The boulangerie is bustling.
It’s early morning. Paris. September 2024.
Beautiful baguettes — dark, light, tradition, demi — poke like rustic flower stems from wicker baskets behind the counter.
I order a café au lait.
“Sur place?” the vendeuse asks.
“Oui, s’il vous plaît.” I answer.
I know the drill by now. And she knows me. But the first time I came in, the question flustered me...
Seafoam rushes between my five toes. Sand settles, heavy, on my prosthetic foot.
When I swing my thigh to kick it off, it takes so much force that — for just one instant — it feels like it’s my real foot out there, flinging sand into the tide.
Later, I will dismantle my “beach leg,” as I’ve been taught by my prosthetist, Tim.
I’ll rinse it in a cascade of fresh water in the bathtub and watch the day’s residue erupt, volcano-like, from within the footshell.
A mixture of sand and shells and ocean -- seemingly pounds of it — will thunk into the tub like wet cement. And I’ll spend more time bent over, chasing it into lumps and scooping it up with paper towels, than I did in the actual waves.
But for now, I’m here. Wading.
Feeling, with wonder, my two feet in the water.
I had forgotten how much I love the beach...
I’ll start with the books.
Sounds simple, right? Get rid of the ones I’ve read and won’t read again. Sort through one bookshelf, then another, then another.
The problem is… books are like time machines.
You know how a song takes you back to the 10th grade dance? Well, the books on my shelves do that for me. Just touching their spines is like climbing into a DeLorean and flooring it to 88 miles per hour.
I land in a cornfield of memories.
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| (Photo courtesy of Midland Movies.) |
Each book is a survival lesson. Take Mile 6,660, for example. After an hour of sorting and shifting, I need a bulldozer to dig myself out.
(Oh, where is Michael J. Fox when I need him?)
But the future needs space to grow, right? So I try another tactic...
The other day, my iphone made me one of those videos.
You know — the kind that pops up unsolicited when you open your screen to do something productive, like read an email, or look up directions, or text your mom.
Usually, I don’t like them. They feel manipulative, imposing, intrusive.
Maybe it’s because they start with the words “Over the Years” and then send me hurtling back through time — often so far that I land in the years before the accident.
Wasn’t that fun? the video taunts. “Wasn’t life easy back then?”
Yes. And yes.
But hey — I’ve worked hard to live in the present!
This particular video started playing before I could close it out.
And I knew immediately — between reading an email and texting my mom, of course— that it would make a great postcard.
It was called "Freshly Brewed," and was like a playlist of the best coffees I've had since 2019.
To watch the video, click here.
I’m on the makeshift stage of a bookstore — 3,000 miles from home — singing along to “Dancing Queen” with 15 of my newest friends.
Also, it’s 10 PM.
I don’t do evening activities. I can’t carry a tune. And I definitely don’t dance.
To be perfectly honest, I was planning to skip karaoke. When I saw it on the schedule, I didn’t give a single thought to going.
It was the last night of the Book Passage Travel Writers and Photographers Conference, and part of me didn’t want to miss a moment.
But another part — the physical, practical, protective part — knew my story better. By evening, my body gets the best of me. Doing too much can push me into overload. I need time to rest, unwind, and take my leg off.
And so, when the last workshop ended, I slipped out the back door of the bookstore to walk to the hotel.
Before I settled in, I needed to refill my water bottle. In the glow of the hotel courtyard, I passed by the pool and headed to the fitness center, where there was a cold water fill-up station.
That’s when I heard it. A voice from above...
The worst part about travel is stepping out the door.
And what if _______ or _______ or ________ happens?? (Enter worst nightmares here.)
The closer a trip gets, the more I feel like staying home...
“Sat morning are we going for coffee in AC?”
…says a text from my brother Mark, at 9:45 on a Thursday night.
It’s short for “Will you meet me in Atlantic City on Saturday morning so I can drop off my car before a 65-mile bike ride on Sunday? That way I’ll be able to drive myself home afterward. Also, let’s leave early to beat the shore traffic. And yes, I’ll buy you a coffee.”
I know what he means. We do it every year.
And yet, the idea rattles me. I’m caught between anticipation for our small tradition and apprehension over giving up my morning routine.
Yes, even for one day...
Air travel makes time do weird things.
Like always, I arrive at the airport early — even though this is Vermont, and the airport has only 13 gates. After a quick trip to celebrate my niece’s birthday, it’s time to head home.
For an amputee like me, everything takes more time: going through security, stopping at the restroom, adjusting my prosthetic, stowing my crutches in the overhead bin, and folding my leg into the airplane seat which — despite being labeled as “extra leg room” — does not seem spacious at all.
By the time we’re ready to take-off, it’s hard to believe I’m still where I started...
