A slow ride through the traffic lights of Lisbon. The towns and industrial areas seem connected to one large city. It’s unbearable to ride from one traffic light to the next in this traffic.
I get on the highway, and within two and a half hours, I’m looking at history. I’ve reached Porto. A huge bridge over the Douro River brings me into the old district. A small restaurant in one of the squares, schnitzel and fries, with the waiter recommending a Brazilian dessert. First phone call to my son, who’s in Greece. “In the end, I’ll be alone,” he says. I ask him about it and realize that things have changed a bit. Before I decide what to do, I say, “Don’t worry, I’m coming. You won’t be alone. Love you, we’ll talk tonight.” Now I have to keep my promise. I open a map, what? 2700 km?? To the city where I’ll take the ferry to Greece. A quick calculation shows I need to do 900 km a day to get there on time. The Brazilian dessert, whose name I can’t remember, is really tasty.
The end of my trip in Portugal needs to be celebrated. By the Atlantic Ocean, I’m in a supermarket, fresh salmon fillet, vegetables. I stand by the vegetable shelf, how can I choose, everything is in Portuguese. “Excuse me, could you please help? Which wine is good and not sweet?” She takes a bottle off the shelf. “This is Portuguese wine,” she says. She picks another bottle and shows me. “This is Portuguese wine too.” “Is it good? Not sweet?” I ask. “Yes, it’s good, not sweet,” she says. “So what’s the difference?” With a big smile, she says, “This one is from our region.” “Of course, I’ll take it, from your region is the best,” I say. And smile back at her. By the beach, I find a campsite. Four euros to enter, and I immediately set up my tent. The soup is ready, the fish needs a few more minutes, I open the wine. Here it is, a king’s meal is ready. It’s already late, time to go to sleep. I lie in the tent, thinking about the sea in front of me. It’s actually the Atlantic Ocean. Right where the sun set, that’s Miami. The feeling of adventure fills me with thoughts of Columbus and those who discovered the Americas. “But who discovered Florida?” I ask myself. Curiosity keeps me awake. I open Google: “Ponce de León” discovered Florida, and he actually gave it the name – LA FLORIDA when he arrived there. In Spanish, it means “the blooming land.” I didn’t know that. The steady sound of the ocean waves and thoughts about the explorers lull me to
Eight in the morning – I’m riding back into the city of Porto. If I stick to the Douro River, it will take me into Spain. I’ll make up for the slow ride through the river villages in the coming days of riding. The GPS tells me to turn right, but curiosity pulls me left. I purposely make a mistake. I steal another ride through the streets of amazing Porto. The morning ride through the city streets ends at a café. I sit outside and watch how the day begins. Now I’ll listen to the GPS, which takes me deep into the river’s terrain. I’ve left the city; I’m riding along the river, passing through villages and breathtaking views.
Maybe it’s the landscape, maybe it’s the motorcycle, maybe it’s the freedom, or maybe it’s Johnny Cash playing in my helmet. But I’m on an insane high.
It’s already four in the afternoon, and in my excitement and good mood, I forgot to eat. I stop at a small restaurant by the side of the road. Vegetable soup and something small, and then I continue riding. It’s already evening, much less distance than I had planned. I’m looking at the map for a place to stop for the night. “Whoa,” unbelievable. Two minutes away, a campsite. How nice, this is what happens when I don’t plan. Seven euros for entry, and I immediately set up the tent. Apart from me, there’s only one more traveler with a motorcycle at the campsite.
Within half an hour, the food is ready—rice with vegetables, lentil soup, all cooked on a small gasoline stove with three little pots. I approach the motorcycle rider. “Hey, buddy, want to eat?” I ask. “No, I’ve already eaten.” “Want some wine?” “No, thank you, I don’t drink.” “Want to talk?” I ask. I see he wants to, but he hesitates. “Well, if you want, join me.” I feel he wants to talk; he must have just started his journey. People who are at the beginning of a journey are still shy and hesitant; it takes time to open up and feel free.
There’s nothing like a hot and long shower after a long day of riding. The showers at the campsite are cramped. Tomorrow I have a long way to go, so I decide to sleep now.
I wake up early, the water is on the stove, making coffee. “Hey, hello there.” I turn my head and see my only neighbor. “Hey, good morning, coffee?” I ask. “Yes,” he says shyly. “I’m Basque,” he says without me asking. “From Spain?” I ask. “No, I’m Basque, not Spanish.” I know the Basque region is part of Spain. It’s important to him that I know he’s Basque, not Spanish. Slowly, he opens up and tells me about himself without me asking. About the journey he’s doing, that he left his home in the Basque country for nine days. He wants to experience traveling alone and by himself, and this is the first time he’s doing it. I tell him about my route, about how I’ve been traveling alone all over the world for years and that I enjoy it very much, and that I’m returning to Greece through France, Italy, and then a ferry to Greece.
“There’s a ferry every day from Barcelona to a port not far from Rome,” he says. “It will save you time and money on tolls.” Barcelona, I think, and check the map. 950 km to Barcelona, that’s a lot.
