Paris Is Still There

 A quick hello from Mile Marker 13,170!

I'm hurrying through the breakfast dishes, water splashing up my sleeves, my brain barreling ahead at breakneck speed, when an alert pops up on my phone.

It's from Bonjour RATP, the Paris transit app.

Alerting me to line closures for the weekend.

I'm usually aggravated by those rings, tings, and buzzes.  They remind me I'm not keeping up.  

But this one is different.  It carries me away.

Paris, is seems, is still out there.  

Moving at its own pace.  Doing its Parisian thing.

That thought takes me back to my after-dinner Instagram scroll last night.  (When my body's too tired to clean up the kitchen, for some reason my thumb has plenty of energy!) 

Now, I replay those photos and captions, sprinkled with snowflakes throughout my feed.

For the first time in over a decade, there was a November snowfall in Paris! 

...I saw it on my own screen!

In real life, snow would throw me off balance.  But not snow in Paris.  Not right now.

In my mind, I can walk in any weather. :)  

I'm halfway through the dishes.  My fingers squeeze out the sponge, soft on one side, scratchy on the other.  The smell of dishsoap fills the air.  

But I'm no longer standing at the sink.  

I've soared across the ocean, over green fields and wine country, to an enchanted city that somehow, impossibly, still exists.  

I pause to imagine myself there.

What Métro would I ride?

Ligne 7.

What would I be sipping, right now, at Café Méjane?

The best pumpkin spice latte in the world!
Bien sur!

Here at home, this month has felt like a miles-long sprint.

I rush through morning walks.  

Catch up on work at lunchtime. 

Adjust my leg on the fly.   

Curl up with abdominal pain at night.  

Everything takes me longer than it used to.  I need more rest.  My body breaks down when I don't give it the time it needs.  These lessons I've learned well.

But even after 14 years, the New Normal is an uncomfortable place to be.

I shut off the water.  

The dishes are clean, but not much else has changed.   

And yet, I feel transformed by this one small miracle:  the ability to stand with my feet in one place and my mind in another.  

I know it's just memory, but it feels like a superpower.

Paris is still there.  Moving at its own speed.  

(Or, more likely,
lingering over a long déjeuner!)

I wish I were there too.

It's reassuring to know that when life moves too fast, traveling to a place we love -- even for a moment, even in our minds -- can help slow things down.

I've gotta get going.  But I know Paris will be there.

Whenever, and wherever, I need it.

Walk on,
Rebecca

P.S.  Do you have a place (or pace) that takes you away?  I'd love to hear how you "travel" there!

Daycation: Almost Japan

こんにちは (Kon'nichiwa) from Mile Marker 13,140!

The Shofuso Japanese House and Garden is like dipping your toes into 17th century Japan without leaving 21st century Philly.

It's so peaceful -- I imagine I could live here.

But in real life -- I wouldn't last a day.

(Let's just say, I don't squat well!) 

At Mile 13,140, I step into my 14th year as an above-knee amputee.  

In socks!

It's November 9, and I want to celebrate my Alive Day, but the past few weeks have been exhausting, sorrowful, and filled with difficult news.  

I don't have the energy (or leg time) to go big or go far, but I'm still so grateful to be alive.  

So I'm searching out joy -- at least for a mile or two.

Enter the DAYCATION.

It's short.

It's sweet.
It takes minimal planning.  
And it stays close to home.

Is there nothing more perfect for an adaptive traveler?!

Friends Jasmine and Mark join me for a quick drive to the Shofuso Japanese Cultural Center in West Fairmount Park.  

Technically, we're still in Philly.  Does it even count as a daycation?  

(Jasmine says yes, and she introduced me to the word, so we're going with it!)

Anyway, a daycation is just what the doctor ordered. :)

Here, Japanese maples turn coral in the sun.
A school of koi circles the pond, eyes bulging, mouths gulping.

It's mesmerizing.

House rules.  We remove our shoes.  

Shoe-covers are provided for those who can't walk in socks, but they look a bit slippery.  

I decide to give socks a try.  Luckily, there's a bench to sit on to take off my shoes.

Even after 14 years, this gets a laugh!

The wood is warm in the sun, icy in the shade; the planks and bamboo are unexpectedly soft.  These sensations surprise me.

Because I live in shoes. 

My right foot rejoices.  But I'm surprised, even more, that on these surfaces, my prosthetic (left) foot does have some traction. 

