Beginning of the End

It was a poetic end to a wonderful 2 years in Bilbao – I pedaled my way out of town, traversing the country by bicycle to arrive at my new home in Valencia.

The month was February, but felt more like Spring – the sky was clear, sunny and the colors were vibrant. Bilbao was shining in all of its glory as if to say “why are you leaving me, I’m so beautiful!” It was an eerily similar day to the first time I set foot in the Basque cultural capital over 2 years ago during Semana Santa. It was then that I first became enchanted with the prospect of calling it my new home. A vibrant, yet cozy city, nestled in a river valley: surrounded by lush mountains and beautiful nature. Stunning architecture, walkable city streets, immaculately clean – these thoughts are what characterize my first impressions of Bilbao.

After 2 years of living there, I can confidently say that I’m not the same person that entered. Bilbao taught me the importance of physical movement; hiking in the mountains, cycling through winding hills and alongside coastal cliffs, walking for weeks to reach Santiago. Swimming classes at the local gym. The natural drug of Lindy Hop and a wonderful community of swing dance friends. Learning to cook, the slow transition to a plant-based diet. The end of mindless nights drinking and searching for connection. Working for myself through private English classes and Airbnb Experience tours. An immeasurable amount of personal growth.

The breakup was not an overnight decision but rather a pattern of repeated thoughts, desires, urges, and realizations. It’s normal to daydream about moving to a new place, taking an exotic vacation, ponder the ‘what-ifs’ of life. When those thoughts are recurring and consistent – it’s time to pay attention to them.

I first visited Valencia in December of 2018. It was a cold and rainy winter in Bilbao, but my 4 days in Valencia were sunny and filled with happiness; the laid-back lifestyle and sunshine reminded me of my native land of California. The city felt large but manageable; my friend Vincente and I explored it by bicycle. Valencia is a dynamic city with a beautiful beach and an authentic countryside steeped in tradition and culture. We sampled paella in el campo, burned our faces in the powerful sun and got lost in winding streets of the old town. I loved it and it was immediately categorized in a very short list of “places I would live if I were to leave Bilbao.”

Since that trip, Valencia had been calling me, everpresent in the back of my mind. Even on the glorious days of sun in Bilbao, with the green saturation of the lush mountains turned up to ten, the siren call of Valencia beckoned. I was still torn – I had invested time and energy in finding “my people” – I had ex-pat friends, a hiking club, a swing dancing cuadrilla, fantastic roommates, a comfortable apartment and a full set of private English students. Despite that, there was still something missing. After over 2 years, I knew Bilbao quite well, forged lots of connections, but couldn’t help feeling like an outsider as I walked through the streets. I observed the locals walking with purpose along the river, chatting amongst themselves, having a beer with friends, walking their dogs – people who had lived in Bilbao their whole lives – connected with their friends and family. Here I was, a 35-year-old American, meandering through the city streets – what am I doing here? How am I connected with them? What is keeping me here?

In the early Fall of 2019, I gave a week of daily classes to Txaber, a very successful local lawyer who spoke excellent English and simply wanted to practice with me for an upcoming presentation. Our classes consisted of him regaling me with tales of his travels, the history of Bilbao and intricacies of international trade. The monologues were rather interesting and he was a character – I enjoyed the experience. In the middle of one of his stories, he suddenly broke his train of thought with a non-sequitur – “Patrick!” He blurted out. “WHY ARE YOU HERE? You should be in India or Japan! Travel the world, go somewhere exciting! Why Bilbao?? What are you DOING here? It’s boring here!” I gave him a half-hearted shpeal of wanting to put down “roots” and develop “community”. He nodded his head in response and quickly returned to his story of how the deal with Persian businessmen fell through. His comment stuck with me – what was I doing here? What was keeping me here? Had Bilbao given me everything that I needed from it? Was it time to quit on a high note?

The swarm of “should I stay or should I go” thoughts reached a fever pitch when the weather went south. The rain is depressing. It drains humans of energy. It clouds the mind and affects the mood. It’s a simple fact of life: the sun gives life, the sun gives energy, the sun improves mood. Bilbao often lacks sun. This is reflected in the character and demeanor of the people. The stereotypes are based on truth; people are generally more serious, more cautious of outsiders and less apt to talk to strangers – preferring to stick within their known circle of family and friends (whom they have had since they were 5 years old). Entering into a group of Basque friends is a Herculean challenge.

