On April 10 I published a blog entry about a friend, Lori Hall Steele, who was suffering from an unknown disease.  At the same time as she was coping with baffling symptoms and the loss of income from her freelance writing career, she was also a single parent losing a house in the increasingly ominous US mortgage crisis.

On Thursday, Lori died, the victim of either Lou Gehrig’s disease or Lyme disease.  My friend Marta writes of her in a beautiful story, to which I can add nothing but my love and sympathy for a very brave woman.


Around the World with Wheelchair and Cane



“Don’t think like an invalid!” – the parting words that Quick Draw offered as I hobbled out of his office after my last visit.

“Yeah, yeah, easy for YOU to say,” I muttered under my breath.

But now my handicapped sticker has expired (as some eagle-eyed city policeman noted when I left my car in a handicapped slot during my Washington trip), my physical therapist has renounced me, and my regular doctor pronounced me ‘wonderfully well.’ (He didn’t have to add that last sentence that began with “Considering how you were a couple of months ago…”).

Ok, then. I started Tai Chi again, and walk every day, and went to Eleuthera and Washington DC. I’m well. And to prove it, I said to myself, I think I’ll take a little trip to Bosnia!

Actually, Sarajevo was not a vacation destination—I was off on a consulting job for the International Real Property Foundation, one that I was supposed to undertake a year ago. It’s time. I am NOT an invalid.

However, as I thought about it, I did have a few nagging memories of the last trip to that corner of the world. It was long, I remembered. You can’t GET there from Traverse City. That thought was echoed by the company travel agent: “Ye gods,” she said. “I am having a tough time getting you there!” And then, after a pause, she added, “Well, I can get you there; I just can’t get you HOME. That last leg from Detroit to Traverse City is a b…..um, a BAD connection.”

Should have been my first clue. But hey, I can do a five-airport flight to Bosnia. Just not on the Saturday before Thanksgiving. Given the circumstances, though, I ignored Quick Draw’s advice, and ordered up a wheelchair to meet me at all the gates.

“Do ya need one in Traverse City?” asked the agent. “No, “ I said. A wheel chair inside a six-gate airport isn’t necessary. It’s the part where you slog from your car in long-term parking (back of the lot, too—no more handicapped spots for me), dragging a suitcase, a carry-on with computer, a purse, and a cane. Picture it at 7 AM, still dark, rain beating down—but I’m no invalid!

The Detroit Airport however, can be daunting for even the most able-bodied. Particularly these days, when they’ve taken away our full sized jets which used to fly into the flossy new Northwest terminal. Now passengers are relegated to commuter jets with VERY steep steps leading into the plane and terminals B and C, not A. Terminals B and C are connected to the Big Peoples’ terminal by a tunnel masquerading as a night at a cheap disco bar—and it’s very long, too. So I was glad to have a wheelchair waiting, even though the person who was supposed to push it was in absentia. But I sat there, and she came, yawning a little, and the journey began: around the corner and down a service elevator, then down the garish tunnel, around a corner, up another elevator, and into the ‘real’ Northwest terminal and to my gate. Then she parked me and left—but that was ok: I am not an invalid and I can make it down the jet way with the best of ‘em.

The Tunnel between Northwest's Terminal A and Terminals B and C

People with canes usually get to board first, and that’s a plus. Gave me plenty of time to store my cane and computer in the overhead compartment reasonably near my seat. And 8 hours later to be able to retrieve my gear without having to fight my way backwards to find my squashed coat and carry on.

“Do you need a wheelchair to get up the ramp?” the stewardess asked me as I made my way out of the plane in Amsterdam. “Because if you do, you could just sit here and someone will be right along.”

“No, thanks,” I said. “Walking up the jet way will feel really good.”

What was waiting for me was a shiny electric cart, complete with a very handsome young man in a suit and tie (this is the Netherlands, remember). He fastened me in with a seatbelt, hooked my computer bag over a secure hanger, and away we zoomed.

This airport is huge, reputedly one of the worlds best, with all kinds of restaurants, shops, even a casino. It glistens and sparkles as thousands of people rush to and fro, making connections with the over 80 airlines which service it. Almost everyone spends time here (you’d be in real trouble with a tight connection), and so there were bright yellow plastic shopping bags hanging from the arms of many travelers and Christmas merchandising was in full swing. There was even a full-sized replica of a two-seater plane hanging from the high ceiling, recreated in thousands of white Christmas lights and red bows.

