Adaptive Travel Tips from 13,500 Miles - Even the Smallest Steps Count

This was travel...

... BEFORE.

The summer before the accident, I did a home exchange with a family from Bordeaux, France.  

And the year before that, I exchanged with a family from Provence.  

It was the perfect way to travel.  I could go solo, live in someone's house, hop on their bicycle, and explore the world like a local.  

I was convinced it was how I'd travel for the rest my life...

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!

Buongiorno et bon matin...

...from the Italian Market!

Yes, I know that's a language mashup, but that's where I am.  

Qui. Maintenant.  Here. Now.

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,

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. 

  

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.  

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. 

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. 

And I'm happy to be here.

Walk on,

Rebecca

Where Would You Walk?

Mile Marker 12,072:

I'm grounded at home this weekend.

I was supposed to be visiting my favorite Vermonters. I'd bought an airline ticket and everything!

Then, out of nowhere, my right foot starts aching.  

(Yes... the real one.)

Technically, it isn't out of nowhere.  

I often get right foot pain, especially at the end of the day.  Sometimes my knee swells, or my ankle, or both.  Like most unilateral amputees, I depend on my "sound side" for balance and performance.  A solid step with my right leg makes my prosthetic knee bend more fluently -- and my gait more natural.  Plus, you can't wear a prosthesis 24/7.  When I take my leg off, my sound side does 100% of the work. 

It's called "overuse."

At first, it's just a pang when I step down on the ball of my foot.  I ignore it and keep walking. 

But a few days later, I can barely bear weight.

Cue the alarms.  

I NEED TO PROTECT MY RIGHT FOOT.  

IT'S THE ONLY ONE I HAVE.

(This has happened before, but I don't want to think about it.  If you want, you can read about it here.) 

And so... 

Twenty-four hours before departure, I make the best -- and only -- decision for my body.  

I cancel the whole trip.  

At that very moment, an article lands in my inbox: 

The Most Walkable City on Each Continent.

Cruel joke?  Maybe.

I click on it anyway.

While I'm on hold with the airline, I open up Kayak and plug in the recommended cities.

• Boston
• Madrid
• Marrakech
• Buenos Aires
• Wellington
• Hoi An

Just for kicks, I set my travel dates for September.  (It's my fantasy, so why not celebrate my birthday in Spain?)

I imagine an epic, multi-city, around-the-world trip for the sole purpose (pun intended) of doing the one thing I cannot do at this very moment.

WALK.

Hey, it's cheaper than you'd think!

Dreaming of travel has always been a coping mechanism for me. 

Years ago, I'd spend lunchtimes at work scrolling through "E-saver" flights and "Travelzoo" discounts.  (Remember those?)

In the months after the accident, when I sat teary-eyed in my therapist's office -- certain I'd "never go anywhere ever again" -- she encouraged me to hop on over to Amazon and find books that would take me places.

I ordered this one first --
And it was too heavy to lift on my crutches!

Later, 400 miles into this journey -- recovering from yet another surgery -- I wrote my own Walking Wish List.  

All the places I'd walk IF or WHEN I could...

Click here to see it.

Now, I'm amazed at how many
of those boxes I've checked off!!

Eventually the American Airlines rep takes me off hold.  

She adjusts my flight plans without a penalty.  My Airbnb host is equally understanding.  It reminds me of the kindness I encounter whenever I travel.

Today, there will be no morning miles.  I'll conserve my limited "foot time" for basic activities at home.

I hobble around the kitchen like a robot crossed with a baby deer.  

I brew a pot of coffee my friend Priti brought back from India.

I open up biscuits and jam from our neighborhood in Paris.

I spoon out granola from my favorite local coffee shop.

Then I gather up everything and limp out to the balcony,

where I gingerly remove my right shoe.

Less than 70 miles ago, I was exploring Paris on foot -- not quite easily, but filled with joie de vivre!  

And now... I'm HERE.

It's hard to reconcile these two truths.  

I have a disability that's both permanent and variable.  It's who I am as a traveler.  

Slow or fast.

Near or far.

Walking, like health, is the most fragile of privileges.

Of all the places to be grounded at Mile 12,072,

I am extra grateful for this
corner of the sky.

Fingers (and 5 toes) crossed, there'll be many miles ahead. 

I'm open to ideas.

Where would you walk?
Rebecca

Perhaps... Paris

Bonjour from Mile 12,062!

Perhaps I'm in Paris...

Sure, I'm eating out of plastic containers, but I'm using real silverware!