Despite the doubts, there were currently more things in Bilbao that were holding me there than attracting me somewhere else (but not by much). That all changed when I met Steph.

We matched on a dating app (Bumble) and made a quick plan for a coffee. I didn’t have much time that day – a full schedule of classes and then a long bike ride to train for a Bike tour through France later that summer. She was cute and seemed like an interesting free-spirit traveler like myself; so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to meet for a coffee. The coffee date turned into a 12 hour day of pinchos, laughs and lots of chemistry. The bike ride was wisely canceled and the experience renewed my belief that there were amazing people out there that “get” me. She was just passing through and had to continue her vacation through Europe, eventually returning to her native Canada. I hoped we would meet again but realistically knew it may never happen. I was happy to hold that experience in a pleasant box of memories and continue on our separate ways.

Steph and I kept in touch and out of the blue she sent a text saying she was moving to Valencia. Wow. This will be interesting. I felt like there was so much potential with her – that after 12 hours, we had only just begun to scrape the surface of getting to know each other. There was so much more to do and experience. And she picked Valencia! The exact place I had been considering for my next destination.

Long story short, she moved to Valencia, we spent several weekends together visiting Mallorca and our respective homes and then on another bike ride I realized my choice was already made. I’m leaving. I’m going to Valencia. Never before had things been so clear. Todo encajó. I was ready for the next chapter.

The Plan

The plan was rough; get to Valencia. I had a loose idea of where I wanted to stop but knew that I would improvise along the way. That’s the beauty of bicycle trip – freedom to choose your own adventure and modify it depending on the weather, your mood, your energy level and ambition. Here is the route I ended up taking: click the ‘x’ in the upper right for full screen – you can also see other caminos that I’ve transverse on bicycle and foot (as well as future caminos that I would like to do).

Day 1: The Closing of a Chapter (49km)

The idea to ride from Bilbao to Valencia was as natural as making the decision to move there in the first place. Of course I would ride my bike. Why not?!? Not only is it a symbolic way of closing the chapter in Bilbao and beginning a new one in Valencia – but it is also an experience I deeply enjoy. Long-distance travel via foot or bike allows you to really appreciate the geographic and cultural changes from the ground and live more consciously. It also generates an incredible natural high: the challenge, the movement, the exertion of energy.

I was already “mostly living” in Valencia for a month or so when I flew to Bilbao on Friday to ship the final boxes from my old apartment to Valencia and to attend a Swing dancing festival at my former school in Bilbao. The festival was non-stop action: classes, social dancing, catching up with friends. So much fun and pure joy. By the end of the weekend, my legs were so sore from dancing and my heart full from so much connection, joy, insights and wonderful music. I had shipped the final boxes on Monday and the only possessions that remained were my bike, saddlebags and some supplies. At about 13h, I set off on the journey.

Sleep-deprived and with incredibly sore legs, it was a challenge. The first hour was pure adrenaline, I reflected on my adventures over the past two years as I took my last ride along La Ría. So many memories, so many moments. I continued the journey over the hills and through Basauri, the pueblo where I commuted to work for 2 years, where I have fond memories of the students and teachers. The overarching theme of the experience was 100% conviction that I had made the right decision to leave. I pushed on through into the rural countryside of the Basque mountains.

Things became challenging after about 2 hours. My legs were cramping up and I was experiencing weird knee pains. I was a bit delirious from sleep deprivation. I got off my bike to eat, stretch and take stock of the situation. I decided to continue onward, that I wasn’t ready to stop.

Google maps directed me into the deep mountains. The roads became more rural, mostly dirt. The inclines were steep. I had to push my bike. The clouds arrived and it was starting to get dark. I was in between stopping points – an albergue was an hour back or an hour ahead. I refused to turn around and pushed on. I silently cursed myself for getting into this tricky situation. I was exhausted, sleep-deprived and my body ached. It was a prime moment for getting inured or making a mistake. I tried to stay focused and continue towards the goal. I paid close attention to using proper biking form even though I was exhausted. I had learned my lesson from 2014 when I injured my hip by not listening to my body and continuing to cycle through pain. I now had the knowledge, ability and drive to properly move my body and engage the necessary muscles to ensure injury-free propulsion and movement. It took an enormous amount of mental concentration but I eventually made it through the trees, out of the forest and back onto the paved road. I entered a beautiful windy descent into the picturesque pueblo where I would spend the night. I collapsed into bed, exhausted from the first day. I had 6 more of these? I had only gone 40km but it felt like 400.