Airport in Amsterdam

Airport in Amsterdam

Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport

Me, I just zipped through it. My driver, infinitely polite, kept moving people out of the way: “Excuse me sir. Excuse me please. Thank you, thank you so much.” When we came to a security checkpoint, he took me to the handicapped entrance and I, of course, set off the beeper with my titanium joint. “Hip,” I said. “Very good,” she said, giving me a couple of friendly pats and waving me on. “No shoes to take off?” I asked, but she just smiled and I got back on the cart.

I handed my escort some money in thanks for the ride, the assistance through security, and the dignity with which the whole thing was handled. “Oh, no,” he said. “That’s not a problem. It’s my job.”

My next stop was Vienna. As we neared the airport the stewardess leaned over to remove my coffee cup and croissant plate and said, “Please, Madame. Stay in your seat and we will assist you.”

So I did. There was no jet way (this is common in many European airports) but the steps are wide sturdy, with room for two or three people on the same step and REAL handrails (not like those bungee cords in the commuter planes). A young man in a yellow rain slicker (yes, it was damp and grey) came onto the plane and took my laptop case and escorted me to a waiting small bus, a special little thing with a hydraulic undercarriage and wide seats. I was the only passenger, and my driver took a few outside ‘shortcuts’ around freight areas and terminal service areas—my fellow passengers went in a huge double bus, moving very slowly and sedately, while I was shown to my own special entrance where another young man in an airport uniform marked ‘passenger service representative’ met me with a wheelchair and again I was whisked through service doors and freight elevators.

The Airport in Vienna

The Airport in Vienna

Since I had to change airlines to Vienna Air for the final leg of my trip, I had to go to a service desk to obtain a boarding pass—but guess what! No lines for me: Wilhelm took my passport and flight information, smiled engagingly at the pretty counter agent, and away I went.

Again another security check, but Wilhelm guided me through the special line. He met me on the other side (of course I set off the alarms again, but I pantomimed ‘artificial hip’) and we were on our way down a couple of long corridors to the gate area. The gate clerk there smiled at Wilhelm (and no wonder!) and immediately led me to my seat on the airplane.

The Bosnia airport is really quite small, in comparison. Despite its history (there’s actually a tunnel underneath it where escaping refugees hid out less than 20 years ago), everyone is casual about arriving there. No wheel chair: all I had to do was collect my bag, declare I had no meat or cheese or goods for resale, and limp through the doorway that said “Nothing to Declare.”

Sarajevo--no wheelchairs needed!

Sarajevo--no wheelchairs needed!

The return trip to the US was pretty much the same, except that instead of Amsterdam, I changed planes in Paris at DeGaulle Airport. I don’t imagine that DeGaulle International is anyone’s favorite airport—it’s way too spread out and labyrinthine. People appeared absolutely terrified everywhere I looked—afraid they’d get lost or miss a plane or something, I’m sure. Amsterdam, as I said, has 80 airlines servicing it: DeGaulle has 150. However, moving people around seems to be done fairly efficiently—there are busses and people movers of all sorts. And each terminal (there are several terminals surrounding the main one) has a feature I have always admired for its elegant simplicity: right in the middle of each is a big round circle painted on the floor. It’s the ‘meeting place’. If you’re lost, or need to meet someone, just go to the circle. Soon enough someone will come to find you.

Wheelchair people were managed equally as efficiently by a relay team of Passenger Assistants. Justin (“my Franch ees not so good, because I had othair thangs to do in school” “Yes, Justin, I can just imagine”) handed me off to a perky female van driver, who called ahead as we approached the terminal and yet another young man met us at the door. Again the ever-practical French put little clickers on the spokes of the chair so that we made a distinctive warning sound as we hurried through the crowds—none of this calling out “Move Please.” Pierre took me through security—even he had to remove his jacket and pass through, because he was determined to see me parked safely at the gate.

