Dancing Queen?

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...

A Postcard from Above

 Happy 4th from Mile 13,790... 

... 3 stories up!

A couple passes on the sidewalk below.

My friends and I call them "The Nines."

They're in freshly-pressed whites -- she, a collared dress; he, a tee with dark jeans -- and matching straw hats.  They look good, as always.

Dressed to the.... 

Adaptive Travel Tip: Use trekking poles... sometimes!

Ability and disability can vary day-to-day and moment-to-moment.  

So using an assistive device isn't an "all or nothing" decision...

Why Adaptive Travel?

Hello from Mile Marker 13,345...

Picture this:  Two adaptive travelers are planning a trip together. 

Wait, you don't have to.  Here's a photo.

It was January 2023, and my friend Mona and I had just booked airline tickets for a nine-day trip to Paris! 

We were excited!
(Who cares that the trip was still 7 months away?)

By our sky-high smiles, you might not detect the deliberations we poured into those plans: 

The length of the trip, 

time of the flights, 

disability services at the airport, 

the seats we'd need on the plane. 

We considered packing, pressure changes, legroom, "leg time," and what it would be like for our bodies to be crunched in a seat for 8 hours straight.  (Not to mention the recovery time we'd need at either end!)

Travel is different, and often difficult, with a disability.  But it's also a priviledge, brimming with possibility.

We saw both sides -- and couldn't wait to take that leap!

 

Recently, I was invited to speak with Wilmington Christiana Care's Amputee Education Group.  

It was my FIRST EVER presentation about Adaptive Travel!

I spent a month creating the content and much longer thinking about it.   

You could say I'd been working on it since my very first trip as an amputee.

That was Mile 21, a road trip to Maine
where I got by with A LOT of help from my friends!

 

I started the workshop with some ways to think about travel and what we bring with us -- our individual strengths and struggles, and how they might play out when we're away from home.  

When we travel, we can adapt ourselves, but we can also adapt our environment.  

Who are YOU as a traveler?  

What do you want -- and need -- along the way? 

It's only afterward, that I decide to do this exercise for myself.

(Go ahead.  It's fun to try!)

As a traveler, I'm ______. 

curious.  
resourceful.  
open-minded.  
optimistic.  

I like to laugh, talk to locals, and observe "everyday life" wherever I am.

I love to learn, especially about other cultures
like at this Danish pastry class!

Before my injuries, I traveled solo.

Now I take friends.

I want to do everything, but I need to be selective.  I have to prioritize mobility, comfort, rest, and digestion.  

(It's a delicate balance, one I often neglect!)

I've found some success...

But it's rarely stressless or pain-free.  

My needs outweigh my wants wherever I am.  

Take prosthetic fit, for example -- and the neverending struggle to manage it!

I can walk, but not too far.  

I can stand, but not too long.

I can sit, but not in every seat.

I make mistakes, often the same ones, over and over again...

Adaptability isn't the same as accessibility.  

Being adaptive can't remove all barriers.  Some needs are nonnegotiable.  

We might require elevators, ramps, wider doorways, shower seats, assistive devices, screen readers, closed captions, caregivers, or other accommodations.

But travel goes beyond the physical. 

 

It's a mindset too.

One we can adopt wherever we are!

Here's a secret:  For a budding travel writer, I don't actually travel much.

But seeing myself as a traveler changes the way I experience home too.  

On a morning walk, I pick up patterns on buildings, catch crumbs of conversation, and marvel at the myriad of winter coats worn by dogs.  

I take advantage of opportunities:  sign up for classes, taste new foods, read books, watch movies, and reach out to faraway friends.

Being an adaptive traveler isn't just about where you go, it's about how.  It empowers us to explore, even in our own neighborhood!

My travel-buddy Mona is not just adaptive.  She's wise too. 

Before we embarked on that trip together, she said something that's always stuck with me.  I'll paraphrase it here:

There's no scenerio where I'll be able to travel without my disability.  So if I want to go, I'll have to travel with it.

