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September 21, 2018New Adventure, Old Continent / Travel“I’m so close to London, of course I’m going to visit!” Here I wrote “London”, but could very well fit the name of any other major city. That’s the way I sometimes catch myself thinking, and, if I were to live by it, I would end up going places I feel I have to go, instead of places I want to. Sometimes these are the same, but not always. Such was the case when I thought of riding around the United Kingdom, where I had no desire to visit the larger cities, scrambling through heavily trafficked streets, and instead focused on the quaint countryside. As I came up a blind road in the hills of the beautiful Peak district, I saw a break in the otherwise continuous low, rocky fence that divides the plots of land. It was an entrance, to a small valley between a couple green, grassy, and full of cow dung hills. At the bottom of the valley was a single tree, that provided a decent shade inviting me to relax. I had been told camping in England was not allowed, but if I set up late and pack up early, I shouldn’t have a problem. So, until nightfall, I enjoyed the afternoon sitting under that tree, reading, writing, and exploring the immediate vicinity, which was one green hill after another, divided by these rock fences and narrow streets that hardly any car drove by. A day prior, I had stayed at Caroline’s in Brightlingsea, near Colchester in the South of England. As a motorcyclist herself, with epic adventures in the Americas and Asia, Caroline and I spoke for hours about the similarities and differences we’ve each encountered during our travels. We laughed at the popular belief friends and family sometimes have about the way of travel of a motorcycle adventurer (or the backpacker, for that matter); where some imagine we travel for months with the luxury one would travel for one week. “If people knew the places we sleep in or the food we eat”, she said. I thought of this as I was setting up my tent in that valley full of dry cow dung. Then again, I had that entire valley to myself, a starry mantle above, and the promise of a great sunrise the next morning; I suppose luxury can be subjective. I continued riding and camping in the rural areas of England, such as Hardknott pass and Honister pass in Lake district, and the far less travelled Northumberland park, eventually crossing into Scotland, where Ian hosted me near Inverness and allowed me to use his place as I made day trips into the north of Scotland. One of my favorite places on this motorcycle trip through Europe has undoubtedly been the Scottish Highlands. The words “beautiful” and “breathtaking” would not suffice describing the area; green mountains on the horizon, small hills nearby, dark clouds above, a damp atmosphere, a loch every now and then, main roads wide enough for one vehicle at a time, and, if I was lucky enough, the occasional lonely and ill-maintained secondary road where the only other living creatures I saw were sheep. One of the days, Ian had suggested I ride out to Applecross, a mountain road in the west of the Highlands. On my way there, I saw more of the coastal Highlands, with smooth beaches and the deepest blue waters I’ve ever seen. I stared down the road cutting in between two mountains, with a creek running alongside it, shortly after Applecross, this was surely what Ian had referred to, it was a sight out of a postcard, only better, infinitely better. On my way down this road, I looked around in awe and admiration, I had to lift the face shield on the helmet because I felt it got in the way of the natural spectacle and myself. Then, I turned off the engine and cruised downhill by gravity because the engine noise distracted me from immortalizing that tiny piece of world in my memory. If you’ve ever lowered the music volume in your car as you look for an address on the street you’re driving by, you’ll understand what I mean with one sense distracting the other. I was glad I experienced the Highlands now, since I was told there has been a surge of tourism in recent years, and it’s expected to continue growing. My last night in Scotland, before catching the ferry to Northern Ireland, was at a farm, near Ringford. There, Helen and friends hosted me for one night, and treated me to a picnic table dinner, followed by the funniest brownies I’ve ever had, and the most laughter in the passed few months. Over the next few days, I rode around the ever gloomy and cloudy Irelands, enjoying the back roads of the green countryside, along the coast and inland. I visited iconic places like Giant’s Causeway, The Dark, Hedges, Cliffs of Moher, and stumbled upon hidden gems such as the Wicklow Mountains National Park. Ireland, this adventure had begun in this country 4 months ago when I arrived in Cork. It would make sense to end a trip where it started, which was the original idea, but very few things had gone according to plan on this trip; I still had 2 months before closing this cycle and flying back home. From Rosslare I caught the ferry to Wales and rode towards the Eurotunnel, completing a loop around the UK. I enjoyed my last sunset here atop a hill, overlooking an orange-tinged horizon. I didn’t have a place to spend the night, but I had a 6am train to catch back to the continent the following day. I looked around me and saw a small patch of trees next to this lookout. Not secluded enough for wild camping, but it was late already, I would be getting up before sunrise anyway, and that last day had lacked excitement, so I figured I would get some by camping there, hidden by a few trees next to a lookout, and so I did. When I was at home, before venturing to Europe, contemplating this trip and the places I would visit. Cities like London, Liverpool, Glasgow, and Dublin were certainly on my mind. And now, I went around and not visited either one of these. I chose to go places I actually felt like going; those big cities will always be there, and they can’t get much more crowded then they are already, so I’ll visit them some other time. However, exploring the corners of the UK on a motorcycle doesn’t happen as easy and getting the best of it was a top priority. [...] Read more...
