I’m daydreaming as I lounge across the backseat of the luxury motorcoach on the ride from Burgos to Ciruena, a tiny village in Spain’s Rioja District. The movie The Way, I remember, was the first I heard of the Camino de Santiago – the 500-mile Christian pilgrimage. Martin Sheen starred as a father who follows in the footsteps of his son who died hiking the Camino – not exactly a ringing endorsement. But the movie motivated lots of others to make the trek. I’d hear the Camino name again a few years later when my husband Jim and I were on a pilgrimage of our own to find the birthplace of Jim’s late grandfather, born in the last house before Spain. When travelling in the Basque Region between France and Spain, we stopped for lunch at a restaurant. We asked for help with the menu from a hiking couple at the next picnic table. They were German (one may have been wearing lederhosen) and didn’t speak French but spoke English. They were walking the trail to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain – the pilgrims’ destination. I was impressed. These people were not young – but much younger than I am now! After an hour on the coach to Ciruena, I was ready for the four-mile hike to Santo Domingo de la Calzada. The town’s name honors its founder, Dominic de la Calzada, a hermit who became a priest and then a saint. He’s revered for having devoted his life to creating a path for early pilgrims by building roads and bridges, and for erecting a church that eventually became the Cathedral of Santo Domingo de la Calzada. “You’ll enjoy the legend surrounding the Cathedral of Santo Domingo,” said my Auburn hiking friend who encouraged me to take the trip. He chuckled, then told me a story which went something like this: A young man and his German family, traveling pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago in the 14th century, stopped in Santa Domingo del Calzada for the night. The innkeeper’s daughter fancied the young man, but he rejected her advances. To spite him, she hid a silver chalice in his knapsack. She then accused him of theft and the authorities sentenced him to be hanged. His parents continued their pilgrimage (?) but then returned to Santo Domingo de la Calzada to bid a last farewell to their son. To their surprise, he was alive, still hanging from the noose – a miracle he attributed to Saint Dominic. The parents hurried to the authorities to have him released. The sheriff of Santo Domingo was skeptical and said their son was as alive as the roasted cockerel and hen he was about to eat that very moment. As soon as he finished speaking, the chickens on the plate stood up, their white feathers returned, and they began to cluck and crow. My Auburn friend reported they keep a rooster and hen, purportedly descendants of the miracle chickens, in an ornate coop in the cathedral choir loft. I couldn’t wait to see them. The hike was an easy one, and I arrived in the city eager to visit the cathedral. But mass was being held, and we could not enter. I was flabbergasted. It was the story of the chickens that enticed me to make the trip! This letdown may have contributed to my mood the next day as I slogged the eight miles uphill to the medieval Monastery of San Juan de Ortega. This was the most grueling hike of the trip. At one point, my heart thumped so loudly I was afraid my son, who stayed two steps behind me on every walk, could hear it. As I puffed and panted my way to the lunch stop at the top of a hill, the rest of the group, seated on a low rock wall, stood and applauded. I turned to face my son and quietly hissed, “Why are they clapping? Some of them are only a couple of years younger than me.” “Mother, they’re supporting you,” he gently chastised. Which, of course, they were. I offered a grateful curtsey when I reached the top.

If you read my December article in the Auburn Journal, you know my reward for gadding about Madrid in fashionable shoes was three throbbing toes on my right foot. I eventually swaddled the toes in miniature Band-Aids, tugged on my sturdy hiking boots – reluctantly swapping comfort for style – and finished my Madrid tour pain free. Onward to Burgos. Burgos, a province and a city, is a 90-minute train ride north from Madrid. My son and I, having recovered from jet lag during our four-night stay in a Madrid hotel, arrived at the Burgos Hotel Rice Palacio refreshed. The morning we left Madrid, two Spanish guides would whisk the rest of the group arriving in Madrid that day, directly from the airport to Burgos – the first official stop on the itinerary. Our Camino group of 20 (18, plus two guides) congregated in the Rice Palacio hotel lobby that first afternoon, prepared for a walking tour of the city center. The senior guide (the team leader), I’ll call her Josephine, along with her younger sister, assigned each of us a wireless receiver with a headset, which Josephine called “whispers.” My son, Dean, and I were unfamiliar with this term and exchanged amused glances. We also swapped smiles when Josephine referred to upcoming stops at village cafes as “coffee routines.” A quarter-mile walk from the hotel brought us to the city’s historical center and a visit to the famous 13th-century Gothic Cathedral of Saint Mary. An exuberant local guide temporarily took over from Josephine outside the cathedral. We plugged in our “whispers” to hear her animated talk about the history of this magnificent cathedral, and the difference between Gothic and Romanesque architecture. I was relieved there wasn’t a pop quiz following the tour. After seating the group for dinner in the hotel, Josephine prompted the 13 women and five men to introduce themselves. Most looked to be in their 60s or 70s – two, maybe in their 50s. We hailed from eight states – an eclectic group that remained friendly with each other for the whole two weeks, a minor miracle, according to