A Spanish Interlude P1

I showed up to Spain in the fetal position. Espana though was a kind mother to me. Her warmth a slow spread of honey and she tickled my belly. Soon she had me doing happy baby nightly, with my heels kicked in the air looking at the ceiling of the starry night sky. Wondering what is softer than a cloud at night. 

 I rode off the ferry into Barcalona at one in the morning, sandwiched between disembarking semi trucks and hippies with dreads down to their butts living van life. I was instantly struck by the humidity, and Montjuïc overhanging along the port, the bike path going alongside gothic buildings reflected in fresh puddles and the large scale twinkling Christmas decorations crowning every street. As a self proclaimed non-city person, I was instantly enchanted.

I planned to stay for one night, and for almost a week I started my days by taking the elevator down (full of people from all over the world to chat too) to the front desk and asking “Una noches mas?”. My room was full of snoring solo female travellers. Mama Ronda from Trinidad, another girl I never actually met, who was sleeping with somebody at the hostel and who elusively came and went, indicated by her things moving around. As well as a travel social media influencer who felt like she was always trying to sell me sometning. They were spending the holidays in the hostel and were trying to convince me to join them “Us solo women have to stick together.” Mama Ronda told me, she also told me if her son told her he was flying across the world to solo bike across the country she would cut off his allowance…and maybe his balls too. 

 I spent the days mostly on my own, biking and walking around the streets full of Christmas crowds. I went to the contemporary art museum and ended up watching people skate the famous spot out front instead of going in. I loved seeing Dali’s strange brain in the form of his creations.  Barcalona was great for people watching and full of graffiti to write home about. 

On my last night in Barcalona, i said goodbye to by French fumee friends who were headed to Pamplona for Christmas. We went out for pinchos and drinks in a gay bar, were we chin chin’d to great friendship and the sharing of a journey. Afterwards, I wandered around the streets, taking in the festive spirit and catching my reflection in steamy packed Tapas bars, and I felt a brand new feeling. I realized I wasn’t scared in the same way anymore. It felt like I am beginning a new chapter of life, in myself, a spot that marks the place in time when I will look back and say “Ah, yes! That was the pivotal moment when everything changed!” My friend told me it would take a couple of weeks to get used to bikepacking, but my therapist will be the first to tell you that i’m a slow processor and it was then, at the two month mark at two in the morning, when the adreline of new-ness wore out and this had all just become my life now.

Leaving Barcalona was a shit show. I almost got hit by a few cars, personally almost ran over an entire family crossing the street, I kicked a guy as I swung my leg over my ever growing bike gear. I randomly biked by a group of people who won some form of lottery, crying, popping champagne, screaming at the tv cameras in their faces, as confetti popped. I felt stressed and passed by a churro stand and stopped to try some, craving something warm amongst the never ceasing winter rain. The day was long and the grease sat heavily in stomach all day like a hug around my guts until I arrived to Stigis, where I splurged on a hotel (after many not great sleeps in the solo snoring dorm) the man working their grabbed my pink hands when I arrived and it felt like family welcoming me in for the night. A warmth unmatched by Italy. Not to mention the most epic buffet the next morning that I filled my boots with. 

It was also December 24th and I was pulling a total Davide when it came to deciding how I wanted to spent it. I hovered on my bike Trigger staring up at the vast mountain tops trying to decide If I felt like biking 1,500 up a mountain in the wrong directions to a Warmshowers. As I stood wind was blowing me and the whole town sideways, and a man biked by fast, a bikepacker! I shouted Hey! And he 180’d on his stead and pulled upside me, in all black, only the circle of his face exposed, Thomas from Marseille who was biking 150 K’s a day to Gribaltar, always in a straight line down the coast. “Pourquois si vite?” I asked with a smile. “I need to clear my head.” He said with honest eyes. “I understand. It’s my first time travelling alone, I am learning a lot.” I said, trying to match his honesty. “I can see. Your eyes are windows into the universe. I will remember them for the rest of my life, Hannah.” And he left as quick as he arrived, gone in a blink. And I decided he was right, the straight line made sense and I continued against the wind.

