On a Motorcycle – To Southern Italy and Sicily

With no fixed plan – just me, the motorcycle, and the open road.
I crossed the sea by ferry, rode through cliffside villages, bathed in a river flowing to the sea,
slept in a tent, drank wine from a carafe, and met strangers who became friends.

A slow journey through Southern Italy – Calabria, the Alburni mountains, and Sicily.
A personal travel diary, filled with quiet moments and pure freedom.

Journey to Southern Italy

I arrived two hours before the ferry departure.
In front of the ticket counter stood an older couple, buying tickets for themselves and their campervan.
A friendly clerk, with a delicate tattoo that stood out against her pale skin, motioned for me to come closer.

“Your tattoo is really beautiful,” I said.
“Thank you,” she replied with a shy smile.

“How many of you?” she asked.
“Two,” I answered. “Me and the motorcycle.”

“Passport, please.”
She filled out a digital form and asked for my license plate number.
“One hundred and ten euros,” she said.
“A cheap price for freedom,” I replied with a smile.
She laughed, and I returned to the bike — happy.

A guy on a BMW motorcycle parked next to me.
“Can you keep an eye on my stuff for a minute? I’m going to grab a coffee. Want one?”
“Thanks, I’m good. I just had one. But I’ll stay here until you get back.”

He came back with his coffee.
“I’m George,” I introduced myself, and asked where he was headed.

George is a doctor at a hospital on the island of Evia. When he takes time off, he rides solo — a different country each time.
This time, he was off for a month-long trip through Scotland and Ireland.
“I’m riding through southern Italy,” I told him.

We traded stories about solo travel.
“Wait — what time is it now? It’s already 4 p.m.? Damn, I’m late for my ferry! When’s yours?”
“In two hours. I’m sailing to Ancona,” he said.
And here I thought we were on the same ferry… I’m late for mine.

We exchanged numbers and agreed to meet in Athens — after his trip.

 

A crew member signals where to park.
He straps down the motorcycle so it won’t move during the crossing.
I grab a change of clothes, a sleeping bag, and a mattress, and go looking for a spot on the deck.
But I don’t need the deck — turns out you can settle on the lobby couches.
I see that’s what other passengers with deck tickets are doing, too.

I place my stuff on a corner couch.
Over the loudspeakers, they announce that dinner is being served in the restaurant.
Maybe it’s a good idea to eat something, I think — suddenly realizing I’m hungry.

Self-service.
I grab a tray and choose oven-baked salmon fillet with a Greek salad.
Through the window, I notice the ferry is already on the move.

While eating, I can hear the hum of the engines blending with the voices of the diners.

After dinner, I go sit out on the deck.
I look out at the sea and the trail of white water the ship leaves behind.
At the nearby tables, a man is eating food he brought from home.
An elderly couple stares quietly at the sea.
Families with kids and people with dogs sit facing the water.
That’s how it always is on ferries — the same atmosphere, every time.

I watch them and think to myself: ferry passengers always seem a bit different.
Maybe it’s the mode of travel that makes them that way,
or maybe the type of people who choose this kind of transport are just… different.

The ferry sails farther from the shore, and a calm mood settles over everyone.
No internet. No signal. Just peace.

Fourteen hours of peace ahead of me.Plenty of time to read, plan the route — and sleep.

I spread out a light white sheet I brought with me over the couch, and go to sleep.

I wake up early.
Didn’t expect to sleep so well.
On the couch next to mine sit two girls.
I get up to wash my face and say to them, “Good morning.”
They’re half-asleep too — must’ve just woken up.

Wow, what a situation.
I’m on a ferry in the middle of the sea, surrounded by people I don’t know.
I take a moment to reflect on this strange and beautiful moment I’m in.

There are still five more hours of sailing ahead.

The girls turn to me and ask where I’m from.
“Israel,” I answer.
“And you?”
“Brazil,” they say.
I’m surprised to meet two Brazilians on this ferry, and try to figure out what brought them here.
They tell me they were traveling in Albania, and that the easiest and cheapest way to get to southern Italy was by taking the ferry to Bari.

They ask me if I’m Jewish.
I say yes.
Then they ask, “Is your mother Jewish too?”
“Yes,” I reply, “Both my mother and father are Jewish.”

They’re curious — asking about kosher food, commandments in Judaism, and even about Kabbalah — and they’re Christians.
“We really love Israel,” they say, and we dive into a conversation about the holy places in the Land of Israel.

