Across Generations. Across Continents.

On day three of my Camino, I met a pilgrim named Pol, a 17-year-old from Barcelona, walking the Camino on his own.

We met in Zubiri, after he had spent day two walking with Jason, whom I had walked with on day one.

Over the days that followed, Pol became one of the many people whom I’d see at least once daily, part of the greater Camino family.

I ended up walking with Pol quite a bit today. But not initially.

I started the day alone, enjoying the sunrise as I walked west along a raised levee holding up and directing the Canal de Castilla. To my right, water flowed in the same direction as my footsteps. To my left, fields below grade alternated between fallow and bright green, possibly lettuce.

Soon I reached the next town and was ready for coffee and something substantive to eat. I saw Hadrien and Alexis, two French pilgrims I’ve gotten to know over the last couple days. They invited me to sit and join them.

I had a coffee with milk and Spanish tortilla. After the short meal, it was time to continue on.

At the edge of town, I was drawn in by the green cross of a pharmacy, while my friends continued on. The harsh sun has been baking my skin a golden brown, and too much on one side, as the orientation of the rays tends to hit the same side of my body consistently, given that we’re always walking west.

I chatted with the pharmacist in Spanish and asked her for after-sun cream, as well as some additional sunscreen. She suggested a brand and led me to the counter to pay.

As I approached the door, she ran after me with a smile and handed me a sheet of paper with some reflections on the Camino de Santiago, because I speak Spanish, she explained. She bid me farewell.

I scanned the document with the intent to read it in greater detail later, but noted a couple themes, including that the Camino is like a microcosm of life and that its path brings together people across generations and continents.

Not 15 minutes later, I ran into Peter, a 72-year-old pilgrim from Ottawa, Canada, whom I met yesterday at the pool in our albergue.

Yes, we actually had a pool!

A few of the pilgrims I had been walking with and I decided to give the pool a shot. Peter was already there. Our meeting stuck with me because, while the others submerged slowly, I jumped in fearlessly and may have splashed him slightly.

He responded, “There’s always one,” lightheartedly.

We introduced ourselves and, learning he was from Canada, I apologized on behalf of my country.

He accepted.

Today, when I ran into him after leaving the pharmacy, Peter seemed interested in talking. We went through the normal exchanges. Where did you start? Where will you end? Why are you walking the Camino?

Peter explained that for most of his adult life, he was always part of a pair. He married young, and it was always husband and wife or mom and dad. For him, the Camino is a means to regain some individuality post retirement, though his wife is following his movements with a map and pushpins.

We got into religion and spirituality, and he shared a quote he attributed to himself:

“Religion is for those who fear hell, and spirituality is for those who have been there.” 

Shortly afterward, we approached a church where we parted ways. I’ll have to revisit and unpack that quote next time I see Peter. 

Continuing on the Way, a couple hours later, I felt drawn to a café on the edge of the next town, pulled in by the music they were playing — bossa nova-style covers of American pop music — and also by a grassy, shaded outdoor seating area.

Inside, I saw several of the pilgrims I know, including Pol.

They invited me to sit with them, so I went inside and bought myself a panceta sandwich, an Aquarius Naranja, a banana, and a café con leche.

I joined the group, and eventually everyone left except Pol.

We ended up walking the next couple hours together, talking about his decision to walk the Camino alone during his gap year, how he learned English through a foreign exchange program in Ireland, and how I learned Spanish as a Peace Corps volunteer in Nicaragua.

He complimented my Spanish fluency and accent, as I did his English. We had some fun discussing different idioms in both languages, and I taught him the term “old soul,” attributing that designation to him and explaining that it was a compliment. I also told him I used to consider myself an old soul, but I’ve since dropped “soul” from that descriptor. 

About one hour from our final destination, we ran into Lulu, a woman around my age from Victoria, Canada, whom I had met in the laundry room in Roncesvalles on day two.

Pol went ahead, giving Lulu and me a chance to catch up.

We discussed relationships, including the man in her life who remains back in Canada. Having idioms on the mind, I said, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” to which she quickly retorted, “Or absence makes the heart wander.”

She’s experiencing some doubts, and our walk gave us a chance to talk through them.

We also talked about the ages of people on the Camino, both of us recognizing that we’ve met many young people in their 20s and 30s here, and many retirees over 70, but not too many in our age range, though they are here, just harder to find. 

We parted ways at the albergue.

For my part, I had made plans with a group of six pilgrims to cook another dinner together that night, but first I took the opportunity to attend an organ concert in the local church.

Post-concert, those of us who were dining together made our way to the grocery store. The ingredients for our meal came to about two euros per person. Incredible!

We aspired to make a vegetable stir-fry, with both sausages and chickpeas on the side so there would be different protein options, served with rice.

Aspired because we were not the only ones with the idea to cook that night.

Three of the four burners were occupied, and the fourth wasn’t working. We had to improvise.

I suggested we use the toaster oven to roast the vegetables. I also asked, somewhat sheepishly, if anyone was opposed to cooking the rice in the microwave.

“You can make rice in the microwave?” a few of them asked, incredulously. 

No one was familiar with the technique, but I explained that it’s a common way to make rice in the United States. I confirmed no one was opposed and proceeded.

I’ll never forget the look on their faces when I brought out a dish of fluffy white morsels, steaming and smelling delicious.

The cultural exchange continues.

Six of us gathered around a table representing three continents: me from the United States, Pol from Spain, Eureka from Sweden, Lizzie from the Netherlands, Sang-O from South Korea, and Clara from Denmark.

Earlier in the day, I had meaningful and memorable conversations with 72-year-old Peter, 17-year-old Pol, and 52-year-old Lulu.

I thought back to the words on the page I had received at the pharmacy:

“Contemplamos caminando en armonía, en masculino y femenino, tres generaciones procedentes de los cinco continentes.”

“We see, walking together in harmony, men and women, three generations from five continents.”

The similarity to the events of my day, uncanny and even mystical, has stuck with me.

I don’t know that there’s anything otherworldly about the alignment of the two, but it certainly inspires me to carry that harmony back with me when I return home next month.