The first rays of morning light peeked over the steeple of Santa Maria as we departed Los Arcos with a group of 10 pilgrims for Logroño, one of Spain’s precious cultural and culinary jewels. The melodic hum of an accordion followed us on our way out of town, a small cadre of locals greeting the rising sun with song in the town square. It was a glorious, if polka-y send off. 

With relief, I noticed that my traumatized feet seemed on the mend. The lancing had worked, and the layer cake of compeed and moleskine I’d applied the night before would stave off further damage, at least for now. I took a strong stride forward. 17 miles away, Logroño was waiting.

Both Mom and I were anxious to reach this sprawling, multifaceted city. Logroño is the wine and political capital of the La Rioja region, known for robust Tempranillos and creative tapas served on a complex cultural and historical platter. We’d also planned to take a rest day, a chance to tour and take care of “pilgrim business” – namely laundry. So far we’d been using a sink and clothesline to wash and dry. The washing worked, but the drying capabilities left something to be desired. After hanging our socks on our packs to dry in the sun – “looking like the king of motley” as one pilgrim put it – the promise of a laundromat felt practically luxurious. 

But there were 27 kilometers still separating us from our respite, and the morning sun was already drawing beads of sweat from me and my fellow pilgrims. The Way was long, and the day promised to be hot.

A small pilgrim’s oasis provided a simple but essential breakfast of cafe con leche and fresh-squeezed orange juice, rapidly becoming our go-to morning beverages. It’s hard to describe just how good the zumo de naranja is out here – the OJ is a deep, almost egg-yolk orange. You’d be excused for thinking it’s a custard, thick with pulp and natural sugar. The flavor will turn you off Tropicana for life. It’s telling that I don’t have a picture to share – I’m always too excited to drink it.

Refreshed and caffeinated, we continued our trek towards Logroño. The day was growing hotter still, and even as early as we’d left Los Arcos we’d still be traveling through the hottest part of the day. My body was acclimating to the heat – I’d been sweating and drinking less than previous stages – but shade was also growing less abundant as we trekked past parched vineyards and open stretches of hot asphalt.

“Pshhhhew.” Mom’s telltale sigh of exertion. The heat was making this tough. We needed to stop and rest, to get out of the Mediterranean sun’s rays and cool down. The warm water in our canteens wasn’t cutting it. Logroño appeared tantalizingly in the distance, distorted by the heatwaves emanating from the ground in front of us. Up ahead, a graffitied overpass into the city promised a temporary refuge from the heat. We stepped into its cool confines, grateful for the shelter.

When you’re on the Way, with limited resources and shelter, everything takes on new meaning. Ordinary, boring objects have a new type of intensity and importance. That public water fountain you wouldn’t even notice on your way to work becomes a form of salvation, a step away from paradise. The defaced overpass you dismiss as an eyesore becomes a critical refuge from the heat. It’s humbling to see these mundane, often invisible designs from the frame of someone who relies on them for survival. As I sat under that overpass, taking shelter from the midday sun, I thought of the role our own privilege plays in how we frame the world around us. 

A few miles later we’d arrived in Logroño. With restaurants closed until 8pm, we made a beeline to an empanada stand, procuring four stuffed pockets of deliciousness. We hadn’t eaten in hours, but these were hot out of the oven and needed a few minutes to cool. A quick tour of the cathedral and they’d be ready to eat.

A man stood at the door to the cathedral, asking for spare change. We said hello and walked past him, eager to get our pilgrim’s passports stamped and snap a few shots of the church’s soaring arches and stained glass.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, as we snacked on empanadas next to the church, that I thought of the man we’d passed by. I thought of how Mom and I sheltered in the overpass, hot, thirsty, hungry. I thought of the generosity common among pilgrims – the sharing of bread and water, the kind words of encouragement. Who was this man, if not a fellow pilgrim? Walking all these miles, the distance between him and I had disappeared. I picked up my last empanada and walked over to him.

“Para ti.” For you. It was a meager offering. But he smiled and embraced me, the intensity of his bear hug catching me by surprise. After a moment of shock I hugged him back. 

Walking back to Mom, I still felt the man’s unexpected embrace. It didn’t fill the chasm of privilege that lay between us. 

But for a moment, his hug had bridged it. And, like that overpass, I saw why I was here in a new way.

More to come.

-Hicks