March.
The transition between winter and spring.
Not exactly the ideal season for a long journey through Europe.
I’ve felt stuck in one place for too long, and the urge to leave has only grown stronger.
Where to? My thoughts drift toward Spain and Portugal.
Spain always lifts my spirits, and I’ve never been to Portugal—a winning combination.
These thoughts pull me toward the bike parked outside.
I stand in front of it, thrilled by the decision to embark on this journey, and begin preparing.
In the front side bags, I pack the camping stove, cooking tools, a small kettle, and a cutting board.
The under-seat compartments hold salt, spices, a bottle of olive oil, soy sauce, and bouillon cubes. Canned food, I’ll buy along the way.
In the large aluminum pannier, one side is reserved for clothes, while the other holds camping gear:
a sleeping bag, tent, groundsheet, inflatable mattress, pillow, and flashlight.
Oh, wait—I almost forgot the mat I lay under the mattress for insulation from the cold ground. That’ll go in later.
The tank bag holds my camera, lenses (50mm, 55-250mm, and 24-50mm), GoPro, chargers, cables, and, of course, my Leatherman and pocketknife.
The middle pannier is for tools: duct tape, a puncture repair kit, an electric compressor, and—nearly forgot—a first aid kit.
It feels a bit cramped.
Looking over everything, I realize that adding two waterproof bags to the rear panniers will clear the clutter.
Oh, how could I forget the coffee?
The bike is ready. Now, all that’s left is to plan the route.
The excitement becomes real as I gaze at the map.
The ferry departs at 2:00 PM from Patras Port.
I’m too excited to sleep, tossing and turning all night.
Eventually, I surrender, getting up at 5:30 AM.
A refreshing shower wakes me up, and I put on my riding suit.
A cup of coffee later, I’m on the road.
The weather is clear, sunny, and cold.
I set the GPS to Patras. Two months of travel lie ahead of me.
The anticipation fills me with happiness and excitement.
I take my time, stopping for a small coffee on the side of the road, allowing myself a moment to breathe and feel the thrill of what’s to come.
I arrive in Patras early—three hours ahead of schedule.
At the ticket office, they tell me:
“There’s a delay. The ferry will depart at 7:00 PM instead of 2:00 PM.”
It’s unexpected, but I go with the flow.
I purchase a one-way ticket.
“You have plenty of time,” the ticket seller smiles,
“Why don’t you check out the festival in town while you wait?”
With hours to kill, I hop back on the bike and ride into the center of Patras, curious to see what this city has to offer—
the city where my journey truly begins.
As I ride toward the city center, I’m thinking about the festival in Patras. “A festival? In Patras? Doesn’t sound serious,” I mumble to myself. In my mind, I imagine something small, maybe a bit improvised, but hey, I’ve got time to kill, so why not?
As I approach the city center, suddenly I notice something I didn’t expect. People in colorful and elaborate costumes are streaming toward the center. The same scene repeats in the surrounding streets – families, groups of friends, everyone part of some huge celebration.
I park my bike on a nearby street and join the crowd. The music is already clearly audible, rhythmic and exciting, and the energy starts to get to me too. I follow the crowd, and then it hits me – a massive parade. Thousands of people are marching, each group in unique, meticulously crafted costumes.
Every few minutes, a new group passes by, and each one is more impressive than the last. Music, dancing, colors everywhere. I stand there, wide-eyed, asking myself – how did I not know about this carnival before?
While I’m standing there, amazed by everything happening around me, I search for answers. It turns out this carnival, one of the largest and most spectacular in Greece, actually started as something small. In 1829, when the city was recovering from Ottoman rule, a local Italian family held a masked ball. The event gained momentum over the years, and influences from the Venetian carnival turned it into an annual event.
The carnival has undergone many transformations, including pauses during wars, but since the 1960s, it has become a massive street festival. Today, it combines ancient traditions, modern performances, and the cherry on top – the grand Sunday parade. This year (2024), the carnival started on January 21 and will end on March 17. I happened to arrive on one of the big days, probably the most colorful.
It’s amazing to see how something that started in a small ballroom has turned into a sprawling celebration that attracts thousands of participants and visitors from all over the world. Now I understand – this festival is not just serious, it’s simply unforgettable.
What initially felt like plenty of time to spare turned into a realization that I barely noticed how fast it all passed.
The time had come to board the ship.
I got on my motorcycle and rode to the port. A man in a yellow vest signaled to me from the ship’s hold. Riding toward him, I followed his gesture to park. With a small bag of essentials in hand, I made my way up to the deck.
