That´s the kind of inertia that was holding me back, and I decided the only way to overcome it was to just do it, as Nike says. So at 6pm I hopped on a train that would take me from the southern suburbs to the northern suburbs, and there I would find a campsite. By the time all of that happened, it had gotten dark. (don´t worry, mom, I had front and rear lights!) Even though I only had to ride 13km to find a campsite, what mattered was that I was, again, on the road.

I am reading Paolo Coelho´s "Pilgrim to Compostela", his first book, written after his own 1986 pilgrimmage. Back then, the Camino de Santiago was not something many people did, so his experience was very different. But it brought to mind the idea that any sort of travel that takes you so far away affects you deeply, phyically, mentally, and spiritually. He focuses a lot on the spiritual component, and in the book he is in search of a sword. The search for the object motivates him, but it is neither the search nor the object that matter. Ultimately, it´s the experience of traveling and encountering the unknown world on a daily basis that changes him. It is that experience that I am facing daily, and it reminds me that this kind of travel is a profound way of communing with the world around us.

Back in the routine of bananas, nutella, lots of bread and water, and setting up my tent every night, I am happy. I am seeing new thing every day, and today, it was some amazing Greek and Roman ruins (after all, this is the Mediterranean), and also the house/studio that Dalí used for most of his life. I am spending tonight in Figueres, Dalí birthplace, and tomorrow morning I will visit the grand museum dedicated to his work, or oeuvre, as they would say here, because I´m so close to France that Spanish is a third language (also, behind Catalan). Everyone here seems to speak the three, and many also speak German and English. Imagine growing up quintilingual!

Check out new photos...

Sitges and Barcelona

2007-09-17T07:50:00.001-04:00

The 10-hour train to Barcelona was painless. I was told the train would have a luggage car with hooks for bikes, but that was not the case. I found a nook, and after some effort, made the bike fitt into said nook. The noisy back-and-forth swaying of the train lulled me to sleep, and I woke up o the sounds of my five other sleeping-car roommates shuffling about. The train left me at a big station, and it was there that I got one of those feelings of, "what now?" I decided that going straight to Sitges, where my cousin lives, would be the best choice.

Sitges is 35km (20mi) outisde of Barcelona. It would be on the equivalent of Boston´s commuter rail. It´s a pretty, quaint, and seemingly peaceful little beach town. Walking around you can feel the lazy pace of the town, filled with mothers pushing their little kids in strollers, european tourist couples seeking as escape from the big city, and the large gay community that makes this their home. The stores in the center of town give you a similar feel: organic markets mingle with italian beach fashion, small galleries abut jewelery stores, and bars and restaurants abound and burst on the street. I can see why people would live here, only a 40-minute train ride away from Barcelona.

My cousin Jorge is a diver, and he works for big companies that are looking for oil in the sea. It´s called oceaneering, and he spends large chunks of time away from home. The day I arrived, he returned from a four week stint offshore, only to leave a day later with his wife, Eva, and their daughter, Paola, for a 3-week vacation in Miami and Cartagena. I caught him in that brief period of time. Despite what I thought, his oceaneering job sees him spending a lot of time on the surface guiding an expensive little robot that can dive down to 2 miles underwater. It sounds pretty cool, but the large chunks of time away from home are tough.

I spent Thursday in Sitges, and determined that I would not go into Barcelona until after my cousin left for his vacation. I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible, which was little enough as it was. They had already offered to let me stay in their house after they left, a very generous gesture which I happily accepted. So Thursday and Friday were very welcome days of mozying, seeing the beautiful Mediterranean from the balcony and also in person, and catching up with Jorge while playing with Paola. Although I have spent very little time with Jorge (he´s 16 years older than me and grew up in Cartagena), spending time with him and his wife felt very familiar. In his voice I can hear my uncle Rodrigo´s measured and thoughtful tone, and in his face I see his other brothers. His wife, Eva, is also a firecracker of a Spaniard who makes you feel at home with her big and warm smile. It felt wonderful to have this strong feeling of family so far away from home.

Sleep got the better of me (surprise, surprise), and I woke up home alone on Saturday. My cousins had left. With that same strange sense of, "what now?" that had struck me when I arrived in Barcelona, I started to get ready to head into the city for a day of tourism. Tackling a city of this size in a couple of days is a challenge, especially alone. Also, in a city this size, there is no distinction between travelers and tourists, making me uncomfortably close to one of those tourists who just consume culture. I don´t want to travel to Barcelona just to be able to rattle off a list of places I saw. But what else can I do? That list would be neither interesting nor worthwhile. Plus, realizing that there was no way to see, I mean really see, any significant portion of the city in two days, I decided to just walk around, get a sense for the city, and just try to make the most of it.

You don´t need to spend much time in the city to realize that art is valued here. From the multitude of street performers to the plethora of museums, from the beauty of the statues and fountains to the splendor of the buildings, there is little doubt that this is an artistic capital. The most visible art is Antonio Gaudí's unique, modernist architecture, whose wavy, organic lines jump out amidst the rigidity of the city landscape, yet still manage to not seem out of place, gracefully complementing and not detracting from the surroundings. Gaudí may be the most visible, but definitely not the most notable, competing with the likes of Picasso and Miró who also chose to call Barcelona home for some period of time. The Picasso Museum was the only one I entered, and it beautifully highlighted his progression from a very talented 14-year old into his 30s when he was already a household name.

If artists helped shape this city, it is not without some help from nature. A long, Mediterranean beach, warm weather in the summer and mild winters, and a few amazing hills overlooking the city all add to the allure. Gaudí was comissioned to design a park on one of these hills, Park Güell, and again his design complements the nature of the hill beautifully. The other large hill, in a giant park district known as Montjuic, houses a castle/fortress and many of the sites built for the Olympics. The beach is a place for people to unwind and take in some sun. Topless beaches are still a novelty to me, but here the toplessness was befitting of the laid back atmosphere. And the consistently nice weather keeps everyone happy, keeps flowers and gardens looking nice, and allows for lots of biking. For all these reasons, Barcelona is the first city that I have seen in Spain where I can see myself living.

Despite the wonderfulness of the city, on both Saturday and Sunday nights I was too tired to stick around for the nightlife. The fatigue had something to do with the many hours walking in the sun, but it probably had just about as much to do with how draining it is to travel alone. I think between both days I must have uttered fewer than a hundred words, and that mostly to clerks at train stations and convenience stores. I´m not sure what it is about being surrounded by so many people that makes it more difficult to engage any of them. In smaller cities and towns, I smile and make conversation easily, but in this big city after I smiled often people looked away or even moved a few times. Maybe it's because people see me traveling alone, or maybe it's because other people are already in good company, or maybe both. For whatever reasons, making friends as a traveler in big cities is tough, and I look forward to the rest of this trip.

Speaking of which, I have spent a lot of my morning typing this entry, but I need to get going. I am heading into Barcelona today only to head out, and hopefully spend the night somewhere in the northern outskirts of the city. Back on the bike, and back to the routine that my body has been craving for the past few days.

Success!

2007-09-12T07:53:00.001-04:00

My mom was the first one to guess that buraucracy here is Spain is just like in Colombia, which is to say, slow and inefficient. Turns out that the two countries share much more than just language, music, and cuisine. These similarities become all the more apparent to me in light of the stark differences from the US culture I have come to call home.

I first showed up at the Spanish consulate in Boston in late March. Five and half months later, I am finally done with procuring legal permission to stay in Spain until my return flight to Boston. This morning I woke up after a night of poor sleep, realizing that what was bothering me was the thought that in this 10-week long trip, because of buraucratic nonsense I would only get to spend a few hours with my cousins in Barcelona. At the very least, I wanted to share a good meal with them and catch up in the several years since I´ve seen them, but it seemed like that would not happen. But, just like in Colombia buraucracy, things move here in Spain because of who you know and how stubborn you are. So first thing in the morning, even before showering, I went to the Foreigners Office and asked if there was anything they could do to speed up my petition. Turns out, there was.

An hour later, I had a stamp on my passport granting me stay here until October 17, something which the Spanish consulate in Boston denied me for unknown reasons, and which had been a cloud hanging over my head since that denial in early August. About 15 minutes after that, I had a ticket in hand for an overnight train tonight to Barcelona.

Check out some photos of my tour through the Burgos cathedral. This might be the most ornate and beautiful building I have ever entered.

Waiting in Burgos

2007-09-10T15:35:00.000-04:00

It appears that my visa extension will go through without any problems, but I have to wait until Thursday here in Burgos for a stupid signature on my passport. That just means I get a little extra time to tour in Burgos and I will arrive in Barcelona a little later than planned.

Staying put in Burgos is drastically different from being on the go, and although sharing with a family, sleeping in a real bed, and having redy access to food and internet are wonderful, the body yearns for the simplicity of cycling. The discomforts of the road become familiar: the diet of bread, bananas, and water; the feel of the skin after so much sun and sweat; wearing spandex shorts, a polyester jersey, and a helmet; sleeping in a tent; speaking only to total strangers and for very little time. Combined, these factors insulate you by making you self-sufficient and very different from other travelers. At the same time they open you up to experiencing people, places and things in a very personal manner because what you see, feel, and touch stays primarily with you, in your head, without the immediacy of sharing the experience as it happens. The time that lapses between the experience and when you are able to share it allows for reflection and for an opportunity to develop a certain depth to the experience.

The next two days I will have to focus on not letting the change of pace get to me. Today I felt displaced, maybe also a little food-logged after a Sunday feast, and more than a little tight and sore after 2000km in one month. One month after my arrival, I have yet to hit some of Burgos's best attractions, so I will devote the next two days to this.

Until next time, enjoy some new photos!

Figures

2007-09-08T18:58:00.000-04:00

I am back in Burgos after my lovely 3-day jaunt to Logroño, Vitoria, and Bilbao. Tomorrow, after some rest, I will write a bit more about Bilbao and some more thoughts on this short leg of the journey.

For now, I will leave two thoughts on the page. First, I mentioned earlier that I spend a good amount of the time that I'm on the saddle thinking of inane calculations. What percentage of today's ditance have I covered? How many minutes until the next town? How long will the water I currenlty have last me? In the end, most of these things really don't matter too much. What ends up leaving the biggest impression is not the numbers, but the experience. However, that being said, I have updated my distance log to reflect some of the curious figures of this trip. I have spent over 95 hours on the saddle, my max speed has been a measly 67kph (41mph), and I am closing in on half a million pedal strokes.

Second, and perhaps less inconsequential, another thought that is constantly on my mind is whether or not I'm stopping enough to enjoy the scenery, the little towns that I go through, to meet people, etc. It's a careful balance between two purposes of the trip: to cover some distance of Spain by bike, and also to get an intimate portrait of Spain. Today, as Ana drove me back from Bilbao to Burgos, I was reminded of exactly how impersonal interactions with a landscape can be when you're trapped in a car and the car is trapped in a network of highways. Regardless of how much I stop, which will continue to be on my mind, biking is a unique way of interacting with a landscape, with mountains and valleys, rivers and seas, wind, rain, and sun. I am happy to experience Spain like this.