Christmas Day was a somber downpour. I cooked a meal on my jetboil along the windowsill, illuminated by the hotel sign lights. It turned into a mush of lentils with bacon, no Christmas ham let me tell ya.

It felt all at once peaceful and depressing. I had changed my mind again throughout the day before and had decided it would be quirky to take a train to Valencia and spend the holidays in a hostel,  but with the language barrier, at the train station full of a pumping base and heavy drinkers, I was put on the wrong train and ended up in Tortosa. I liked the feeling of the town after accepting my fate. The first real “Spanish” town experience wirh a castl. It could also be considered (minus the castle) the Spanish Saskatoon as it had many bridges crossing the pale fast moving river. I spent the day walking the empty streets sopping wet, feeling sad for myself and the security guard working at the hotel, sad to be cooking a terrible lentil meal on my camp stove, and sad when I walked around and saw a man setting up his sleeping bag the ATM glassed room of a bank. I felt sad to be alone, throwing a little pity party, but as many loved ones took special care to call me, most saying they felt stressed, I realized what I had was also a gift, and I read my book all day and napped. I didn’t think I cared about the holidays, and maybe it was influenced by being in Europe where every single town goes all out with lights and nativity scenes, or maybe its just being far away from my community, but it turns out i care very much. Next year, i will take special care with how and who I get the sweet gift of spending it with.

I woke up early the next day, happy to have the day over and done with.I tried to “sneak” onto the train the next morning at 5:30 am with my old ticket but it was the same lady at the office who DEFINITELY will know the only bikepacker in town and I got on my bike and started riding in the dark, with all my lights on illuminating an empty rainy highway, down bike paths beside rhe river i could hear but not see, and as I intimately watched the blue hues of the morning change, I cycled through a pretty town with a drawbridge. At 11 am I had made it three hours to Vinaros and I was already soaking wet and miserable and still lonely…i saw a car lot full of RV’s and had a sudden idea. With desperation motivating me, I walked in and up to a woman in an RV pulling out and asked if she spoke English and if there was any chance I could get a ride to Valencia. 

This was how I met Gabbi, a 70 year old German woman living in her RV with an adventurous spirit, she didn’t bat an eye when I asked for a ride, just hoped out and in a very methodical German-esk way secured my bike in beside her own in the back. She was headed to Eche, even father south, she was sick of the rain and chasing the sun, I had met my match! Despite her age there was no grandmotherly feelings. Gabbi is sassy and independent, she survived breast cancer, a new boss at her company she had spent her lifetime working for who tried to take her down, and a knee replacement where she had an out of body experience and almost died from her body going septic. After all that she decided her life would be dedicated to travel (plus she was an old bikepacker herself).

 “Did going through all of that give you a new appreciation for life?” I asked, “Nope. I already appreciated life.” She told me as she drove me through the best parts of Valencia, and she asked me where I wanted to camp. On google maps I found a bird sanctuary in the middle of nowhere and told her I would sleep there, she felt worried for me and said she would sleep there too; beside me in her RV. I felt protected tucked in beside her RV and the fence in a Gravol patch, with strange long bird calls sounding throughout the night. She cooked me dinner and gave me German beer, the entire storage of her floor full of it, and said when I woke up to come in for coffee and breakfast. 

In the morning she swung open the door and through the canvas of my tent told me to come in and warm up already, stop being so shy! The rain had finally ceased, and we had found some Spanish sunshine, after coffee we went for a walk to see the birds and It was one of my favourite mornings, watching ducks bob underneath hot air balloons. It was peaceful. I forgot how much you can cover in a car, we had driven 200 kilometers, and the scenery had changed drastically, mountain ranges everywhere like a kid had played with the mud of the earth like puddy, pinching peaks wherever they could. When I parted ways with Gabbi i had a cry on my bike, her kindness went such a long way and she told me there’s a saying in German, that you cross path with people twice in a lifetime and that she’d see me again, if not in spain she’s find me in Morroco. 