DeGaulle from the air

Which all brought me back to Detroit, and Antonio. Now Antonio is a baggage handler turned wheelchair person. I don’t think he had an official title, but he didn’t have a suit, either. Just jeans, a DTW sweatshirt, and a tag around his neck. Antonio was a marvel in his own right: he managed two wheelchairs and a baggage cart simultaneously: on the elevators, through customs, retrieved a boarding pass for me for my final flight, more elevators, and a trip through the Northwest Big Peoples’ terminal—all with considerable good humor. Then he raced me (the other wheel chair now empty of a passenger) at breakneck speed through the tunnel, and up the elevator, all the while carrying on a running monologue about his plans (“I likes to stay home, I be a homebody”) for pizza and beer and TV on a Friday night in Detroit.

Of course it wasn’t his fault when, an hour later, they announced a gate change from gate 5 to gate 26. Nor was he there when I got home to Traverse City and dragged my suitcase and my computer and my cane through the short term lot to the long term lot, slogging back the way I had come a week earlier—only this time through the wet and slushy snow.

But hey! I am not an invalid!

How do I know where I am?

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I am sitting in a Starbucks in the Vienna Airport. I am on a the trip I was supposed to take over a year and a half ago— a consulting visit to Sarajevo, Bosnia to work with real estate professional associations—helping them get organized and build capacity as they grow. Our reason for doing this: once organized, professionals can impact the emerging infrastructure—the legislation, taxation, and business climate of their country. But more on that later.

When I visit a foreign country, one of my favorite mental games to play is, “How do I know I am not in the US?” So, I am sitting in this Vienna, Austria, airport Starbucks, eating a scone and drinking a latte. How do I know I am not in the US? Here are my clues:

  1. Men in suits. Black suits. With ties (tied) and white shirts. There are several clusters orf them scattered throughout this large, airy coffee lounge. They are discussion serious things, it looks like.

  2. Tiny espresso coffee cups. That’s the favorite drink here: with my grande latte I am out of place: most people seem to be drinking small sips of very strong coffee—with sugar and cream, it’s a dessert in itself.

  3. A big, (ugly) organic modern art fountain that separates the coffee lounge area from the main airport walkway.

  4. Lots of yellow airport shopping bags. Both the Amersterdam and Vienna airports have some lovely shops. Taking advantage of a few minutes to buy a designer bag or some perfume or electronics seems to be the order of the day. And when you leave the airport, as you enter the jet bridge there is always a trolley cart filled with items purchased in the duty-free shops, the items you purchased in the shops and can only regain once you technically leave the country.

  5. And there’s a huge melting pot of languages….three or four different languages are being spoken at one table, and no one seems to notice that much of the conversation is supplemented by hand gestures and drawing on paper napkins. Drinking coffee with someone who speaks another language is not a cause for concern—everyone can share pleasantries in a second language (often English).

I’ve been smart this trip: I have asked for wheelchair assistance. Amsterdam and Viena are huge, sprawling airports, mostly without moving sidewalks and escalators. A month or so ago I was in the Chicago O’Hare Airport and I hadn’t asked for help—I thought the gates were only a little distance apart. Well, they WERE, when I started. But the gates were changed and I found myself limping between terminals, and also faced with the frustrating proposition that Ohare doesn’t want you to know where you’re going. If you’re in the United section of the airport, you have to go two terminals over to find out at what gate the American flight you need is located. But in Amersterdam, for instance, there are mega information boards and kiosks throughout the terminal, and they list every flight, no matter what airline.

In both Amsterdam and Vienna airports, wheelchair pushers and cart drivers have been outstandingly polite and prompt: they’ve checked me through special security gates, taken my passport to the ticket agent, and refused the tips that I offered.

So the travel isn’t bad: quite pleasant, actually, now that Starbucks has quite playing the awful Christmas carols that were on the speaker system for a long time. But then there are decorations everywhere, and have been for several weeks, they tell me. It’s only the 15th of November but the Christmas merchandise is prominently displayed so you can do a little shopping while you’re waiting for your plane.

Guess some things are the same wherever you go.



Have you ever seen a Cirque du Soleil performance? I mean a real, live one?

Sarah and I just saw Kooza, the current travelling Cirque show. Now Cirque shows come in several varieties, most notably two kinds: the ones that are housed in a specific facility constructed for the performance (“O”, for instance, at the Bellagio in Las Vegas) and the road shows, which are performed in high tech tents. Both are breathtaking—a perfect blend of human accomplishment, artistic beauty, and innovative technology.