Plus, the pesto is homemade, and I'm pretty sure the gazpacho is puréed with local tomatoes. 

Normally I'd just grab takeout.  But I'm determined to keep up the Paris vibe, which includes taking time out -- to eat, breathe, and write.

I open my pocket journal, which I found in a bin at Cést Deux Euros, the Parisian equivalent of a dollar store.

In the spirit of Paris, I start "perhapsing." 

Perhapsing is a technique I learned in my travel memoir class --  a method of filling in sketchy details and unknowns with our own speculations.  It's entirely "legal," as long as I tell you I'm perhapsing.  

So, I am. :)

It was one of my favorite exercises of the week.

Picture this:  One afternoon in the Jardin du Palais Royal, a blur of pink catches my eye.

At first, she's just a dramatic photo from afar!

But then I move in.  Park myself on a pillar nearby.

(Far enough to be discreet, close enough to be within earshot.)

She and her parents are positioned in the shape of a scalene triangle.  

Mom is closer to her, more engaged.  
Dad sits farther back, on his phone.

They're speaking in Spanish (I think), so perhapsing is my only option.  I observe -- and put the clues together.

"Mommy, watch!"

"One!" Cartwheel.  
"Two!" Cartwheel.  
"Three!" Cartwheel.

She cascades across the courtyard.  Mom laughs.

Dad looks up.  Smiles.  Goes back to his phone.

She scrambles onto a pillar, pink sweatshirt flapping behind.  

Mom poises her camera.

The girl shoots a peace sign.

Puts her hands on her hips.

Strikes a disco move -- Travolta-like -- pointing to the sky.

Mom snaps, and snaps, and snaps.

Dad looks up.  Smiles.  Goes back to his phone.

Mother and daughter huddle together -- a curtain of long hair -- as Mom flips through the photos.

Then the girl skips to her father.  Pokes her head between his face and his phone.

"Daddy, did you take a photo?"

He looks up.  Smiles.  Pecks her on the cheek.

I scribble in my journal so I won't forget this moment and this place, this perhapsed dialogue, and all the details I've perhapsed about this family.

It's just an exercise, but it's opened up a world to me.

Au revoir, Palais Royal!

At Mile 12,062, I'm back in Philly -- and a world away.

The couple next to me is discussing Scandinavian cake, with a plastic bag of peanuts sitting between them on the table.  

It's odd on both counts.  

We're at Talula's Daily, which serves neither Scandinavian cake nor peanuts.

I listen in -- and start perhapsing.  (Perhaps the man's name is Herb...)

"I'm thinking of a simple dessert, like a Scandinavian cake," his wife says.

Herb nods, nudging the bag of peanuts with his finger.  

"Well, what do you think of that?"

He pauses.  "I just don't think you have to try so hard."

"She's young.  She's having health problems."

"So?"

"So a Scandinavian cake isn't hard.  You can just serve it with some light cream or lemon.  She used to work at the hospital, you know."

Herb touches the knot on the bag.  He wants to open it, but now that she's shifted from cake to health problems, he isn't sure.  

"You mind?" he says.

She sighs.  "Whatever you want.  I'm very agreeable today."

Perhaps they're going to visit their daughter's friend, the one with health problems.  Perhaps their own daughter is traveling (perhaps in Paris!), and perhaps they feel guilty about that.  Perhaps Herb is missing the Phillies game, and the peanuts are as close as he can get. 

For perhaps a half hour, I am transported from this table in Philly to a graceful café in the center of Paris.

It's a good place to be.

I look up from my journal.

It's unseasonably cool for Philly, with a mask of clouds and a breeze that feels like rain.  

Perhaps I've brought this weather back from Paris.  

I get up to leave.  

Then, in a unwelcome burst of reality, my leg bumps the chair -- metal on metal -- and my elbow knocks the fork handle, the one that's balanced on the edge of the plastic container.  

And the whole thing -- sandwich and all -- nearly catapults to the ground.  

By some miracle, I catch it.

I'm not graceful, and this isn't Paris...

Perhaps... I'm still me. :)

Walk on,
Rebecca

A Toast to Paris - and My Peloton!

Mile Marker 12,030:

When my plane lands, my iPhone automatically resets itself to Philadelphia time. 

The next morning, in a haze of jetlag and dreams, I manually reset my Swatch.  An hour later, I realize I've moved the clock's hands but accidentally set them on Paris time, again. 

It feels good to be home...

...especially when my family surprises me
in the arrival hall of the airport!

