Lost (and Found) in Paris

Bonjour from Mile Marker 12,000... and then some!

I had this vision of my first "morning mile" here.

A leisurely stroll in the sunshine.

A stop at the neighborhood boulangerie.
Un café, s'il vous plait.

I didn't picture that I'd wake up late, or get caught in a drizzle, or become lost in a web of cobblestone alleys whose names don't show up on my phone.

The Marais, I'm discovering, is a bit like my Old City home -- with its narrow passages and hip cafés -- but complicated by French accents, unfamiliar streets, and jet lag!

No worries at first.  

I just wander.  Window shop.  Walk whichever way I want.

I buy un croissant aux amandes.

Then that first café au lait.

C'est très joli!

Then I walk some more.  

Just taking in the views!

But when I'm ready to turn back... well, I'm not sure which way to turn.

I've never had a great sense of direction, but still this surprises me.  I've been studying my Paris map for months.  And I was only setting out for a short walk.

(Just steps past the grocery store we found yesterday!)

Because of the slant of the sidewalk, I usually keep my prosthesis on the curb side -- which means I turn right more often than left -- which should help in this case -- but somehow doesn't. 

After a while, I give up and check the map on my phone.  My blue dot is a "5 min walk" from the red dot of our apartment.  Not bad...

I walk a bit more.  

Still "5 min."

I get it down to "3 min" -- but no shorter.

So close and yet so far.

Travel writer Rolf Potts (who I'll meet tonight at our pre-class picnic!) introduced me to the word flâneur.  It's the French word for someone who strolls on foot without a real destination in mind. 

That's me, this morning.  Walking for the sake of walking. 

Taking in my surroundings without a schedule or plan.

It's the way I love to walk.  I do it a lot -- even at home.

But for an amputee, walking isn't simple.  

"Leg time" is limited and, in the back of my mind, I know I need to conserve it for the picnic tonight.  Also, my microprocessor knee shouldn't really get soaked in the rain.  

As much as I want to turn down the next street just to see where it takes me, I have a compelling -- and physical -- need to find my way home.

After a mile or so of unintended flânerie, my phone tings with a text from Mona, my traveling companion and apartment-mate.

She's at our apartment, leaving to head out for lunch. :)

A few seconds later we cross paths -- at the courtyard to our apartment building.

Je suis trouvé!

Turns out, I wasn't really lost at all.  

Bienvenue à Paris!

Bonne journée!
Rebecca

Allez!

Twelve years ago this week, I wrote a little post called Go!

July 9, 2011

See that look on my face?  

That cautious smile of joy and relief.  After 8 long months of recovery and rebuilding, I had finally reached the start of a new journey.

I thought those first steps would propel me full speed ahead.  I thought I already had the hang of it.

Little did I know, we don't face the starting line just once.  

We step up to it day after day after day... (x 12 years and counting!)

Now, as I pass Go for the dozenth time, I'm preparing for yet another change in direction. 

My friends joke that I'm in training for the Tour de France.  

And they're not far off.

Soon, I'll be embarking on a travel writing course -- in PARIS!

(Remember author Rolf Potts who inspired Mile 9,393?  He's teaching it!)  

It's true.  I have been training for this.  

Walking longer and farther.    

Adjusting my prosthetic socket.

Doing PT exercises to aid my digestion.

Sweat-testing my leg.

This whole year, I've been working to get my body (and hardware) in shape to keep up with "able-bodied" classmates while trekking around Paris in the summer heat.

Of course, as I near the finish line, plans unravel.

My body reacts terribly to a new medication.  My prosthesis clicks and beeps in all the wrong places.  Even my household appliances are on the fritz...

Help!  I need a sign.  (Or maybe fewer signs!)

Enter the Tour de France.

(The real one!)

I'm just a spectator, but I take its lessons to heart.

These riders are the best of the best.  They've dreamed and trained and, in many cases, crawled their way back from life-threatening injuries to qualify for this epic race -- 21 stages in 23 days -- the most challenging event in professional cycling.  

I see their steepest climbs and sharpest descents.  I cringe when they crash.  I watch with wonder as they get back on their bikes.

There are 22 teams.  

Which means 22+ strategies.  

Which means their plans unravel too,  

Often as they near the finish line. 

They just pedal harder.

Each stage ends in utter exhaustion.   

And then -- in the blazing sun of the next day -- the riders take their places at another starting line ALL OVER AGAIN.

They know nothing of me -- with my little Peacock subscription and my even smaller TV screen.  I'm just another fan watching from afar, a former biker, shouting Allez! from my couch in Philly.

And yet, I feel connected.  

It's their RESILIENCE that resonates most.

I'm amazed how they step up to that start line and embrace a new "stage" -- day after day after day.

It's been 12 years, and I'm approaching 12,000 MILES on a prosthetic leg. 

Journey willing, that start line will be Paris!

And if I'm lucky, I'll watch those riders from the sidelines -- as they sprint toward the finish of their final stage -- and I'll be shouting Allez! in person.

I'll send you a postcard. 

Allez!

Rebecca

P.S.  I found a sign :)