After an hour of talking, I step outside onto the deck.
I walk along the railing.
When I return, I see them sitting on deck chairs.
When they spot me, Clara moves her bag and offers me a chair to join them.
We continue our conversation — about Judaism, Christianity, and how it all began.

From the ship’s loudspeakers, a voice with a Greek accent announces:
“In half an hour, we will arrive at the port of Bari.”

We exchange phone numbers.
I suggest we make a WhatsApp group for the three of us, so we can share photos from our trips.
They love the idea, and I create a new group.
“Is it okay if I name the group Harel, Clara, Marcia?” I ask.
They both give me a thumbs-up and a big smile.

We part with a warm hug, like old friends who’ve known each other for a long time.

I head down to the belly of the ship, get on the motorcycle, and ride out into a new country.

As I exit the ferry, I see Clara and Marcia waving goodbye and taking photos of me as I ride off.

I’m riding toward the Alburni mountain range.

The plan is to pass through small towns and villages — into Calabria, along the Tyrrhenian coast, and from there, to Sicily.
That’s the general idea. What happens along the way? No one knows — I think to myself.

The area I’m riding through is dry and hot.
It reminds me of Mexico or southern Spain. The place feels deserted — maybe because of the heat, maybe because everyone is hiding indoors.

After just over an hour of riding, I arrive in Matera.
It’s 2:30 p.m., and the dashboard shows 34°C.

I ride through narrow streets.
Laundry hangs from many balconies.
I follow the road toward the old city —
and then I see it.
Wow. What is this?! Incredible.

A whole city built into the rock, with tiny winding alleys.
I didn’t expect this.
I ride into the stone streets and stop to take some photos.
Now, with my excitement rising, I begin to feel the power of this journey.

I pause for a moment, read a bit about the city — and start to realize where I’ve arrived.
Turns out, Matera is one of the oldest cities in Italy.
A city carved into the rock, with homes and caves that are still lived in today.
It looks like a movie set — but it’s all real: stairways, alleys, even churches carved from the stone.
Even James Bond was filmed here.

Amazing.

I take a deep breath —
step into the alleys of the city.
How beautiful and unique this place is.

I continue riding into the Alburni mountains.

The roads are narrow, the scenery turns lush and green. Forests all around me.
I didn’t expect such a sudden change in landscape.
It honestly feels like I’m in northern Italy.

Small villages appear — built like medieval fortresses.
And I’m surprised to see that people still live in them.
Shops, cafés — everyday life goes on.
I love how little traffic there is.
Village after village.
I ride into them, and there’s always a central square — with a church, surrounded by cafés and a few small restaurants.

The villages look like they haven’t changed in centuries.
And then I realize — they really haven’t.
Most were built during the Middle Ages, between the 11th and 13th centuries.
And they still stand, almost as they were: tightly packed stone houses, narrow alleys, stairs worn down by centuries of footsteps.
In the center — a fortress, a monastery, or a church.

And as I ride between them, it feels like a journey through time.
I don’t see any tourists.
Barely any signs of modernization.
Just time, stone — and the sense that I’ve entered a frozen chapter of history.

I keep following the road and enter a town built on the edge of a mountain.It’s impressive — and without even deciding, I just ride into the narrow streets.
But something feels odd — no one’s around. The streets are empty.
There’s a bar. I’m not sure if it’s a bar or a café, but what does it matter?
I park the bike and head inside to order an espresso.
Besides the owner, there are only two people sitting outside.

With uncontrollable curiosity, I ask the owner:
“Where is everyone? There’s nobody in town.”
“They’re all sleeping now,” he replies.
We try to talk — me in English, him in Italian.
It doesn’t really work, but somehow, we understand each other.

I sit on a chair outside, sipping my coffee, curious about the history of these villages.

I look up some info about the area — and discover something that explains everything:
Most of these villages were indeed built in the Middle Ages, between the 11th and 13th centuries.
They were founded by Normans and local barons who chose to build high up — on mountains, cliffs — for protection.
The villages were built around a fortress, a church, or a monastery, always in the center, and always from local stone.
That’s why every narrow alley, every step, every wall — feels like walking through living history.

And that’s exactly what it is.
Not restored, not touristy, not a museum — just a place that hasn’t really changed in hundreds of years.
And you ride right through it.