Basque-ing

2007-09-07T14:40:00.001-04:00

I write tonight from the Basque Country, one of the 17 autonomous communities (sorta like US states) that make up Spain. I don´t know much about the history of how the country came to be made up of these, but I can tell you that it did not happen like in the US. In that sense, US history reads so clear-cut, so sensible. Perhaps because this part of the world has much more history (or at least history that we´re still reading today. Too bad so much Native American history was lost), that history seems a lot more complicated. What we think of as united Spain is actually made up of these autonomous communities that seem to have more differences than similarities. Language. Culture. Industry. The only thing that seems to tie these together is a loose sense of having to respond to the same central government.

It is no surprise that there are separatist movements. In three of the six communities that I have visisted, I have seen propaganda for an independent state. Galicia, Asturias, and Euskadi (as the Basque Country is called in its native language, Euskara), all have groups still clammoring for their independence from Spain. Imagine this happening in modern day US, like pre-Civil War. The separatist movement feels strong here in Vitoria, which from what I can gather is called Gasteiz in Euskara, and road signs into the city have graffiti crossing out the Spanish name and replacing it with the Euskara name. Unlike Galicia and Asturias, the local language seems to have roots in something very, very different from Spanish.

I started today´s ride in Logroño, the capital of La Rioja. La Rioja is probably the community best known for its wine production, and the small secondary roads were lined with vineyards and "bodegas", cellars. It makes for beautiful scenery, although an unusually dry summer leaves everything looking a little more desert-brown than I expected. Logroño, like Burgos, and most other cities, has a historic center that dates back countless centuries, and most of that area has been cordoned off to pedestrian traffic only. It makes the feel of the cities very familiar. Vitoria-Gesteiz, today´s destination, is the same. Seeing the same old set-up makes it easy to do touristy things. You check out the sweet cathedral, most of which date to the 12th or 13th centuries, you see some other old buildings, pick up some local history, then walk around to scout out a market and a restaurant, and maybe an internet cafe.

Logroño had the added bonus of being the site of the finish of yesterday´s Vuelta a España stage, so I got to see a big cycling event. By, "I got to see", I mean I saw the riders cross the finish line at 65kph, so it lasted all of about 5 seconds. But the buzz generated by cycling, little kids trying to get a peek at their favorite riders, or just at the bunch, is very exciting. Sure, it doesn´t have the market appeal to make it compete with other sports, but it´s sure fun.

Vitoria today has the notoriety of being the place where I found an internet cafe that feels like I stepped into a bar in Colombia. Vallenato in the background. A fridge full of Colombian beer with old men frequently reaching in for another. Feels like... well, feels like something familiar, but not quite home.

I´m off to scout for dinner, and then back to my sweet new tent, before heading to Bilbao tomorrow.

Trimming the fat

2007-09-05T06:13:00.001-04:00

I had many ideas for the title of this post: Traveling light(er), Downsizing, Bare essentials. After two weeks on the road, I found that there were several items I had brought that just didn´t get used. So they´re staying here in Burgos before I take off again.

CARGO (changes as of Sep 5)

Right Pannier: Got rid of 1 pair of cycling shorts, 1 pair of nylon pants, 2 pairs of socks, 1 long sleeve top, 1 polyester shirt, tie down straps, and the frisbee. Added a new Quechua 40-degree sleeping bag.
Left Pannier: Got rid of Marmot 30-degree bag and Bikamper tent. Replaced with new Quechua T2 ultralight tent (with poles) and a Quechua A200 ultralight self-inflating sleeping pad. (Quechua, the home brand of Decathlon stores, seems to be the best widely available brand around here.)
Trunk Bag: Replaced Moleskine journal with a small quad-lined notebook which is now in my handlebar bag. Replaced Therm-a-Rest RidgeRest sleeping pad with new sleeping bad now in my left pannier. Now the top of the TrunkBag can be used as a drying rack for clothing.
Handlebar Bag: Replaced Topeak 1W light with rechargeable battery and charger for a Topeak WhiteLite which is smaller and just used regular batteries.
Backpack: The backpack is gone altogether!! The guitar and Camelbak are staying home. The Crocs are now in the TrunkBag.

The first two weeks on the road served as a great test of what are the minimum things I need to travel by bike and be comfortable, both on and off the bike. Other than the actual traveling, it was really nice to have my comfort be the top priority of my thoughts every day. It makes life very simple. That simplicity is a big part of what appeals to me about bike touring. Besides the material simplicity of carrying as little as necessary, you also start realizing that there are a lot of other things that you can live without (24/7 internet access, long hot showers, and hot food are among these, but they´re really hard to give up!) Also, it makes you appreciate the comforts of home a lot: sleeping in the same bed and the same place every night, being able to easily be in touch with friends and family, and not having to pack up everything everyday.

Today I filed the paperwork to extend my visa until my departure date, and hopefully this will be fairly straightforward. I can´t veer too far away from Burgos until I hear back from the Foreigners' Office, but I think today or tomorrow I will head out on the bike in the direction of Logroño where tomorrow's Vuelta a España stage will end, and maybe make a loop through Pamplona and Bilabo before retuning to Burgos on Sunday or Monday.

Im/E-migrants

2007-09-04T17:19:00.000-04:00

A couple of people I have encountered on this trip have told me that my last name, Agudelo, is Gallician, although they had never heard of anyone or any place by that name. Google Earth knows better. About 35km southwest of Santiago there is a little town called Barro Agudelo. It seems almost certain that some ancestor of mine from this little town emigrated to Latin America, probably at some point in the 18th century, and settled in what is now Colombia. History guards the secrets that connect that ancestor to me, maybe somewhere in that little town, and someday I might return to research that link. Despite not being able to make that link, though, my diluted Spanish blood feels a certain familiarity here. On many hours on the saddle, my mind can´t help but wonder about the Spanish migrants who left their home for the uncertain promises of a New World. Why did they leave? What did they find in America?

The Spanish had been coming to the Americas in large numbers, from the 1200 men and women that accompanied Columbus on his second voyage up until the 20th century. All those people share something in common with me. They were migrants. Some basic reading on migration differentiates between migration due to push factors versus pull factors. There are usual both factors. For example, many Spanish were leaving Spain because of poverty, persecution, or a criminal sentence. They left specifically for America searching for wealth and freedom. Similarly, most Latin American migrants into the US today leave their countries because of poverty, lack of jobs or educational opportunities, and sometimes persecution. They go specifically to the US because there is a higher mean standard of living, with a wealth of opportunities, and incredible amounts of freedom.

The issue of immigrants and emigrants came coming up again and again in different contexts. In Asturias I kept hearing about the Emigración, a period of history when thousands of Asturians left for America. In Santander, as in Burgos and other cities, I have been surprised to find large communities of Latin American immigrants. News of African immigrants entering illegally via the Mediterrannean or Atlantic makes frequent headlines. Spain, a country that for so many years saw so many of its citizens leaving, is now experiencing waves of incoming foreigners.

The Spanish emigrants who left in the 19th and early 20th century, those in the period of the Asturian Emigración, left for many of the same reasons that usually lead to migration: lack of jobs, poverty sometimes leading to hunger, and the promise of a better life elsewhere. They went primarily to Mexico, Havana, and Buenos Aires, and established some of the largest Spanish settlements outside of Spain. The numbers of immigrants were so astounding that there were towns in Asturias that lost half their population in a short period of time. In America, they did what immigrants usually do: work hard. By many accounts, they often succeeded in fulfilling what would now be called the American dream before the term had been coined. Some made it big, establishing companies that would earn them wealth beyond their wildest dreams.

Like most migrants, these Asturians left a lot behind in Spain: family, customs, culture, land and property, etc. Having attained a large measure of success, many of these migrants returned to their homeland after establishing a life in America. They lived a life where they could travel between their homes on opposite sides of the ocean, and maintain a rich, bicultural life. The wealth earned abroad often returned to Spain and was responsible for the construction of lavish mansions that dot the Asturian landscape, first-of-its-kind public infrastructure projects in Spain including electric lighting, automobile highways, and buildings such as schools and hospitals. The phenomenon of the migrant who strikes it rich abroad and is able to return and improve their home even earned a term, Indiano, stubbornly referencing the incorrect 16th century assumption that America was the West Indies.

Spain now has waves of immigrants instead of emigrants. They come here seeking the same things that the Spanish emigrants of a century ago sought in leaving. For a long time, Spain was welcoming of these immigrants, but from speaking to people here, it seems to me that the tide has turned in the past decade, maybe even less. After September 11th, the word terrorism, previously reserved for politics and policy, entered the media and entered homes everywhere. The March 11, 2004 terrorist bombings in Madrid struck close to home, and like with popular opinion in the US, the rise of terrorism was partly linked to the rise of immigration, resulting in tougher border restrictions. Just look at how difficult it was for me to get a visa to enter.

The four largest immigrant populations in Spain are, in order, from Morocco, Ecuador, Romania and Colombia. They are here working hard, just as those Indianos from Asturias were working hard in Mexico and Buenos Aires, and just like all those Mexican and Central American immigrants in the US. Spain is growing, if not in population, then definitely in development and industry. Just from a bit of traveling around, there is construction going on seemingly everywhere. People are looking for second homes near the water. People are looking for first homes in the city. Two types of businesses that have been ubiquitous in the towns and cities that I have passed are inmobiliarios (un-moveable) and mobiliarios (moveable), respectively referring to real estate and furniture. That growth is powered often by immigrants willing and happy to fill the labor-demanding jobs.

If those immigrants, or the ones in the US, succeed, do they plan on returning home and building big houses? Are Spain and the US such better places to live that immigrants would stay, stop being immigrants, and plant roots? I didn´t mean this to be an essay, or any sort of cohesive argument about immigrants in Spain. It´s really just a series of loosely related thoughts that have come to mind about a big issue that seems to be of importance here, back in the US, and really, everywhere. And if you´ve read this far, I am really interested in hearing your thoughts about this whole issue. Really, please, drop me a line when you get a chance and let me know.

Sunny Saturday in Santander

2007-09-01T10:32:00.001-04:00

It´s good to know that when you arrive in most Spanish cities, large or small, there are tourist information offices that are great resources to inquire about what there is to do, where to sleep, etc. Having never really been a tourist in Boston, I don´t know if the same is true there, but I hope that is the case. I arrived in Santander after a very long day in the saddle. It could have been shorter, but I wanted to take a rest day completely off the bike, and Santander seemed like a good location to spend a day resting the legs.

Santander is a popular summer beach town made popular in the 19th century when European royalty began vacationing here. It has lavishly beautiful architecture that seems to belong in a bigger city, but it retains much of its small city charm, peace, and relaxed atmosphere. None of that was on my mind when I arrived, asking at the tourist info booth for a campsite. It was uphill, near the lighthouse.