Day 2: La Vuelta a Logroño (95 km)

I woke up feeling refreshed at 5AM. I was wide-awake, ready to start the journey. I had to wait until 8AM for the Albergue master to arrive and unlock the storage where my bike was. I didn’t mind the wait though – it wouldn’t be light until 8:30 anyway and I appreciated having some time to collect my thoughts, meditate, write in my journal, stretch, make a nice breakfast and listen to a podcast.

The day started off rainy, cloudy and misty: typical Basque weather. It was beautiful, mysterious and at times, spooky. I found an isolated gravel bike trail that cut through the wilderness. No cars around, only nature, trees, lakes and mountains. My poncho and rain jacket setup worked nicely. The rain was more of a mist than a heavy pounding. It was manageable.

My first stop was in the town of “Alegria”. I ate a delicious pincho de tortilla and chocolate pastry for fuel and continued onward.

The day dragged on and on. There were tons of backroad trails that ended up being grueling and slow, yet beautiful. The uphills were challenging – oftentimes there’s not enough traction to make it up the hill and the back wheels would just spin – it required getting off the bike and pushing it up the hill. Slow-moving and arduous at times.

Eventually, I was back on a paved road and continued the ascent over the mountains that separate the Basque country from La Rioja. Eventually, I reached the top and gravity rewarded me with an incredible 20-minute descent. The wind in your face, the speed of moving through earth, the adrenaline: all these things are why I love cycling. The childlike joy of screaming “WEEEEEEEEE!!!!” as you fly down the mountain. It’s simply incredible. I was going back in time, visiting the place of my first home in Spain: Logroño.

I finally rolled into Logroño after about 8 hours of cycling; exhausted and nostalgic to roll through my old haunt. Everything looked the same. Es un pueblo.

I caught up with my buddy Matt and we had a delicious dinner at a Vegan restaurant. Matt is a man on a mission: an incredible musician and laser-focused on finding a lead singer for his band. I admire his focus on his one thing; the desire to create music and play live at a show. It was great to see him and regale each other with updates in our lives as American ex-pats living in the alternate reality of España.

I slept an uninterrupted 9 hours and after a monster breakfast of oatmeal, peanut butter, an entire avocado, and honey – I embarked on the next stage. I opted to head towards Tudela instead of south through Soria. The southern route traversed a beautiful mountainous region – plenty of picturesque pueblos. It was the route my bus took when I first arrived in Spain, on the way to Logroño from Madrid, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and so eager to start the new adventure. I was looking forward to this section but after seeing the elevation gain on google maps, I knew it would be impossible. My legs were destroyed and I couldn’t take any more hills. The measly 300m of elevation gain to get to Tudela was much more appealing than the 1,000m on the southern route. It would be Tudela.

Day 3: Viajando por El Ebro y El Pasado (108 km)

It was another journey through time – exiting Logroño through familiar bike paths towards the outskirts of the city. I reflected on how much things have changed since my first year in Spain. I arrived a bit lost, but with a strong desire for adventure and discovery. It’s been 3 years and I feel wiser and more focused. It’s a continuing process of evolution.

The path followed the train tracks – the same pather of the Logroño to Barcelona train that I often took my first year in Spain. More memories.

