One-Hour Traveler

 “Sat morning are we going for coffee in AC?”

…says a text from my brother Mark, at 9:45 on a Thursday night.

It’s short for “Will you meet me in Atlantic City on Saturday morning so I can drop off my car before a 65-mile bike ride on Sunday? That way I’ll be able to drive myself home afterward. Also, let’s leave early to beat the shore traffic. And yes, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

I know what he means. We do it every year.

And yet, the idea rattles me. I’m caught between anticipation for our small tradition and apprehension over giving up my morning routine.

Yes, even for one day...

Adaptive Travel Tip: Choose "right-size" adventures

Travel isn't one-size-fits-all.

I don't know about you, but travel pushes my body into overload.

I walk more than usual, eat different foods, get less rest, carry more than my share of emergency supplies (see this tip!), and -- like even the most able-bodied traveler -- face weather and time changes.

Keeping pace, while keeping my body on an even keel, can be challenging!

Luckily, travel comes in many sizes...

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

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

Keep Rising

Greetings from Mile 12,142 --

My kitchen is a mess, and I'm the happiest I've been in months.

I'd almost forgotten the power -- and joy -- of baking!

Remember Angry Cookies?  

And Cookie Apocalypse?
And not knowing what to do, but wanting to do something?

Whenever I faced a tough patch, baking always helped get me through. 

I've been off-balance lately -- physically and emotionally -- hobbling around in a "boot" and on crutches.  

Everything is a multistep process these days:  getting ready for work, collecting the mail, traveling from Point A to Point B.  I've become better at planning, more practiced at problem-solving.  Steadier with a backpack.  

But still, it's exhausting.  And laced with loss.

I'm grateful to my body for rising to the challenge -- for doing what's required -- but that's usually all I can manage.

I had written off baking completely.  

It just wasn't worth the energy.

Two weeks after my dad's funeral, my mom and I travel to Vermont.  

I plan the trip and do the driving.
Mom is the Sherpa, lugging everything except my backpack.  

(She's small but mighty!) 

We're going to visit my sister Sam and her family, a trip we've made dozens of times over the years, usually with Dad in the driver's seat.

In Danbury, we pass his favorite stop, the Blue Colony Diner.  We start to text him a photo, and then realize we can't.  When we reach Springfield, we want to tell him we've arrived.  The car feels empty without him.  

This trip is different.  Everything is different.

Maybe for that reason, we divert from our usual path.

Instead of connecting to I-89 at White River Junction, we drive 20 more miles up I-91 to a place I've never been but have always aspired to go...

King Arthur Baking Company --
the headquarters!

To our surprise (and my delight) it's fully accessible. 

The parking spaces are close. 
The doors are automatic.  
The restrooms are roomy.  
The floors are smooth.

That's as close to effortless as it gets on crutches!

I feel absolutely welcome!!

The staff is friendly, helpful, and smiling. The café barista wears a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words...

KEEP RISING.

It's a fun diversion -- and exactly the message we "knead." :)  

We treat ourselves to true Vermont fare:  fig and brie on a homemade baguette, a fall salad with maple dressing, steaming cups of cider with biodegradable lids.  

Then we poke around the factory store.  It's full retail therapy wrapped in the aroma of baking bread.  

Mom does all the carting and carrying!

I'm on my feet (well, foot) for quite a while.  We both are.  But it's not exhausting.  

It's renewing.

Two hours later, we meet up with our favorite Vermonters.  

They don't even notice the delay!

Back at home, I start counting miles again, picking up where I left off almost 2 months ago.

At Mile 12,142, I decide it's time to get back to baking.

I scoot around the kitchen on my wheelie stool.
Pivot on one foot to pull out the ingredients.  

Stand when I need more leverage.

I thought I couldn't bake without my prosthesis on, but it turns out I can...

It's just different. 

I plan out each step.  Try to be organized.  Stand up.  Sit down.  Stand up again.

It's a multistep process, but it's not exhausting.  

It's an exhilarating diversion -- one I want to do, not have to do.

The counter swirls with its messiest storm in months: canned pumpkin, bright red cranberries, granulated sugar, sifted flour, shakers of cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.   

I reunite with my bowls and cups and wooden spoons like old friends.

The kitchen fills with the warmth of fall.

I measure and stir and crack a few eggs.  
Drip oil down my sleeve.  

Drop wrappers on the floor.
Crush crumbs with the wheels of my stool.

My hands are busy.  My mind is focused.

Disorder becomes order.  

And that mess on the kitchen counter?  

It rises into something new, and nourishing, and beautiful.

A pumpkin-cranberry bread
to share, gratefully, with friends.

Making time for who and what we love is always worth the trip.

KEEP RISING. 

Wishing you a happy and healthy Thanksgiving!

Bake on,

Rebecca

P.S.  Recipe here:  Pumpkin-Cranberry Bread

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 :)

Stand Here

Has it really been just 2 weeks since my last postcard?

I've been wanting to write, but there are times when direction is difficult to decipher.  So I'm returning to a lesson I learned way, way back in this journey:

When life feels too big, it helps to take small steps.

