Last May, Rita and I had our first brush with danger.  

My friend Helen and I had booked  an organized tour in both Istanbul and Cappadocia, eager to take on the hot-air balloon flight the latter is known for. Steeped with cavernous hilltops and cone-shaped rock formations they call “fairy chimneys,” Cappadocia is a landscape to behold. Stacked with ancient cave dwellings and towering boulders, this Anatolian region entwines both human history and a lust for cultural authenticity. It’s no wonder they use the land as a platform for the countless balloon voyages, all gliding in unison like jeweled doves. 

We experienced 21st-century cave-living in a cozy cave hotel in the town of Goreme. It was the first on a long, winding hill that led to a parade of competing cave hotels that might have boasted better views, but like ours, promised reclusiveness over a a golden hued sunset. A humble city, Goreme caters well to the flurry of tourists, with their strap-on cameras and straw hats, with rows of market stands the size of a walk-in closet. Overly eager shopkeepers loiter outside determined to get you to choose from their array of local products, from Turkish doner kebabs to ceramic pottery and homeware, and of course, the ever elusive deal of a lifetime: the hot air balloon ride. Yes, for just a few hundred euros, you too can book your chance to float over the Cappadocian sunrise and walk away with a selfie even your neighbor’s dog would be envious of (selfie stick not included). Helen and I had booked our adventure several months ago through a private company, only to discover just days before our trip that the flight hadn’t been reserved at all and we had been tucked away onto a waiting list the length of a football field. There we were, left to dangle, like nerdy teens waiting in line for Star Wars tickets… checking again and again for the email confirmation that never came. 

Every morning at 5am we’d hear the clumsy footing and chit chat of our neighboring guests, all clamoring to the bus that would lead them to the kaleidoscope of colors that awaited them up above. True to my superstitious Latin nature, the first morning I woke up thinking we were being visited by noisy poltergeists who had turned in their heavy chains for intermittent cackling. Helen eventually rolled over to tell me that the ghosts were very much alive and heading to the Promised Land…well, sky. Hours later, the echoes would return, a powerful new lilt in their voices, their footsteps a light patter, now waltzing to a new serenade. They were nauseatingly happy. I yanked the plush pillows over my head while in the fetal position, in a desperate attempt to stifle the noise…and pangs of jealousy. And yet I still checked my phone soon after for the message or call promising we’d also be up at the crack of dawn, sleepy-eyed, stale breath and all. Still nothing.

On our second day in Cappadocia we arrived in Monks Valley, an area noted for its fairy chimneys and unusual stretch of lunar landscape. Our tour group consisted of about 10 people from all corners of the globe: Australia, Colombia, Mexico, and Mauritius. They were a friendly bunch, intent on discovering this Turkish haven. 

As we left the bus behind, I noticed Rita was moving rather stubbornly. Our foreheads already slick from the morning sun, Helen and I were quickly working up a heavy sweat trudging up the rocky pathway that led to the main entrance. We’d pause abruptly every couple of meters, with my body jerking forward and my neck jutting out like a hungry little sea turtle. With confusion drawn across our faces, we stopped and looked down at Rita’s wheels and both our mouths gaped open. The left caster (front) wheel was barely attached to its fork (where the wheel is fitted) and was, in fact, coming apart. For the first time ever, I had a glimpse of what it feels like to almost pass out from the sheer shock of a moment. My head spun like the inside of a blender and my clammy fingers cupped my forehead like moist mop threads. My underarms sweated through my sky-blue dress, as beads of panic rolled over my cat-eye sunglasses. I felt like a contestant on Survivor, out in the middle of nowhere with no celebrity host or camera crew to lean on in case of emergency.  Here we were, chair-wrecked, my studio audience a blur of sweaty tourists. “Oh shit,” was all I could muster. “We might need to have a little talk later, Rita,” I thought grudgingly.  

