Adaptive Travel Tip: Ask about discounts

"If you don't ask, the answer is definitely no."

So says my good friend Elaine.

Back in February 2023, at New York City's MoMA, we put it to the test....

One Great Thing

Hello from Mile Marker 12,290...

Walking hasn't been so great.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm SO glad to be back on my feet again -- going anywhere at all.  Getting used to being in my prosthetic socket, with all its pressure points and pain, is just part of the process.  

Still, it's been wearing me down.

On Saturday night, I call my friend Beth.

We've just received the tragic news that our friend Gary has passed away. 

It is completely unexpected.  He was our age.  A physical therapist AND a firefighter.  Smart.  Caring.  Brave.  The kind of person our world needs more of.

We'd been friends a long time -- 
all the way back to our skating days.

Beth and I feel the loss together.  Reminisce about our many years in the skate club and how much things have changed since then.  

I tell her I feel caught between wanting to do everything (because "life is short") and not wanting to do anything (because "life is hard"). 

How do we navigate a world like that?

Then Beth tells me about a man she knows from her hiking club. 

He's in his 70's and always upbeat, despite aches and pains and rough terrain.

She asked him once how he stays so positive.  

"Even on the worst days," he told her, "I try to find one thing that makes each day great."

He gave her some examples. (They were really small things!)

Beth and I laugh it off.  It's probably not that simple.  

But we start listing "great" things anyway -- things we usually take for granted...

Our health.

Electricity.
A warm bed.
Food in the fridge. 

We both know the truth:  These are really big things -- and they prove how great we have it. 

The next morning Beth texts me:  

It's a great day because the sun is shining.

I look out the window.  She's right.  

And when I open the window, the air outside smells like spring.

That's when I notice my grandmother's begonia has a new brand-new bloom.  

I snap a pic.  Text it to Beth.

That's THREE great things already -- and it's still early!

Without planning to, we start texting each other here and there, tossing small "great things" back and forth like a badminton game.

Moroccan maple nut mix from my brother in Chicago.
Mile 88,888 on her car's odometer.

A quote on a coffee board near my doctor's appointment.

Once you start noticing great things,
they're everywhere!

Yesterday marked six months since my dad died. 

There is nothing great about it.

But I remember my dad had this special way of navigating hard times.  A unique combination of humor and hope.

Even at the end of his life -- sitting in his recliner at home or lying in bed at the hospital -- he would light up when I walked in the door.

"Hey Dad, how's it going?" I would ask.

"Great!"  he'd always answer.  His voice rose into that exclamation point no matter how bad he really felt.

I think my Dad would have liked the "one great thing" idea.   

He was pragmatic though.  He'd know it wouldn't change the world.

I know that too.

But maybe it'll change my corner of it.

Walk on,

Rebecca

P.S.  Find one great thing? I'd love to hear it! :)

A Toast to Paris - and My Peloton!

Mile Marker 12,030:

When my plane lands, my iPhone automatically resets itself to Philadelphia time. 

The next morning, in a haze of jetlag and dreams, I manually reset my Swatch.  An hour later, I realize I've moved the clock's hands but accidentally set them on Paris time, again. 

It feels good to be home...

...especially when my family surprises me
in the arrival hall of the airport!

But I'm not quite ready to let go of Paris.

In the next few postcards, I'll be sharing some work from my Travel Memoir class, as I learned to capture Paris on the page.

On our last day of class, we were assigned to write an ode, eulogy, or toast about our Paris experience, to be shared at a farewell party that evening.

Thanks to classmate Joe for this photo!

I chose to do a toast.  

Here it is (lightly edited)...

Bonsoir everyone!

On my first morning in Paris, I got lost for 3 hours -- just 5 minutes from the door of my apartment.  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get oriented or find my way home.

On my second day in Paris -- which was Day 1 of our class -- I stopped to admire a single red rose petal, which someone had dropped on the top step of the Metro.

It had been a long, full day with more walking than I'm used to, and I was exhausted.  

While commuters rushed past me up the stairs, one after the other, I paused on every step to rest my legs. 

I felt like that rose petal, left behind in a city that moved too fast. 

Would I be able to keep up with the pace of Paris -- and my "able-bodied" classmates?  

I knew it wouldn't be easy for me.  I'd been preparing for this trip all year.

This included walking 16 blocks to and from work, which, I predicted, would be the distance from my Paris apartment to our classroom building.  It was the first time I'd walked to work since my amputation 12 years ago.