At home, I've learned the hard way not to walk in socks.  (Remember Souperficial Wounds??)

But in "almost Japan," it almost works.  I watch my footing carefully, but it feels almost right.

The house is embedded in nature, its boxy rooms connected by wooden bridges through the foliage.  

Like a treehouse built into the landscape!

There's a Japanese tea cermony about to happen.  We're not invited, but I watch from afar.  

On the sidelines, I spy a hidden pile of modern thermoses and hot pots.  I love a peek behind the scenes. :)

We learn a few tidbits about Shinto, and the Minka style of housing.  

Then I lace up my sneakers again and use trekking poles to navigate the rocky garden paths.

I'm most charmed by one of the guides, Jennie, who tells us about her own recent trip to Japan.  

She describes how, in a restuarant in a rural town, the chef emerged from the kitchen to talk with her friend about her gluten allergy before preparing their food.  They were touched by his welcome and kindness.

I am too.  I love the human side of travel!

A mere hour later, we're back in the car, heading toward Chinatown.

Our daycation ends with a steaming bowl of ramen at a restaurant we've never tried -- Megumi.

It's a 5-Star end to the morning.

And best of all, it's on the way home!

This daycation -- a short, sweet adventure -- leaves me refreshed.  I'm ready to welcome another year on this journey.

Here's to travel near and far! 

Wherever you are, thank you for walking with me.

xo,

Rebecca

The Air Tonight

Mile Marker 13,133:  

Hello from Love Park, where the air is buzzing, bracing, and bittersweet.

I'm heading to the bus stop on my way home from work.  

It's not a great leg day.  I would have driven back and forth, but I was worried about tonight. I imagined road closures, protests, and chaos in the city.  I didn't want to be stuck in traffic.

But as I walk, I see there's none of that.  

It's an ordinary evening, yet also extraordinary, because tomorrow is Election Day.  And no one knows what's to come.

I wander among the murals here,

absorbing their messages, admiring their art,

feeling their energy.

People smile.  I smile back. 

A boy with gold curls runs under the spray of the fountain.

Two students play pingpong, backbacks dropped at their feet. 

Excitement and cameraderie hang in the air.

I join a dozen others who've gathered around the portal.  

It's a new addition to Philly -- an international camera set smackdab in the center of the city, a living sculpture that connects us digitally, in real time, with three other cities around the world.  

It's kind of miraculous.

We're waving to people in Lublin, Poland, where it's 10 PM.  A man and woman wave back at us.  Hold up peace signs.  Twirl each other in dance.  

We wave back -- well, Philly style :)

The calm feels temporary though, like we're standing on a precipice. 

It reminds me of the earthquake in 2011, my first day back to work after the accident, when we joined together in uncertainty.  Or those first few days of COVID, when we realized how fragile our connections are.  

I'm glad to be here now because... who knows what will happen tomorrow?  

My prosthesis is beginning to poke, so I make my way toward 15th & Market to catch the bus.

As I pass the LOVE statue, I see two young men taking photos of each other.  I offer to take one of them together. 

They pose, arms over shoulders, with the Parkway spread behind them.  It's the iconic Philly shot.

"It's my first time in Philadelphia," one of them tells me as I hand the phone back.  His name is Naman, and he's from India.  His cousin, who's lived here for 20 years, is showing him around.

Naman asks if he can get a picture with me. 

"With me?" I say.  It makes me laugh.  But it also feels natural, like -- of course -- why shouldn't we be friends on this ordinary, extraordinary afternoon?

I wish him happy and safe travels!

When I finally reach the bus stop, the 33 bus is just pulling away.  (This, too, is typical of Philly.)

So I stand there a while longer, feeling the pinch of my prosthesis.  Taking it all in.  

Leaves rustle.

Lights change.

Pigeons fly.

Motors hum. 

People of all shapes, sizes, and colors walk, jog, scoot, bike, and roll through the crosswalks.  

I want to freeze this moment, bottle up this connection and community, hold tightly to this joy of "not knowing" what's to come.

I want to stand here forever, breathing in this air full of hope. 

 

Walk on,

Rebecca

*This postcard is for my friend Jodie, who cheered me on always, and devoted her entire career to bringing our city together.  Jodie, you would have loved the air tonight.  I'll miss you and so will Philly. xoxo