All these tourist offices, I assume for their records, as you where you are from. The question in Spanish is "de donde vienes?", which is complicated for me to answer. Do I come from Colombia? The US? Burgos? Fisterra? I usually go with Colombia, as that´s what my passport says. This time, the girl´s eyes lit up when I said so. Though she wasn´t Colombian, she was happy to share that Santander was hosting the second annual Feria Intercultural, a fair highlighting the many cultures of immigrants in the area. Tonight´s country spolight was, you guessed it, Colombia.

After setting up the tent and showering, I took the half hour walk (I was not about to get on the bike for the life of me), to the fairgrounds. Little booths representative of every country lines the perimeter. Peruvian food? You got it. German beer? That too. Moroccan bracelets? Swedish pastries? All there. For whatever reasons, I gravitated towards the Colombian booth, and payed premium for some good grub. Something like the equivalent of 26,000 Colombian pesos for a half decent tamal, reheated in a microwave. But when there´s good hunger, everything tastes good. So much for experiencing a foreign culture! The rest of the night I walked around, listening and danced to some good live salsa, but by midnight I was spent, so I headed back to the campsite.

On the way, a car stopped me. Sometimes early this trip, I realized that a big part of the adventure would be in deciding who to trust. The motherly adage of "never trust strangers" seemed a bit to close-minded for world travel, but really it´s only idiots who trust anyone. All that in my mind, the driver of the car that stopped me asked me for directions to a restaurant near the campsite, and I happened to remember seeing it on my way, so I gave him the directions. He offered a lift. I decided to trust that he would not take me somewhere else. The person he was meeting at the restaurant door was, gasp, not there. By the time we had gotten there, I had shared enough of my story for this guy to offer taking me on a quick night-time drive through the city. At this, I hesitated. A total stranger picks me up, and is suddenly now free to take me on a drive. Parked in front of the campsite, as I was about to say thanks and get out of the car, I decided to be a bit adventuresome. What´s the worse that could happen? I actually did think of the absolute worse that could happen, but decided that somewhere down that terrible path I could take some action to defend myself and prevent that from happening. So I said yes.

The guy turned out, or at least claimed to be, an Spanish lit professor in Madrid who was in Santander doing some lectures. They had put him up in a really beautiful 19th century palace that belongs to the University, and he wanted to show me the palace grounds, which are lit up at night. Sure enough, the palace was beautiful. He claimed this was one of the most beautiful places in Santander. However, I was getting too tired and ready to sleep to enjoy the whole thing, and I told him so. He drove me back to the campgroudns, and gave me his number in case I was in Madrid. End of story.

I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of the couple in the tent next to me going at it. They were noticeably holding in the full volume of gasps and moans, but tent walls are made of nylon and sound goes right through. My tent was slowly building up condensation inside, and I decided to just take some deep breaths and try to get some more sleep. When the couple was finally done, I heard the flicker of a lighter and the usual haplessness of post-coital conversation. Silent at last, I could sleep.

I have spent the day walking at a very leisurely pace, trying to find as many good spots to sit, read, and rest the legs. It´s a beautiful city, once the sun came out. Before then, it felt a little pointless to be in a beach town in ugly, cloudy, morning weather. But the sun broke through, and every has smiles on their faces and nice tans. My tan, though, when I take the shirt off, gets noticeable ogles. It´s a mark of pride.

thoughts of today

2007-08-30T13:12:00.000-04:00

besides my long posts, there are some random thoughts that I need to get out today.

First, I was recently posed the question: destination or journey? I think I said journey, which is the obvious answer. However, on a daily basis I am confronted with the decision of where to stop, and how that decision will mark my trip. I have come to realize that for me, this journey is a destination. I came to travel, so while I´m journeying, I´m actually fulfilling the purpose of my trip. Vice versa, when I arrive at a destination for the night, I begin a journey of exploring the city. Destination and journey are the same.

Second, my body has settled into a good diet. Lots of bread, fruit, and chocolate during the day, maybe in four or five installments that come before, after, and at several points on the day´s ride. Then a big dinner, usually with the €10 prix fixe menus that include pasta or salad as a first, and some sort of meat with fries as a second. Wine and desert included :) Also, I´m guzzling about 150 oz of water daily, 100 of which are during the ride at a rate of about 1oz per km.

Finally, budget. I´m managing on about €20, depending on eating and sleeping options. This will likely go up a bit when I´m out of the pilgrim´s hostel network. Regardless, though, this is substantially less than I had expected. I´m happy to know that I can survive on very little.

8/29

2007-08-30T12:51:00.000-04:00

5:41 - wake up, and decide it´s too ealry to actually wake up
8:09 - it´s raining. hard. my tent is wet inside. part of me wants to stay put all day. the same part of me that wishes i was in a dry bed in Boston. I´m not. So I put on my rain gear and step out into the wetness.
9:40 - I have packed the sopping wet tent and the rest of my gear into their respective bags. One pannier is dry stuff, the other is wet. I´m basically al set up to get my day going, other than paying for the camping and grabbing breakfast.
10:24 - The guy who runs the campsite, who lives right across the street in an apartment building, has not shown up. I´ve been making conversation with a guy who brought his son camping near the water so they could go sea fishing. The weather has not helped either of us. He tells me the day ahead for me is "rompe-piernas", a legbreaker. I tell him I´m bailing on paying the €7.
11:09 - After o.j. and pastries in a local cafe, i´m off.
11:59 - 15km into my day, I stop at a supermarket for food. Chocolate? check. Bread? check. Fruit? check. €3 later I´m back on the road.
12:48 - I stop at a gas station for water. 31km into my day, I take a 15 minute rest, avoiding the fumes of gasoline.
2:40 - Stop number 2 for "lunch". The road has not been kind, with lots of valleys and climbs on these coastal foothills. But the view is beautiful. I have made what seems to be little progress on my map, although I have put in 52km.
3:51 - After winding under, over, and around a major highway that I want desperately to avoid, the highway apparently ends, and merges with my road. No more going into the valleys, as I enjoy the "viaducts", or bridges that make my path smooht. 22km to Avilés.
4:43 - The road has been mostly downhill since I joined the highway, and I arrive at the destination for the day, 26km shy of where I intended to arrive. My legs don´t want to go anywhere else today, thogh. Just over 90km, and I eat the last of the chocolate bar to celebrate.
4:50 - The tourist office tells me there is a pilgrim´s hostel walking distance away from where I am. I am back on El Camino, this time, the Northern Route, and I´m going backwards. But who cares?
5:05 - At the hostel, I settle into my bed. The 60 beds are almost all empty, and I take my pick, top bunk near the door. Good to know I´ll be dry tonight for only €3.
5:07 - Singing into the guestbook, I notice another traveler staying there named Marcela Agudelo, from Colombia. The place is empty now, so I will have to wait to meet her.
6:21 - Showered, settled in, and working on drying out my gear. The sun shines for about a minute, helping me in my task, but then the clouds come in again and the pitter patter of rain drives me back inside.
7:21 - Tent is dry and packed. My damp gear is drying. I head to the town to find internet and food.
8:36 - I have walked around the town for over an hour. It´s a pretty city, soon to host the international rock climbing championships. Lots of history dating back to the 13th century, but the city is bustling around the history. Like most other cities I´ve seen, there is a large central, historical area open only to pedestrians, making the cities great to walk in. But there seem to be no internet cafes, so I head to the library.
9pm: The librarian kicks me out. I´ve only been online for 8 minutes, but I can´t complain since it was free, and I was fairly warned. Now for food.
9:07 - La Bodega de Rivero, a restaurant en route to the albergue, has prix fixe menu for €7.50, and they´re showing the Spain-Germany basketball game.
10:03 - I devoured my first dish of pasta and my second dish of a quarter chicken with potato fries. Now onto flan for desert, and finishing my half liter of wine.
10:18 - I pay, and feeling a bit tipsy, I head out. Spain wins the ballgame, and a dubbed version of "Family Guy" come on.
10:31 - The albergue closed the main door at 10, but I failed to read the warning as I came in. There is no answer to my knocking. I succesfully attempt climbing a wall on the side, then walking along some roof tiles, and hopping down into the patio. My Crocs are of no help, but no one noticed.
10:39 - I ask her name. She is Marcela, 27, from Armenia in Colombia, but living in Barcelona since she was 20. She is taking some time off work, and this is week three of five in her pilgrimmage to Santiago. Over toothbrushing, she tells me we´ll talk more in the morning, but I doubt it.
10:51 - I put my head to bed. I know I´ll be sound asleep by 11.

Along the coast

2007-08-30T12:25:00.000-04:00

I´m not going to whine about the hills, the wind, or the rain. I´ve had a bit of all three, in all possible combinations, and when the time comes to face those elements, you can face them, or you can stay put. What it comes down to is that I came to Spain to travel and see, so I did not stay put. And I´m so glad.

From Muxia I traveled to La Coruña, one of Galicia´s largest and most beautiful cities. It reminded me a lot of San Francisco, but with sunnier weather. This was my first night not staying in a pilgrim´s hostel, so I decided to try to make it to a campsite early to set up. Given that, I could not dedicate too much time to seeing the city, but there wasn´t much going on this particular Sunday afternoon. Just sun and sights. When you have such limitations on how well you can explore a city, you look at a map or look for a tourist office and ask for the main attractions. It was evident that the main attraction was the waterfront path, which led to Hercules´Lighthouse. Some photos are on the Picasaweb site.

According to my map, the nearest camping site was in Santa Cruz, 4km away, so I headed out and found the spot, or at least I thought I did. It was right next to and overlooking a beautiful beach. There were other tents set up, and plenty of space, so I figured I would hit the beach first. I took my first dip in the brisk Cantabric Sea, and returned to the sand to dry off. My outrageous biker´s tan was catching some glances, but I was almost too distracted by the many topless women. If I lived in Europe, I wonder if I would ever get used to the sight of bare breasts in public places?

When I returned to the "campsite", I found that all the other tents had been taken down and their owners had left. Apparently this wasn´t the campsite, just the parking to the campsite. But it did have a great view of the beach, no one seemed to be patrolling, and it was free. And so it was that I set up the tent, and spent my first free night outdoors in Spain. Can´t say I regret it. After the tent was up, I walked back to the beach to use the bathroom at the beach restaurant and call Burgos. The waitress, out of the blue, asked me where I was from. She had long, straight, deep black hair, and big brown eyes. I think she was the prettiest girl I had seen in the trip so far. Turns out she was also from Colombia, and she informed me that there is a large Colombian enclave here, large enough that she was headed to a Colombian salsa-only club that night. Who would have thought? I guess we really are everywhere.

I won´t go into the nitty gritty details of Coruña to Viveiro, or Viveiro to Navia. It rained on Wednesday night. Hard. For about 12 hours, the pitter patter of rain hit my tent. I was lucky to have set it up before the rain started, but the worst of the rain came overnight. It kept me up, and at some point early in the morning it started seeping in through one of the seams. To be fair to the tent, it was pouring a heinous amount of water. I´m not sure many tents would have stood that. However, it did suck to lose some space inside the tent to wetness. I woke up to the unpleasant task of packing in the rain.