August 26, 2018New Adventure, Old Continent / Travel“Oh, right, I forgot to warn you about the strip clubs here in Gdansk” our host told Petr after he had been tricked into going into one and buying a ridiculously expensive drink. When I arrived at my hostel in Gdansk, Poland, I met 3 other motorcyclists from Czech Republic, Petr, Michal, and Mikulas, who were on a moto-adventure of their own. Late in the evening, we all walked the long market of the city center, in between tall, narrow, adjacent buildings, each one of a different pastel color, some yellow, some pink, others blue, and so on. I was surprised by the number of promoters lingering around, trying to get people into one of the many strip clubs in town. Unfortunately, my new friend Petr turned out an easy victim. On my way south, to the Polish city of Krakow, as it was a custom now, I avoided big highways and preferred the countryside roads. In this aspect, Poland delivered in the form of abundant forests, spotted with occasional lakes, and small roads in good condition with light traffic, if any. Krakow, which seemed like a bigger city, but with a similar easy-going atmosphere as Gdansk, was one of the last stops in Poland, along with the nearby Auschwitz concentration camp, before leaving the country. Auschwitz was interesting, to say the least. Walking in and around the buildings which served as bunkers, offices, or prisons, gives one nothing more than a tiny glimpse of what everyday life could have been for those imprisoned during the holocaust. On a brighter, more positive, note, I entered the Czech Republic the following day and made a stop in the town of Hradec Kralove where Mikulas was from and had invited me to stay. As a good host of one of the countries with the highest beer consumption per capita, Mikulas brought out a few different beers which we enjoyed with dinner, thought-provoking conversations and the later company of his family. I would have more beer tasting experiences in the beautiful Czech capital of Prague, although the displayed courtesy by the locals was not the same; on more than one occasion I felt shunned by the bartender, the waiter, or any other local person I encountered. I do have to say, some people I met were nice and welcoming, but I couldn’t help noticing the prior negative trend. I would later find out it wasn’t just me who felt this way, but other travelers as well. One person I met, who had adopted Prague 15 years ago, stated that unless you speak Czech, some locals will continue to reject you; there is some kind of resentment towards foreigners who have made of Prague an excessively crowded and touristy city. In the following week, I moved on to places like Berlin and Amsterdam, big cities, full of history, life, and, for the most part, anything you can think of. I enjoyed the days I spent there, but I began to feel worn out, in large part due to the intense everyday heat; apparently this has been a remarkable summer in the region. In addition to the weather, these cities not only had a large number of inhabitants, but of visitors as well, and it was notorious in the traffic jams, the public transportation system, and the bicycle lanes that didn’t seem to be sufficient for the thousands of rampaging bikes up and down the streets tinkling their bells before running over some distracted pedestrian. I found intermittent comfort by camping or visiting smaller towns, such as Giethoorn and Utrecht, in the Netherlands, which seemed to be smaller, more manageable, versions of Amsterdam. In traveling between these places, I came to realize the north of Germany and, basically, all of the Netherlands shared similar uniformed terrain of low altitude above sea level, which didn’t make for the most interesting motorcycle rides. I began to yearn for the mountains, or at least some rolling hills. One evening, in northwest Germany, I met an older man whose name I’ve rudely forgotten, he probably doesn’t remember mine, either, but I’m sure he recalls our conversation the same as I do. After a few gentleman gathered around my motorcycle at the campsite I stayed in, and asked where I was from and what I was doing, as it happened often, one of the men offered me a beer, and we sat on some chairs he had to talk and drink. He laughed and called me crazy for being on such a trip, and then went on to explain he’s traveling on his tractor hauling a camper at a maximum speed of 25 kilometers per hour, and yet, I’m the crazy one! We enjoyed a couple of beers and began talking about travel and how relatively easy it is for younger generations. He used his teenaged son as an example, “my son can cross from