several of the seasoned travelers. The Burgos hotel was our base for three days, and the schedule previewed the rest of the trip. After a hotel buffet breakfast, we’d assemble in the lobby, our “whispers” and Camino passports secured in our knapsacks. Josephine led the group to the tour’s luxury motorcoach – the size of a semi and therefore restricted to parking as far from every hotel as possible. We’d sling our hiking poles into the belly of the bus (I’d be very glad I’d brought mine), show off our Spanish with a “buenos dias” to Javier, the driver, and clamber aboard. After arriving at our destination, Josephine lectured on the historical significance of the area and the length and difficulty of the trails that ranged between a mile and a half, and nine miles, typically rocky and occasionally mountainous. Of the 12 hikes, I reluctantly skipped two. As I’d trudge along at the back of the group, my son walked two steps behind, ready to catch me should I stumble or roll down a hill (never happened!). Camino trail signs frequently appeared on rocks or wooden posts depicting a golden scallop shell on a brilliant blue background. This iconic Camino symbol memorialized the scallop shells collected near the ocean by the early pilgrims as evidence of their completing the pilgrimage. As a modern-day homage, many modern pilgrims tie the shell of a scallop to the back of their knapsack. Each hike included a stop at a local café for our “coffee routine,” and 13 women lined up outside a single toilet. On our way out of the café, the owners, all of whom were welcoming, stamped our Camino passports with expressions of seriousness typically reserved for the airport Customs and Border Protection. These remote village cafes were usually empty before our group arrived, so I was surprised to enter one where every small round table was occupied, and customers stood three deep at the counter. I inched my way to the second row and peered over a shoulder. Behind the counter was the sole waitstaff. As I watched her, into my head popped Peggy Lee’s ’60’s hit, “I’m a Woman.” The lyrics described how a woman could, among other things, “… feed the baby, grease the car and powder my face at the same time …” Behind this young woman, an espresso machine hissed, and with her left hand she’d shake a pan of eggs, with her right catch the slice of bread that sprung from a toaster, and all the while taking orders and making change. There were smiles on the faces of every waiting patron. As we traipsed the trails, Josephine sprinkled her educational lectures with legends and stories of miracles. Before leaving the Burgos province, one legend would stay with me.

"You should go,” said a hiking friend. “It was one of the most interesting trips I’ve taken.” I telephoned my son. He and I talked for years about a road trip together. “I’m in,” he said. The educational tour company suggested by my hiking friend arranged for the 18 participants to arrive at Spain’s Madrid-Barajas Airport and immediately whisked off to the Hotel Rice Palacio in Burgos, 145 miles to the north, to hike portions of the legendary Camino de Santiago. My son and I had a different plan. After traveling 5,700 miles from California, he on a separate flight from L.A., we intended to spend time in Madrid and join the group later in Burgos. Professionals arranged every detail of the tour, and I intended to extend this pampering to the Madrid stay. I recalled that Bunnie, a member of Auburn’s Newcomers and Neighbors social group, once mentioned in casual conversation that her daughter, Kathy, owned and managed KB’s Travel. I emailed Kathy. Her out-of-office email stated she was happily sailing aboard MS Fridtjof Nansen and HX expedition ship, and referred contacts to her assistant. Karie handled the Madrid arrangements swiftly and professionally. I was delighted. I’ve made many trips to Europe, most to visit my mother in England and friends in France. I’ve never flown first class. “Spend that money,” my daughter advises. So I did. When I entered the United Airlines business class cabin — their premier seating for international travel — I stopped and stared at the layout of shrunken office cubicles that looked like a spaceship. I recovered my composure and slid into my pod after removing a mound of blankets and two pillows. I smiled inwardly at these comforts. Settled into my seat, I squinted at the icons on the side of the pod looking for a headphone jack. “Could you show me where the headphone plug is?” I politely asked the flight attendant as he handed me a glass of “sparkling wine.” World traveler that I am, I knew he couldn’t legally call the drink “champagne” unless it was from that region in France. “Have you looked behind you?” he responded. I detected a haughty tone. Now, perhaps I was weary after my five-hour flight from Sacramento to D.C., and the looming eight hours to Madrid, but this was not the response I expected as a business class passenger (sniff). I gulped the wine, ordered another and pretzel twisted to the right (thank you Yoga teacher, Suzanne Grace), and plugged in. After downing the two glasses of sparkling wine, and one delicious salmon dinner, I scanned the movie options and selected “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,” the 1958 movie starring the lovely Liz Taylor, the dishy Paul Newman and the irascible Burl Ives — the perfect Big Daddy. Five hours into the eight-hour flight, I extracted myself from the fluffy blanket and wobbled upright, heading for the toilet. I froze. A bird's-eye view of the darkened cabin showed passengers asleep. They were laying flat. FLAT as in a bed! I struggled with my seat controls and reclined as far as I thought I could — thankful to stretch my legs. I’d heard that first-class seats reclined to beds but assumed since I was business class, reclining was the limit. And I’d hesitated asking