The night before, I had walked around the small little fishing town of Puerto La Vela. It was a whaling town, and like other whaling towns I knew in Massachusetts, it had a certain smell of foggy streetlight and cold air blowing through. There was also the smell of seafood, but that had been more or less permanent since I got to the coast. Not that I can smell great these days, as I´ve been congested, on the winning end of a battle against a stubborn cold. Puerto La Vela was too small to even ask if they had internet. It had been declared the prettiest town in Asturias in 1995, and there were 5 things to see in the town. One of them, an art deco style hotel, had a long historical plaque explaining the history of immigrants in the area. I´m still not really sure what or when these migrations ocurred, but what seems certain is that the entire northern coast of Spain has a lot of hispanic influence and immigrants. My sense is that Galician and Asturian natives left Spain, settled in Latin America, and then eventually returned with uniquely Latin American culture. I will find out more tomorrow and the Museum of Emmigration, which is on my path.

In Avilés, and doing well

2007-08-29T14:54:00.001-04:00

I want to write a longer update of the past few days, but the librarian at the Avilés public library is strict about leaving at 9pm. I think she has a dinner date.

So in short, I am edging along the coast, north of the Picos de Europa, on my way back to Burgos. All is well, except that the I had some heavy rain last night while camping, so I´m drying out. But I´m back on El Camino (it´s following me, i swear). This time, it´s a different Camino, the one that goes along the coast, and I´m going in the reverse direction, away from Santiago. Regardless, the albergues are happy to put me up, and this makes it easier for me.

more later!!

ps: my daily source of protein is supplemented from bugs that enter my mouth while i´m riding. and i haven´t seen the sun in two days. boo to Asturian weather!

To the Ends of the Earth, and Beyond

2007-08-27T14:40:00.001-04:00

My birthday celebration turned out way better than I expected. In Santiago, a city of several thousands, plus several thousand tourists, I ran into Javier, the one person who I had made a good friendship with on Camino. He was at the Pilgrim´s Office with his father, who had made the 7 hour drive from Pamplona to meet him at the end of the road. So we agreed to meet up for dinner, and Javier´s father insisted on treating. We shared a Galician dinner of octopus with spiced pimiento powder, and something akin to a paella, all accompanied with some wonderful local wine. Over dinner, Javier and his dad, also Javier, instructed me a little more on Galician culture and we determined that it seems most likely that my last name, Agudelo, is of Galician origin. After dinner, Javier Jr. and I celebrated arriving and my birthday over a beer, Estrella Galicia, a smooth lager ubiquitously on tap. Whatever comes out of a tap, by the way, is called "caña", as opposed to "clara", which is tap beer with tonic. yuck.

I returned to my posh rented room in an apartment, a welcome change from sleeping in bunks or on the floor. However, sleeping alone brought a strange feeling of solitude. The end of el Camino would mean that I would no longer have a guaranteed infrastructure of places to stay, and people to share with whom I knew already had something in common with me. I guess that´s one of the scary and amazing things about solo traveling, that at some point, it´s like Little Nemo when he goes off the end of the reef. When that security net is taken away, then it´s just you and your wits.

Twenty kilometers into my ride out of Santiago into the unkown, my knee started bothering me a bit, and I stopped to stretch a little. It´s the unspoken code that whe you see a cyclist on the side of the road, you stop and inquire. So it was that this Italian guy wearing spandex shorts with a print making them look like cutoff jeans stopped to ask if all was well. I told him I was just resting a bit, and that was that. About 10km later I caught up to him again, and I asked him where he was headed. He said he hoped to arrive to Fisterra, as the net of pilgrim hostels continued there. As that was also tentatively my destination, we rode together. We traded names, his Giovanni Bautista, from Torino. He had actually ridden from Torino (!), putting in 2400km in 18 days, over three mountain ranges, and on this day he had started from about 50km before Santiago, so he had more legs than I did.

Uncertain of how far Fisterra was, we stopped at Noia to check my map. The map was actually of no help because the road along the coast is much longer than it looks, weaving and winding its way in and out of bay towns whose existence seems to be only fishing. So we continued on the road, the Atlantic Ocean to our left. This was the first time the Atlantic Ocean had been on this side of the road for me as I headed north. That, however, was a secondary thought, because my main concern was dealing with the brutal headwinds. We finally arrived at a sign disappointingly telling us that Fisterra was 80km away, much too long to add to our day. Feeling slightly defeated, we decided to make for Corcubion, where there was supposedly another pilgrim´s hostel. In Galicia, pilgrim´s hostels are free, so we had incentive to make it there.

The road was beautiful, but the headwinds and constant hills made it difficult to really focus. I imagine this is a bit what the Pacific Highway road is like. If you´re going with the wind, it must be perfect. Against the wind, that invisible foe makes uphills seem like trying to penetrate a wall, and makes downhills slow down to about normal pace. That notwithstanding, having Giovanni there was great to keep my mind off the wind. He told me his father had built up his bike and guaranteed that it would make it to Santiago. The bike had nothing fancy. A classy Italian steel frame, with simple Campagnolo components, a basic touring rack and panniers. He was carrying surprisingly little for such an epic journey, and that inspired me to trim some of my belongings. Also, I realized my bike still needed some more wear and tear until I felt really confident with it. I had a scary moment where my left pedal somehow came loose and I tore off the first thread off the crank. Fortunately by threading it from the other side, I was able to get it back in no problem.

Arriving in Corcubion, we were told that there was no room left. We had hoped that beyond Santiago, these albergues would be basically empty, but we were wrong. The bad news were compounded when the guy running the place also said we couldn´t camp there. Added to the tone with which he refused us, it made it extra easy to just say goodbye, and put our heads down and make for Fisterre. We arrived at almost 9pm, which lucky for us is still light-ish outside. Immediately, there was a sense of welcome from the people in the albergue. We had arrived at the end of the road, the end of the journey, the end of the earth.

Fisterra literally means "end of the earth" in Galician. The Romans thought this was the end od the earth because it´s where the sun disappeared. It´s not quite the westernmost point in Europe (a penninsula near Lisbon takes that cake), but it´s close. Legend has it that this has been a place where pagans have journeyed to for hundreds of years before the Chrisitan pilgrimmages to Santiago began, leading many to believe that the pilgrimmage to Santiago was actually just a Christian myth fabricated to get pagans into the religion. Regardless, the place is full of a certain kind of culture, largely in part because it´s full of a certain kind of people. It´s a windy coastal town, making for tough residents who can take some sand in their eye and keep going. The travelers who come here are interested in something more than Santiago. They are interested in touching something deeper in history, and deeper within themselves. And Fisterra becomes a little of a meeting point for these travelers, who let loose and party a bit while they´re here.

After a genuine pasta dinner cooked by Giovanni (he insisted on cooking me "real" italian pasta, and in his panniers he even had some special virgin olive oil and spices), we decided to walk around and look for the party. By then, it was late, but it was a Friday and we figured the party would be thriving. If it was, we just failed to find it, and fatigued, we decided to just head to the lighthouse that marks the end of the promontory that is the end of the earth. I am happy to report that basically the entire time that we chatted, I mustered some version of Italian that was intelligible to him. I´m sure one out of every four words was actually some spanish-ism, but that didn´t seem to bother him. When we arrived at the lighthouse, we reflecteda bit on what it meant to have arrived, before we realized that it was about 1am, and we should head back to get some rest.

The morning saw us up early, as Mikaela, the pretty Italian albergue manager wanted us out by 8:30. So we were off, and I was completely uncertain with what to do with my day. I had planned a day off, but Fisterrra didn´t seem to be at my speed for the day of rest. It was a mixture of too windy, too touristy, and maybe just a bit too solitary for what I had hoped. So I headed for the lighthouse with Giovanni again, this time by bike, and we took some obligatory snapshots. He had to leave to catch a bus back to Santiago, leaving me alone to figure out what to do. Giovanni had mentioned that there was one more city called Muxia where the Camiino ended, again, and that there was an albergue there maybe worth the trip. I wanted to give my legs a rest, but a short ride would be fine by me.

I stayed at the lighthouse and found a quite place to rest and think. I found a stone bench facing the rising sun over the water. No one was around. It seemed for a moment as if everything stood still while I made up my mind. I read a bit of "Memorias del Fuego", the first in trilogy of books by Eduardo Galeano about the formation of a Latin American history. Reading about how 500+ years ago there were sailors who set off into that same uncertain ocean that sat before my eyes made me think about what it must take to make that journey. I could look at the ocean, and know that Boston was on the other side, but without that knowledge the ocean must have seemed like outer space. Of course, I´m not a sailor, nor do I know much about what sailors lives were like five centuries ago, but I can gather that at least these men were basically risking their lives for the promise of riches beyond their wildest dreams. They found those riches, and the riches are now scattered throught Spanish churches and museums.

After a bit of extra sleep, I decided Muxia was where I wanted to end up. First I stopped by the beach to pick up some actual Fisterra seashells for my niece, Katie. The only gift I brought her back from Colombia was a seashell from Cabo de la Vela, one of the northernmost settlements in Colombia. She has too many toys, and anything that I would buy her would pale in comparison with something in her toybox. When I gave her the Colombian seashell, her eyes lit up, and immediately I knew that I would be bringing her seashells from other places in the world I visited, starting with this. I found two ideal shells, small enough they wont encumber my minimalist traveling, but pretty enough that I know her eyes will light up again.

The two hour ride to Muxia flew by, and I keep up a high cadence to give my knees some rest. From the moment I arrived, the city was more welcoming, the water was more beautiful, and the people were more smiley. I had arrived in the city for its first annual artisan fair. All the locals were dressed up in medieval costume, and everything from bakers to potters to fish-net makers were out in the street. It was the perfect atmostphere to spend a day. I walked around, learning about the town and its wonderful history. Although out of the way from El Camino, this town claims to its name being the historic and religious beginning and end of El Camino. The guy at the tourist office gave the 10-minute speech on how it was on this beach that, while the Apostle James was pondering returning to the holy land because his mission of converting pagans in this region was proving unsuccesful, the Virgin Mary appeared in a boat encouraging him to continue. There are some large stones on the beach which are supposed to be the petrified parts of the boat that carried the Virgin. There is also an enormous monument marking the end of the Camino, something that Fisterra can´t really claim.

There´s really nothing like a small town fair to give you a sense of what the people are like. One person quoted me that the state of Galicia, which has no major cities outside of Santiago and Coruña, spends 6 million euros annually on fireworks. Who knows if that´s true, but the sentiment, which is that people here live well and celebrate well, certainly seemed true. People, in and out of costume, walked with big smiles on their faces, happy to engage in conversation, and happy to see other people happy. I heard some wonderful music, a mixture of scottish, irish, and german with bagpipes, flutes, accordeons, and drums. For lack of finding one restaurant that appealed to me, I decided to much on things from many establishments. First was the "pollo preñao", a little roll cooked in a stone oven with a chorizo inside. Then there was the "empanada de pulpo", sliced up octopus in a crusty empanada. Not to be missed was the "cocido gallego", a greasy few slices of pork meat with potatoes. The meat turned out to be pork ears, nose, and tongue. I might not have eaten it had I known first, but it was stil good. To top things off I had a chocolate and cherry crepe. By that time, I could eat no more, and I had received comments from two locals who were wondering where I was putting all that food. Gas in the tank, baby. Gas in the tank.

