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...
“Rebeccaaaa!”
I squinted upward, shielding my eyes from the floodlights.
There, on the balcony, stood Lavinia Spalding, a writer and editor I greatly admire. She called down to me. “Karaoke! Are you going?”
“Um, I’m not sure. I was just heading back to my room to… to… to… think about it,” I stammered.
(Yes, actually stammered!)
Lavinia is the author of my favorite journaling book, Writing Away, not to mention editor of The Best Women’s Travel Writing, in which she gave my story a “Special Mention.” Meeting her in person had been a highlight of the conference!
I shifted from foot to foot. Squirmed in my prosthetic socket. Felt my face heat up as I reconsidered the hours ahead. Karaoke? Tonight? Me?
“Well, if you need help making the decision, I’ll decide for you — YES!”
Her tone was playful, welcoming, encouraging.
Even in the near-dark, I could see her smile.
Back in my room, I began to pace — as much as one can pace on a prosthetic leg in a small hotel room.
I debated this one night of karaoke as if it were a week-long bootcamp for bungee jumping.
How tired was I? How long had I been wearing my leg? How uncomfortable was it? How much sleep did I need? If I went out tonight, how would my body function tomorrow?
66-degree air blasted from the AC unit. My pajamas mocked me from their pile on the bedspread.
If this were any other evening, I’d be yawning with relief as I pulled off my sweaty prosthetic liner, plugged my leg into the wall, and crutched to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
But this was not any other evening. It was the final night of a weekend that had swept me up in creativity and possibility.
And, besides, that was not just any invitation from the balcony!
I grabbed my key card and closed the door behind me.
When “Dancing Queen” is announced, I jump onstage to join the group. I can never resist that song!
It takes me way, way back.
Years ago — in a different, less encumbered life — I traveled with a friend to Club Med in Turks and Caicos where, every morning, I took tennis lessons with a Swedish tennis pro named Mattias.
The lessons were just for fun, but he ran us through drills, up and down the court, as we tried to return his serves. If we missed three times, we were out.
But there was one caveat.
We could get back into the game by singing any ABBA song. And so, from the sidelines, I sang and danced to Dancing Queen!
At the end of that trip, a snowstorm hit the east coast of the U.S., and our flight home was cancelled.
We had already checked out of our room, so for the next two days, we camped out on the floor of a large community area with a dozen or so other travelers. By night, we watched the weather forcast on TV. By day, we played tennis and went to the beach.
If a delay like that were to happen today — with all its unknowns and discomforts — it would throw me into tailspin.
But back then, I couldn’t have been happier!
Writing this post, I searched through all my photos for evidence of that trip. I came up empty-handed.
That version of my story — and me, as a traveler — seems to have vanished.
There’s a soundtrack that plays in my head all day long…
Stand up. Sit down. Shift your weight. Switch positions. Plan ahead. Ration your energy. You’re doing too much. You’re doing too little. Don’t overdo it. What’s hurting now? Listen to your body — and attend to it — before it gets worse.
It’s the song of a thousand microdecisions my body and I have come to depend on.
Some days I can’t hear anything else.
But tonight, on stage, ABBA overtakes it.
All I hear is “Dancing Queen.”
“You can dance, you can jive
Having the time of your life.
Ooh, see that girl, watch that scene
Digging the dancing queen…”
My friends belt it into the microphone — and so do I. They move — and I move with them — arms, hands, hips, even legs!
I look around to see if I’m doing it right.
And then, I just do it.
When we visit a new place, we have our own expectations of what the “story” might be.
That’s natural, I guess. Even proactive. We know ourselves well.
But I learned at this conference that imposing our own stories on a new experience can be both limiting and inaccurate.
As travel writers, we have to stretch beyond our preconceived notions and dig deeper to discover the story beneath — a story we couldn’t even imagine before we arrived.
What surprised me here?
What have I learned?
How has it changed me?
And what will I carry with me when I leave?
Before this night, I knew my story by heart.
In 15 years as a “traveler” with a disability and chronic health issues, I’ve learned what works for me.
It’s a story of difference and downtime, coping and compensating.
It’s a story that’s mostly true, on most days. Adaptive and accurate most of the time.
What I didn’t consider was that in this new place — on this one special night — that story might have a deeper layer buried beneath.
One I could only uncover if I didn’t count myself out.
When Dancing Queen ends, we hug and high five.
I step down from the stage to the carpeting below. It’s a gigantic step — 20 inches or so — and as it’s happening, I am not sure I will make it.
But then I stick the landing. Phew.
“You looked so natural up there!” my new friend Alex says when I reach her among the chairs.
“Me? Natural?” I say. “You must be thinking of someone else!”
Our friend Chelsea has recorded a video, and we watch it together. It’s hilarious.
“Well, I’m sort of dancing!” I say.
I don’t look natural, really.
But I do look happy.
We do more songs together — Thunder Road and Bad Reputation and Gloria — laughing and singing and dancing through all of them.
Finally at 11:30, I walk back to the hotel.
Exhausted. Energized.
At the conference, I filled up an entire journal with notes.
I bought seven new books. Connected with mentors. Met dozens of new friends. Stocked my mind with new ideas.
When I pack to go home, my bag is so stuffed I can barely zip it.
But my story has expanded exponentially.
There is so much space, it might even include dancing.
(For video evidence, click here!)
Walk on,
Rebecca
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