I continue riding on narrow roads, passing more towns and villages.
Everywhere, it’s the same — quiet, empty, closed.
But then, around 5:00 p.m., everything changes.
The villages wake up.
Shops open, kids play in the streets, people start talking.
It’s like someone flipped a switch and brought the town back to life.

Before I know it, it’s already 8:00 p.m.
The sun sets here around 9:00, so I need to find a place to set up my tent.
Google Maps shows a campground 4 km ahead.
I get there — but turns out it’s a romantic retreat in the woods, just a few cabins for couples.

It’s getting dark, and I’m really hungry.
No luck there.

But here’s a pizzeria by the road.

I’m starving. I need to eat — otherwise I’ll be hungry and without a place to sleep.
It’s already dark, so at least let me eat something.

The waiter walks me to a table, and I ask if he knows a place where I can pitch my tent for the night.
He mumbles something in Italian that I don’t understand — but I do understand the gesture: “Follow me.”

He takes me to the other side of the restaurant — to a terrace overlooking the forest.
“Here is fine,” he says.
I thank him with genuine emotion, like he just saved me from something serious.
I really felt a bit lost, alone in the dark, with nowhere to sleep.

“I’m leaving at five in the morning,” I say — just to make him feel safe. To let him know I’m not planning to stay long.
He points to his watch — I can leave anytime I want.

Just before nightfall, I manage to pitch the tent, organize my gear, inflate the mattress and pillow.
This time, I brought a white sheet and a proper pillowcase — it really makes a difference.

I change clothes and go back to the restaurant.
Order a veggie pizza and a glass of wine.
Man, I’m starving — haven’t eaten all day.

The waiter brings a whole jug of wine.
That surprises me — I only asked for a glass.
Well, I’m not riding tonight…

Then the pizza arrives.
I’m so hungry I eat fast.

But it’s not enough — I order pasta with chickpeas.
I read it’s a local specialty.
I eat with enthusiasm.
Now I’m totally full.

The wine gives me a floating, peaceful feeling.
I’ve finished eating, but it feels good to just sit and watch — families and couples arriving at the restaurant, tucked away in this remote spot.

It’s 11:00 p.m.
I head to sleep. Lie down in the tent.

Dust and dirt cling to my skin — I can feel it.
Tomorrow I’ll find a stream or some source of water to wash up.
“Things always work out in the end,” I tell myself.

With all the excitement of finding this sleeping spot, I crawl into the tent —
and somewhere along the way, I lose myself and fall asleep.

The sound of birds chirping near the tent wakes me.

What time is it? Where’s my phone…
Only 5:45.
I pull the sleeping bag over my head, listen to the birds, and fall back asleep for another hour.

Time to get up.
I peek outside the tent — full daylight.

I brush my teeth and wash my face at a garden tap near the terrace.
I pack up the bike and notice —
there’s no one around the restaurant to thank.

I get on the bike and ride through the cool morning toward the village of Pertosa.
The road is narrow and winds through green hills, leading me to a quiet village square that hasn’t woken up yet.
I park in front of a café that might — or might not — be open.
A woman is setting up chairs outside.

“They’re just opening now,” I think.

“Is the place open?” I ask.
“Yes,” she answers in Italian, and says something that sounds half like a melody.

“Long espresso, please,” I say.
“Do you happen to have Wi-Fi?” I ask — but she doesn’t understand.
“Internet?” I try.
“Ah, yes, of course,” she says, writing the password on a small slip of paper.
I can’t make it out — it’s too long and messy.
She notices me staring at the note, takes my phone, and types it in herself.

“Grazie, grazie,” I say, and sit outside facing my bike.

If there’s one thing that’s always amazing here —
it’s the coffee.
Coffee in Italy is just delicious.

I take my time and order another coffee, still amazed by these medieval villages.

It’s incredible — the setting is straight out of the Middle Ages, and yet here we are, in 2025, with people living regular lives in this scenery.
“I’m in a movie,” I say to myself, as I plan today’s route.

I’ll ride south along the villages perched on the ridge, and at some point, I’ll descend toward the Calabrian coast.

Before heading out, I ride through the village streets,
then out onto narrow roads that climb into the mountains and drop into picturesque valleys.

I don’t have a clear plan.
I’m just riding the ridge southward — entering villages, stopping for a drink, soaking in the atmosphere.

What I especially love is sitting in a café, watching people go by, writing,
and feeling like time has no meaning.