For beinga town of six thousand and no industry other than fishing, this certainly seemed like a town that was doing well for itself. Maybe the first annual fair is a sign of how this little town is marketing itself as a bit more of a tourist destination, an reaping the benefits of such. It had a decently sized supermarket, but it had not yet lots the small local markets, fruit vendors, and bakeries. Another sign of prosperity was the alebergue in Muxia, a modern building that had only opened up less than a year ago. With motion-sensored lights and lots of natural lighting, the building seemed like it belonged in a larger city. Keeping to its small town roots, though, it closed at 11pm, so I had an early night in, which was good for getting some good rest. I was out of there by 9am the next morning after a lazy breakfast.

Two full days have passed since, and I am doing well, today in Viveiro on the northeastern shore of Galicia. I have not written because I have not found internet. I have maxed out this place, because they are soon to close, and daylight is dying, so I need to run to set up my tent for the night. But hopefully tomorrow I will be able to recap the last couple days as well, which have included the first bit of real strong rain, the first night of camping outside of a camping area, topless sunbathing, meeting other colombians, and the first mountain pass.

I´m afraid I won´t be able to post more photos until I get to Burgos, which will hopefully be next Sunday. Also, a general big shout out to all those who sent me birthday love. Though I´m far away, I felt the many hugs and well wishes sent my way.

Graceland

2007-08-23T13:09:00.001-04:00

Just to recap the story of why Santiago de Compostela came to be. After Jesus´ death, one of his followers, James (not the Apostle, as I had previously mistakenly said), traveled to preach the Christian gospel in Spain. When he returned to Jerusalem some years later, he was beheaded by King Herod. Two of James´ followers brought his body back to Spain and sough to bury him here, and they did so in Santiago, which was not much of anything at the time. The tomb was more or less forgotten, and that was that. Fast forward NINE centuries, when some believer, following the voice of God and a star in the sky, arrived in Santiago to find the remains of James! Since then, thousands of pilgrims have traveled from all over the world, and especially all over Europe, to visit the cathedral in Santiago, as I did today.

There are so many interesting ways to look at this pilgrimmage. Historically, it has had a tremendous impact on the development of Spain, and even Europe. I have read in several places along the route that Goethe said that "Europe was formed on the pilgrimmage to Santiago", or something along those lines. I can see how pilgrims from different parts of the world who met en route would form bonds that would later help define what Europe would become. The traditional pilgrimmage starts near the French-Spanish border, but people come from much longer distances, although the average pilgrim is probably Spanish, French, or Italian.

Another angle on the pilgrimmage is that of the role of the Church. Santiago, as is evident from the incredible number of churches, seminaries, and other religious buildings in the city, obviously is a branch of the Catholic church in Spain. It´s the holiest of holy sites in the country, and keep in mind that at once Spain was the most powerful country in the world. The Church obviously has had a vested interest in maintaining this as an important site. I think in part to promote pilgrims, the Church started issuing a a "Compostella", a document granting its bearer grace. Wikipedia suggests it´s something of a get out of jail free card, or in this case, purgatory. It doesn´t get you totally off the hook, but it reduces your time in purgatory. And if you make the pilgrimmage on a year when July 25th (St James Day) falls on a Sunday, the Compostella is "worth" more. So there is actually a big benefit to believers to make the pilgrimmage.

To get the Compostella, you have to go to the Pilgrim´s Office in Santiago and provide proof that your trip was for purposes of faith, and that you either walked the las 100km or bicycled the last 200km. I biked 600km, but my trip was not faith-oriented. Based on what I saw at the Pilgrim´s Office, I think I would have filled out the "sport" and "tourism" circles. I would have been rejected in a heartbeat. But of course, pilgrim´s are not stupid, so they figured out exactly where the 100km spot is, and a city sprouted up there: Sarria. Sarria, an otherwise small town, as far as I can tell, has grown tremendously, especially its hospitality industry, because many pilgrims go there to start their trip. What that has meant to me is that last night and today I have been unable to find lodging in the municipal pilgrim refuges. Last night I paid €8 for a private refuge (which felt like staying at a sports club, except that everyone shares a big room with over 100 bunk beds), and today I paid €18 for a room in an apartment building. If according to the refuge manager in Sahagun I was not a "true" pilgrim, I wonder what he would have thought of the ones who start in Sarria, have their bags lugged in a taxi from town to town, and spend most of the walk on their cell phones.

Santiago, then, has just become a big tourist city. You are more likely to hear strangers talking in a language other than Spanish. There are haute-couture stores in the historic part of the city next to the century-old churches. There are tourist trap stores selling everything from "I walked the Camino de Santiago" t-shirts (in any language that you can think of), to soaps carved in the shape of holy seashells. Women in big heels are walking their children around the city, and they have to avoid walking on the pilgrims who, after walking hundreds of kilometers just lie down in the central plaza to take a nap in front of the cathedral. The first plaza I biked into in the city featured a street guitarist who I was immediately drawn to. He was playing "Girl from Ipanema". I knew exactly where I was.

I don´t mean to put down the pilgrimmage, because I think it´s a wonderful thing. However, I do think it´s a little sad that the destination of such a journey has become the kind of place it is. As the "true" pigrlim would probably tell you, though, the destination has little importance. It´s all about the journey, and that becomes blatantly evident in the interactions you have with people on the way. One of the nicest things that I have discovered is that while on Camino, I have been an ambassador for the many facets of who I am, just as other people are ambassadors for who they are. I am an ambassador for Colombia, for cycling, for US immigrants, and when it comes out in coversations, for Harvard graduates. I happily represent all those groups, and I am excited and pleased when I meet travelers from other places who inform me on what it is like to be from their countries, to have their passions. This kind of sharing is what makes the journey all it is.

For me, though, an important part of the trip has been traveling alone, which on El Camino is often the exception and not the rule. Yes, it´s tough at times, but I am learning every day about myself and about others. I am on my pace and my time, and I am learning that is the bliss of freedom, if at times it comes at the cost of a little loneliness. Tomorrow I leave el Camino and head for the coast, to loop back to Burgos along the Cantabrian Sea. I will now bike towards the sun in the morning for the next few weeks, but not before a day´s rest on Saturday.

Oh, and as mechanical addendum, I broke my first spoke on the rear. Boo! I think I need to shave a bit of weight off the bike, and do some work on the wheel when I return to Burgos.

Galicia, here I am...

2007-08-22T12:51:00.000-04:00

I am now in Galicia, the first crossing of a state line in my trip. Spain is often referred to as one of the most decentralized countries in the EU, and apparently each state is basically an entirely different country. So far that has proven to be true, as Galicians speak something other than Spanish. I´m not exactly sure what it is. I can understand a lot of it, but often times it´s as if the language just replaced one letter with another. For example, "tengo" becomes "teño", and "caja" becomes "caixa". Weird. It´s something in between Spanish and Portuguese, and I guess it might be a clue as to where all these romance languages have a common link.

The road today was heinous. Uphill. Upwind. In the rain. Visibility of about 15 feet. We had a big mountain pass to overcome, and I guess the weather is part and parcel of the terrotory. Despite that, I felt good, kept my cadence high, and made good time to Portomarin, the last stop before Santiago. The public albergue in Portomarin was full ("completo", another example of a word that I know, but it takes on different meaning here...), so I was forced to seek out an alternative. I was happy that alternative only cost me 8€, and it seems like it´s a posh little place. Unfortunately, though, there are many more pilgrims because we are within the 100km range required by the church to grant the "compostella". The compostella is a document that grants people grace. So tourists fly into the city that´s 100km away and walk from there to get grace. People like the annoying Venezuelans who other people in the albergue are griping about.

30 seconds left on my internet, so I gotta bounce.

In the hills

2007-08-21T13:41:00.001-04:00

I don´t know much about Spanish topology, but the little I know tells me we are not in the mountains. However, if you told me that 40 minutes into the climb today, I would not have believed you. The road turned upwards today. Fortunately, the previous days with headwinds prepared me to just resign myself to slow speeds and to enjoy the scenery for what it was. Today the actual Camino ran along side the road I was biking on, so there were lots of pilgrims to say hello to, or more. Since I was only going 5 mph, I was able sometimes to hold a little longer conversation. I even was able to have a long exchange with a German guy, only to realize he had no idea what I was saying. I gave him the thumbs up.

My knees started aching a little on the climb. I had not been able to put in my usual 10 miles of spinning to get the knees nice and juicy. Also, because I realize that I have no been warming up properly, I decided to keep the day short, and aim for the little town of Villafranca del Bierzo. At my slow pace that started to seem unrealistic as I was going uphill, but after the corresponding long downhill at outrageous speeds, I was back on pace. Given the hills and a little detour to see some ruins, that was 65 good miles.

One though of today was about the industry of El Camino. Like railroads in the US, I imagine there are many towns along this long path whose only real purpose and reason for existing is for supporting pilgrims walking along. It really requires quite a bit of infrastructure and generosity to allow people to walk 1000+ miles. Both of those things seem now to just be part and parcel of the towns along the way. If you live in a town on El Camino, then you grow up knowing that there are many people just walking through, and you learn to smile and wish well.

El Camino turns out to be many Caminos. The one I´m on is the most traditional, the so called French Route which starts in Roncesvalles and goes to Santiago. There are longer routes, and the original pilgrims would come from as far as Eastern Europe. Thinking of that also got me thinking of what it must have been like for 9th century pilgrims to do such an epic journey on foot, and without infrastructure. What I gather is that while it must have been longer and harder, the concept of time must have been different, and taking 2 months off your regular life to do this pilgrimmage was not quite the logistical nightmare that it is for most people today to take 3 weeks off.

I am happy to have the time off now to be able to do both this pilgrimmage, and also all the traveling that is yet to come. I don´t think, and I don´t want to think, that I´m taking time off from my life, although sometimes it feels that way. I have met a fellow biker that has made the same last few stops that I have, and we have kicked off a friendship. He asked me today if I missed Boston, and I obviously do. I am constantly thinking about what it will be like to return to Boston, same old familiar and lovely Boston, but a totally different me. I look forward to that.

Headwinds and

2007-08-20T13:42:00.001-04:00

There is a whole culture that surrounds the Camino de Santiago. First, there is the paraphernalia (sp?). For whatever reasons, the symbol of the Camino is the grand seashell, the one that you see as representative of what seashells should be. And you see it everywhere. On the floor, carved in stone, there are seashell highway signs and seashell restaurants and hotels. Most notably, many of the pilgrims wear large plastic seashells around their necks. They look corny and fake.