I stopped in the pueblo (VERY pueblo) of Aldeanueva del Ebro. My hunger snuck up on me and my body was craving something more substantial than peanuts and dried fruit. I needed a bocadillo(sandwich), preferably tortilla de patatas. After failing to find an adequate tortilla at 2 bars, some old men kindly directed me to a local restaurant and they assured me they would have what I was looking for. I navigated to the bar and inquired about a tortilla sandwich. “Tenés tortilla?” The old man manning the bar looked at me as if I had just asked him to sacrifice his firstborn son to our lord and savior, satan. “QUE!?!? NO ENTIENDO!!!” I repeated, “TORTILLA! TORTILLA DE PATATAS!” He continued to stare at me as if I was speaking to him in Chinese and called for help. His daughter gave me a similar look of confusion and I repeated my question. After some back and forth, my intention was finally understood. I laughed in exasperation – after 3 years in Spain, these bizarre miscommunications still happen! I don’t think this pueblo gets many foreigners; the fact that I spoke with an accent completely blew their minds. Also, I had quite a bizarre appearance: decked out in bike gear, reflective vest, still wearing my helmet, sporting a caveman beard and bandana. My hunger and my intense manner of asking for tortilla also probably influenced things: from my point of view at the moment, I was probably saying “Excuse me kind sir, would you happen to have a tortilla sandwich to satiate my deep hunger?” when in reality I just caveman-growled “TORTILLA!!!!???” Anyway, in 5 minutes, the most magnificent bocadillo de tortilla de patatas was produced and I was a happy man. The townspeople were curious and several asked about my journey and were impressed with the story. I even won the heart of the skeptical grumpy old man when I asked him for a stamp and produced my pilgrim passport (full of stamps of all the places I’ve visited on my casino journeys). In the end, it was a lovely pueblo experience.

The journey continued onwards. I followed the Carretera Nacional – one level below a highway and permitted to bike on in Spain. There was always a wide shoulder but cars would pass rather quickly. Fortunately, they’re usually less crowded because there is always a faster alternative for cars (the Autopista). It was the first day that I felt like I MOVED – uninterrupted road cycling and covering quite a few KM’s.

I used a combination of Google Maps and a bike touring app called Komoot to plan the route. It would often divert me away from the busier streets into the lovely, but sometimes treacherous backroads and country trails.

I pushed on and arrived at the regional capital of Tudela. I had already gone around 95 km but felt strong and wanted to go further. I didn’t bring my camping gear this time because it was winter and camping in the winter sounded miserable. Turns out, the weather was amazing: sunny with spring-like temperatures – I would have been fine camping. There was a plethora of open spaces and plenty of opportunities to wild camp. Instead, I was bound to finding hostels like a common tourist. This was frustrating; it limited my freedom. For example, this particular day, I would have like to continue for maybe 15-20km more. However, the next Albergue was either 8km away or 35km away. With a tent, I would have been able to continue riding until I reached that moment of wanting to stop; then it would be a simple matter of finding a place to lay down a tent. (Well, easier said than done sometimes). Anyway, I settled on a tiny pueblo about 8km outside of Tudela.

I almost didn’t stay there. When I arrived, it was about 4:30 PM and I had gone 108km. My body felt strong and the exercise endorphins were pulsating through my veins; I was on the fence about staying or going. The Albergue appeared to be shut down for the season and the pueblo could not have been more dead; there wasn’t a soul in sight. I decided to push onwards. Just as I was about to leave, the friendly Albergue manager arrived and asked if I wanted to stay there. I told him my dilemma and he patiently laid out my options for other Albergues and gave me advice on an incredible canal trail that I ended up taking the next day. In the end, I decided to stay there – the guy was friendly, I had done a solid day of cycling and two more hours on the road suddenly didn’t seem appealing. It was time to call it a day.

Pueblo life is interesting. I went to the one shop in town to stock up on supplies for the next day’s ride. Everyone in the shop greeted and said goodbye to everyone else – it was like one big family. People joked and chatted with each other as if they were family. It was adorable.

I bought some snacks and then headed to the local vista point to contemplate life, drink a beer and write in my journal. I watched the sun set along the Ebro river and realized I made the right decision to stay in the pueblo – it would have been too much to continue. It was 7 pm and I was exhausted. I headed back to prepare for sleep.

At 8 PM I was in bed and ready to pass out. Sleep comes easy on a bike tour – it’s deep, profound and reparative.

Day 4: Los Campos de Aragón (119 km)

The next day I was up at 4:30 AM. I love the morning routine of bike tours. Get dressed, make a giant meal, meditation, stretches, pack everything up, prepare to hit the road.

The breakfast was oatmeal, banana, dried cherries, generous heaps of peanut butter and 4 squares of dark chocolate. Aggressive and bold. It was fun to experiment with various combinations of calorically dense and energetic foods. Eating is a wonderful part of bike touring – giving yourself fuel is necessary and it’s a great excuse to eat decadently. This particular breakfast gave me enough energy to pedal 40 km before I needed to refuel again.