Onboard, there was a sense of timelessness—moments to relax, read, and plan the next leg of my journey. As I stepped onto the upper deck, I breathed in the salty sea air, letting it refresh my thoughts.
“Half an hour to Ancona port,” the announcement echoed through the ship’s PA system. I stepped out to the deck and saw the city come into view. The story I had read about Ancona during the voyage suddenly took on new meaning: the fascinating historical events of 1797 during the Napoleonic Wars.
Napoleon’s army captured the city, declaring it a strategic base for his forces in Italy. The Anconians, renowned for their independent spirit, attempted a revolt. Napoleon himself visited the city to ensure the uprising was suppressed. It’s said he admired Ancona’s strategic position and ordered new fortifications to be built. The charm of the city and its people captivated him so much that he reportedly wrote to one of his commanders: “Ancona is the gateway to Italy—if it is in our hands, Italy is ours.”
Standing on the deck, with the story of Napoleon running through my mind, the city’s buildings seemed even grander. The faint hum of the ship’s engines below painted an atmospheric backdrop, a living snapshot of history unfolding in my imagination.
Ancona grew closer, and with it, the echoes of its storied past seemed to resonate through the air, reminding me how journeys often connect us to the deeper threads of time.
At 4:00 PM, the ship docks at the pier. I ride my motorcycle out of the ship’s belly ont the road leading to Bologna. The rain doesn’t stop, and it’s beginning to get dark. I’m not far from the city of Rimini. The rain continues to pour, and I have no choice—I ride into the city. I find a cozy hotel, step up to the reception desk, and book a room for the night.
In the elevator, I meet three athletes. I ask them, “What sport do you play?”
“We’re the Italy U21 national soccer team,” one of them replies.
“Impressive,” I respond.
In my room, I change into jeans and head out to a restaurant across from the hotel. Sitting down, I can feel the difference from Greece. Italy—it’s unmistakable. I order pasta and tiramisu. While the kitchen prepares my food, I take in the people, their clothing, and the waiters. It excites me to see myself immersed in a different culture. The food is so delicious.
The rain continues to fall. I had thought about wandering around the city, but in this weather, I’d better head to bed. Tomorrow, hundreds of kilometers await me.
At 7:00 AM, I wake up without an alarm. First, I pack my motorcycle, then head down for breakfast. There’s no doubt—the coffee here is incredible, and the breakfast is luxurious. Another coffee, and another one—enough, it’s time to get moving.
I hop on the motorcycle. It’s a bright day today, with blue skies. What a joy. I continue riding on narrow roads, passing through small towns. It’s so beautiful here. Riding past one town, I notice boats in a canal that runs through it. I lean my body to the left, and the motorcycle turns left, entering the town.
I stop near a charming pedestrian street along the canal. Leaving the motorcycle by the road, I feel a bit uneasy about theft. An elderly man passing by tells me, without me even asking, “You can take your motorcycle in there.”
I follow his advice, and a beautiful pedestrian street along the canal opens up before me. Boats drift by, there are cafés and old, lovely buildings. This is what I love. Leaving one country, traveling far to another, and feeling the transitions between cultures—it fascinates me.
A long way to go. I get on the motorcycle and ride onto the highway. When I want to cover long distances, I use toll roads.
It’s already afternoon. I’ve ridden from the Adriatic coast, and now I’m reaching the Tyrrhenian coast. I find an open campsite and set up the tent.
I’m too tired to make dinner, there’s a good pizzeria nearby, so that’s a good idea.
I’ll eat and then go to sleep, I’m exhausted, I’ve ridden a lot today.
I actually slept well in the tent last night, barely woke up, but it’s so cold in the morning. I head to the campsite showers for a long shower, then return to the motorcycle, pack it up, and head out onto the highway.
Two hours of riding, and I notice a sign: “Monaco.” Monaco sounds good – I’ve never been there, and here’s my chance to see the small, famous country. I enter Monaco, stroll along the promenade by the beach. Cafes and restaurants are on every corner, a very upscale atmosphere. Suddenly, I feel like having a crepe – and there’s one right in front of me. Perfect.
After the crepe, I return to the motorcycle and continue to explore the city. Monaco is truly beautiful, unique – everything is so neat and well-kept. I’m enjoying it, but I can’t stay forever, Spain is waiting for me.
I return to the highway, setting my course towards Figueres in Spain. It’s still a long way, but the excitement for the next destination doesn’t leave me.
Thank you for reading the post.
