A Place to Stay

By Penina

Cities are not easy places to be when bicycle traveling. People stop looking around and start looking down. Expressions change from interest to indifference. In the countryside, we’re interesting travelers. In the city, we feel like homeless bums.

This anonymity makes it quite challenging to find a place to sleep for the night. We rolled into Cartegena, Spain in the early evening. A week before we’d been told by a police officer in Archidona that every Spanish city had an albergue where we’d be able to stay safely for free. We arrived at the police station, explained our trip to the officer, and asked about an albergue for the night. He wrinkled his forehead.

“An albergue? For pilgrims? I don’t think so. We have a shelter, for homeless people to keep them off the street. I guess you can go there if you want to, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

So we cycled out of the city as the light was dimming, rushing to make it to a small town before dark.

Dark arrives late in Spain. People say that Spaniards stay up “late,” but what I would say is that in Spain 9 p.m. falls early. It really would make more sense if it were in the same time zone as Portugal or the U.K, but Franco, Spain’s infamous 20th century dictator, wanted to be in the same time zone as Nazi Germany. So in Spain, during the long summer days, the sun doesn’t rise until after 7 am, and it doesn’t set until close to 10 p.m. This gave us a lot of flexibility when cycling, since we had many hours of daylight to find a place to sleep.

So it was probably close to 9 p.m when we wandered into a small-town bar to ask the bartender for advice on where to camp for the night. He suggested a few spots we might check out, but halfheartedly. We thanked him and turned to leave, just as a large, dark-haired bearded man in his 30s pushed open the door.

“Are those your bikes outside?” he asked in Spanish. “Looks like you’re on a long trip!”

“Yes, we’re cycling to Vietnam,” I replied. He launched into a predictable list of questions about the trip: How did we get our bikes across the ocean? How did we eat? Were we really going to cycle all the way to Vietnam? But his eyes twinkled merrily, and he had a broad, friendly smile and a warm laugh that he was not shy to share, seemingly amused and impressed by my answers that at this point felt mundane.

“And where do you sleep?”

“Well, we normally sleep in our tent. We get advice from locals about spots that might be safe, where we won’t bother anyone. Do you have any recommendations?”

“Come with me. My parents own a factory right outside of town. You can stay there tonight no problem. My name is Ginés, by the way”

The bartender raised his eyes and chimed in. “You’ll be in good hands there.”

So we cycled after his white van, with “Salvador Sánchez’s Garage Doors” printed on the side in Spanish. He led us to a small gated courtyard in front of the factory.

“When my parents come home you may be able to shower. Do you need anything?”

“Maybe some drinking water, if there’s a tap we can access somewhere?”

“Give me ten minutes.”

We pitched our tent on the asphalt, which radiated the Spanish summer heat long into the night. Ten minutes later he was back with over six liters of bottled water, four packets of instant noodles, and a box of Oreo cookies. He waved off our profuse thanks and drove away, saying he may be back later in the evening.

His parents pulled in just as we were putting up water to boil for the noodles. “Come in, come in,” Señora Sanchez said in Spanish. “We’ll show you around.”

They were in their 60s or 70s but energetic and enthusiastic. She was small, slim, and had a raspy voice. He had a large presence, and a commanding voice. The factory was one large room, with tall ceilings to accommodate the machinery, and posters of scantily clad women on the walls. I realized I had absolutely no idea how or where garage doors were made, assuming it was on some giant conveyor belt half a world away. But this factory made doors for customers in an hour-drive radius of this small town in Murcia.

Garage door factory

They led us into their house, where we were greeted with the rasps of a tiny dog with one foot in the grave.

“This is Canela,” said Señora Sanchez, scooping her up. “She’s 23 years old.” Canela looked so frail I feared her bones would clatter apart in front of us, like a cartoon skeleton. She was in a doggy diaper, and spent most of the evening resting on a tiny doggy bed, except for when she hobbled, confused, to poop on the middle of the kitchen floor.

“Do you guys want some food?” asked Señora Sanchez. We thought of our instant noodles, and quickly agreed. She sat us down at the table and spent the next half hour busying around the kitchen. Before we knew it we found ourselves with beer in one hand and tuna sandwiches in the other, while she produced seemingly endless small plates of food to set in front of us; cheese, melon, olives, tomatoes, crackers, peppers. Señor Sánchez began mincing up some ham.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t eat meat,” I interjected in Spanish. I pointed at myself, saying “vegetariana” in case I was being unclear. They took it well, fixing me an extra tuna sandwich instead. “Eat, eat,” commanded Señor Sánchez.

We spent the next hour or so nibbling at this and that and chatting about this and that: work, travel, family, culture, and everything in between. At one point, growing full, we slowed down. “EAT,” Señor Sánchez barked. We obliged, and then digested slowly over steaming cups of chamomile tea.

At some point in the evening, two of their adult sons joined us— our friend, Ginés who had brought us into the family fold, and his brother. Their entire family lived within a short radius— a pronounced difference from the U.S, where many of my friends live a several-hour plane ride from their closest family member.

Three of the Sánchez's

At the end of the night, they brought out bright blue cotton T-shirts with the family business logo and pushed them into our arms. They tried to convince us to let them drive us into Murcia the next morning. We explained that we try not to take rides too often on our trip, and were looking forward to doing the ride on our bikes. They eventually accepted, saying “If you need anything at all as you’re passing through Murcia, please please let us know. We can pick you up anywhere.”

Me in my new "Puertas Salvador Sanchez" t-shirt!

The next morning, they called us in for coffee and cookies for breakfast. They sent us on our way with armfuls of rice cakes and chocolate. We tried to thank them as profusely as possible, but when met with such abundant generosity, no words feel sufficient. We try our best, but it seems that all we can do is to promise ourselves that someday we too will show travelers such kindness and hospitality. And, if you happen to be in southern Spain and you need a garage door, I know just the people.