By 7:00 AM I was on the road, my powerful bike lights guiding me through the dark. Following the advice of the Albergue host (as well as my new favorite bike touring app, Komoot) I navigated into the darkness and found a wonderful trail that went along the canal. Nature and no cars. Ideal cycling conditions.

The goal was ambitious: 135km to another pueblo in the neighboring province.

The country roads were meandering and the rustic landscape made me feel as if I was traveling back in time. I was in deep Spain; highly unpopulated and rural: Lots of fields of cauliflower, grapes, and seedlings. The few people that I did see were old men driving tractors. As I pedaled, I couldn’t help but wonder who will be driving these tractors in 20 years.

Bike touring is highly conducive to entering my personal flow: an optimal experience of intense concentration and focus, where one loses a sense of time and self due to total immersion in an activity. The goals are clear, success is well-defined and each step needed can be taken without even thinking, you just act, you just be. Life is simplified: get up, get packed, figure out where to go, pedal, decide on the best route, eat food, don’t get hit by a car, don’t get lost, don’t crash. There are plenty of micro-obstacles along the way: which route should I take? Where should I sleep? When should I stop? What’s that weird noise my bike is making? I’m sick of cycling, how do I shake things up and re-energize myself? It’s a real-life adventure RPG, goals are clear and success is easy to quantify. At the end of the day, my body is exhausted and my heart is full as I reflect on the day in my journal, admire my Strava stats and Kudos, and plan for the following day’s adventure.

When I arrived in a medium-sized village of Cariñena, the first restaurant I came across was packed with people; I knew this would be my tortilla of the day spot. A friendly local started chatting me up, asking where I was going, where I was from, what the hell I was doing out here in the middle of rural Aragón. We chatted for a while and he was impressed with my story. It was great to socialize, he was fun and had an endearing accent. The solitude of a bike tour can be liberating but there are also moments of loneliness: 99% of your day consists of pedaling by yourself on a bike – so a bit of social interaction was a welcomed change. He strongly recommended the menú del día over the bocadillo. I went inside to inquire about the details of the lunch special and every single one was mostly comprised of pig or cow. I had decided to do a month of being a strict vegetarian so I was excited when I found the only non-meat item; tortilla de patatas con ajos tiernos. The friendly old man whipped me up a delicious bocadillo and I was content and refueled. Being a vegetarian in rural Spain isn’t an easy task!

At the end of the day, I found myself in another tiny village; the highlight was a church and there were 2 streets in the village: “hay dos calles aquí” said the friendly Albergue lady when I asked what there was to do in the city. I was a happy man to have a beer, watch the sunset and appreciate the quiet serenity of the isolated pueblo.

Day 5: Conquistando La Ruta de Cid (127 km)

Another day, another pre-dawn start. I decided to try and pass through the pueblo of Anento – I didn’t make it there the previous day and based on the reviews it seemed like a neat place. I entered it into the Komoot app and went on my way!

The day was cold and overcast – the weather really affected my mood and energy. I felt lethargic and slow. To complicate matters, I was navigated through farms – dirt roads made for tractors, not a guy on a bike. It was slow-moving and at times frustrating – especially when I got semi-lost and had to push my bike through an empty field (the field looked empty but I was still nervous an angry farmer would pop up out of nowhere and accuse me of destroying his crops).

Eventually, the fog of the land (and my mind) lifted and the sun showed its powerful face. I was once again feeling energized and motivated.

The adventure continued as Komoot had me go on abandoned trails, a deserted former highway and finally over a rather large pass to arrive at the pueblo. I had to work for it – it was at times frustrating because I had a specific ending point for the day and felt a bit rushed – but this wasn’t the point of the trip. I didn’t want to feel rushed, but rather enjoy the process and take in the sights. Sometimes it’s difficult to balance “enjoying things in the moment” and wanting to achieve the ultimate goal (arrival in Valencia).

The village was OK; a typical crumbling Spanish pueblo. The best part was the long descent to exit the village and get back on the main road.

At this point, I began to roughly follow “La Ruta del Cid” – a route that’s named after a 10th Century Castillian warlord that traveled through Spain conquering towns. Nowadays, the route is a way to promote tourism – it passes through several historical villages and has signs indicating where to go. It was great to follow on a bicycle – the roads were paved, free of cars and every 5 km I would pass through another cute little village. It was like going back in time.