one country to another with no problem, no visa, no money exchange, it’s easy, and safe. He doesn’t know how easy he has it, he’s only worried if the Wi-Fi signal is strong” he said. I suppose in that aspect it is easier than decades ago, but this is only true for Europe, since the same does not apply to places like Mexico or Central America, places to which my friend had never been, and the safety issue is completely different. I further rejoiced when I came across the Ardennes Mountains in the southeast of Belgium. Although the roads were not technical nor specific to motorcycling, the ride was pleasant, winding around and atop heavily forested mountains as far as the eye could see, dipping down to refreshing rivers at the bottom of valleys, passing by occasional castles, and making stops for lunch and waffles in cozy small towns like Houffalize and La Roche-en-Ardenne. Some years ago, I watched a movie called In Bruges, and what I recall the most about it is the setting, which took place in the Belgian city the movie is named after. The narrow streets, the old houses, the canals all around and bridges over them, and the central square; it all seemed so pleasant I told myself I would someday visit. Once I arrived, I learned that movie nearly duplicated the tourist influx into Bruges; I couldn’t help feeling fooled, but only briefly, since it was indeed a beautiful place to be, just as in the movie, minus the killing. During these past few weeks, I discovered that, as much as I enjoy visiting the cities, I enjoy the most when I balance this with spending some nights camping under the stars. It almost sounds obvious, “balance”, isn’t that what we try to incorporate into all aspects of our lives? It seems evident when put into perspective, but it can easily be lost from sight in the everyday life. [...] Read more...
August 3, 2018New Adventure, Old Continent / TravelWhat if I just go back home now, three months into this motorcycle adventure across Europe with still three more to go? It wouldn’t be horrible, I mean, I went to the World Cup and that was my main objective. How much are flight tickets back? I would lose my non-refundable ticket I already purchased for the original return date; that’s ok, I can live with that. I miss the routine, or do I simply miss the comfort of it? I miss my dogs, my family, and tacos. I should go back. I had left Russia with bland riding days and intermittent rain; the south of Finland, where I was only briefly passing by, was not much different. I didn’t seem to enjoy riding my motorcycle anymore, or going through new places, I didn’t feel the interest in meeting new people, either. I searched for flights back home, with a guilty feeling deep inside, as if I was failing at something. Ultimately, I decided I needed to take a few days to not think about tomorrow, clear my mind, and then decide. To do this, I took a ferry from Helsinki, Finland across the gulf to Estonia. I arrived in Tallinn, and parked the motorcycle for a few days, as I wandered the city center without looking for anything in particular, no specific sight seeing, no travel guides, nothing. Just walking around and stopping where I felt like to read a book or people watch, such as a grassy area overlooking the town, or a cafe in the historic center. Tallinn had a cozy atmosphere around it. It was quite small and the narrow medieval buildings with pointy rooftops, contributed to an enjoyable walk, regardless what direction I took. The early mornings, when the town still slept and the cruise ships had not docked yet, were my favorite, leaving an empty main square and the maze-like, cobblestone streets all for me to get lost in. After a few days, and a sense of renewal, I left Tallinn and rode south, going through what looked like one infinite forest covering the entire country. In this green blanket of trees, I unknowingly crossed into Latvia, where I would reach Riga, the capital, and stay for a couple of nights. I would describe Riga in a very similar way as I described Tallinn, except bigger, louder and, with more people. As much as I ride through scenic nature, I couldn’t remember the last time I camped and spent a night under the stars. After some research and a couple of days in Riga, I set my route for Pape Nature Park on the Baltic seacoast of Latvia, just north of the Lithuanian border. Half a day’s ride and some dirt roads later, I reached the coast. Determined to go for a swim to counteract the hot and humid weather, I walked over to the beach and decided the weather wasn’t as hot anymore; the water was quite cold judging by my wading feet. The next day I took a bicycle ride on trails that led to a nearby lake and, eventually, back to the coast. There, at the beach, I stared at the sea, and didn’t necessarily long for the cold sensation I would feel by swimming in this water; the muscle cramping in your legs due to the low temperatures, or the difficulty to expand your lungs, and that hesitance to bring your head under the surface. Instead, I wanted the feeling one has afterwards, when the skin is cool and crisp, and the sun’s rays, your shivering, and a towel over you bring your body back to equilibrium. That’s what I wanted. So, with much hesitation and little determination I walked into the Baltic for a quick swim. I strongly believe this is what I needed to regain the desire to continue on this adventure. Not the cold swim, but slowing down the rate