...from the Italian Market!
Yes, I know that's a language mashup, but that's where I am.
Qui. Maintenant. Here. Now.
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| Mile 12,615 = Kilomètre 20,302 |
I'm gearing up for travel.
In just two weeks, I leave for Paris -- yes, Paris! -- to join travel writer Rolf Potts, and a whole new group of classmates for the advanced version of the travel memoir class I took there last summer. I can't wait!
So I'd better brush up on my writing -- and walking.
Here at home, my little red car, "Happy," has just passed her 10,000th mile.
To celebrate, and sneak in some walking/writing, we drive down to our old favorite, Gleaner's, for a coffee and stroll through the Italian Market.
The smell of baking bread leads the way.
It fades into roasted coffee,
It fades into roasted coffee,
sugared dough,
melted tar,
and garbage juice, spilled from a leaky bag.
In the first three blocks, I hear four languages: Spanish, Italian, Cambodian (I think), and Greek.
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| And this one?? |
It's barely 7:30. The sun is still low. The sidewalks are shady. The breeze feels uncommonly cool.
I pass a bookstore, not yet open, with boxes stacked outside. A scribbled sign says FREE. The middle box sags with paperbacks of The Babysitter's Club, piled high like a mound of rainbow jimmies. (Or "sprinkles" for you out-of-towners.)
When I reach Passyunk (say "Pash-yunk"), a cheesesteak truck is parked inside an overgrown community garden.
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| Pretty much Philly in a nutshell. |
I turn onto a narrow street of rowhomes.
A mirrored chrome railing reminds me of an 80's rollerskating rink. A toddler's kitchen playset sits atop a metal grate. How many toys (and shoes) have been dropped through those cracks?
It's a good leg day so far.
On days like this, I feel like I could walk miles. But I know better.
The sun is getting higher.
My prosthetic's getting looser.
While I'm comfortable, like now, my feet and mind can wander. But it's early yet.
I need to save energy -- and precious leg time -- for the rest of the day.
So I turn up 7th, back toward the car.
This patch of road used to be part of my bike route to work. I pedaled through here every morning for years.
I knew where cars rolled through the 4-way stop. I knew where every pothole was.
It looks different now.
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| Smoother. Brighter. |
I almost don't recognize it.
But then, come the bikers.
They whisper by in clusters, two and three at a time, helmets strapped, backpacks bouncing behind them in crates and saddlebags.
7th Street, I realize, has become a bike superhighway.
It feels good to walk among them.
When I arrive back at the car, my coffee cup is empty, but my notebook is full.
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| And I'm happy to be here. |
Walk on,
Rebecca