My friends joked that I was training for the Tour de France.  

(And they weren't far off!)

On Days 2 and 3, Paris picked up the pace. 

I nearly got trapped in a turn style at the Pyramides Metro.  I wrote about a Spanish family in the Jardin du Palais Royal.  I gave up my seat at a sidewalk café for a family of 11 from Boston -- and ended up next to a family of Japanese Youtubers, dramatically unboxing a cheesecake.

Along the way, I settled into our classroom space, aptly called a "Cocoon."

There, I was swept up by the momentum of all of YOU -- my classmates -- travelers, writers, and now friends.  Turns out, I didn't have to keep pace on my own.

You became my peloton.

By Day 4, I finally had the energy to join everyone for an evening out.  

As [new friend] Kim and I walked through the Parisian drizzle to the Metro together, I spied -- not just one petal -- but a whole bouquet of roses, scattered along the wet pavement.

This time, I wasn't the only one
who stopped to admire it!

Tonight, on our last night together, this is a toast to MOVING ON.

Not toward a finish line or to writing "the end" -- but to new beginnings, new travels, and new friends.

To moving forward in whatever directions we choose, with creativity and companionship...

...TOGETHER.

À bientôt, Paris.

Je t'aime!

Rebecca

P.S.  Merci beaucoup to our leaders Rolf, Diane, & Kiki -- and my peloton -- for a Tour de France I'll never forget!

A Better Place to Be

Newport, Rhode Island could be the set of a Hallmark movie.

From our table at the Corner Café, Natalie and I get a peek behind the scenes.

Just off camera:  Three middle school moms sneaking out early while their teens are still in bed.  A young bearded guy on a barstool.  A woman with 2 little girls in ribbons and party dresses.  And a wrinkle-clothed regular who shuffles out for a smoke while his breakfast is cooking. 

It's Sunday, 7:30 AM, and we're surrounded by locals.

What are their lives like here?  

Why are they out so early on a weekend? 

As we wait for our eggs, Nat and I write the script.  We imagine who they are, why they're here today -- and what brings them together at this little breakfast spot across from the local school.

It's fun.  Relaxing.  And I'm happy to be here among them.

Travel is tricky for me, especially in the mornings.  Which makes this moment -- the mug of coffee, the sticky jam, the thick multigrain toast -- an extra special treat. 

It's the end of our weekend in Newport and, like any good Hallmark movie, the town has pulled us in for a hug.

Last night we met a student from the yacht-building academy, who happened to be our waiter at Knot Norm's.

He introduced us to the "lobster bowl."
(Not roll!)

Before that, we met Lew, a science teacher from Northeast Philly, who has settled in Newport for his retirement.   

He gave us a history lesson
at the Touro Synagogue!  

And because we're us, we also took ourselves on a tour of the library! 

It's the Redwood --

one of the oldest in the country!

In 2 short days, we've made ourselves at home here -- mansions and all.

I could get used to this. :)

And why not?

The air smells like seafood and campfires. 

Church bells chime on the hour.

Cars come to a stop at every crosswalk. 

And there's water anywhere we wander.  

We give up trying to figure out which waves are which...

...and just enjoy the splash of sunset.

Days flow better here.  

Sunrise is 20 minutes earlier.  (Really!)

And red leaves abound, making spring feel like fall.  

We call them "Newport Maples."

We can't get enough.  It's like a show we want to binge-watch, yet savor at the same time.

We shop at a local bookstore.  

Meet a local artist.  

Become regulars at the local coffee place.

Where we sample the local drink, of course --

Coffee Milk!

We even learn what the local pineapple symbol means...

Hospitality!

Newport is not perfect -- or easy.   Nowhere is.  

Even with trekking poles, I can only manage a small portion of the Cliffwalk.  I get too hot too fast.  I nearly sweat out of my leg and die of thirst along the way. 

(Ok, exaggerating a bit...
but it's not my finest moment!)

That's just one example.  

I feel slow and "stumbly" a lot of the time.  Throughout the weekend, we stop so I can tend to leg adjustments and other physical needs.

In that way, it reminds me of a different road trip many miles ago -- back at Mile 21 -- my first time traveling after my amputation.  

Back then, I had the idea that if I just practiced enough, I'd somehow find my way to a better place -- to where I was before the accident.

My gait (and feelings) have evolved over time, but I still grapple with similar challenges.  

