Two summers ago, late one afternoon I sat on a low stone wall, swinging my legs—one of the advantages of being only 5’2”—and contemplated the expanse of a cathedral town square before me. I was in Santiago de Compostela, Spain. I had flown into Madrid that morning and immediately taken the train west, to Galicia and Santiago, the capital. It was chilly—I could feel a breeze off the Atlantic Ocean—and I realized I had brought clothes for Madrid and not Santiago. I was tired, but not unpleasantly.