Not surprisingly, the route out of Grado involved a roughly 300 meter climb, but from that point on, the walk to Salas was beautiful. The wildflowers were out in full force, from blooming cacti to Queen Anne’s lace to sharp spears of purple lobelia. Along a tree shaded part of the route I came upon a woman who was sitting on a rock.

“Buen Camino,” I said, greeting her in the traditional way. “Do you speak English?”

“I do.”

“Is everything OK?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I’m just resting. I’m about ready to start walking again,” and so off we went together.

Sabine was a lovely woman from Germany. About my age and walking with her 83 year old father who was a Camino veteran, having walked multiple routes and this particular one more than once. He was up ahead, she said. As we walked I learned she’d lost her husband in the past year and so our conversation turned to grief, a reminder to be gentle to oneself and what life might look like as she moved forward after this life changing loss. Sabine’s pace was measured and slower than mine. She explained that she was dealing with some lung issues and while the walk was certainly a challenge, she was determined to make it to Santiago no matter how long it took. I was struck by her courage and tenacity.

Up the road we happened upon her father Ernest, Alice, an Australian woman who was on hiatus from the Australian military, and Kristen, a fellow American who lived in Texas. They’d stopped by an old stone shelter to rest, get some water and wait for Sabine. Ernest did not speak English so Sabine translated as we made our introductions and took a few photos. Kristen was the first American I’d met so far, a surprise since I’d met so many on the Camino Frances.

“There’s another one that I met yesterday,” she said when I commented on the lack of Americans on the Primitivo, “A guy from New York. He’s a professor too.”

Kristen and I walked the rest of the day together. Like me, she’d come alone to walk the Primitivo. While this was her first Camino, she was an avid traveler and hiker and had walked the West Highland Way in Scotland solo the year before. “My son lives in Austin,” I’d told her. Kristen lived in San Antonio but hoped to move to Colorado sometime in the not too distant future. Like me she was what is often labeled “a liberal” (yes, there are liberals in Texas). I always thought that was such a strange label, as though believing that the government has a responsibility to take care of its citizens was somehow outside the norm. I’d always just considered it to be compassionate and humane. I mean, if we’re not here to care for one another, what are we here for?

We arriving in Salas by midday, our feet sore and our bodies sticky from the heat and humidity. After we checked into the Casa Sueño (Dream House), the hospitalero led us to a beautiful room with floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the albergue’s garden. That evening we sat in the albergue’s cafe and drank tinto de verano. The first of what would be many, over the course of the next two weeks. It’s a refreshing mixture of red wine and lemon soda and like cerveza con limón (also called caña), it’s popular among peregrinos along the Camino. A few minutes later a grey haired man walked in and Kristen waved to him.

“This is the guy I was telling you about,” she said.

Gary was indeed a professor from New York. He taught at a university in Manhattan. “What do you teach?” I asked.

“Social Work,” he answered.

“You’re kidding!” It was like hitting the trifecta. An American from my neck of the woods (Despite living in California, I’m all Jersey girl inside) who was also a social worker? It was almost too good to be true. We spent the next hour or so getting to know one another. Gary was married to a guy from Argentina. Had four adopted kids. Was an expert in LGBTQ issues in the foster care system. We were, as they say, simpatico.

A while later we were joined by another peregrino, dark haired and broadly built with a strong Latino accent and a gregarious personality. He too was a veteran of the many Caminos and for a while we chatted amicably about the different routes, swapping stories and enjoying our memories. That is, until the conversation turned political and it was clear we were not standing on the same side of the fence.

I’m old enough to remember a time when we could disagree with grace and compassion, or at least I thought I remembered that. I grew up to have different political views than my parents and we had many a heated conversation over the years but at least from my side I always tried to put myself in their shoes, to try to understand why they believed what they believed. Those days are evidently gone. Over the last few years I’ve been saddened by the tribalism that has emerged. The schism that fractured our country in two. The seeming lack of compassion and kindness. The vitriol of the political conversation.

The conversation took a decidedly downward turn. Our new friend was firmly entrenched in his own views. Unaware, or unwilling perhaps, to read the room, to understand that the people he was talking to might be offended by what he was saying. I tried for a while to encourage our new friend to be willing to hear a different experience, to step into the shoes of someone who may be different than him but to no avail. As the conversation continued, Gary got very quiet and I was keenly aware of the pain he must be feeling. After a while, when it was clear there was no way to move forward in a respectful manner, we decided to part company and Kristen, Gary and I agreed to meet for dinner.

That night I went to bed still reeling from the pre-dinner conversation. The Camino had always felt like a respite from the pain of the everyday world and yet, I was stunned to learn that even here the rigidity of our political beliefs could still divide us. Could keep us from recognizing that our words had consequences, that our beliefs could cause others harm. While the Camino was indeed a place of healing and growth, the truth was, it was also a reflection of everyday life.