Now, I've realized, they're just part of the journey.

In an instant, we're back home, and that harbor breeze is just a memory.  

Philly turns hot and sticky. 

My right foot doesn't feel right.

And at 10 PM, the city launches a new construction project, sending a monsoon of dust and gravel into my beloved balcony garden.

I lie in bed and imagine moving to Newport.

I know, I know.  I'm sure reality would catch up with me there too.

Eventually.

Maybe Nat and I will put our heads together and write that screenplay.  Or maybe the Corner Café will be the setting for my next novel.

I like to think of our characters back there in Newport, still living their lives.  Kinda wish I could join them.

Who wouldn't want to step inside a Hallmark movie?

It's just a better place to be.

P.S.  Writing this postcard made me think of this song by Harry Chapin.  It's not about Rhode Island, but it's a sweet story - and one of my faves.  If you need an 8-minute vacation, give it a listen. :)  

Happy travels!

Maintenance Required

At the end of a busy week, my car's maintenance light comes on.

Oh no!  Not now!  I don't have time for this!

Maybe you've experienced this yourself.  

Or maybe you sense some foreshadowing here.  Remember the Green Goblin? 

I had a strange symbiosis with my old car. Whenever it got a flat tire, it was a sure sign that my body was headed for a breakdown too.

But this week, that maintenance light takes me by surprise.  

After a pink-ish start, I was moving at a pretty good clip.  By Friday, I even caught up with friends Cécile and Mark for a délicieux déjeuner and petite promenade through the spring blooms of their neighborhood.

And bonus, I met their friend David --
 who's been "walking" with me (via this blog) 
for quite a while!

It was a good week -- a good "normal" kind of busy.

When things are going well, I sometimes forget that traveling with a disability uses a bit more fuel. 

At times, it drains fast and unpredictably.  My body is more sensitive to weather and schedule changes, dehydration, and overuse.  Every activity has a cost attached.

So when I suddenly feel tired and overwhelmed (a.k.a my body's maintenance light comes on), I shouldn't be surprised. 

Yep, it's that.
Exactly.

Even a "normal" week requires careful curating -- and maintenance breaks.  

It's a skill I'm still working on. 

I want to do everything, but I have to give my body what it needs.  Refuel it with short pauses.  

It's frustrating sometimes, but I try to think of them as small doses of self-care.  

It might mean canceling plans.  

Or prioritizing.  

Or scaling back a day to its most essential parts.

  

It might mean taking a breather -- like lying down to do my PT exercises.

Or feeling the sun on my face
first thing in the morning.

Or stopping to smell the flowers -- literally!

Or taking time out to write a "postcard" for this blog.  (Because that's refilling too.)

The challenge, like always, is finding a balance I can maintain.

I drive a different car now.  A hybrid. 

It's small and cute and gets about a thousand miles to the gallon.  (Kidding, of course -- but it goes pretty far on a single tank of gas!)

I wish my body had the same endurance...

As an amputee I'm grateful to be able to drive.  I depend on my car much more than I did when I had 2 legs. 

But that also means paying attention when the maintenance light comes on.  

Even if life is busy.  
Even if it's inconvenient.  
Even if it's just an oil change.

(which I hope it is!)

I know people say there's a time for everything.

I just haven't found it yet. :)

Pink

This day needs a reboot, and it's only 6 AM.

I work harder to get into my prosthesis.

I stamp the foot, pressing down as hard as I can.  Shift my weight onto the right side.  Then back again to the left.  I do this over and over (and over and over and over) again.  

10 times...
12 times...
24 times...

Today, even more times....

It's a workout.

You'd laugh if you watched.  It's like a clumsy Irish dance.  Or an elephant stamping out a herd of ants.

"My downstairs neighbors love it," I sometimes joke. "Especially early in the morning."  

But today I don't feel like laughing.  Today it's just exhausting.

My abdomen isn't great either.  Digestive issues woke me throughout the night, and now it feels like there's a rock ricocheting around my belly as I jump up and down.  

And then... my phone tings on the nightstand.  A text.

Come on.  This early??

It feels like the whole world has its act together, and I've already fallen behind.

From my very first miles as an amputee, I learned it was better to step out than to stay in.  So I grab my jacket and coffee cup, and close the door behind me.

It's a small victory.

Halfway down the street, I run into Donna.  (Actually she's the runner, so she runs into me.)  

I greet her with a litany of complaints about the day so far. 