But I'm not quite ready to let go of Paris.

In the next few postcards, I'll be sharing some work from my Travel Memoir class, as I learned to capture Paris on the page.

On our last day of class, we were assigned to write an ode, eulogy, or toast about our Paris experience, to be shared at a farewell party that evening.

Thanks to classmate Joe for this photo!

I chose to do a toast.  

Here it is (lightly edited)...

Bonsoir everyone!

On my first morning in Paris, I got lost for 3 hours -- just 5 minutes from the door of my apartment.  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get oriented or find my way home.

On my second day in Paris -- which was Day 1 of our class -- I stopped to admire a single red rose petal, which someone had dropped on the top step of the Metro.

It had been a long, full day with more walking than I'm used to, and I was exhausted.  

While commuters rushed past me up the stairs, one after the other, I paused on every step to rest my legs. 

I felt like that rose petal, left behind in a city that moved too fast. 

Would I be able to keep up with the pace of Paris -- and my "able-bodied" classmates?  

I knew it wouldn't be easy for me.  I'd been preparing for this trip all year.

This included walking 16 blocks to and from work, which, I predicted, would be the distance from my Paris apartment to our classroom building.  It was the first time I'd walked to work since my amputation 12 years ago.

My friends joked that I was training for the Tour de France.  

(And they weren't far off!)

On Days 2 and 3, Paris picked up the pace. 

I nearly got trapped in a turn style at the Pyramides Metro.  I wrote about a Spanish family in the Jardin du Palais Royal.  I gave up my seat at a sidewalk café for a family of 11 from Boston -- and ended up next to a family of Japanese Youtubers, dramatically unboxing a cheesecake.

Along the way, I settled into our classroom space, aptly called a "Cocoon."

There, I was swept up by the momentum of all of YOU -- my classmates -- travelers, writers, and now friends.  Turns out, I didn't have to keep pace on my own.

You became my peloton.

By Day 4, I finally had the energy to join everyone for an evening out.  

As [new friend] Kim and I walked through the Parisian drizzle to the Metro together, I spied -- not just one petal -- but a whole bouquet of roses, scattered along the wet pavement.

This time, I wasn't the only one
who stopped to admire it!

Tonight, on our last night together, this is a toast to MOVING ON.

Not toward a finish line or to writing "the end" -- but to new beginnings, new travels, and new friends.

To moving forward in whatever directions we choose, with creativity and companionship...

...TOGETHER.

À bientôt, Paris.

Je t'aime!

Rebecca

P.S.  Merci beaucoup to our leaders Rolf, Diane, & Kiki -- and my peloton -- for a Tour de France I'll never forget!

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 :)

Taste is Travel

Café Tolia is the newest spot in our Philly neighborhood.  

It's spacious and warm with exposed brick and white-washed walls.  The owners are friendly and welcoming.  Elbe bakes the pastries.  (I'm not sure how.  She must get up at 2 AM!)  

The walls are covered with black and white photos, also by Elbe, of their family's travels and transitions through Europe.

I'm with my friend and walking buddy Mark.  We arrive just minutes after they open.

When we walk together, Mark always gets a cappuccino and I always get a coffee.  We always take them to go, and we always keep walking.   I always eat fruit and yogurt when I get home.

But today, Mark suggests trying a pastry.  We haven't planned for this, but I have to admit I'm curious.  

As if to convince me, Elbe emerges from the kitchen with a wooden platter of buns fresh from the oven.  

Turkish pastries, but with French and Mediterranean flavors.

(Come on, you'd be tempted too!)

"They're savory, with lavender and herbs de Provence inside," she tells us, "and also some cheese and olives."

She had me at lavender.

But the thing is, I have certain routines, especially to start the day.  It's one way I manage my digestive issues.

Eating outside that comfort zone can feel, well... uncomfortable.

On the other hand, I've been working on my "flexibility muscles" for both mind and body.  

Why?  Being flexible is necessary for travel.

I want to travel.  
I love to travel.  
I want to love traveling!

(It's just uncomfortable sometimes.)

So I'm practicing...

I give into the buns.

As we unexpectedly take a seat -- instead of taking our coffees to go -- I relax into the pastry.  

Feel the butter on my fingertips. 

Taste the tangy olives, the subtle herbs. 
Watch crumbles of feta fall onto my plate.

Mark and I talk about how taste creates experience.  How it can define a place as much as, or more than, our other senses.

How taste and travel go together.

I tell him about a trip I took to Bordeaux in 2010, the summer before my accident.  