the flight attendant for help, fearing it would confirm to him I belonged in steerage. At least I’d know better on the return flight. Travelers to the Madrid airport be aware. The distance from when I disembarked from the plane and reached the baggage claim is a warmup for the Camino hike. I swear it was two miles, and no toilet in sight. As promised in the KB Travel package, a driver with a welcome sign — my name in large block letters — greeted me outside the baggage claim. The handsome young man flashed me a smile, swiftly took my bag and instructed me to follow him. I may have skipped. The driver chatted in perfect English, gesturing dramatically as he drove. Occasionally, both hands were off the wheel. Remarkably, the car did not drift one meter. And, with the help of sleep deprivation, I remained calm. My daughter would have been proud. When she chauffeured me on the European trips where one drove on the opposite side to the U.S., I’m blindfolded, gagged and strapped in the back seat to avoid distracting her with my wild eyes and frightened gasps. The hotel was a short drive from the airport, past the cascading fountains of San Juan de la Cruz, and down a leafy avenue. As I entered the luxurious, gleaming hotel lobby, my eyes widened in wonder. And to think I almost cancelled the trip.

“How about writing an article on ageism,” my hiking friend, Mary, suggested as I puffed my way up a hill on a Tuesday morning Newcomers and Neighbors hike. “I’m frustrated,” she added, “that ageism remains socially acceptable.” Unfortunately, that’s a true statement. Who hasn’t heard the jokes and seen the merchandise that ridicule and demean seniors? Society has made gains to combat the other isms – ableism, racism and sexism – that began by understanding the serious negative effects of these prejudices, and by calling them out. The article was on my mind when a stylish white-haired woman pulled out a chair beside me at a recent Newcomers’ membership drive in Missions Coffee in Auburn. I shared with my new friend Betty I was gathering information for an article and asked if she’d mind telling me her age. Yes, she’d mind, she said sweetly, and didn’t tell me. That surprising response warranted further discussion, and we agreed to meet at the café the following week. Betty was sitting at a corner table when I approached carrying my decaf coffee latte. I learned she was born in Loomis, once owned clothing and antique shops in Auburn, and was currently building a studio to continue her passion for painting animals and landscapes. Still no age reveal. I understood. People consciously or unconsciously make negative assumptions about a person’s worth based on a number. I should know. Three years ago, I applied to fill a vacancy on the board of our local water district along with two others. At the candidate interview meeting, one of the serving board members was notably absent but submitted a memorandum recommending appointment of the youngest of the three applicants and referred to the two others as “… old-timers” and the need for “fresh blood.” I winced at the ageist insult then blurted, “I’m younger than the president!” Everyone laughed. They unanimously appointed me. But the effects of ageism are no laughing matter. The United Nations has recognized this as a serious issue and tasked the World Health Organization with leading The Global Campaign to Combat Ageism – a guide for government policy-makers that envisions “a world in which everyone can live a longer and healthier life.” Since I moved to the foothills, I’ve been lucky enough to encounter countless seniors who defy ageist stereotypes. They’ve joined clubs, volunteered, pursued creative endeavors such as painting, sewing or writing. They keep limber by practicing tai chi or yoga. Keep fit by hiking, skiing, playing pickleball and dancing. I haven’t danced for a while. Over the years, I’ve dragged my husband onto dance floors where he self-consciously shuffled from one foot to the other. So, when I heard one of the Newcomers’ hikers mention her Friday morning line dancing class at the Auburn Senior Center – a dance that didn’t require a partner – I hustled off to the Senior Center. I entered a room that was full (all women and one man) but not overcrowded. The instructor is Valerie Harrison, a retired teacher who’s been teaching line dancing at the center for 10 years. This petite dynamo is 81 years old. I hid in the back and tried to follow Valerie as she called out instructions. When I couldn’t see her feet, I locked onto those of a nearby student. Unfortunately, she was a beginner and no help at all. Just when I thought I might be getting it, Valerie switched to another dance, and then another. I decided my dancing days may be over. I telephoned Valerie when drafting this article, and she encouraged me to come back to the Senior Center and try again. And I may. She also referred me to a website: copperknob.co.uk that lists a mindboggling 148,470 step sheets and countless videos, uploaded by choreographers from all over the world. It’s a terrific site (minus the ads). Among the dances listed is Night Fever, choreographed by the late acclaimed actor and dancer Lester Wilson. He coached John Travolta in the 1977 movie “Saturday Night Fever.” There’s a demonstration video that will get you up and moving. Something else that may be of interest, a podcast: “Wiser Than Me,” hosted by Julia Louis-Dreyfus. She interviews older women to gain and share their wisdom. Intrigued, I discovered her podcast at lemonadamedia.com. I’m making progress on an interview list of 22 women, and the conversations with Gloria Steinem, Bonnie Raitt, Debbie Allen and comedienne Fran Leibowitz have been fascinating. Julia asked each of her guests their age, and then how old they felt. Fran Leibowitz replied she was 72 – and felt 82. Sometimes, age can be a laughing matter.