But by the time we round the next corner, the conversation changes course.

The sun throws shadows down Market Street, and Donna tells me about a new pizza place she and Mike tried.  They got pepperoni.  With a coupon.  Win-win.

Our chat jumps around as much as I jumped around to get my leg on.

We steer clear of sidewalk hazards.  Stop for coffee.  

And eventually, we end up here...

...in the pink!

As we pause with wonder underneath, something inside me shifts ever so slightly.

Maybe it's that color pink -- a mix of pale and hot -- which I always envisioned as my "power color" when I climbed.

Or maybe it's the parallel between my body and nature.  (Nothing's permanent... this too shall pass!)

Or maybe it's the vibe that comes from running into a friend on a morning when you need one.

Yes, yes, it's definitely that :)

Or maybe it's just getting out of the house -- and out of my head!

I don't understand it anymore than I understand why my leg and my abdomen picked this particular morning to act up at the same time.  Oh well.

Whatever it is -- like other signs from other morning walks -- those blossoms shout out a message to me.

When life gives you a reboot, run with it.  

Or in my case...

walk with it!

To Market, To Market...

These peppers deserve their own postcard!

On an unexpected early morning, I spot them in the crowded aisle of a little Italian grocery shop called Claudio.  

"Claudio's" (as the locals say) is at the northern end of South Philly's Italian Market.  It's across from Gleaner's Café, a longtime favorite coffee stop.

After coffee, Ellen wants to pop inside for "one thing."

(It's been years since I've been in Claudio's.  So... why not?)

What starts out as a quick errand turns into a full-fledged field trip.

Don't you just love when that happens??

See, peppers aren't really the point of this postcard -- MARKETS are!

In the years of the pandemic and not traveling, I forgot the way a local market can be a travel adventure in itself.

When we step inside, all those memories come rushing back.

Take Copenhagen -- my last trip before the world shut down.

Natalie and I arrived in Copenhagen in the evening dusk.  Granted, sunset was at 3:45 PM, but after an overnight flight, a connection in London, a train from the airport, and dragging our luggage along the drizzly sidewalk, we were too exhausted to search for a restaurant. 

Instead, we were lured by the fluorescent lights of our neighborhood Lidl...

Smoked salmon!  
Dark rye!  
Local yogurt!
Bars of chocolate!  

Our eyes widened.  

Every shelf was exciting!  
Seeing Danish shoppers was exciting!  
Counting our kroner at check-out was exciting!

"The Lidl" became our regular stop
on the way home each night!

If you have mobility or health issues like I do, local markets SCORE BIG.  They're a relief  -- and a necessity -- when traveling.

They offer flat terrain,
climate control (sometimes), 
and a welcome reprieve from heavy restaurant food.

One can't subsist on pastries alone --
or at least I can't!

In Austria, where "Gluten" Morgen was a daily greeting, Marla and I (and my tender digestive system) took refuge in local shops where we could pick up fresh fruit, salads...

...and my personal fave,
homemade Austrian muesli!

And in Nice, on my very first trip overseas as an amputee, Mary and I discovered the famous and colorful outdoor market, Cours Saleya.  

A perfect place for early morning walks!

Shopping à la francaise (aka "French style")
was even better than eating out!

Our food vocabulary blossomed.  We progressed from pointing and pantomiming to actually talking our way through transactions.  

By the end of the week, we even asked a fromagière
to wrap cheese for our airline trip home!

Today's stop at Claudio's reminds me how a market is a glimpse into local life -- wherever you are.  

We stand in line behind a South Philly dad.

He orders fresh mozzarella balls,

a log of soppressata longer than my forearm, 
and a super-sized container of marinated octopus, complete with suckers.  

His wife and kids stand patiently beside him cradling bags of hand-shaped pasta.  

As they reach the check-out counter, his daughter points to a four-pack of fancy Italian lemon spritzers.  She looks hopefully at her dad.  

He nods.  And she adds it to their purchase.

"I'd like to go to his house for dinner," Ellen whispers.

By the time we step outside, it's like we just returned from Italy...

via South Philly!

No plane fare, packing, or planning.  Just minutes from home.

My souvenir -- a $6.99 jar of Sicilian-style roasted peppers with pine nuts and golden raisins. :)

Pretty good bang for the buck.

Shop on!

Happy travels,
Rebecca

Steppin' Out -- NYC

To seek renewal, maybe you'd go to the spa.