of travel, thinking a little less, coming out into nature, and being away from the crowds. I later found it interesting that this sudden urge to go back home came to me as I reached the three month checkpoint. Something similar happened during my first major motorcycle trip through Mexico and Central America four years ago. Back then, I felt a lack of purpose and interest in continuing south when I was in Guatemala. Without an apparent reason, I recall wanting to ride back north and go home, but I didn’t, and eventually regained that desire to carry on. Oddly, though, that also happened at the three month mark. Could it be that three months is the time frame I can withstand this lifestyle before having second thoughts? Are three months what it takes for me to reach that breaking point? If so, did I discover what it takes to get over it? I don’t know that I ever made a conscious decision to continue this journey across Europe and not fly back home. I simply stopped thinking too much, something I should practice more often, perhaps. Regardless, I’m glad I opted to continue the second half of this adventure, since I don’t know if the opportunity would have repeated itself later in life. [...] Read more...
July 24, 2018New Adventure, Old Continent / TravelWhat is one thing you’ve always dreamed of since a child, one place or event you always thought would be an amazing experience? As an avid soccer enthusiast I have passionately followed the World Cup every four years through television, imagining what it would be like to physically be present at the host country as it all took place. A major drive for this 6 month motorcycling journey across Europe had been the 2018 Fifa World Cup to take place in Russia. I had arrived in Ireland 2 months ago, where I mounted my motorcycle and began my way east, passing through amazing sceneries, meeting incredible people, and, inevitably, struggling through some difficult days, but now, now I was finally crossing the border from Ukraine into Russia. I enetered the country through the south, in Troyebortnoye, and after 3 hours of waiting for customs to clear my motorcycle and stamp my passport, I was on the last 500 kilometer stretch to Moscow. During that ride, a mostly straight road through endless countryside that seemed to go on forever, I thought about the way I felt for having reached Russia. It was definitely a milestone in this journey, not at all the final objective, but certainly one to check off the list. I felt accomplished. When I was a child, I used to believe accomplishments came and changed a person instantly, transformed them into someone better than before. Like a character in a video game that “levels up” after gaining a number of experience points, the character is instantly given enhancements he didn’t have 2 seconds ago. As I grew older, I learned this is not the case in real life. When I finished one school year and moved on to the next, I was mostly the same person I was the day before. I wasn’t greatly enhanced, I didn’t “level up” in the blink of an eye. When I graduated nursing school, I wasn’t transformed into a nurse from one minute to the next. A paper or a license isn’t what makes someone a nurse, it is the entirety of the passed experiences that do, the learned lessons and lived moments that made me a nurse. Without resting merit to having reached Russia, the accomplishment was a work in progress; I was essentially the same man that had just been in Ukraine, but someone quite different than the man who arrived in Ireland a couple of months ago, and different still from the person 4 months from now, when I get to return home. Distances are great in Russia, it is a big country. Because of this, and the limited time between one match and the other, I gave the motorcycle a rest in Moscow and took the train or flights from one city to the next, always following the Mexican national team. This path took me to several cities. For example, the capital Moscow with its Red Square and the sight of the city’s buildings lit up during a night bike tour. Another host city was Rostov, which apparently, I read, is one of the cities that most contributes to Russian beauty pageants. Having spent a few days there, I can see why. This country is so vast, it not only sits in Europe, but extends east into Asia, which I had the opportunity to visit when Mexico played in Ekaterinburg. The last match I attended was in Samara with very warm weather; something I wasn’t expecting. The most important memory I take from this experience is not necessarily the World Cup itself, or the goosebumps I experienced while listening to the national anthem before every match. It is not the travel destinations either, what I’ll remember the most are the welcoming citizens of Russia. In Moscow, I had the privilage of staying with Helgi, a fellow motorcycle enthusiast, and his family. Together, they showed me around their city and remained in contact after I left Moscow. It was Helgi who put me in contact with Eugeniy, who hosted me in Ekaterinburg and treated me like one of his sons. All other Russians I met were very friendly, too, not only the vodka intoxicated ones at the bars, but the sober ones at public places as well. “A toast,” Helgi proposed one night we were having a barbecue at his place in Moscow. “In the presence of good friends and good food, with the moon up in the sky, I want to make a toast for that person, on the other side