As I continued on La Ruta del Cid towards Teruel, I started calling albergues and hostels to book accommodations for the night. It was a Friday, so most places were full. I cursed myself for not bringing my tent; once again, I would have been able to set up camp and stop where I wanted; rather than having to adjust my route based on the availability of lodging. Lesson learned for next time.

In the end, it all worked out. After 127km, I was in Teruel, the eponymous capital city of the smallest province in Aragón. It stands out for its mudéjar architecture; combining Arabic and Christan influences. The landscape was drier as well; it was beginning to feel more like Valencia.

Teruel felt like a very traditional Spanish town. I arrived as the sun was going down and enjoyed a delicious beer in the sun. I was delirious from exhaustion and hunger; after checking in and showering in my hostel, I proceeded to wander around the city. It was a warm Friday evening and everyone was out. I meandered through the streets and things didn’t feel real. It was like I was in a movie set of traditional Spain. It was a bizarre feeling. I felt very out of place. I left a rambling, semi-coherent video message to Matt, trying to describe the odd feelings I was having. I was so tired I could have laid down on the side of the busy street and passed out. Time to get some food to ward off symptoms of insanity!

I bought some traditional goods: olive spread, chocolate and some giant loafs of bread from a 300 year-old-bakery. I went to the local supermarket to further stock up on supplies with the idea of making a monster sandwich for my final day.

I retreated to my cozy room to build a giant sandwich while eating dinner at the same time. The following day would be legendary: I was shooting to arrive in Valencia – which would put the total km’s at over 150. I needed some serious fuel for the ride and couldn’t rely on tortillas in random pueblos. I needed to make something magical. The sandwich consisted of hummus, generous helpings of aioli, sliced red peppers, vegetable burger patties, avocado, and olive spread. As I constructed it, I ripped off delicious pieces of bread from my baguette and hungrily dipped it in the various sauces. By the end, I was very proud of my work of art. It was the size of a small baby and loaded with delicious calories. It would be my fuel and my motivation for the first half of the day.

Day 6: El Fin de Bilbao y La Nueva Temporada de Valencia (161 km)

It was the 6th day and I had the morning routine down to an art form. By 6:30 AM, I was on the road. It was a cold morning, but the riding was smooth, the shoulder large and the roads empty. I basically had a highway all to myself.

After a few hours, I saw the sign for ‘Comunitat Valenciana’ – I was close!

As the day wore on, I only had one thought in my mind; eating my delicious sandwich. I pledged to not even think about stopping until I cleared 50km – this would serve as a good motivation and stopping point for the journey. At about 55km, I found a perfect rest stop to make love to my beautiful creation. It was as perfect as I imagined. The generous helpings of aioli and hummus kept it moist and delicious. The vegetable patties provided protein and extra flavor. The bread was chewy and fresh. It was incredible.

The sandwich provided much-needed fuel to jettison me along the trip – the thought of arriving was now the sole occupant of my mind. The sun was out and the day was heating up. I continued on the straight-shot through the sun-baked land of Valencia, dreaming of arriving at the beach.

I cruised through some quaint pueblos, put in lots of KM’s on the empty roads and finally I caught sight of the buildings of the city of Valencia in the distance. Almost there!

Although I was close, I still had hours to go. I found myself passing through orange and mandarin groves and realized I was starving and dehydrated, I pulled over and promptly gorged on some of the best mandarins I’ve eaten in my life. I picked them from the trees like a wild bear who had been wandering for days without a fresh catch of salmon. I gobbled up about 8 and immediately felt rejuvenated. It was sublime.

I was close. I checked my navigation and realized that I would be there in 20km – but the total would only be around 150km – which is less than 100 miles. I wanted to finally achieve a century – 100 miles on a bicycle – so I modified the route to travel along the coast before heading west into the city – that would put me at just over 160 km, giving me the elusive century.

I was going on pure adrenaline at this point; dreaming of arriving at the ocean, of seeing Steph, of completing the journey. My chain started making weird noises and I became convinced that it was on the verge of disintegration.

Made it to the beach! Bilbao to the Mediterranian coast! I had the biggest smile on my face as I set up my camera to take a quick selfie. I did it.

The victory cruise through the city was the icing on the cake, I arrived triumphantly at Steph’s apartment and we celebrated with a cold caña (beer). The trip was over, but this was the official beginning of the next stage of my life in Valencia.