Second, there is the language. On only my second day, I have met pilgrims speaking Spanish, Italian, French, German, English (from UK, Australia, and South Africa. Gotta love that South African accent!), Japanese, Chinese, Slavic languages that I could not identify, and that´s just what I can remember. Regardless of which language people speak, though, the trademark greetings are the same. "Hola" in a sing-songy Spanish intonation that lilts upwards. "Que tal?" is the Spanish equivalent of the US "what´´s up", because no one seems to actually respond what is up. The most notable greeting, that I got today in a thick German accent while sitting in a cafe in Leon is "Buen Camino". Good Road. I really like this last one. It is both something literal, but it can also represent a larger scale wish of good fortune. For cycling specific greetings, I have gotten "Buen viento" from a couple of people, and that is also really nice.

Today was NOT good wind. The morning wind was unfamiliar to me, because I had previously been getting out at 9-10am. Today, they had us out at 8am, and it was really cold. Like long-finger gloves, tights, and jacket cold. Not really what I expected of Spanish summer mornings, but there it was. The late afternoon wind was strong and head on. On a slight uphill, I could not break 8kph (5mph). It was frustrating, but a reminder that it was not about how fast I went. I knew I would get to my destination, and the hot shower felt all the better.

There are two mildly impatient Spanish pilgrims waiting in line for internet, so I should run. Three things:

1. Check out the map

2. Soon to come, a list of daily stats

3. I need a name for the bike. I´m taking entries, so start sending me emails!

Day 1 on El Camino

2007-08-19T13:58:00.001-04:00

When you´re on the road, sometimes the wind hits from the front, sometimes from behind. Sometimes there is sun, sometimes there is rain. Sometimes the road is nice and smooth, sometimes it´s rough and bouncy. Today was one of those days that reminded me that this is the nature of long bike trips. It was about even split between great conditions and less than ideal, and I am happy it wasn´t worse than that. I am not looking forward to having to camp in the rain, but it is bound to happen.

It is unclear where the Camino de Santiago starts, but what is certain is that it goes, and has always gone through the town of Shahagun, where I am spending my first night in a pilgrim´s hostel. It is a converted monastery from centuries ago, giving it an appropriate feel for a pilgrim´s refuge. I have been surprised by the number of incredibly old buildings that have been left to ruin, and this is really the first example I have seen of one that has been refurbished for modern use. I get the sense that once buildings are too run down, it doesn´t make financial sense to maintain them, so they are just leveled and something new is built on top. Accustomed to the spirit of preserving the oldest history available in the US, I am shocked to see thousand year old houses along the road that are like old newspaper: all it takes is your touch in order to make them crumble.

The building has an impressive 72 beds and 10 or so showers, and free internet. There are volunteers who manage it, and it all seems to run pretty smoothly. I guess it is the spirit of the pilgrim to not be too needy, and by this stage in the journey (for most people walking the traditional route from Roncesvalles to Santiago this is several weeks into the trip), everyone is used to being respectful of others. As a cyclist, and one who is just using this pilgrimmage as a jumping off point for a longer trip, I feel a little bit an outsider of the group of walkers whose feet are torn up with blisters. I am also carrying a much larger load than most, as most people who decide to bike the route know they will never need to set up a tent. I overheard the guy who manages the place say that a "true" pilgrim walks, often sleeps outside, carries very little, maybe not even a credit card or much cash, and relies on people´s hospitality to get him to the destination. He called the rest of us "pilgrim´s lite", using the english word reminiscent to me of watered down beer.

I wanted to devote a small section of today´s entry to pointing out that my day on the saddle is incredibly pleasant most of the time, but that it doesn´t cancel out the fact that I am spending 5-6 hours daily sitting on a small piece of nylon and plastic, pushing 60+ pounds of stuff around. I am in pain, especially my butt. It is a pain that is familiar from my days biking across the US, but happily it is a pain that recedes, and pales in comparison to the positive feelings that come from spending so much of my day outside, experiencing and exploring the world in such an amazing way.

Inventory

2007-08-18T15:44:00.000-04:00

BIKE

Frame: Scott. Model unkown. Probably 2003
Wheels: Alex DM-18 rims, 36H. Hubs have no identifiable information.
Fork: Kinesis Aluminum Cross
Cranks: Truvativ FiveD crankset (44,32,22)
BB: Shimano UN-73 sealed cartridge
Chain: KMC-X.93 8-spd
Cassette: SRAM 8-spd (12,13,14,15,17,19,21,23)
Headset: Unkown
Stem: Ritchey Pro
Handlebars: ITM 260 44 with Cinelli GelCork tape
Levers: Shimano Sora Triple 8-spd
Derrailleurs: Shimano Sora Triple 8-spd
Brakes: Avid Shorty 4 in front; Prototype Topeak/DiaCompe locking linear-pull in back
Tires: Maxxis Overdrive 700x38 on the front. Ritchey Cross-Lite 700x38 on the rear
Pedals: Xpedo MF Mag-Ti
Seatpost: Kalloy 27.2
Saddle: Fizik Arione

ACCESSORIES

Fenders: Mt Zefal full coverage 45mm fenders
Cages: Topeak ShuttleCage SS
Rack: Topeak Super Tourist MTX with pannier bars and disc brake mounts
Bags: Topeak Pannier DryBags, Topeak MTX EX Trunk Bag, Topeak HandleBar Bag
Backpack: Ergon BD1 Team Edition with 3L Camelbak bladder
Computer: Topeak Comp 140

CARGO (all told, about 36 lbs)

Right Pannier: 2 jerseys, 3 cycling short, 2 pairs of nylon pants (EMS zip offs and Columbia), 5 pairs of DeFeet socks, DeFeet arm warmers, 2 Craft long sleeve tops, 2 polyester shirts, Craft Mingo rain jacket, EMS Storm rain pants, Ziploc bag with toiletries (Dr Bronner´s, toothbrush, toothpaste, eye drops), small towel, tie-down strap, 175g frisbee.
Left Pannier: Topeak Bikamper tent, Marmot 30º sleeping bag
Trunk Bag: Topeak Alien II multitool, Topeak Mini Morph w/gauge pump, 6" vice-grips, 2 tubes, patch kit, DuMonde lubricant, mechanic towel, basic first aid kit, zip ties, nail clipper, OnGuard Bulldog Mini u-lock, Moleskine journal, Campsa maps of Spain, book to read. Thermarest RidgeRest sleeping pad on top of bag.
Handlebar Bag: mechanical pencil and extra lead, map of current location, REI compass, important papers (passport, IYTC card, credit cards, money), Canon SD700IS digital camera, mini-flex tripod, extra SD memory card, camera battery charger, Topeak HiLite 1W LED, rechargeable Li-ion battery for light, light battery charger, Topeak RedLite, UVEX clear glasses.
Backpack: Crocs, Wayfarer Backpacker guitar, other random stuff.

Thanks

2007-08-18T14:47:00.001-04:00

While on the saddle, there is a lot of time to think. A lot of time. Hours and hours. Besides filling my mind with inane calculations about how efficient my pedal stroke is, trying unsuccesfully to recall song lyrics, or just looking around me, one recurrent thought for the past few days, and surely for the next many to come, is the unbridled freedom that comes from this kind of touring. I am self-sustained. I choose to go wherever I want. The freedom, however, does not go so far as to say that I respond to no one. I realize there are a few special people who are largely responsible for allowing me this freedom, and I want to take an opportunity to thank them. In one way or another, they have made this trip possible, and to each of them I owe a large debt.

Frank and Sue: When I started dreaming about this trip over a year ago, I was not sure how it was going to come together, especially funding. A great big part of how I saved up enough for this, and my trip to Colombia, has to do with them giving me housing since November 1st. But more than just a place to crash, Wellesley has been a home, a place where all the family meets, a place where I have developed an awesome relationship with Katie, and a place where I have been able to plan this trip. For all that, and more, I thank and love you guys enormous amounts that even my long-winded prose couldn´t show. I promise to finish the basement when I return.

Neal Todrys and the rest of the gang at Todson: Besides paying my salary, which is funding this, they provided me with lots of equipment for the trip, and were understanding enough to give me a hug farewell rather than a kick in the butt when I told them I was leaving. Thanks to Neal, Maryellen, Rob, Chris, Julie and Dick for your help and warm wishes.

The Redondos: The full story, for those who don´t know, is that in 1997 Ana´s younger sister, Natalia, was involved in a study-abroad program where she came to the US for the summer. Luck would have it that they placed her in a homestay with Frank and Sue. Natalia developed such a great relationship with them, that two years later Natalia returned with her sister Ana. Then two years after that, Frank and Sue spent three weeks in Burgos with Natalia, Ana, and their parents, Tina and Miguel Angel. The summer after that my mom visited with them while she was in Europe. Also, Ana has made two other trips to the US to help take care of Katie and to study, and she is the one who I had been in touch with and helped me out with planning the trip. So now the Redondos are my family, and in the 10 days that I have been here they have treated me as such, from giving me house keys to asking me to walk the dog. Mil gracias a los cinco, bueno, seis con Kiko.

Kaitlyn: In the week before I left for Colombia, and in the two weeks between returning from Colombia and leaving for Spain, Kaitlyn has been more than a girlfriend, extending her responsibilities to secretary and full-time aide. For helping me organize my thoughts and my to-do list, driving me around to do errands and sometimes doing the errands for me, helping me figure out what to pack and help with the actual packing, and for generally keeping me sane and in the right frame of mind: baby, thank you.

My mom: While I´m on the bike, sometimes the thought comes to mind of who might be thinking of me at that moment. I know that as long as she knows that I´m out riding, my mom will be worried sick about me. I have tried to pacify her letting her know that I am being very safe and careful, but you know how moms are. I just hope she´s not staying up late at night because it´s a 7-hour time difference and I will usually get going on the road at 3am EDT. For just being my mom, supporting me in this amazing adventure, and for many other things, gracias a ti tambien!

Adventures in the Ribera del Duero

2007-08-18T13:30:00.000-04:00

The most difficult thing about getting going was waking up at 7:30am. No one else was awake at that hour, and when I stepped outside, it felt as if all of Spain was still asleep after a party-hardy Thursday. But now with a couple days of early mornings, I feel ready to really get going on my journey.

Yesterday I rode from Burgos to Roa, where the 4th stage time trial of the Vuelta a Burgos was taking place. It did not take long to leave the city limits of Burgos, and suddenly I was in heavenly fields of hay and sunflowers. The only other kind of agriculture I would encounter the rest of the day would be vineyards. The Rio Duero is the main source of water for this area, and the combination of the dry-ish earth, the 800m elevation, the climate, and the water make for perfect grapes. So, this area is home to the best wines and vineyards in the country. Time and again the Ribera del Duero wines win the highest prizes for Spanish wine. And, much like the coffee growing regions of Colombia, the success of the industry is evident. Rolling through the towns, there are many bodegas, storerooms where the wine is aged. Some are hundreds of years old, although most of the really old ones are totally dilapidated and unused. The areas outside of the old historic town centers are scattered with beautiful large houses, and you see slightly larger, nicer cars on the roads. Wine is obviously in these people´s veins, and it seems to be the primary industry.