I'm in New York City!

Really, this is better than a massage table, where I'd be lying with my eyes closed, dwelling on health issues and uncertainties, and all the things I should be doing (but can't quite manage) to keep pace with "normal" life.  

Better to be stepping out here -- onto this crazy-busy sidewalk -- nearly galloping to keep pace with my good friend Elaine, who's surprisingly city-wise for someone from Idaho!

We dodge traffic and people,
step on and off curbs, 

and in and out of elevators.

We catch the lights

as we catch up on conversation.

It's invigorating

and exciting

and exhilarating

and exhausting (in all the best ways!).

At MoMA, we hunt down the original Starry Night.

At Chelsea Market, we stalk an Israeli food stand till it opens.

At the Strand, we get lost in the stacks.

Then, on the way back to the train station, we stumble onto this spot...

...Oh YES, we do!

New York City is only 2 hours from Philly.  

But for me, it doesn't feel like an easy journey.  It's been years since I've traveled anywhere, especially on my own.

The night before, I reduce what I'll have to carry -- discarding extra clothes in favor of crutches and emergency items for any "body breakdown" I can imagine.  (And then, in imagining those breakdowns, I almost cancel the trip!)

On the way there, I obsess about sitting on metal benches at the train station and climbing in and out of cabs, obstacles that can disrupt even the best of leg days.

With the weight of worry,
it's a wonder I go anywhere at all!

But when I finally meet up with Elaine, those concerns fade into the backdrop of city noise.

Elaine keeps me in the moment.  She approaches challenge with curiosity.  She takes travel adventures (and mishaps!) in stride.  We've known each other a long time, and it's just so FUN to be together again.

I can't keep this pace forever, but for 24 hours, it's worth a try!

At the Strand, we both find books that call to us.

For me, it's a book of photography by Vivienne Gucwa, a NYC resident who, back in 2009, began walking the city as a way to deal with stress, and along the way, found renewal through the lens of her camera.   

On the train ride home, 
her words and images resonate with me.

This little trip helps me dust off some of my own "lenses" too -- ones I'd almost forgotten I had.

The harnessing of courage.  

The joy of taking risks.

The irreplaceable comfort of friendship.

And the pure, life-changing power of steppin' out.

Climb Mount Fuji

My friend Kim is climbing Mount Fuji.

For real!

I'm following her journey as I recite the 9's times tables.

No, it's not a dream.  Although it definitely sounds like one.

On the same morning Kim starts her climb -- or more accurately the night after (It's 9:30 PM in Japan!) -- I start my usual walk around the block. 

It's cool and drizzly here in Philly.  The sidewalks are flat and mostly "hike-able," except for a construction zone or two.

And thankfully, the coffee is hot!

I have never been to Japan, except if you count 3rd grade.

We studied Japan that year.

Our classroom had a bulletin board displaying a mountain of blue-gray construction paper, surrounded by clouds.  In the sky above the scene, the board proclaimed:

CLIMB MT. FUJI

That was also the year we learned multiplication.

Each day, we took a one-minute speed quiz.  

First the 1's,
Then the 2's,
Then the 3's,
And so on...

As we "passed" each times table, our names would hike up a notch along the slope of Mt. Fuji.  Day after day, we raced our classmates toward the summit.  In those days, rote memorization (and healthy competition) were par for the course!

I climbed steadily till I hit the 9's. 

The 9's were my nemesis.

It's been years since I've thought about that challenge, but when Kim messages me from Japan, it all comes rushing back.  

For me, climbing Mount Fuji will forever be associated with the times tables.

It's like a short circuit, or a trapdoor of memory.  

Fun to jump through... but why??

In the unlikely event I ever DO climb Mount Fuji, I'm pretty sure I'll have other things on my mind.  You know... real, useful things.

Like sweat in my prosthetic liner.

Pressure points on my skin.
My prosthesis coming loose.

Stress on my right foot.

And trying not to fall.

But for now, this strange link is a fun diversion on an otherwise unremarkable day.  

It's a way keep up with my friends.  To travel, in space and time, without all the fuss!

No need to take time off.  
No packing necessary.  
No health issues to worry about at all.

So as I take my short walk, I imagine myself trudging up Mount Fuji alongside Kim in Japan.

9x5 = 45

9x6 = 54

9x7 = 63...

(Happy to report I now have the 9's down pat.)

Thanks for the inspo, Kim!

I'm right there with ya!