I was braver back then.  Fearlessly independent.  More flexible.  Less clingy to routines.

I biked everywhere.  Hiked everywhere.

Ate everything!

Each morning I set out to discover what the locals were eating for petit-dejeuner, and that's what I'd order too.

But even back then, I was just one person -- and a petite 90-pounder at that.  Although I wanted to taste everything, I just didn't have room to put it!  

One morning I sat in the window of a local café watching some teenagers seated outside.

As I savored my own chausson aux pommes, I observed their fantastic spread:

du jus d'orange
du chocolat chaud
du thé
du café
du gateau
des pains
du jambon
des fromages
des oeufs!

"It was all so spectacular," I tell Mark, "I recorded their entire meal in my journal!" 

When I get home, I search out that very page...

...it turns out to be 2 pages!!

Thirteen years later, I can still taste that morning.  I still remember that meal like it was yesterday.

Maybe it's because of my own challenges that eating something new feels so special.

It's like freedom.  Like setting worry aside, just for the moment.  Like making room for uncertainty and welcoming it in.  

Mark and I finish our pastries.  And before I know it, I'm back home again.  

But taste is travel.  

And this morning's adventure made an old route feel new again.  

Like we left our neighborhood -- and ventured much, much further.

Bordeaux 2010 :)

To Market, To Market...

These peppers deserve their own postcard!

On an unexpected early morning, I spot them in the crowded aisle of a little Italian grocery shop called Claudio.  

"Claudio's" (as the locals say) is at the northern end of South Philly's Italian Market.  It's across from Gleaner's Café, a longtime favorite coffee stop.

After coffee, Ellen wants to pop inside for "one thing."

(It's been years since I've been in Claudio's.  So... why not?)

What starts out as a quick errand turns into a full-fledged field trip.

Don't you just love when that happens??

See, peppers aren't really the point of this postcard -- MARKETS are!

In the years of the pandemic and not traveling, I forgot the way a local market can be a travel adventure in itself.

When we step inside, all those memories come rushing back.

Take Copenhagen -- my last trip before the world shut down.

Natalie and I arrived in Copenhagen in the evening dusk.  Granted, sunset was at 3:45 PM, but after an overnight flight, a connection in London, a train from the airport, and dragging our luggage along the drizzly sidewalk, we were too exhausted to search for a restaurant. 

Instead, we were lured by the fluorescent lights of our neighborhood Lidl...

Smoked salmon!  
Dark rye!  
Local yogurt!
Bars of chocolate!  

Our eyes widened.  

Every shelf was exciting!  
Seeing Danish shoppers was exciting!  
Counting our kroner at check-out was exciting!

"The Lidl" became our regular stop
on the way home each night!

If you have mobility or health issues like I do, local markets SCORE BIG.  They're a relief  -- and a necessity -- when traveling.

They offer flat terrain,
climate control (sometimes), 
and a welcome reprieve from heavy restaurant food.

One can't subsist on pastries alone --
or at least I can't!

In Austria, where "Gluten" Morgen was a daily greeting, Marla and I (and my tender digestive system) took refuge in local shops where we could pick up fresh fruit, salads...

...and my personal fave,
homemade Austrian muesli!

And in Nice, on my very first trip overseas as an amputee, Mary and I discovered the famous and colorful outdoor market, Cours Saleya.  

A perfect place for early morning walks!

Shopping à la francaise (aka "French style")
was even better than eating out!

Our food vocabulary blossomed.  We progressed from pointing and pantomiming to actually talking our way through transactions.  

By the end of the week, we even asked a fromagière
to wrap cheese for our airline trip home!

Today's stop at Claudio's reminds me how a market is a glimpse into local life -- wherever you are.  

We stand in line behind a South Philly dad.

He orders fresh mozzarella balls,

a log of soppressata longer than my forearm, 
and a super-sized container of marinated octopus, complete with suckers.  

His wife and kids stand patiently beside him cradling bags of hand-shaped pasta.  

As they reach the check-out counter, his daughter points to a four-pack of fancy Italian lemon spritzers.  She looks hopefully at her dad.  

He nods.  And she adds it to their purchase.

"I'd like to go to his house for dinner," Ellen whispers.

By the time we step outside, it's like we just returned from Italy...

via South Philly!

No plane fare, packing, or planning.  Just minutes from home.

My souvenir -- a $6.99 jar of Sicilian-style roasted peppers with pine nuts and golden raisins. :)

Pretty good bang for the buck.

Shop on!

Happy travels,
Rebecca