The roads, which are marked on my map as tertiary paved roads, are good for riding. No shoulder, but not enough traffic to merit one anyways. The drivers so far have been courteous and beep, slow down, or both as they approach. I had good weather and good winds all the way. Saturday I encountered one of the nicest roads I have ever biked on, reminiscent of the roads in the horse farms of Lexington, KY, and worthy of a photo.

Once in Roa, I caught some great cycling action. Roa, a town of 2,500, was also celebrating its fiestas, or regional holidays, something which doesn´t exist in the US. So there were some extra people in town to cheer on the cyclists. Watching a time trial is funny. You have no idea how the riders are doing by just seeing them ride by. They also ride by even quicker than usual, leaving the spectator wanting more. Despite that, it was exciting to see Alejandro Valverde put in a superb effort with a winning time of 22 seconds over second place, putting him 2 seconds behind the overall lead.

After 2 hours of spectating under the hot sun, I realized that at some point the heart rate monitor that I had affixed to my bike with velcro had sallen off. So no heart rate monitoring for the rest of the trip. That was the first bummer. The second bummer was that, because it was the fiestas, nothing was open for me to get food or water. The third bummer was that I was told by someone in town that it was illegal to camp solo in public spaces. This is different from what I had been told earlier.

Enter the first show of outrageous hospitality: Jose. Jose was standing outside the bullfighting ring, waiting for it to open because there would be a bullfight for the fiestas. When he realized my predicament, he offered me lunch at his house and pointed me to the nearest town with camping facilities. Lunch, at 5pm, was delicious homecooked fillet and tail of lamb, blood sausage, and salad all made by his wife. They had already eaten, but they kept me company and we talked, or rather, Jose talked while I ate. He hit on subjects ranging from problems with the economy, Argentinian relations dating back to the Franco era, to the Spanish version of Betty la Fea simply called Bea, and how much he disliked George W. Bush. Jose and his wife live in Aranda de Duero, the nearest city with a population of 40,000. They moved out there 42 years ago where Jose got a job working for Michelin, worked there for 36 years, then retired and is now pensioned. They were both born in Roa, and after his parents passed away, he kept their house in Roa, and now use it as a place to escape the city and come home to more familiar surroundings. Their only family are their children, the youngest of which is 26 and lives in Madrid. They´ll never read this blog, even though I told them about it, but regardless, I want to say thank you for everything.

After dinner, they pointed me on the way to Aranda de Duero, where I could ask for camping sites. The town was filled with young people attending a 3-day pop music festival. I almost attempted camping with those masses, but I figured I would get a better night´s sleep at a regular campsite. Plus, those of you who know me know my feelings on pop. The campsite was a good 5km outside of town, making my total for the day over 120km (75mi). That was more than I wanted for my first day, but it was good practice.

The campsite was significantly more elaborate than I expected. It had a restaurant, hot showers, laundromat, and lamp posts. The one thing it did not have, though, is grass, which is essential for setting up my tent, the Bikamper. The Bikamper, though cool, requires softer earth than this campsite could provide. I managed to make it work, but it definitely cuts down a bit on versatility. That notwithstanding, my first night "camping" was great. I got a hot shower, and a pizza for dinner, leftovers of which made for great breakfast. And I slept like a baby.

This morning I was up late (9am!), and packing up took an hour. I knew the Vuelta a Burgos would be finishing in Burgos at about 3pm, so I wanted to book it to see the end. I got my wheels rolling, and made my way back to Burgos via a slightly different route which cut off about 15km. I arrived in time to catch the end of the race, and see Mauricio Soler finish with the pack, making him the winner of the 2007 Vuelta a Burgos. I brought a bandana-sized Colombian flag from Boston just for this kind of occasion. I was tired, sweaty, thirsty, and lugging my bike around, but I was incredibly proud to be a Colombian in that mass of Spaniards, who I could hear saying, "this guy must be from Colombia". As I was heading to the Redondos´apartment, two or three people stopped to congratulate me for having a paisano win the race, one of whom was working for a sponsor of the race, so they gave me free waterbottles filled with ice cold water! There is certainly a very different attitude towards cycling and bicycles here.

Tomorrow starts the first real leg of the journey. I want to be in Santiago de Compostela, 500km away, on my birthday on Thursday. I doubt I´ll be camping, seeing as there seem to be decent pilgrim accomodations along the way. I´m also not sure about internet, but I will get to it as often as possible. In Aranda I asked for an internet cafe, and the town librarian told me outright that there just "wasn´t a lot of that in Aranda."

Test Ride

2007-08-16T17:46:00.000-04:00

The idea was that I would wake up this morning, pick up a couple of things quickly, catch the beginning of today´s stage of the Vuelta a Burgos, and then be on the road. From the first step out of bed, I was already running late. Knowing myself, I should not be surprised that´s not how things went down. But despite delaying my departure another day, it was a productive day.

First of all, I am now officially a pilgrim. The pilgrim´s hostel (albergue) in Burgos granted me pilgrim´s credentials, which are good for getting discounts at tourist sites and access to facilities for those making the pilgrimmage to Santiago. You don´t have to be a Christian to be a pilgrim, which is a good thing. And pilgrimmage seems to be an appropriate way to me to think of my trip. I feel like I am searching for something within, but I can only attain it by exposing myself to challenges.

Second, I have my guide. Ana loaned me her 2006 Campsa guide, which is a 1:300,000 scale road atals of all of Spain. It is not too bulky, has loads of traveler´s information, and will help me find my way.

Third, my bike computer finally works. I had lost the magnets that go on the wheel and crank to determine speed and cadence. After much searching, I found an open bike shop today that had these available. Finding the bike shop was difficult. The first two shops I visited were closed for vacation, one from Aug 12-18, the other from Aug 14 to Sep 2. They just had plain paper signs on their windows announcing such. The other shops I visited opened at 4:30pm and 5pm respectively, and of course, the one that opened earlier didn´t have the magnets. But I´m not complaining because I found what I needed at a good price, and it was my fault that I didn´t have them to begin with.

Fourth, and most importantly, I went out for my first test ride. I loaded up the bike with my bags, and took the loaded bike for its first spin. Having never ridden a loaded touring bike for more than a block or two, I was curious and hesitant about how it would feel. Happily it feels wonderful! Different, yes, mostly when climbing and going downhill, when it´s respectively much slower and much faster than usual. But the rest of the time, even though it´s not fast, it´s really nice. The weight of the load serves as a reminder to not go so fast and enjoy the view. And what a view! I put in 30km in an out-and-back ride, and on the way back this is the view of Burgos.

Oh, and Mauricio Soler is still in the lead. The idea is to go tomorrow to Roa, site of tomorrow´s time trial stage of the Vuelta to cheer him on. A good performance is almost sure to get him the top podium spot on Saturday.

Mountain goat

2007-08-15T13:06:00.000-04:00

Maybe it´s because Bogota is at 8,000+ feet, or maybe it´s because cycling is the next most popular sport to soccer. For whatever reasons, Colombians have a reputation for being really good climbers on the saddle. Proudly, that reputation has recently been boosted by Mauricio Soler, a young (only 24!), rider who seemed to many to come out of nowhere and win the King of the Mountain polka dot jersey in this year´s Tour de France.

So perhaps it should come as no surprise to anyone that Soler won today´s 150km stage of the Vuelta a Burgos, which has a tough mountain-top finish. What did surprise me, though, is that Soler and his Barloworld team are staying at a hotel about two blocks from where I am. So I went in that direction, and soon thereafter I ran into the team mechanic who was washing bikes outside. He told me that Soler was on the way, and not 10 minutes later he appeared. His lanky frame showed fatigue, but despite that I asked for a photo, which he gladly posed for. I told him he made Colombians proud, to which he smiled, and said that he was happy people cared. Then he said he needed to go rest up. Now in the race lead, he´s got some work to do in the next few days.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, how many words is Google Earth worth?

2007-08-14T20:55:00.000-04:00

I came to Spain to travel by bike, see the country, the culture, and to escape from being stuck behind a desk in my mid-20s. I can vividly recall the anxiety I felt while sitting in front of a large flatscreen monitor showing me Europe on Google Earth. Soon, I would be there... IN there!! So why is it that I spent most of the day today sitting in front of a computer alt-tabbing between Google Earth, Google Maps, GMail, and Wikipedia??

One reasons, maybe the only one that I can believe and sleep well tonight, is that for me it is important to have a context when I travel. You see a statue of some dude riding his horse wielding a sword. You take a photo. You move on. But with some context, you know that the statue is of Cid el Campeador, who at one point managed to win military control over most of Castilla. You know that his horse was one of a kind, imported from the middle east, and worthy of legend itself. You find out that his sword, La Tizona (yes, it had a name), was given to him by a mentor, and it is preserved in a museum in Madrid. All of a sudden, the statue seems to take on importance it didn´t have before.

The moral of the story is that the world around us is filled with stories. Some are evident, some require some digging, some will never be discovered. It is these stories that give texture and meaning to what you see when you travel, and traveling without such context is empty in comparison. Sure, a guide can give you context, and often a local tour guide is the best, as they become a fitting part of the experience. But guided tours often don´t go at your pace, and they cost money which eats into the whole "budget travel" thing. And guidebooks, though cheap and useful, leave me with a residual taste of being spoon-fed a trip.

My research in front of the computer is not unlike the research travelers have done for years and years. Just like email has replaced letters, Wikipedia has replaced the Encyclopedia, and Google Maps/Earth have replaced the Atlas. But unlike their material counterparts, these virtual data sets interact. Click on Burgos, and Wiki will tell you it´s got just under 170,000 people. Google Maps will show you all the roads and tell you the shortest road from Burgos to Santiago de Compostela. And Google Earth allows hoardes of other data to find its place in the world: lodging, food, ATMs, photos from random people, even models of buildings.

Information overload? Maybe. For some, having all this information at your fingertips, and fingering through it before the trip takes away some of the surprise of the trip. If you´re one of those, then don´t look. Me, I like trying to find the best road between to points, and maybe while I´m looking for it I´ll find out that there is a site on the way worth the stop. For example, who would have known that there is a Guttenberg Bible about 4 blocks from where I´m writing this? And I can still go out and get lost whenever I want. Make a right turn here, a left turn there, and I´m in back in the land of the unknown, ready to discover the old fashioned way.

First ride

2007-08-13T17:55:00.000-04:00

I forgot to mention that Oscar, Ana´s cousin, took me on a bike ride with some friends of his to places just outside Burgos. It was the first real test of the touring bike in dirt and stone paths, which is about the worst it´s going to see. It survived the 28km well, and I have some nice photos of the Burgos countryside to show for it.