In Spain days on the bike were always 70+ K, although I am never really sure what exact distances i bike or for how long. I decided before I started this trip that it wasn’t the point anyways. I only have Italy to compare too biking wise and the thing is, everyone says biking in Italy sucks. Sure ya, cars are close as hell and honking like heck but you have almost three different road options at all times. I found Spain to be harder to navigate route wise.  There’s a Euro Velo route 8 that goes along the coast and people don’t bat an eye as you go by them on their morning jogs, and hotels are used to accommodating. I didn’t enjoy the Spanish coast. It was built up and at this time of year half empty, not empty enough to camp on the beach but enough to confirm why there’s a housing crisis across the globe due with the role of tourism playing a part with all the empty buildings sitting, waiting for tourist to return. It was too cold to swim and Spain had a lot of muddy days. I felt bad for the few hostels I stayed in, drops of mud following me like crumbs to the culprit, but they said they were used to it. There was multiple days where I drop a euro at a car wash and spray my bike, self and panniers down. Also there are “Ramblas” to watch out for, basically dried river beds, hard as heck to bike through; super dangerous if there’s been any rain, hence devastating Valencia floods last year that killed 300 people. I often chose the mountains over the coast. I’ve been quoted saying “if the grades good” The grade of a road that is. I like hills now, alert the media!!! 

*another crazy thing about Spain is the sheer amount of RV’S - there are basically villages of them everywhere Its kinda and apprently kinda a problem* 

 *My sincerest apologies but this next section won’t format properly and probably bothers me THE most* 

I didn’t camp very much on this leg of my journey, I opted for hostels and Warmshowers. I stayed with Francisco and his dog Canella. Francisco lived in a town called Cuevas. On my rainy bike ride there I wondered what the word meant…Cave! He taught me. Francisco was a history book and educated me that many people in this area still live in caves, including his uncle.  His family hilariously made up most of the town, and he said in Spain because most people share a similar last name, they are often given nicknames. His mom side is known as the “papas fritas” -because they own a chip and burger restaurant. His dad side is “the windy family”, origins unknown. Francisco took me to the market in town the next morning and stopped to kiss the cheek of every second person, “My cousin.” He’d always tell me afterwards followed by a snippet of family lore about them. Francisco speaks English with a thick Scottish accent from living in the UK for so long. He was incredibly sweet and bought me Churros and gave me a tour and laughed at all my bad jokes. He told me he was incredibly lonely, he had family but he said it’s not the same has having one good friend. He asked me question after great question about my trip, he restocked my stoke and maybe his own. He was getting ready to go on an epic bike trip soon across Europe to the Baltic's. It’ supposed to be three months but we both kept eluding to the fact that it was going to be way longer. He hated his job working at the golf course and his parents were in good health. It was only Canella and the need for Insulin causing uncertainty. Canella he said saved his life when struggling with depression and he was trying to decide if he wanted to make a basket and bring her along, or leave her with his mom and her brothers and sisters. I was supposed to stay one night and ended up staying two and he said I could stay as long as I liked. Maybe it’s a good thing I had a time crunch in Spain, every place and person seemed to ask me to stay put

I took the first photo to share with my grandma that I was finally sweaty, but a second later was drenched instead by rain.

And then, it was New Years. I had spent reigning 2025 in alone, dancing in my grandmas living room, going for a silent winters night walk, and falling asleep to Sleepless in Seattle by midnight. I knew this year, especially after Christmas, I wanted to be with people, out in the world. I had asked a Warmshowers couple, Cindy and Yvonne from Holland if I could stay with them, and they agreed, while also giving me a heads up know that they lived in Europe’s largest “naturalist society”. My sister Rhea and I made eachother “New Years bingo cards” and I put on ex over the nudity square. I was spending the holiday butt naked. 

