“We have a file on you.” It was 1979, one year before my third child was born. I was sitting in a spacious office in the John E. Moss Federal Building, 650 Capitol Mall, in Sacramento. Across from me was a middle-aged man in a suit and tie. I stared at a Manila folder, the only article on the huge glossy desk. I had been here before. Not the same place but a similar situation. I was 11 years old and living in England. Children 11 years of age sat for a school placement examination known as the eleven plus that determined their academic future. The written exam was in two parts. I passed the first part but received a “borderline” rating on the second, and an oral interview would determine my final score. That interview was also in a large, unfamiliar room, much like the Federal Building office. A man behind a long, highly polished table handed me a paper and instructed me to read a passage about volcanoes. After I finished reading, he asked me: “What else has a core besides a volcano?” My mind went blank – I couldn’t answer the question. There may have been other questions I couldn’t answer, or answered incorrectly, but that one looms large in my memory. I didn’t pass the oral examination. At the ripe old age of 11, my fate was determined. My dream of attending The Wellingborough Grammar School for Girls, a college preparatory school, was gone. I would transfer to a secondary school, destined to work in one of the town’s boot and shoe factories. Now here I was, almost 25 years later, once again sitting across from someone who could change my life. They had a file on me? I must have looked as stunned as I felt because his face softened. “We were alerted that you were in the United States and unable to support yourself which, as you know, is a requirement for residency.” Support myself? In the eight previous years, I’d supported myself and my two young children. My mouth was dry. I choked down the lump in my throat. Blinked back tears. Were they going to deport me? How could they? I was separated from my husband but still married. My children were born American citizens by virtue of their Air Force father’s citizenship. Then the penny dropped. My estranged, and strange, husband. That’s who was behind this. I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it when the official leaned forward. He opened the Manila folder, scanning the contents. “The contact was made eight years ago, so you can see you weren’t exactly a high-priority case.” He smiled, then closed the folder and told me to continue my citizenship process. From the time I arrived in California, I thought about becoming an American citizen. I loved living here. But each time the idea popped up, I slapped it down. I felt like a traitor. How could I give up England? My cheeks weren’t rosy, but I spent decades singing “God Save Our Gracious Queen.” I knew the words to “Rule Britannia.” I drank my tea hot with sugar and milk. I ate with the fork in my left hand and the knife in my right. I ate fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. American servers didn’t understand my accent when I asked for water. But I wanted to vote. And that requires citizenship. I returned to the federal building on Nov. 19, 1979, and in a crowded conference room raised my hand and pledged allegiance to the United States of America. Every election since that day, I have proudly cast my vote. I held my head the highest in 2008 when I walked into a polling station in Meadow Vista and voted for Barack Obama – a man of my same racial mix – who would become the 44th President of the United States. I treasure my Certificate of Naturalization. I am no longer “an alien” – a title my children found highly amusing. I also received a letter from then-President Jimmy Carter. He wrote how important it was that I had chosen America as my new land, and that America’s greatest asset continues to be its people. He invoked the founding fathers and their great faith in the individual. How they believed that people from everywhere who loved freedom and justice should be entitled to enjoy these rich blessings. President Carter ended his letter saying he was sure I would follow in the tradition of other naturalized citizens from all lands and resolve to do my part in making America an even more wonderful place in which to live. I am still trying.

On the evening of the last Saturday in March, I had more fun in a church than I deserved. I attended the 11th annual Trivia Bee hosted by the American Association of University Women (AAUW). Susan Rushton, an AAUW member and trivia team recruiter, emailed me and a few other Auburn Journal contributors, encouraging us to join a team. I declined, having already purchased my single ticket. Besides, the theme was sports. I can name a few Grand Slam tennis players, plus Taylor Swift’s boyfriend, but that’s it. The Congregational Church hall overflowed with people chatting and wandering between the tables. Rick, a member of the team Two Girls and a Guy, and his sweetheart Charlene, my hiking friend, invited me to sit with them. Charlene introduced me to her friend, Carol. We went to school together, Charlene said, and they smiled sweetly as they side-hugged. I felt a pang. I miss my English school pals. As people settled into the folding chairs around the tables, the exuberant AAUW president, Alexia Retallack, microphone in hand, stood facing the group, her back to the stage. She gave an overview of the organization’s activities that included a surprising change. I emailed her later, asking for more information. “Anyone can now join AAUW, even if they do not have a degree or an associate’s degree,” said Alexia. “AAUW was originally founded to help expand access to higher education for women and girls. With more than 50 percent of college applicants today being women, we have helped accomplish that goal, though we continue to work on the areas where women are underrepresented like science, technology, engineering and math. We also recognize that there are many paths in life and some of the most incredible women who own businesses and lead our community do not have degrees. We felt it was time to open the doors.” Following Alexia’s speech, she asked for volunteers to form another trivia team. I raised my hand – shoulder high – prompted by my lingering guilt for not joining the Auburn Journal team. Alexia, standing in the far corner of the room, didn’t see me. Someone pointed in my direction. I was on a team. After the buffet dinner, I slowly followed Rick into an adjacent room where the teams gathered. I stood in the corner wondering what team I’d been assigned to. Someone behind me said my name. I turned. It was none other than our esteemed Journal editor Bill Poindexter. He didn’t need another team member. A handsome dark-haired young man approached me. Caleb introduced himself, then we looked around for a third team member. “We only have two people,” I called out to Susan Rushton. “We’ll find someone,” she said confidently. And she did. A short time later, a smiling John Bowman claimed the empty chair next to Caleb on the stage where the 20 teams assembled. I met John and his wife Valerie some years ago at a Martin Luther King Day gathering at Auburn’s General Gomez Art Gallery. Valerie approached me during a break. She said I looked interesting. It was the nicest and most surprising introduction I’ve experienced. Several years later, John, a retired newspaper editor and published poet, wrote a complimentary blurb on the back cover of my Bonkers for Conkers book. I rarely see John and Val, but when I do, I’m reminded of their kindness. So, here I was on stage, ready to make a fool of myself. The gregarious and entertaining emcee, longtime KAHI Radio personality Dave Rosenthal, belted out the rules. Someone thrust a clipboard and marker into my hand. Great. I didn’t know sports, but I could write – and happily scribbled our team’s answers to Dave’s questions before the 20-second buzzer sounded. John knows basketball affirmed Caleb after we scored points in that area. Then came a cricket question. Cricket! I perked up. I knew the answer! Bowler, I blurted loud enough for everyone to hear. It was the right answer. I almost took a bow. We may not have come close to winning, but as John whispered gleefully to me and Caleb, “We scored more points than five of the teams.” The competition winners were sisters Delana and Anne Ruud, and Bob Fehr – the 2½ Native team. They were awarded the revolving trophy – for one year. I learned later they’d won the first Trivia Bee in 2012. As we stepped down from the stage, John put a friendly arm around my shoulder. Me, you and Caleb next year? Why not, I thought, buoyed by my one right answer and the thought of another fun night at church.

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.