Bars, Bikes and Burgos

2007-08-13T16:45:00.001-04:00

Saturday i woke up at around 1. I was hung over, my bike was still missing, and I felt like waking up so late was impolite, or at least wasteful. Of course, when your days run until 6am, it´s not at all. Without the bike, I felt empty, plan-less, so I decided to let Ana take me along on her adventures. For Saturday, we met up with Ana´s cousin Patricia, 35, her husband Oscar, and their two children, Guillermo, 7, and Nicolas, almost 2. We snuck into their country club by hiding in the trunk space of their SUV. The day would consist of basking in the sun, and maybe taking a dip in the pool. It was sunny, maybe in the low 70s, with a light breeze. However, it was hard to totally let go and enjoy the afternoon without feeling a sense that this is not why I came to Spain. I was reminded to be present, be in the moment, and to just enjoy it while I could. I enjoyed playing with the kids. Nico was adorable, and Guille was amazed by my camelbak bladder. it gave me immediate props in his eyes. We were there until 8pm, and it was still sunny outside. then we met up with another one of ana´s good friends, nuria, who was coming up from Madrid with her bf, David, who lives in Leon. We hung out a bit at ana´s house, which is actually a large apartment on the 9th floor of a building overlooking the river in Burgos, before we were all gathered and set to go out.

The plan Saturday night was to go out and grab dinner, then hit up some bars. in attendance were all the above-mentioned people: patricia and oscar, beatriz and draco, nuria and david, and ana and me. we went to a restaurant on a hill overlooking Burgos and the cathedral, which is striking. The restaurant was equally amazing, with lots of little appetizer dishes (pinchos), and then a main plate of steak. we cooked the steak at the table, and apparently the move was to have it on the rare side. along with some nice red wine, dinner, which started at 11:30, lasted until almost 2am. I was beat. I was wiped from a long day, still jet lagged, and feeling a bit sick from all the alcohol consumption. Mostly, I think I was just really dehydrated, and maybe also a bit depressed because of my blurry vision, which has stopped getting better. boo. But of course, after dinner we were hitting the town. Oscar is a bit of a big shot in Burgos because he owns several bars, and bars seem to be good places to own because it´s where people hang. We first hit up a place called Buddha with all the same terrible atmosphere of bad bar/clubs in Boston. Loud bad music, shitty lighting, a weak crowd. the only saving grace were the stiff drinks. Then we hopped to a joint called Antarctica that was too full to enter, so we had one person go in, buy drinks, and bring them outside. When we were done, we needed a bathroom, so we headed to the place next door which was basically empty. While we were there, someone bought a round of shots, but two girls refused to take them, so I ended up taking three. I´m not sure what it was, but it was sweet, with a little anise, and some apple flavor. Then after that we went to another bar called Twenty Twenty, playing fantastic American music, starting with Dire Straits and going from there. After that the group split up a bit, but a few of us stayed strong and went to a final place whose name I don´t remember. My final drink of the night was a G&T, and I was happy to have held all that liquor in. I think I did well to drink lots of water through the night, because I wasn´t even hung over the next day. I wanted to dance a little bit at that last bar because they were playing merengue and salsa, but the only people dancing were these two hot girls dancing with each other, who I was told were prostitutes, or "zorras", as they´re called here. I got home real late, posted to the blog, and caught a glimpse of the sunrise.

Sunday morning didn´t exist. Ani woke me up at 2 to tell me that my bike had arrived and I should go downstairs to pick it up. Sunday afternoon we met Noria and her bf to go with Bea and her bf to another club. This one was called the Soto, and we had to sneak in again in the trunk of Draco´s VW Touareg. After a lazy brunch of paella and salad, we proceeded to find beach chairs and sit under the sun. That lasted until 7pm, when the sun hid behind some tall pines, and we called it a day. I came back home, and even though Ani had plans for later, I wanted to stay in and put the bike together. That affair lasted until 1am, but it was well worth it.

Today I wanted to take the bike out for an early morning spin, but I woke up at 10, and Tina made me breakfast. Then Tina left for the supermarket, and I had offered to help her carry groceries up when she returned, so I stuck around and waited. Before I knew it, it was 3pm, and there was no sign on Tina, so I decided to bail and take the bike out for a spin. At first I didn´t know where I should ride. The sidewalks are ample, and in certain places have bike lanes not unlike those in Bogota. But where that wasn´t the case, I felt the street was a better place to be, although I didn´t see anyone riding there. After a good 15 minutes, I caught one cyclist on a street, and after that I felt fine, so I stuck to the streets most of the rest of the time. I just wandered around Burgos for a while, not getting too far from the center.

Burgos is a beautiful little city. With less than 200,000 people, it really has the feel of a large town. The cathedral´s gothic architecture dominates the skyline, and a large chunk of the streets in the downtown area are blocked to motorists. These streets are narrow, lined with four-story buildings pressed against each other, with an occasional gap that creates a lovely alley. It´s a real old city, and it feels like such. There are many tourists who pass through here because Burgos is one of the larger cities on the Camino de Santiago. El Camino, as it´s called for short, is one of the primary pilgrimages for many Christians, although Wikipedia cites earlier pagan importance to this same route. The Christian story goes that in the 9th century someone following signs from God found the location of where James the Apostle had been buried in the northwest of Spain. Since then, pilgrims have traveled from all over to the site, and most have taken the path that that first pilgrim supposedly took. Not being Christian, I have my doubts about how true the legend is. I mean, who actually knows where St. James was buried? Nevertheless, it´s an appealing story, and it has gotten people to perform this pilgrimage, something which seems to be a good thing all around. Burgos, then, has played host to pilgrims for over a thousand years, and you still see people walking and cycling along the path. It´s really a pretty amazing way to engage history and faith, and I plan on doing the trip from Burgos starting on Sunday. :)

Needless to say, after a bike ride I feel like a whole new person. My sleep schedule is back on decent track, and I am looking forward to loading up the bike and getting going. The next few days, though, I will be paying attention the the Vuelta a Burgos, a 5-day bike race that takes place in the province of Burgos, including a couple of trips through the city of Burgos. Maybe I´ll try to hunt down Mauricio Soler and get his autograph. The race features all the major European teams, and I think following it for at least a couple of days will be a good warm-up to maybe following some of the Vuelta a España in a month of so.

Bureau-crazy or Burro-cracia

2007-08-12T00:59:00.001-04:00

Navigating the world of visas is proving to be an unexpected headache.

It was my romantic vision that I would like to travel in Europe by bicycle. As a Colombian citizen, I would need a visa. If I were a US citizen, I would not need a visa. Citizens of most European countries do not need a visa to travel in Colombia, or the US. I don´t want to make this double standard the subject of this post, but I would like to point it out. For whatever historical reasons, the citizens of many developing countries, especially Colombia, need visas to travel to developed countries. I can only imagine that the assumption is that those in developing countries traveling to developed countries may choose to illegally stay there, or that they are transporting illegal contraband or something along those lines. So they make you get a visa.

I started writing the day-by-day details of why this process has been so insightful into the absurdity of the bureaucracy surrounding this seemingly simple process, but I got too frustrated and decided that it´s better just to recap. I wanted to travel for several weeks in the European Union. First I was told to get the visa in Bogota. In Bogota, I was told to get one in Boston. In Boston I was told to change my flight. Then I was told that I could not get the visa I wanted. Then I was given a visa other than what I expected. The short of it is that I am here in Spain with a visa that only lasts until Sep 13 but my return ticket is on Oct 17. So my headache is not done. I have to wait until September when most of Spain returns from vacation so that I can talk to a guy named Jesus who may help me extend my visa.

Speaking of headaches, I am writing at 7am local time because this is when I have returned from a night out partying. Dinner started just before midnight, and then we hit several bars afterwards. I am still a little jet lagged, so it feel relatively early for me, although I really need to hit the hay.

My bike is still missing. My visa is still not what I need it to be. I can´t drive because I forgot to get an international driver´s license back in the states. I am still jet lagged, and I feel like a foreigner, like I´ve never really felt before. I am far from home. 6875km to be exact, according to a compass etched in stone at a restaurant in Burgos. But somehow, things still manage to be ok. I am going with the flow, and so far it has steered me well. I spent most of today at a country club, sleeping poolside. Can´t really complain about that.

In Burgos, no bike

2007-08-09T08:37:00.001-04:00

I don´t think it´s inevitable that last-minute things should have to wait until the last minute. It seems feasible that with good preparation and execution one would be able to complete tasks with time to spare so that the only last-minute thing left to do is to sit at the airport bar and have a beer. Maybe it´s human nature, maybe it´s just me, but that was not the case leaving Boston. I arrived at the airport at 4:40 for a 6:20 international departure, and I was checking my bicycle as luggage in a big cardboard box. Despite being one of the last people to check in on my flight, having to drop my bike off at a different "special" luggage carrel, and waiting in a long security line, I managed to make my flight. However, the same cannot be said for my bike.

The flight was smooth, though very full. Iberia Airlines established a direct Boston-Madrid route not too long ago, and to promote it, fares have been competitive. Many of the people on the flight had connections to other European cities, making for excellent people watching. It was also interesting to think that the flight was only about 15 minutes longer than the flight from Boston to LA, bringing up the thoughts that the US is really large, and also that Europe is not as far away as it seems. Food was decent. The in-flight movie (about a waitress in a small-town pie-diner who struggles against an abusive husband, an unwanted pregnancy, a lousy job, and the dilemma of an affair with her ob-gyn, appropriately called "Waitress") was not half as bad as it would seem. The worst thing that happened on the flight was the moment when I realized that I accidentally removed all the music from my iPod.

And when I got off the flight things were going smoothly. No long stoppages at immigration, which I am told is unusual for a Colombian citizen. My checked backpack was waiting for me at the bagagge claim when I arrived. Then I started the search for my bike, which was supposed to come out of a "special luggage" handling belt. I waited until it seemed reasonable to inquire at the desk, and they checked with the people who unloaded the plane, who said the bike would be through soon. I waited 20 minutes and inquired again, this time to be told that the people who unloaded the plane actually had no recollection of unloading a bike. Rather than stay there and argue, largely because Ana was waiting for me on the other side and I had no way of letting her know what was going on, I decided to just put in the claim, and to hope that within a couple of days the bike shows up in Burgos.

As soon as I walked to the other side of the baggage claim area, there was Ana with brother Tato. Reunions are always fun, and this one was no exception. It´s been about two years since I saw Ana, and we had a lot to catch up on, beginning on the 1.5 hour drive to their hometown of Burgos. The landscape on the drive was immediately surprising. You could see mountains in the horizon, and the plains we were driving on looked like dry earth heavily covered with green. Terracotta tiles broke the landscape with rooves of houses, often clumped together into a little community, oases in the sea of land. The two-lane road was in great condition and well marked, making for fast driving on the way home. Already I am excited about getting to ride in terrain like this (assuming my bike arrives promptly).

I have decided to stay up as late as I can and then crash hard. I have no experience with jet lag, but this seems like a good strategy. I´ll let you know if it fails.