Kooza is no exception: in fact, I think I liked it better than any of the other portable shows. The acts are more traditional—there are trapeze artists, jugglers, contortionists, and tightrope walkers. The music is more circus-like; trombones trumpets and drums are featured instruments.

And there’s a lot of audience interactivity. In every Cirque show I’ve seen, there’s always some—usually so cleverly done that you can’t tell if the audience participants are planted or real volunteers. In Kooza, a hilarious sequence featured a real volunteer (I think)–a retired physician named Caesar. There’s a YouTube video of the same act but with a different audience member, and you can see how very funny it is.

I think my favorite, though, were the contortionists – beautiful, balletic, and certainly a challenge to one who is still having trouble putting her socks on.

The other marvel about Cirque performances is always the meticulous planning that goes into each performance—not just the performance itself, but the preparation for the audience comfort. In this case, parking was easy and there were many shuttlebusses to take you from your car to the entrance walkway. For those of us needing assistance up the walkway hill, there were golf carts. People with mobility problems were shown to their seats before the gates opened, and small children who couldn’t see were cheerfully re-seated in available seats. Food and drink was plentiful (though expensive), but nobody minded if you brought your own refreshments.

Like Disney, Cirque understands audience comfort and delight. What I call backstage problems are always kept backstage (did you ever notice how grocery store cashiers and nurses have continuous workschedule conversations, even while they’re giving you a shot or making change?). At Cirque, performance perfection is the primary goal (no, you can’t take flash photos, and no, you can’t come in late and make a lot of distracting noise). I remember when I was teaching in the public schools, it sometimes seemed like the learning environment was the last item on anyone’s agenda. And in a Cirque performance, customer satisfaction is a major concern—and it shows: the audience knows that arrangements have been made for their comfort, from the comfortable chairs to the tent stakes that don’t obstruct your vision.

I noticed the same dedication to customer comfort when I visited the IKEA home furnishing store near Sarah’s house. Not only is your every movement carefully orchestrated for your comfort, but the also the store actually supports your purchasing effort with better-designed carts, and frequent little kiosks that hold pencils, notepaper, and measuring tapes. And if you get tired as you trudge through the massive warehouse, there’s a unique little cafe halfway through the journey with elegant pastries and coffee, or a full breakfast for $.99.

There are lessons to be learned, I think, as I plan another airplane trip. US air travel can be one of the most personally degrading experiences available in the modern world. Passengers now have to pay for the privilege of not jamming luggage into the crowded body of the plane and dragging it through the airport, and we get to take off our shoes, coats, hats, and jewelry. If you’re a hip transplant, you get to experience the personal caress of the security guard who cares little about your discomfort at having the soles of your bare feet ‘wanded’ and your midsection patted by hands wearing protective gloves. All this happens even before the plane is delayed, the connection missed, and your luggage lost. And before you began to wish you were a Cirque du Soleil contortionist so you could get into your passenger seat.


Sorry it took me so long…


Over a year ago, my daughter Sarah bought her first home! Sarah works in Washington, DC, where she’s lived for several years—and being a rent-payer was a real problem for her practical outlook on financial management. That, plus the fact that she just wanted a ‘home’, not a temporary dwelling place, caused her to go house-hunting in the Spring of 2007. Within a few months she’d done her homework, knew how much she could afford, and found a condominium which met her requirements.

Of course, this was all done with frequent email consultations with me and other other friends: I looked at floor plans, photos, and closing statements and after the sale I reviewed countertop designs and lighting fixtures.

Then came her move, and the invitation for me to visit. The only problem, of course, was my bad leg and then the prolonged partnership with Quick Draw during my recovery from surgeries, infections, fractures, and such. So, I never got to see my daughter’s new home—not until now, when I can (slowly) climb the three flights of steps to this lovely place.

And it is lovely—it’s on the top floor, so it’s quiet. It’s spacious, uncluttered, and beautifully decorated.

I am only a year late getting here, but that makes the experience all the more welcoming. And the added delight: after I struggle up the stairs (all this effort is GOOD for me, I know it is!) I am greeted by one of my favorite pets, the Portuguese Water Dog Roger. Roger (Roger Maris) used to live at my house, and now he’s reappeared in my life remade as a successful and happy big city condo-dog.

He hasn’t forgotten who I am, however—no matter how long it took me to get here to see him.