It’s already 6 PM — I should probably find a place to sleep,
so I don’t end up like last night.

I reach the town of Lauria, and pass a campsite.
What? A proper campsite?
I turn around and go back — that’s rare.
On this ridge, you hardly see tourists, and definitely not RVs.
Even cars are rare on these roads.

Where’s the office? No office? I wonder.
I see a couple with a caravan making dinner.
“Excuse me, where’s the office?” I ask.
“There is no office,” they reply.
“It’s free.”

“Nice!” I say, and they smile.

I park next to them.
The woman goes into the caravan and brings me a glass of juice.
She tells me they live in central Italy and are on holiday.
Both of them are excited about my loaded bike.

In the warmest tone, she says:
“Tomorrow morning, if you want coffee, just knock on the caravan door — I’ll make you one.”
“Thank you so much,” I reply, smiling.

Tonight, I’m making steaks.
I brought a small grill with me, and tonight I’ll try it out for the first time.

I pitch the tent, ride into town,
buy groceries — and three ribeye steaks.

I gather some dry twigs and light the fire.
Wow, it’s amazing.
This grill is perfect — the flame is enclosed inside,
so it’s safe to use even in the woods.

And the steaks?
Absolutely perfect.

After grilling three steaks, I walk over to a café in the town.

I sip a cold beer, write, and plan to reach the Calabrian coast tomorrow.
I’ll ride along the shoreline all the way to Villa San Giovanni, and from there, take a ferry to the island of Sicily.
That’s the plan for tomorrow — now I can sleep peacefully.

Again, the birds wake me up.
What time is it? 5:15 AM.
I crawl out of the tent, splash water on my face, and brush my teeth.

Today, I must take a shower.
If I find a stream — that would be perfect.
I ride toward the sea. There’s still a long way to go.

I’m high up on the ridge, and the road winds down, crossing villages and towns, cutting through the plain between the mountains and the coast.
And then — I reach the town of Praia a Mare.

I continue riding along the coast.
The humidity makes my need for a shower feel urgent.
Another village, another town.

Wait — what was that? Did I see right?
A stream flowing into the sea?
Yes! That’s exactly what I need.

Quick U-turn.
I take a dirt road that runs beside the stream and stop about 200 meters before it meets the sea.
I laugh out loud from joy — this is perfect.
Time for a shower.

I grab soap and a squeegee.
Oh man — the water is cold!
Wow. Wow! It feels amazing.
I sit down and start soaping up.
Unbelievable how happy I feel.
I stay seated in the stream for a while, soaking it in.

I feel like I’ve been given everything I needed —
after two, maybe even three days without a shower.

It’s been an hour now, sitting in the stream.
That’s enough – time to move on toward the village with the ferry to Sicily.
I pull myself out of the water, dry off, change into fresh underwear and socks – and feel like a little kid fresh out of the bath.
I hop on the bike and ride toward Villa San Giovanni.

I follow the coastal road. The road bends and winds beneath the mountains.
The landscape turns green again, and once more I find myself riding toward the sea.

But what’s that over there?
From a distance it looks stunning – a city surrounded by walls, hanging off a cliff.
“I’ll stop for a drink and then continue,” I tell myself.

I ride into town.
This is one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen in a long time.
Wow. It’s really special.
There’s a campsite right by the beach.
“Maybe I’ll stay here tonight?” I think.

I head straight to the reception.
The receptionist says: “Minimum two nights.”
“That’s a bit much for me to plan ahead,” I respond.
“Maybe just one night for now, and tomorrow I’ll decide?”
Someone sitting nearby says: “Yes yes, that’s fine.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Can I pay?”
The receptionist waves his hand: “Tomorrow, tomorrow.”

I find a spot for my tent, unload the gear, and set up a cozy corner.

Next to me are two guys in their forties, also in a tent.
They wave hello.
They come over to ask where I rode in from.
They introduce themselves – from the Netherlands.
“I came from Greece, but I’m from Israel,” I say.

The younger one tells me he has a relative in Haifa and that he visits Israel often.
We agree to meet up later.
“I’m starving,” I say – and they recommend a pizzeria right on the beach.
Perfect – it’s close by.
“See you later.”

While I’m waiting for my veggie pizza and a glass of white wine, I say to myself:
“Maybe I should check where I am? I was so taken by the view I forgot to even check the name of the town.”
Okay, open the map –
TROPEA.
This place must have some history…

Here comes the pizza.
It’s so good. Slice after slice.
I’m loving this pizza and wine.
Another sip of wine –
Wow, I’m enjoying every minute here.
Now I’m full and content.
Let’s keep reading.

