Walking Away Stereotypes: My Camino of Listening
Walking Away Stereotypes: My Camino of Listening
by Lisa Swallow | Portland, OR
In 2015, I felt adrift. My youngest had moved out, my long-term relationship was rocky, and retirement had left a void in me. I needed to rediscover who I was, beyond family and career. So I set out to walk the Camino Francés.
On Day 1, I met Tekla from Milan and Kerrin from Sydney—my first Camino family. That night, the only other Americans at our albergue were Elizabeth and Gary, a vivacious, fit couple from Arizona. Between their clean-cut charm and the fact that they came from Arizona, I assumed they were my “political other,” from a culture more different from mine than those of my new Italian and Australian friends. I quietly distanced myself from them.
My first week was filled with laughter, conversation, medieval monasteries, and pintxos. But in Logroño, things changed. Tekla needed to speed up. Kerrin needed solitude. I found myself in a café far from home, unsure of whether I could do this alone.
In walked Elizabeth and Gary. Their laughter and energy lifted the room. I swallowed my pride and asked to walk with them. “Of course!” they said.
For seven days, we walked and talked. We bonded over everything from movies to parenting adult children who were finding their own paths—sometimes in ways that worried us. They listened. I listened. We became friends.
Over breakfast in Burgos, Elizabeth voiced support for tighter border controls and concerns about resource strain in Arizona schools. As a liberal from Oregon, I found her views challenging. But instead of arguing, I listened. I asked her to tell me more.
She spoke of volunteering in schools, witnessing the realities. I shared my perspective, shaped by watching migrant laborers working in fields and vineyards.
That conversation didn’t drive us apart—it deepened our connection. And it helped me see that bridging divides doesn’t mean losing yourself. It means listening, even when it’s hard.
The next day, like Kerrin, I walked alone. Not because I was upset, but because I was ready. My time with Elizabeth and Gary had given me what I needed: perspective, courage, and a reminder that connection is possible across all differences.
In today’s divided America, I often think back to that café in Logroño. I believe that as a nation, we can rediscover connections like mine with Elizabeth and Gary. Listening doesn’t mean agreement—it means respect. And respect is the first step on any worthwhile journey.