Merci Mona! 
Tu es très sage!

We shape our experiences.  And our experiences shape us.

That's the why of Adaptive Travel.

Walk on,

Rebecca

P.S.  If you or your group wants to talk more about Adaptive Travel, please reach out.  I'd love to be part of the conversation!  

OPEN

It's 2025.

When I open my eyes in the morning, this is what I see.

It's just a photo, framed on my bedroom wall, but I've planned it this way.  It's purposefully placed, a kind of "photo-therapy."

This one image is everything I need to get out of bed:

Morning light.
Street sounds.

A gentle breeze.

Hope, piled high, for the day ahead.

It's the view from my Paris Airbnb, which I admit was a nice place to be first thing in the morning.  

I can still feel that duvet on the toes of my bare foot, smell the owner's leather jacket hanging in the closet, hear the bell ting on the city bus below.

But there's more.

This photo captures a moment I always savor -- even at home -- that delicate space between asleep and awake.  

In this moment, I haven't yet put my leg on,

or seen my crutches stacked up,
or tried to digest food, 
or juggled "too big" ideas,
or tackled the "to-do" list on which I'm already behind.

I'm not yet zapped of energy -- or frustrated by discomfort -- as I trek the distance others go without much effort at all.  

In this one moment, there is just me and that open window.  My body is not fractured, and the day is still whole, pointed with possibility like sun through a magnifying glass.

It's all the motivation I need.

On New Year's Eve in Scotland, at the stroke of midnight, people open the doors of their homes -- front and back -- to let the old year escape and the new year rush in.

My friend Jen will tell you we did it this year.

"Quick!  Go!" 

In my small apartment, she rushes to open the "front" hallway door while I yank open the "back" door to the balcony.

It's raining outside.  The air blows cold with moisture, car horns, and the boom of fireworks we hear but can't see.

(By time I remember this tradition, it's 12:15 AM, but we get it done!)

The new year is OPEN for business, and I open my whole self to it.

Open door.

Open window.
Open mind.

Open to ideas and experiences, no matter how small.

Open intestines (DIGEST!) and lungs (BREATHE!).
Open eyes -- and senses.

Open book(s) -- and inkflow.

Not every day will feel this way, I know.  Some days, I won't be able to leave the apartment because of leg issues or abdominal pain.

Other days, I'll carve a slow path around the block.  

On the best days, I'll explore locally.  Or, if I'm lucky, farther.

Wherever I go, I'll write.  

I've got other projects too.  Ideas are plentiful this time of year.  The journey may change shape along the way, but isn't that what adaptive travel is all about?

I'm "open" to it.   (Want to come?)

Get up.  Get dressed. 

Let's see what's beyond that window.

Happy and healthy new year!
Rebecca

Mile Marker 13,255

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!

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

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!

Acts of Resilience

Even from bed, I can hear that the streets are wet.

My apartment is cozy.  My socks are dry.  And (eventually) I'm dressed for work.

My phone says 100% chance of rain.  

I don't want to get soaked, so I decide it's too wet to walk.

There's always a tiny sense of failure in this decision.  While I want to stay dry, I know my leg will fit better -- and my body will FEEL better -- if I get out there.

To walk or not to walk??  

Final test:  I peer down from the living room window at the cars driving by below.

Wipers are... OFF!

Walk is ON!

Superhero boots?  Check.

Long raincoat?  Check.

Umbrella?  Check.  (Awkward to carry, but good to have just in case!)  

Truth -- By the time I reach the sidewalk, it isn't raining much at all.  It's not even that puddle-y.

And the best surprise:  I'm not the only one out!

Mike the artist sits on his usual bench with a big red umbrella.  Friends Richard, John and Carol are at their regular perch in the window of Starbucks.  (I knock and wave as I pass.  We see each other everyday!)

I've been thinking lately about acts of resistance and rebellion.  How, by pushing my own limits, I seem to push back on society's idea of what it means to be "disabled" -- or "able."

