Flight - JAX to LIS
The Polaris Lounge set the stage for my trip — a sundae cart, a perfectly mixed old fashioned, and some light snacks. Before takeoff, I was greeted with a welcome toast of Laurent-Perrier La Cuvée Brut aboard United flight UA64 from Newark to Lisbon, departing at 8:25 p.m. Settled into the Polaris lay-flat seat with a glass of white wine, I enjoyed oak-roasted salmon with whipped mint labneh. My dad, Ernie, used to make labneh, so that small detail brought back warm memories. Dinner continued with a center-cut sirloin, potato gratin, and rich bordelaise sauce. Our server, Jeremy, wrapped up the meal with the signature sundae cart before I drifted off for a few hours of sleep. I woke to a hearty breakfast of cream cheese scrambled eggs, pork sausage, and fluffy custard French toast topped with raspberries and almonds. We touched down in Lisbon ahead of schedule at 8:10 a.m. (Terminal 1).
Humberto Delgado Airport - to Lisbon Sheraton
Passport control was a breeze — unusually quick — and my bags appeared almost immediately. An Uber took me to the Sheraton, where I hoped to rest and regroup for the next ten days. Since my motorcycle rental wasn’t until noon, I dropped my bags and relaxed in the lobby. Nuno, the hotel bar waiter, served me my first pastel de nata and shared stories about his daily motorbike rides while we talked about the route I planned for my trip.
Hertz Bike Rental
By noon, after a short nap, another Uber dropped me at Hertz (Riderly, 72 Rua Castilho) to pick up the BMW R1300GS. Fueled up and ready, I rolled out of Lisbon around 12:45, bound for Zafra, Spain — about a 3¼-hour ride along the A6. Crossing the border meant a +1 hour time change.
On The Road At Last - Forte de Nossa Senhora da Graça
Leaving Lisbon over the immense 25 de Abril Bridge — the city’s Golden Gate twin, built by the same architect — I fought windy, rainy conditions and city traffic. Soon, the scenery opened into rolling hills, silver olive groves, and expansive cork forests near Setúbal. I stopped at a Continente grocery store in Montemor-o-Novo, fascinated by the mountains of sardine tins, frozen octopus, and bacalhau. A quick coffee refueled me before I rode to visit the Forte de Nossa Senhora da Graça. Though it was closing by the time I arrived, I climbed the mountain to explore its entrance and take in sweeping views of the valley below.
The rain picked up as I left, and a kind local man — with zero English — stopped to help me navigate the quickest way to Zafra. Between my broken Portuguese and his patient gestures, I gathered that he recommended the autoestrada via Caia. It was solid advice — daylight was fading and the weather worsening.
Crossing into Spain without stopping, I grappled with the difference between gasóleo (diesel) and gasolina while refueling. The last two hours were punishing: cold, wind, and torrential rain across featureless flat plains. It felt like riding through the eighth circle of moto hell. But thanks to experience from blustery Bay Area rides, I kept the bike upright through the puddles and crosswinds. In the darkness and chill, knowing neither language, I reminded myself: this is how real adventure begins.
Hotel La Muralla - Zafra, Spain
I finally reached Hotel La Muralla at 53 Avenida Fuente del Maestre in Zafra around 19:30 — soaked, frozen, and grateful. The check-in dance was comical: no English spoken, but with the help of Google Translate, I found my charming room, secure parking behind a secret green door, and a patient attendant who dashed from the kitchen to let me in.
After a hot shower, I headed to the bar — the social heart of the hotel — where a plate of Spanish olives and fresh bread awaited. A Cruzcampo beer and a spread of Iberian jamón and suckling pig hit the spot. Exhausted but content, I finally called it a night.
Returning to my room, I found a scene of glorious chaos — wet riding gear draped over every radiator and towel rack. Opening the floor-to-ceiling balcony doors, I looked out onto the starlit sky and the silhouette of an ancient church. Moments later, I was fast asleep. I’d crossed three countries, flown 3,377 miles, and ridden nearly seven hours in one unforgettable day.