Tropea – Southern Italy

An ancient seaside town in southern Calabria, perched high on a cliff overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Its history dates back to Roman times and continues through the Byzantines, Normans, and Spaniards – all of whom left a clear mark.
The old town is dense, full of stone alleyways, laundry-draped balconies, and old churches.
Its most iconic view is the Santa Maria dell’Isola – a church set atop a separate rock just off the coast.

That’s what the guide says.
I’ll go see it in the morning.

The waves and the weather create a perfect calm.
I take my time – a true sense of freedom washes over me.
I’m on a total high.

On the way back to the tent, I look up at the illuminated city walls.
“I’m coming here tomorrow,” I say to myself, and return to the tent.

Nine hours of riding, packed with experiences, turn into a sweet kind of fatigue.
I crawl into the tent, lie on my back, and drift into a deep sleep mid-thought.

7:30 AM.
I open my eyes.
Wow, I slept a lot.
When I feel safe like here – I sleep better.

I take a hot shower. Under the water, I start thinking:
Should I keep moving?
Why leave when it feels so good here?
I’ve got an idea.

I’ll grab my laptop, find a nice café, and get some writing done – and take care of a few other things.
In the afternoon, when it cools down, I’ll walk around the town and take some photos.
And tomorrow morning, I’ll hit the road.
Perfect. That’s the plan for today.

On the way into town I pass reception.
“Good morning, I’ll stay another night,” I say.
The guy gives me a thumbs-up, and I head up the stairs leading into the city.

This place really is something else.
I find a sweet little café, sit outside, order a coffee and a tasty Italian pastry.
Open the laptop and start writing.
Before I know it, it’s already 2:00 PM.

So I order lunch: pasta with olive oil, garlic, a bit of chili, and a glass of red wine.
Now it’s perfect.

I eat and keep writing.
Time flies.
Seems like now’s the right time to explore the city.

I head into the alleys, wander the streets, and walk toward the scenic viewpoint at the edge of the cliff.
On the way back toward the stairs, a couple in their forties walks ahead of me.
The woman is dressed in pink, with a matching bag and shoes.
Don’t ask me why, but I want to photograph them.

They stop to take a selfie.
“Want me to take your picture?” I ask.
They smile and hand me their phone.
Click – one photo, then another.
“Can I take one with my own camera too?” I ask, adding:
“You look beautiful together.”
The guy looks at his partner.
“Yes, sure,” she says.

They pose happily.
“Thanks so much!”
“Thank you!” they say.

I head down the stairs, thinking about the city.

Tropea – Suspended between sky and sea

Some places look great in photos, but when you get there – something’s missing.
Tropea is the exact opposite.

A small town perched on a steep cliff, dozens of meters above the sea –
and when you stand at the edge and look down, you immediately get why it’s called “the balcony of Calabria.”

The old town is built of golden sandstone, with narrow alleys, creaky shutters, balconies strung with laundry –
all spilling out toward an unmatched view.

Right in the center of the cliff, directly above the beach, rises the Sanctuary of Santa Maria dell’Isola –
an ancient church that looks like it was gently placed by hand atop a separate rock.

And the sea – deep blue, crystal clear like glass.
Sandy beaches at the bottom of the cliff, ones you can only reach by foot –
but every step is worth it.

Tropea is the kind of place where you can just sit for hours –
on a bench, or at a café, and feel the world go quiet.
A place with charm that feels like old Italy –
without the show, without the crowds.
Just beauty. Simple and real.

 

 

 

I ride along the coast, enter the city, and follow the signs to the port.
Looking for the ticket office—
Great, here it is.

I buy a ticket for myself and the bike.
The price is €11.
“The ferry leaves in 20 minutes,” the clerk tells me.

I hurry to the dock and board the ferry right away.
I park the motorcycle, and right next to me another rider pulls up.

“Where are you from?” he asks.
“From Israel,” I say.
He shows me the route he’s planning and asks about my plans.
“I don’t have a plan,” I say. “I’ll find a place to pitch my tent, and after a good meal I’ll figure out tomorrow’s route.”

He smiles at me, and we head up to the deck.

 

Coming soon: the next chapter of this journey – in the fascinating island of Sicily.

Thank you for reading.