We arrive in the city of Burgos after a 14-mile walk. Although it feels like 14 million miles. Today is hot. We are sunburned, thirsty, and our skin is covered in a fine layer of crystalized salt from evaporated sweat. 

Most pilgrims have chosen to stay the night in the metropolis of Burgos because the city is big, magnificent, and teeming with energy. Plus, it’s just too hot to keep walking today. 

Burgos is a sprawling cosmopolitan world, with pedestrians all wearing designer clothes and nice shoes. Even school children, lingering in the streets, are better dressed than most modern-day Methodists at a Friday night wedding. 

This is an uppity place, we can tell. Namely, because a few pedestrians on the sidewalk—this is true—actually plug their noses and sneer when I pass by.

“Do I smell THAT bad?” I ask my wife. 

But my wife cannot hear me asking because she is 500 feet ahead to avoid being downwind. 

So the Burgos Vibe is not the friendly, “Anthony Quinn” vibe we have been experiencing throughout Spain thus far. Burgos feels more like New York City’s upper west side during a funeral procession for the former CEO of Louis Vuitton. 

The cashiers in shops and cafès do not smile at us. Many employees will hardly speak to us, although I am speaking Spanish to them. One woman at a bakery actually ignores me until I finally leave.

I walk into a downtown bookstore to find a book to read since I finished my last book. The bell on the door dings. Overhead, the radio plays, of all things, Jerry Reed. I ask the cashier whether they have any “libros en Inglés.” 

The man behind the counter will not even look at me. He is dressed in a Gucci sweater, with oddly shaped purple geometric eyeglasses, wearing a modern hairstyle that looks like his head has been dipped in thousand island dressing and lit with an acetylene blowtorch. 

I repeat my question. 

No answer. 

I smile and jingle the change in my pockets. This is the rudest I can remember being treated. But I’m not leaving. I ask my question again. 

He finally points to a small shelf, two feet in length, and tells me this is the only English material they have. 

The shelf contains only American children’s books. These are desperate times, so I purchase “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone,” along with a 4th-grade retelling of “Oliver Twist.” 

My choice in literature does not endear me to my new cashier friend. He looks at the colorful kiddy books, then raises an eyebrow. 

“I like the pictures,” I say in Español. 

So, we bid farewell to Burgos and keep walking. Which is not an easy route, as it turns out, inasmuch as the Camino is extremely poorly marked in Burgos. This is the first section of trail in 198 miles where we get lost several times. 

I’m starting to think Burgos doesn’t like pilgrims very much. But I might be overthinking this because I’m exhausted. 

We are alone on the trail for another few hours. The sun is even hotter now. There are few pilgrims remaining on the trail at this hour. 

By the time we hit the village of Tardajos, we have been walking under the unforgiving Spanish sky for a total of 9 hours. 

Tardajos is itty bitty, made of ancient stone and stucco. It is perfect. We pass an old woman when we enter the pueblo. She smiles and says, “Que tal, peregrinos?” (How are you, pilgrims?)

“Nosotros olemos,” I reply. 

The woman laughs because I have just told her we stink. 

We immediately visit the local market for provisions. The tienda is an old-school general store. Canned goods on the walls. Deli case up front. The owner stands attentively behind the counter. 

I am covered in sweat and dust. My skin is weathered and burnt. We have officially been walking for two weeks. The soles of our shoes are thinner. Our clothes have been washed in so many hostel sinks they are developing holes. Our backpacks are loaded deep. We are not pleasant to behold. 

And yet the proprietor is so happy to see us. So is everyone else, it seems. The other customers even insist that we go first, although they were all here before us. 

Soon, everyone in the store is laughing, joking around with us, and just generally creating a jocular environment. And even though I am speaking Spanish, everyone is making a great effort to speak English, to help us pilgrims feel more at home. 

As we leave, almost everyone in the store takes a moment to sincerely wish us “Buen Camino.” And I am so overcome with emotion I feel like crying. We are fatigued and weak, and yet we are so heartwarmed by these small-town strangers. 

“What a wonderful village,” I remark to an old man on the sidewalk who looks faintly like Anthony Quinn. 

“No,” the man replies in a graveled voice. “What a wonderful world, peregrino.”