With our tour group now far ahead of us, we quickly went into MacGyver mode, making a general inspection of what we had to work with but also remembering we were nowhere near our hotel, or town for that matter. Eventually, I got up and sat on a ledge so Helen could lift up Rita’s lower body and place her backseat on the ashen ground. She rotated the right wheel, relieved to see it wasn’t suffering a similar fate as its lopsided twin. Passersby began to linger and I could feel my cheeks turning as bright as Rita’s red frame. “Geez, Rita, you sure know how to make an entrance, don’t you?”

Then it hit me. Just two days ago, airport security had questioned me over a small Velcro-lined black pouch that was hidden underneath Rita’s seat. When asked to reveal the contents of the mysterious compartment, they exchanged quizzical glances but reluctantly let me go through. The items were sure to be there still, inside Rita’s carefully concealed “lady purse,” and I thanked the wheelchair gods. We might get through this mechanical snafu after all! In that moment that pouch was my Narnian closet, just brimming with powerful and all-knowing treasures. 

I reached down and there they thankfully were: a miniature collection of hand tools lined up flat like make-up brushes or a manicure set – Rita’s personal beauty kit. Almost simultaneously, a local man approached us, noticing something had gone wrong. He had a slight frame and wore a white shirt that seemed weathered from the harsh sun. We didn’t speak each other’s language, but I gathered he had seen enough. Rita still lay on her back like a woman in labor, her dusty footplates spread apart as if on stirrups. With a shy but determined look in his eyes, the man took the plastic-wrapped tool kit and crouched over the caster wheel, rotating it just as Helen had done. He was the master of this operating room with mini screwdrivers and wrenches being hurriedly passed from hand to palm and back.   

And then just like that, Rita’s wheel was magically back in its place. My local hero (whose name and photo I sadly forgot to ask for) smiled with pride – the effusive praise making him cower just a little. He walked away refusing payment, and we were left to continue our journey, Rita now back to her steady self over the cobblestone ridges. Later, I looked out over the mountain tops, collecting my breath and sanity, knowing that it could have been much worse than it was. I searched for him in the crowds – this kind man that had unknowingly saved us a whole lot of grief – and for the 50th time, I thanked him again in my mind. 

We never made it on that hot-air balloon. I’d like to think it just wasn’t meant to be this time. But I walked away with so much more than the dizzying beauty of a perfect view. Once again, I was reminded of how much good there is in humanity and in the little things. People, in their essence, are happiest when they can give. Over the years, I’ve had to rely on the kindness of strangers, and that kindness – that willingness to help out our fellow man no matter the odd circumstance – has kept me afloat….and always surprised. Watching my friend and a stranger hunched over a dirty broken wheel might have been the more humbling view I needed that day. And while I didn’t reap the glory of a selfie in the skies, my memory tells me I was still given more than I bargained for. 

At Rita’s very special request, she’ll be getting a tune up before the next major trip. All in all, I think we both win. 

Last October, I celebrated the 16th anniversary of my accident.

 

Since I can remember, my relationship with water has been a precarious one, rooted in fear, confusion, and overall apathy. One hot summer day in Colombia, when I was 7, my family and I were visiting the community pool. While at the kiddie pool, a young boy playfully, but violently, shoved my head under the water. As I thrashed and throttled like a mermaid on steroids, he laughed, convinced I was having a good time. When the little menace finally let me up for air, I was manically coughing, my eyes full of tears and insult. With not a family member in sight, I remember staggering back to my mother as she casually sat by the adult pool, clearly oblivious to the trauma I had just undergone. Vulnerable and exposed, it was probably then when I began to harbor a phobia of water. Suddenly the summer trips to the pools and rivers seemed like a punishment and were met with drudgery. It became something I needed to brave through for my cousins and sister, who now seemed so much more courageous than I could ever be. And so my childhood years passed before my very eyes, with this fear of water never relenting.

Fast forward to many (yes, many) years later, and I found myself on the shores of Calabria, in a picturesque beach town called Tropea. At the age of 37, and with the same fears and trepidations of water still plaguing my psyche, I had one more fear to conquer. This trip would be the first time I took off my prosthetics and wore a bathing suit in public; the first time I would sit on a beach chair, the first time I would tan in the company of others, the first time I would put my body out there for the world to see. Needless to say, this was big.

