Pauline Nevins

"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.