of the world, where the sun is just rising and he, or she, is packing the motorcycle to go out on an adventure.” And so we drank for the safe travels of that person. That toast was not only an excuse to drink, but a genuine wishing of safe travels to someone we don’t even know. It’s something that boggles my mind to think; somewhere, right now there’s someone leaving home on an advenutre of their own, with all the fears and uncertainties I had when I began mine, or perhaps this person planned it out a lot better and has far less uncertainties. I left Russia through the north, spending a couple of days in St. Petersburg and its “white nights”, where the sun sets but it’s never completely dark. I not only checked Russia off my list during this month, but also the World Cup, something I had only dreamed of. This had been the main motivating factor for this trip, but I still have 3 more months, a lot of territory to cover, and many “experience points” to gain before I get to go home. [...] Read more...
July 9, 2018New Adventure, Old Continent / TravelI don’t think I had even heard of the existence of this country until fairly recent. Moldova is quite a small place, nestled in between Romania and Ukraine, with about my same age; a relatively new country. Online forums made me fear Moldovan police officers and other travelers made the young country sound so dull and boring. I usually don’t allow such opinions influence my route, and for Moldova, it was no exception, not that I had many alternatives; I needed to reach Russia, and Moldova was in between. “How many people actually live in Moldova? Are there larger cities beyond Chisinau, the capital?” I asked myself these questions as I was inside my helmet and on my bike, where some of the most interesting thoughts come about, because I was riding in endless countryside, with scarce humble, wooden houses on the sides of this road that weaved around and over serene yellow hills. I enjoyed this relaxing ride, bypassing Chisinau, until I reached Old Orhei, where I would stay for a couple of nights. To this day, I’m not entirely sure why, but Moldova, Old Orhei specifically, made me feel great inner peace. Perhaps it was the large garden at the place I stayed in, Vila Roz, hugged by the surrounding landscape, or maybe it was the cherry trees the owner invited me to eat from, or the swing and hammocks in the grassy area. It very well could have been the bicycle ride I took along the Raut river through farmland and prairies, seeing old excavated caves on the side of the mountain, a monastery built into the rock itself, and the church atop. I’m glad I came to Moldova, despite the warnings of corrupt police officers and a dull country. Actually, I don’t recall seeing policemen during my stay, which makes me wonder what would have happenned if I’d needed one. A “dull” place can mean different things based on who you ask. For me, Moldova was far from being dull, it was a peaceful place to be, enjoy the scenery, and great food. Popular belief spoke horrors of Moldovan police, but Ukrainian officers were much worse, apparently. After a total of 4 hours, waiting for the ferry to cross from Cosauti, Moldova, to Yampil, Ukraine, and the Ukrainian customs to allow me through, I was then riding on the infamous roads of Ukraine, known for the terrible conditions most are. In this regards, what I read online by other motorcyclists, was very true. By far, these were some of the worst roads I had ridden on. To make matters worse, it had just rained and water filled the large potholes making them difficult to be seen. I arrived late night in Kiev. Needless to say I had zero problems with the police on my way there. Perhaps I was lucky, or maybe it’s a similar situation with the popular belief of policemen in Mexico. Having grown up in Mexico myself, I can say, for the most part, they’re not that bad. I’m sure there are exceptions, though, but not the way we’re made to believe. The following day I went on one of the most unique tours I’ve ever taken part in, granted I don’t go on many tours. It was something called “Urban Exploration”, or urbex, for short, which consists of exploring man-made structures that are usually hidden or abandoned. In this case, our guide Max, took a small group of us into the underground tunnel system of Kiev. We literally walked up to a manhole, opened it and climbed down into countless kilometers of tunnels. Sometimes crouching to pass by, other times with plenty of space, Max spoke of events and parties that occasionally take place in the tunnel system, as we walked with boot covers, gloves, and flashlights in hand. After hours of exploring, we surfaced and moved locations. We arrived at a seemingly normal children’s playground, with apartment buildings around. Max then unlocked a door close to the playground and revealed a stairway leading underground. It was a former soviet bunker! Some of the rooms had old, rusted machinery, and yet others, like the classrooms, were in near perfect conditions; desks, chairs, books, posters. In the supply room, we found crates full of gas masks and filters in mint condition. Urban Exploration was a unique experience, something different than a traditional sightseeing tour. Many times, urbex involves trespassing private property, however, for our trip, we stayed completely legal… I think. For someone who claims not to go on many tours, I wasn’t living up to this claim; the