Throwback to Mile 39 :)

Back then, small steps meant bacon -- and Ruby Tuesdays -- with my best pit crew.

(I'd still be up for that, of course!)  

But nowadays, it usually means taking time out for short, meandering walks that keep me on solid ground.

It doesn't matter how far I wander.  
It doesn't matter if I'm alone or with friends.  
It doesn't matter if I take photos or not.  

There's always AWE to be found.

The smallest steps bring more clarity than any amount of thinking at home.

Colors bring peace.

Sunrise brings renewal.

And "found" signs bring an unexpected spark of HOPE.

(Even if I don't quite know what they mean!)

Walking reminds me how we're all connected, like the wildfire sky that drifted into Philly from Canada.  Most of the time, connection brings comfort.

Well, aside from implications
for climate change.

Sometimes on a walk, I just STOP.

Stand here.   

Feel the space of a small, single moment.

That gentle shift of focus from overwhelment...  

(Is that a word?) 

...to gratitude.  

(I know that is!)

When life feels too big, where do you stand?

I'll be right here.

Walk on,
Rebecca

(Chalk art found in Washington Square with my walking buddy, JJ.)

A Better Place to Be

Newport, Rhode Island could be the set of a Hallmark movie.

From our table at the Corner Café, Natalie and I get a peek behind the scenes.

Just off camera:  Three middle school moms sneaking out early while their teens are still in bed.  A young bearded guy on a barstool.  A woman with 2 little girls in ribbons and party dresses.  And a wrinkle-clothed regular who shuffles out for a smoke while his breakfast is cooking. 

It's Sunday, 7:30 AM, and we're surrounded by locals.

What are their lives like here?  

Why are they out so early on a weekend? 

As we wait for our eggs, Nat and I write the script.  We imagine who they are, why they're here today -- and what brings them together at this little breakfast spot across from the local school.

It's fun.  Relaxing.  And I'm happy to be here among them.

Travel is tricky for me, especially in the mornings.  Which makes this moment -- the mug of coffee, the sticky jam, the thick multigrain toast -- an extra special treat. 

It's the end of our weekend in Newport and, like any good Hallmark movie, the town has pulled us in for a hug.

Last night we met a student from the yacht-building academy, who happened to be our waiter at Knot Norm's.

He introduced us to the "lobster bowl."
(Not roll!)

Before that, we met Lew, a science teacher from Northeast Philly, who has settled in Newport for his retirement.   

He gave us a history lesson
at the Touro Synagogue!  

And because we're us, we also took ourselves on a tour of the library! 

It's the Redwood --

one of the oldest in the country!

In 2 short days, we've made ourselves at home here -- mansions and all.

I could get used to this. :)

And why not?

The air smells like seafood and campfires. 

Church bells chime on the hour.

Cars come to a stop at every crosswalk. 

And there's water anywhere we wander.  

We give up trying to figure out which waves are which...

...and just enjoy the splash of sunset.

Days flow better here.  

Sunrise is 20 minutes earlier.  (Really!)

And red leaves abound, making spring feel like fall.  

We call them "Newport Maples."

We can't get enough.  It's like a show we want to binge-watch, yet savor at the same time.

We shop at a local bookstore.  

Meet a local artist.  

Become regulars at the local coffee place.

Where we sample the local drink, of course --

Coffee Milk!

We even learn what the local pineapple symbol means...

Hospitality!

Newport is not perfect -- or easy.   Nowhere is.  

Even with trekking poles, I can only manage a small portion of the Cliffwalk.  I get too hot too fast.  I nearly sweat out of my leg and die of thirst along the way. 

(Ok, exaggerating a bit...
but it's not my finest moment!)

That's just one example.  

I feel slow and "stumbly" a lot of the time.  Throughout the weekend, we stop so I can tend to leg adjustments and other physical needs.

In that way, it reminds me of a different road trip many miles ago -- back at Mile 21 -- my first time traveling after my amputation.  

Back then, I had the idea that if I just practiced enough, I'd somehow find my way to a better place -- to where I was before the accident.

My gait (and feelings) have evolved over time, but I still grapple with similar challenges.  

Now, I've realized, they're just part of the journey.

In an instant, we're back home, and that harbor breeze is just a memory.  

Philly turns hot and sticky. 

My right foot doesn't feel right.

And at 10 PM, the city launches a new construction project, sending a monsoon of dust and gravel into my beloved balcony garden.

I lie in bed and imagine moving to Newport.

I know, I know.  I'm sure reality would catch up with me there too.

Eventually.

Maybe Nat and I will put our heads together and write that screenplay.  Or maybe the Corner Café will be the setting for my next novel.

I like to think of our characters back there in Newport, still living their lives.  Kinda wish I could join them.

Who wouldn't want to step inside a Hallmark movie?

It's just a better place to be.

P.S.  Writing this postcard made me think of this song by Harry Chapin.  It's not about Rhode Island, but it's a sweet story - and one of my faves.  If you need an 8-minute vacation, give it a listen. :)  

Happy travels!