After a hearty Calabrese breakfast, my friend and I made our way to the beach, a 10-minute descent from the hotel. With the 33-degree sun beating down on our backs, we got to the chair lift and were greeted by two very bronzed and fit lifeguards, who escorted us down to the boardwalk. They were effusive in their typically charming,
Southern Italian way, and clearly had been under the sun for most of their lives. I started to wonder if my tan could ever be as good as theirs, but all thoughts of vanity and image diminished the closer we got to the beach and our designated hotel spot.

Now, their glistening hairy chests were the least of my concerns, with my nerves rattling in the pit of my stomach like a bird in a cage. From the boardwalk I stood up, left the wheelchair behind, and held on to my friend’s arm as we steadily made our way over the sand and to the comfortable orange beach chairs. Our hotel neighbors looked up from their sunglasses and nodded, before returning to their regimen of self-indulgence. I sat down and looked out into the sea, the cacophony of waves both unsettling and alluring. Everyone around me seemed immersed in their own beach-time ritual; children collectively splashed in the water, women flipped over on their beach beds like golden pancakes, and men sleepily read their papers. Beach vendors paraded the shores with brightly colored tunics and necklaces, lugged around on portable racks. There was a stillness to it all that was both comforting and yet grating in a way I could only understand.

There I sat, my jaws clenched and shoulders caved in, unsure of where I fit in to all of this. I couldn’t do any of the things everyone else was doing. I couldn’t swim, and I could barely walk in the sand, let alone run or play like everyone else. The last 15 years came crashing back almost as roughly as the waves in front of me. How could I expose myself this way? Could I remove my prosthetics in front of everyone and not feel like a museum piece on display? Over the years, I have grown used to the stares and the occasional pointing, but this was a level of vulnerability and rawness that shook me to my core.

….and then I drowned. Not in the crystalline waters that surrounded me, but in my own self-pity. My fears took hold and morphed into bitterness and sorrow, and all my heart could carry in that moment were the fears of my past. What was meant to be a pleasant summer getaway turned into the dreaded childhood trips to the pools and rivers of so long ago. I sat there in my long tunic, with my prosthetics still attached to what was left of my limbs. My friend, Jessica, patiently waited for a signal to help, as I sat there in complete silence, squinting at the memories that still flooded back.

As she ventured into the water on her own, I sat back and dipped my hand into the grainy sand, gently poking and patting the mounds that formed.  Occasionally a small stone or pebble buried in the depths would surface and be stored away in my tote bag like newfound treasure. A cold, misshapen stone, buried by the umbrella pole, made its way through my fingers. Like an archeologist with a fossil brush, I curiously wiped it clean and noticed it was not a beach stone at all, but the remnant of a mosaic tile; flat and maroon colored with beige wrapped around its edges. As my fingers studied its proportions and texture, I realized this tile didn’t really belong there, and yet somehow there it was, staking its claim to the sea, at one with its environment. And then it hit me: I was also different. I didn’t necessarily belong, but I too was there to stake my claim, to be a part of the world unraveling before me. The only person that I was punishing with my self-pity was myself. I was the only victim in my drowning, and I could either let this weight sink me, or be free of it.

I turned to my prosthetics, ready to let them go. I clicked the arm’s release button, pulling it away, and then unstrapped the Velcro strips from my waist, opening the upper half of my prosthetic leg that binds around me. Jessica took her cue, gently wrapping the prosthetics in an oversized towel, placing them on the sand. It was a sight to be seen: a foam leg with a pastel blue converse sneaker peeking out of a towel, and dainty silicone fingers protruding like something out of a horror movie. A little bit of ketchup in the wrong places and people would definitely have something to talk about!

As expected, the tension was palpable. Heads turned and eyes darted in my direction. Yet somehow and somewhere in the depths of me, I realized that in letting myself be completely vulnerable I now had nothing to protect myself from. I was free to be me, to be seen. Regardless of what was missing, I was whole. I knew I had just one more thing to do.

