Rain, rain go away...

...come again another day.

Motorcyclist wearing inner tube

The weather forecast called for 3 days of rain from Tuesday to Thursday, the days we planned to travel from Lisbon to Algeciras at the southern tip of Spain.

Come Tuesday morning, the clouds had set in but the early morning showers has subsided. I was convinced. The weatherman was as usual wrong and we climbed aboard the bike and manouevered our way through traffic, out Lisbon. I called my goodbye out loudly, but as always, my head within the helmet, only I could hear the words. I had had such a beautiful time in Lisbon and wasn´t sure how ready I was to leave.

(A special thanks to Carlos and Katerina for their cosy attic, hospitality and introduction to "Eu Desconfio")

It was only one hour into our journey when the view through my visor was disrupted by steady drops of rain. Nevertheless, with our weather protective clothing on and electronic equipment specially packed within plastic, we were ready to face the water. But just like I have seen other motorcyclists taking shelter under a bridge, I soon found myself in a similar situation. Except, I was crouched, hidden from traffic on one side by Enrique, and on the the other by the motorbike, my bladder unable to hold that morning´s tea. The rest of Tuesday´s journey should have been foreseen from this highway sight.

The rain persisted, but determined to make some distance, so did we and soon, the town of Beja was in sight. Slipping and sliding over the wet and slippery cobblestone roads, the search for an internet café began. We still had hopes of finding a host that night and the internet was our only link to the world of couchsurfing. At the public library, the free internet access did not bring good accomodation news but the café did provide much needed comfort food, warmth and the ability to dry my gloves under the bathroom handdryer. With no couch offer in Beja, and the illusion of feeling regenerated, we got back on and rode out of town. We would continue until dark, cross the border and sleep in Spain that night.

Aroche was a quaint little town at the top of a hill just 30km from the Portuguese border. I was excited. We would find a room with a beautiful view. Ten minutes upon arrival, we soon discovered that Aroche was also a village with only one hostal that closed over a year ago. And in 15 minutes, it was also the place where we discovered our first flat tire. There were no more options. We had to take a risk and travel to Cortegana, the next town or, sleep by the side of the road. I remained calm. The only pressure that needed to increase was that of the back tire. So there I stood soaked, in the petrol station puddle, pushing the button of an air pressure machine inaccordance to the starts and stops being called out to me. The needle gauge reached 3, the tire was filled to the maximum, we headed out into black.

The rain pelted down hard, the darkness loomed. Bright headlights of oncoming trucks glared straight ahead, penetrating through my rain splattered visor. I am aware it is the only protection for my face and eyes, a reflection fearful of a tire that was loosing air faster than we were traveling.

In the mist, Cortegana revealed herself, soon followed by the small hostal situated across from the pig slaughterhouse, only found by the sign that read "Bar, Restaurante". Finally, the day was over, 11:30pm, the lights were out, the room temperature was set to the maximum at 30 degrees celsius, the 2ft x 2ft shower was fogged from use and we were sound asleep. All was quiet except for the rumbling of stomachs digesting the handful of pistachio nuts that was dinner.