They themselves didn’t walk around their house nude, and asked that I didn’t either. (I have actually seen the opposite on Warmshowers before, in Naples of course, a man saying to stay with him you MUST be nude). I went to the beach to wait for them to finish work, I sat fully clothed in the sun and cold wind, and a man walked by me, also fully clothed, and then he walked by again, the third time he was suddenly pants-less, and stopped right in my line of vision of the sea and began to masturbate. I looked around, there were people everywhere, but i felt targeted and disgusted. I stared at him until he left, almost not wanting too because maybe thats exactly what she wanted but he eventually did leave. Not even 10 minutes later, after I went into the cold sea to pee and refresh, a man approached me and asked me some questions in Spanish, we quickly changed to French as he was form Algeria and he quickly asked me if I was married. Here we go. Not anymore I joked. He quickly was sitting beside me, taking our photo with his arm around me and then asked if he could kiss me. “No?!” I said and he argued with me “No?” “NO!” I said more firm. “Why?” He asked. “Because I just met you one second ago and I don’t feel comfortable.” I said, this time having to fucking type it out on google translate into Arabic. I told him I had to go and started packing my stuff up, he reached out, folding my things and packing then onto my bike, he wrung out my bating suit bottoms. I told Cindy and Yvonne this story after meeting them, sharing that i felt a little rattled, “the audacity of subtle control.” Yvonne said shaking her head. I find often thats the problem with these nudist places, the intention is nice but often it comes with a sexual charge, I could feel it on the streets, men out on the prowl, and I didn’t return to the beach the few days I spent there. Instead I opted for the heated pool, with no clothes allowed signs, inside of the gated society, people watered and cooked on their bbqs and grocery shopped a la mode, there was a little library and hang out area and you got used to it all pretty quick, I was by far the youngest person there and I wondered if everyone was swingers (I never had the guts to ask.) 

New years was perfectly silly and festive. I cooked Cindy and Yvonne a vegetarian dinner and they cooked me Oliebol and we watched a bad Netflix movie.(Any film is a treat for me at this point).At 10:30 we hit the town, where nothing was open except two bars, one private event that cost $60 euros to get in but wirh a full dance floor. We ended up playing pool in one place, where Mike from England was definitely on something and kept asking, the blacks of his eyes planets of their own, if we knew how to play. We got annoyed and went to a resturant, where we sat at the bar and I ordered an espresso and brought out the grapes. It’s tradition in Spain to eat 12 grapes at midnight as the bell tolls, the three of us started rapidly throwing back the grapes but looked around and realized bell tolls are quite slow, and everyone was one by one eating a grape, almost thoughtfully. Everyone in the resturant cheek kissed and hugged and we went out to the street with sparkles, running around a naked mermaid statue prancing. We then danced to Micheal Jackson playing in a distant bar on the beach, barefoot underneath the full lit moon, and walked home to bed. All of us expressing how lucky and fun and random this New Years was spent together.

We also partook in a 200+ naked polar bear dip the next day, I had my bikini on and at the last second striped down, starting the year freely swimming naked in the sea. 

Over the few days I spent with Cindy and Yvonne, over meals shared on their balcony in the sun and sitting side by side on the couch, I got to know these two very grateful and positive people. Being in their home and around their grounding energy really helped restore my spirit. They make their income from being professional house sitters and I really admired how they made up their life as they went along, designing and creating it how they like, despite often their friends and family’s scoffing. It felt like the two of them with their love could take on the world. The year before they had helped clean up the floods in Valencia, they said it was a mess that nobody knew how to clean but everybody just simply grabbed a mop and began. They also did this thing on their bike ride down from Holland to Spain this year where they gave people little Regalos of money, wrapped up notes in tissue that they would hand to them and walk away. People who they saw just deserved a little gift, like a friendly woman working really hard and who radiated joy at a grocery store. I thought it was really beautiful that they just really saw people. The next day when I left, after they had already given me so much,  I grabbed for my Nutella sandwich and in between the slices found a Regalo of money. They had seen me as well. I thought all day as I rode about how to keep passing along the gratitude, the random acts of kindness, how easy it is to feel like you need to hold on to you assets and how easy it is to share. 

I came to Spain after Sardinia knocked down my walls and maybe (easier to say in retrospect) having my walls knocked down, my ego humbled, I was left raw, but open and completely wide open. All these people and their kindness a honey salve. 

I left the nudist beach and decided to ditch the straight line and the Euro Velo, headed inland back into the mountains where I was warned I might find snow. Time on my visa was ticking, Africa was feeling terrifyingly closer than ever, but first,Granada was my next destination, where I had been told a famous community bike house existed via Warmshowers, another biking dream I had hoped to find. 

~to be continued~