We stay talking for another half hour; he tells me about his route into Portugal. We exchange phone numbers and say goodbye.
I’m on the motorcycle – still along the Douro River. In the mirror, I see a motorcycle rider behind me. Is that the Basque? Yes, it’s him. I thought he was supposed to ride in the other direction, into Portugal. He rides behind me for two hours. I don’t stop or signal him, letting him be alone as he wants. I know it’s important to him. I pull into a nearby gas station, and the Basque follows. We enter the café next to the station, sit together, he tells me about the city he’s from, his job, and asks me about traveling alone, the equipment, and what I do when there’s a problem. I explain, “Write to me if you want more information,” I tell him.
Here, our paths part. He heads back to the Basque country, and I head to the port in Barcelona. After a night in a hotel in a small town along the way, I reach Barcelona.
Surprise: the port is right next to the city’s promenade. The ship leaves at eleven at night, for a 21-hour trip. That leaves me a whole day to wander around Barcelona.
I make the most of the time, visiting markets, cathedrals, sitting in cafes. With the motorcycle, everything feels close, no need to look for parking; I park on the sidewalk like all the other motorcycles wherever I want to visit.
La Boqueria Market – Barcelona
Eleven at night. I board the ship and take a room with a sea view. I’m exhausted from the journey. The vibrations of the ship, rocking left and right, lull me into eleven hours of deep sleep. Without internet access, without any connection to the world, I wake up in the middle of the sea, looking out the window. Everything is blue, no sign of land. I go up to the ship’s deck to have some coffee and meet an Italian couple who are returning from a motorcycle trip in Spain and Portugal. Conversations and some advice, and soon we’re arriving at the port of Civitavecchia, a port city north of Rome.
It’s already midnight as we reach the shores of Italy. I ride off the ship and quickly find a small guesthouse in the heart of the town. Riding through the streets, I feel like I’m in a different movie, almost like an Italian film. I find myself enjoying this scene. Despite the late hour, the excitement keeps me awake. The streets, the rhythm, even seeing couples walking together—it all feels so Italian. I stop by two couples leaving a bar. The woman wears a beautiful hat, and the men are in suits. I ask them where the place I’m looking for is. I can’t seem to find it. I show them the address on my phone, and the guy points, “It’s here.” “Are you from Israel?” he asks. “Yes,” I reply. “I saw Hebrew on your phone. My aunt is from Netanya,” he says. His partner smiles at me, and I thank them before continuing to the guesthouse.
“You’re the only guest here,” Anna tells me, showing me the kitchen and fridge. “For breakfast, take whatever you want,” she explains how to use the coffee machine. Just before she leaves, she adds, “Leave the keys on the door when you go out,” with a big smile. I step out into the street to find an open bar and soak in more of the Italian movie atmosphere.
600 kilometers to Brindisi. From there, I’ll board a ship to Igoumenitsa in Greece. While having breakfast, I plan my route. That’s it, I finish eating, wasting no time, and head out.
I ride along the sea, passing through towns and villages. At every junction, the sign says “Rome left, Rome right.” I really want to go to Rome, but I ignore my desires and continue with my planned route. Crossing from the western coast, I ride to the eastern coast, through the mountains and down into a flat plain that leads to the coastline. During fuel stops, I take the opportunity to drink coffee and have a small snack.
It’s 4 PM. I’ve reached the port of Brindisi. A couple on motorcycles arrives a minute after me. He extends his hand, “I’m Chris.” His partner offers her hand, “I’m Ylenka.” “I’m Harel.” “Ylenka’s dreaming of pasta. Want to join?” Chris asks. “Of course,” I reply. The ticket counter is still closed. We ride into the town, but we can’t find pasta. We settle for pizza. We spend time eating slowly and sharing experiences. They tell me they live in Malta and are on their way to do some trail riding in Greece.
We return to the counter, buy our tickets for the ship. “Where’s the sea?” I ask Chris. “The port isn’t here,” he replies, and we learn we need to drive about 15 minutes to reach it.
I ride into the belly of the ship, park next to Chris’s motorcycle, and secure mine to the ship’s floor.
Another night on the ship. I sit on the deck until sunset. By the time it’s completely dark, I head to the ship’s restaurant for dinner. That’s it, I’m really tired. I find that the ship’s vibrations are the best thing to help me fall asleep.
At 8 in the morning, I’m standing on the ship’s deck as we approach Igoumenitsa port.
Yelinka and Chris are having breakfast at the port.
Ylenka, Chris, and I sit down at a restaurant by the port for breakfast. Chris and Ylenka continue their trail ride through the Peloponnese, and I’m heading toward Athens.
Hey, sweetheart, I’ve arrived.
2,700 km from Porto in Portugal, continuous riding + two ferries. We go shopping, come back, and cook, making sure we have extra chairs. We invite friends.
Tomorrow evening, it’s the Passover Seder