next day I went on an equally unique and atypical tour, this time, to the abandoned city of Pripyat and nearby Chernobyl. A few hours ride, some security checkpoints at the 30 kilometer and 10 kilometer marks, and I was standing in a once promising city, Pripyat. This city was built specifically for the workers of the Chernobyl nuclear plant and their families. More than residential buildings, Pripyat had everything, schools, police station, recreation center, a small stadium, a river, and even an amusement park. After the Chernobyl incident, everyone was evacuated, leaving an intact city. Some time after, this intact city would be ransacked for anything of worth, and the passing years would do the rest to bring it to its current state of ruins. At the security checkpoint, we’re told not to go into any building within the city. I believe that’s more of a statement to waive any liability, because our guide didn’t seem to have a problem with allowing us inside buildings. I saw a kindergarten turned upside down when people took anything of value, leaving behind old desks, benches, toys, lockers. Walking over broken glass and crumbled concrete, I explored a university and played a forgotten piano at what seemed to be the multimedia room. Fortunately for others, no one was around to hear me play. It felt surreal to be there, a ghost town, I could see the inspiration for some horror movies. Our tour guide explained most visitors were locals to Ukraine when the site first opened for tourism, and that the number of foreign visitors began to grow in recent years. I’m glad I was able to see it now, unrestricted and not as popular yet; my group had 7 people and we had each site to ourselves. Moldova and Ukraine were two countries that concerned me a great deal. I was never sure I wanted to visit them in the first place. My original plan had been to ride all day in order to cross them as quickly as possible, looking for safe haven in Russia, which wasn’t my idea of refuge either, but with the World Cup happening, it was sure to be safer than my preconceived and unfounded beliefs of Moldova. Contrary to my thoughts, Moldova proved to be the place I felt more at peace than anywhere else up to this point, and Ukraine was one interesting and unforgettable experience. [...] Read more...
June 20, 2018New Adventure, Old Continent / TravelI had previously been warned about the kindness of Romanian people, but still was not sure what to expect. The owner of the small restaurant, a tall and heavy man, became excited about what little I was able to tell him through hand gestures and a mix of English and Spanish regarding my trip this far. While I waited for my meal, he offered me a drink of rakija, a typical homemade fruit brandy popular in the countries of this region. I refused with the excuse that I needed to drive after my lunch, so I shouldn’t drink alcohol, but in reality, I had tried this drink already while I was in Croatia and wasn’t a fan. The restaurant owner accepted my negative answer, left and came back with my meal. Before leaving, he once again offered me rakija, only this time he squinted one eye and drew his thumb and index finger close to each other indicating it would only be a small amount. I finally had to accept and, actually, it wasn’t bad. The man took pride in saying his rakija was natural and homemade. I had entered the country of Romania an hour prior, crossing the historical Danube river from Serbia. As it was a custom now, one I enjoyed, I planned very little in regards to route and points of interest. In Romania, however, the Transfagarasan highway had been on my list for a long time, and I was now that much closer. To reach this highway the following day, I first had to ride through the Domogled National Park which, on the map, its roads were quite curvy and I saw much potential for a fun ride. I was amazed by the amount of green beauty surrounding each curve of the road on this park running on the Carpathian mountains. By personal experience, I would later find out the Carpathians have some of the most interesting roads for motorcyclists and outdoor lovers in general. I reached the Transfagarasan highway the following day and began at the southern point, near Curtea de Arges, heading north past Lake Vidraru. In my opinion, the best section of this road is after the Vidraru dam, running along the lake to its left and tall mountain sides to its right, all enveloped in trees and occassional waterfalls. At least the best part of what I did see, since after about 80 kilometers, and 75% of the way, I came to a road block. The mountain pass was closed due to large amounts of snow and unsafe road conditions. Disappointing. As soon as I realized I had to turn back, without a notice, heavy rain began pouring down. With no cover, I rode a few kilometers to a tunnel where I found refuge while I put on my rain gear. I was forced back down to Curtea de Arges, from where I cut northeast trying to reach Bran. In riding the mountains of Romania for the past two days, it seemed there weren’t big roads with heavy traffic, but rather two lane roads with gentle traffic, connecting villages and small towns scattered across the hills. This detour I was obligated to take was the prime example; the rain had stopped and I was on a comfortable road on top a mountain overlooking a small village. I pulled over to admire this beautifull scene I would have missed had the Transfagarasan