Do I risk life and limb and careen left or make a right? I faced this same decision shortly after moving to Auburn. Preparing to pull out of a side road into the speeding traffic of Highway 49 between Auburn and Grass Valley, I knew left was the quicker way home, but did I want to chance it? I turned right. In the past, I’d counted 13 traffic lights on 49 between Elm Ave. to Dry Creek Road. So, I reasoned, there certainly should be a light or two between Dry Creek and Combie, where I could make a safe U-turn. Off I drove … and drove … and drove. No traffic lights. The white signboard announcing in bold black letters “Daylight Headlight Section Enforced by CHP” gave me the jitters. What did that mean? Was there a tunnel ahead? I motored on. The next placard warned: Turn on headlights next 16 miles, safety corridor. My teeth chattered. Reluctantly, I kept my foot on the accelerator. Squinting up ahead, I glimpsed the word, “Nevada.” NEVADA? I’d crossed the state line! I’ve seen enough movies to know nothing good happens when you make a run for the border. I was headed for Boise! A few miles on, an amber light flashed – a traffic light. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, turned right and gratefully headed back toward California. This time, I was relaxed, knowing now the Nevada sign referred to the county, not the Silver State, and I was in no danger of leaving California. I drove the expected miles to Combie Road, made a right and motored along the scenic two-lane twisting road, eventually turning on Magnolia to Dogbar. Unfortunately, my serenity was short-lived. Crossing the one-lane bridge, I almost rear-ended a pickup truck parked in the middle of the road. A beard poked out of the driver-side window, followed by an arm signaling me to back up. Confused, I stayed put. A clean-shaved young man then materialized by my driver’s-side window, his dark face wreathed in a pleasant smile. I rolled down my window. “Who are you with?” I asked, as if we were at a company convention. “The tow truck company, Ma’am.” I softened. The American term, “Ma’am,” sounds so much more pleasant than the Brits’ “Madam,” which has a haughty ring. “A truck jackknifed, and it’s up the hill blocking traffic,” he explained. “You’ll have to back up and pull over so the traffic stuck up there can come through. The folks are getting annoyed.” “Back up?” I squeaked. Family and friends scatter like quail when they hear my car’s backup beeper. “Like me to do it?” he said kindly. Would I? I tried to leap out of the driver’s seat with my seatbelt still buckled. He reversed deftly down the hill and pulled over. We sat quietly and waited as a long line of scowling drivers zoomed by, shooting us ticked off looks as if we were personally responsible for the traffic jam. It was at this point I felt the effects of violating a rule created during a trip to Rome with two friends. We were never sure, no matter the venue, whether there would be a usable toilet available. So, before we left our rented apartment, we would remind each other to “go before we go,” regardless of whether we had advance signaling. This rule has taken on more urgency as I’ve grown older. Foolishly, I’d left my Newcomers and Neighbors hand and foot card game in a rush earlier. Now I sat demurely, my crossed right leg shutting off the circulation to my left. Finally, we were free to go back up the hill. I thanked the young man profusely and sped off. I screeched to a halt in my driveway. The front door was locked! I rang the bell and peered in the window in time to see my husband, Jim, heave himself out of the recliner, arms stuck out in front, looking for all the world like Greg Louganis on the high dive. I heard him shuffle to the door. He opened it a crack. Who did he think was driving my car? I pushed open the door, almost knocking the poor bloke over, and bunny-hopped down the hallway to the bathroom. Later that evening, comfortably settled on the sofa, I looked across at Jim in his recliner. Clasped in his left hand was the Auburn Journal, folded in fourths to the crossword page. His glasses sat on the end of his nose, his pen poised midair. He was frowning. “Can I help?” I asked. “Name a raceway,” he replied. “How many letters?” “One, two …….. 13.” “Highwayfortynine,” I said, and chuckled at my cleverness. He paused. “That’s 16,” he said.