Jessica dragged an inflatable raft over to my beach bed and I instantly plopped myself over it, snuggling in to its warm rubbery embrace. The raft was hauled to the water, and without hesitation I jumped off and sat at the tip of the shore, letting the waves engulf me. The cool water was a much-needed reprieve, as my skin was drizzled with the cool ocean spray. We both sat there, inching our way closer and closer to the water’s depths until I decided it was as far as I could go. In that moment it’s as much as I could do, and I was ok with that. We sat there, feeling the sun on our moist hair, and smiled. We had come a long way.

Calabria was a game changer for me in more ways than one. It opened a door I had long ago closed, and now I don’t think I ever want to close it again. Feeling that vulnerable helped me realize my fear was a symptom of a deeper reality: the only outcome to fear is continuous loss, and the only ones that stand to lose are the ones that are consumed by it. I think of how liberating we must all feel when we choose to expose ourselves for who we are and not for how we think others want to see us. In the end, each and every one of us carries a deep-rooted fear, an insecurity, in a place we wish we could keep tucked away.

But we get so caught up in belonging and appeasing the masses that we forget the value of standing out. We forget that our uniqueness, while personal in nature, is a universal component to everyday life and living; and accepting that is, in essence, what makes us belong. When we embrace the things we fear most, we take away their power and relinquish their control over us. They become an obscurity – a relic of the past that occasionally washes ashore but is eventually lured away by the current once again. Like that mosaic tile, we find that strength naturally holds a place within us, a place that embodies truth despite fate’s disparities. While I may not have gone deep this time, I know for certain that my next summer getaway will be different. I know for certain that despite my limitations, what buoys me is having a purpose – an experience to call my own – and those fears, while crushing and breaking at times, will no longer have a permanent place.

 

It only hit me just now how the black (and slightly dark grey) cabs that are synonymous with London culture are somehow like their very own unique version of the Batmobile…to me anyway. Why? I guess it’s because, to me, it embodies everything that is significant with the caped crusader’s armored vehicle. Like the Batmobile, London cabs have proven to be worthwhile companions and heroes time and time again, especially for the disabled community.

On a number of visits to London I’ve had the pleasure of riding in a London cab, and every time, I’ve been in awe of the service and accessibility behind it all. Imagine my surprise the first time I got into a hackney carriage, or as they are more commonly referred to, “black cabs.” At first contact, they appear spacious and compact, with a driver usually very keen to see how he can assist. As I was wondering how I’d get in and whether I’d need to fold the wheelchair first, the driver instantly pulled out a small metal ramp from the interior of the side and swiftly wheeled me inside the cab, all before you could say, “holy buckets batman!”. “Hang on to the yellow bar on the side there, love,” he gingerly advised, as my friend sat down on the seat adjacent to me.

I remember thinking how incredibly easy and comforting that experience was, and every time I remember it, I smile. I smile because I’m grateful that somehow, someone took the moment to think about this…to really think about the consumer (and all our different needs). As we passed by the streets of London that night in our “carriage” I was reminded of just how thoughtful and accommodating the city of London is overall towards the disabled community. Not only were they accommodating, but they radiated a sense of empathy and patience that so far have been unparalleled in other cities.

Every public building from theaters to restaurants to museums and bars: the majority of them offer an accessible entrance(whether from main or side doors). Those that don’t, are quick to offer an alternative with portable metal or plastic ramps that can just as easily get the job done. Comfort and ease are clearly at the top of their list and I was always thankful for that.  Accessible cabs were just the icing on the cake that made for a fun and spontaneous tour of the city. I highly recommend it for those traveling with strollers or wheelchairs. These cabs are pretty much on every corner throughout the city, but can also be booked online or by telephone.  If traveling with a wheelchair user, they seat 3 people comfortably.

So the next time you’re in London, and looking for a heroic mode of transportation with a little bit of class, try the Batmob–er.. I mean the black cabs. Make the trip just a little more easy.  🙂