been open. The next morning, I thought I would ride from Bran to the north end of the Transfagarasan and ride it south until the road block, at which point I would head back the same way and towards Bucharest. Rain was imminent that morning though, and waiting for it to pass was not an option since sure rain was in the forecast for the following four to five days. I went for it and after only 20 minutes into this 2 hour ride each way, I was already under heavy rainfall. An hour later I stopped under a roofed bus stop and reconsidered my plan. When would I again be here to ride this road? I should continue. But, I don’t even feel safe riding on these rather straight roads with limited visibility, it will be even less safe once I reach the curves of the highway. I should turn back. Choosing to go back, and in doing so saying goodbye to the rest of the mythical road, was a tough decision to make. It was certainly the least adventurous, but safest. Was I being a coward or was I being wise? There comes a point when one stops being determined and is only left being stubborn and foolish. South of the Carpathian mountains, Romania turned into contrasting vast, hot and flat, yellow plains of straight roads. On my way southeast, I had a pit stop for one night in Bucharest, a big city with a lively old town full of restaurants and bars; a nice area to spend an evening or simply walk aimlessly through. I’ve always said locals have the best suggestions of places to visit. In Bucharest, my hosts, Cirpian and Dominic, spoke about a large beautiful outdoor region in pristine conditions in the southeast of Romania that caught my attention. The Danube delta. I had allowed a few days of flexibility on my route to Moscow precisely for this reason. After some research, I had decided I would head to the village of Murghiol located on the edge of the delta where I would spend a couple of nights. As much as the road from Bucharest to Murghiol was flat and, for the most part, straight, I can’t say it was a boring ride, especially as I got closer to the Danube delta. Many motorcyclists will agree that a trip on the open road calms the mind, empties it from the past and future, and only allows the now. This is exactly what I experienced as I enjoyed hours of peaceful riding across fields of green and yellow that extended as far as the horizon allowed, passing through occasional tiny villages. One of these villages was Murghiol, a warm and humid place full of mosquitoes, although, I was told, there would be more bugs as the summer came in. I stayed at Casa Boby where Boby was the boat captain and his wife the excellent cook. Their extended family was visiting and I was able to tag along for a boat ride exploring the delta the following day. We drove less than 10 minutes to the docks, got onto Boby’s small boat and headed deep into the delta. The Danube delta is where this river breaks into many branches just before pouring into the black sea. It is such a large area, one would require at least a couple of days to explore the many lakes formed within the region and see the countless bird species that live in it. On the boat ride, Lorent, Boby’s son, translated what his father replied when I asked him in his over 50 years of life, being born and raised in Murghiol, how has the delta changed in those 5 decades, if at all? I was pleased to learn it truly has not changed much, it remains relatively untouched. In recent years, the region officially became a protected area, so there are regulations and fishing seasons, but not much more. This made me realize the value in visiting places that remain unspoiled, intact, and seeing them before they’re changed or become too restricted to have an upclose experience. In the middle of the trip we stopped on Letea island where a safari-style truck was waiting for us to tour the area. Story has it someone once left several horses on this island many years ago and have since then grown in numbers to the point that there are wild horses roaming the plains of this oddly dry island. At the end of the safari, we had an amazing lunch where most, if not everything, on the table was provided by the surrounding area, from the vegetables, the fish soup, fried fish, to the fresh wine. Delicious. Back in Murghiol, I had dinner at one of the few restaurants in the village, and had an amazing conversation with the bartender, Forlin. I can’t recall the flow of the conversation, but at one point he said “Here in Murghiol, we have everything. We grow our own vegetables, we have fish, and, of course, we have wine. We don’t have money, but we have wine.” This last sentence makes one reconsider just how important is wine, or would it be, how important is money? In the interest of this intriguing conversation, I asked Forlin: “Despite money being as limited as it is here, do you think the people of Murghiol are happy?” I loved his reply. “Sometimes people are running here and running there for money. We forget to be happy, we forget to be human, and we end up old, sad, and still without money”, he said. He went on to explain his personal experience. Forlin had left to Switzerland to work and make more money. “After five years I realized I was not happy. So I came back here. Here I am not rushed, I eat healthier, and I have my wine.” I like to think we all have our very own Murghiol where we live, and everyday choose our wine over the promise of money. [...] Read more...