Morning miles are one example.  On a very tiny scale.

For an above-knee amputee, walking takes 60-100% more energy than it does for a person with 2 legs.  That means by the end (or even the middle) of the day, I might not have enough left in the tank.

But at 7 AM?  I'm game!

On the way back, the message in this shop window catches my eye.  And I realize what I'm doing isn't quite an act of resistance -- or rebellion.

It's an act of RESILIENCE.

We all need a few short minutes each day to fill our superhero boots -- and take on the world.

These are mine.

B.Y.O. Sunshine

Hi from Mile Marker 9,432...

where it's always sunny in Philadelphia!

Well, today it's overcast.  

But no worries...

Go for a "Ch-alk"

Greetings from Mile Marker 9417...

...What's a "ch-alk?" you say?

So glad you asked!

A "ch-alk" is a video chat + walk.  I made it up.

It's when you bounce along cobblestones trying to hold your phone steady in order to give a 300-mile-away-friend a tour of your neighborhood.

(Prosthetic leg optional.)

Closing Time

Mile Marker 8144: 

I am crying over a rock gym.

I know it's just a beat-up old building with high ceilings and faded rock holds.  But I can't help it.  

I'm just not ready to say goodbye.  

New Leg!

Mile Marker 7545:

Tim places her in my arms.

A brand new knee.  Fresh out of the box.  Pylon still long.  Microprocessor not yet programmed.

Smooth finish.  Titanium shine.  Sporty and sleek with a racing stripe down the side.

She's not quite what I had pictured, and yet, I love her instantly!  

Note to Self

Mile Marker 6975:

Everything will be all right in the end.  
If it's not all right, it is not yet the end.

--Simit Patel, Hotel Manager,

 The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

I'd like to write a letter to that girl in the wheelchair.  

Over, Under, and the Invisible Man

Mile Marker 6790:

When my alarm goes off, I'm knee-deep in a bookstore.

It's called Barnes and Noble, but it looks more like Head House Books.  I'm standing by the door, glancing back at the long checkout line, feeling hurried, and debating about whether to buy a rust-colored Asian tea set for my friend Jen.

Just then, I notice a man by the door.  He's got only one leg, and it's wearing a white wingtip dress shoe.  He's on crutches, the metal kind.  And one more thing.  He's invisible.

Training Camp

Mile Marker 6550:

"Don't take this the wrong way," Justen says. "You're like a puppy on the wall."

I've just finished my warm-up climb -- an easy corner route with good jugs for hands and a ton of foot holds.  Justen (a.k.a. the Climbing Sensei) has worked with many adaptive climbers, and I'm eager to hear his feedback.

Bee You

Mile Marker 5479:

"That's not a SKIN leg!"

From across a cobblestone alley, I hear the most creative (and cutest) take on my prosthetic leg.

It comes from a 4-year-old girl with a shiny bob haircut.  She's pointing.  At me. 

How to Climb Anything

Mile Marker 5373:

I stand on the floor, fingers curled around the start holds.  Carabiners locked.  Leg locked.  

"Climbing!" I call.

And whoever's belaying me -- Sarah, or Sara, or Marian, or Jacki, or Peet, or Julia, or Carly, or Alyson, or Jake  -- calls back.

"Climb on!"

Those two small words launch me up the rock wall.

My goal this summer had nothing to do with climbing...

My Team

Mile Marker 5177:

When the rain hits, it's good to be among your own.

At the Ossur Running and Mobility Clinic presented by Challenged Athletes Foundation, it's been drizzling all morning.  Now the skies open.  Heavy clouds release a steady stream of raindrops.

Incredibly the runners stand their ground, sprinting drills across the field.  Volunteers follow, holding fast to their gait belts.  No one seems to notice the weather.

But me?

The Limb Loss Lowdown - Week 2

HAPPY LIMB LOSS AWARENESS MONTH!

Here are a few more fun facts about limb loss and being an amputee...