Breaking Barriers: traveling Western Europe on two feet and four wheels

It was my birthday. My mom would be arriving today. The itinerary for our trip was set: Santander, Spain; Rennes, France by way of Paris to visit my host family from high school; London and eventually Edinburgh. We were a well-oiled travel machine.

Her flight arrived on time but her bag was nowhere to be found. She was concerned, but I assured her that the bag would surely arrive before we left for Paris in three days’ time.

We checked her into her room at the beachside Hotel Chiqui before I went off to find an open clothing store—a difficult feat on a Sunday afternoon in a small Spanish city. I returned to her room with a few options and we set out for my dinner celebration at Días Desur—a local restaurant with whitewashed walls, wooden tables and exposed light fixtures. Over a meal of fresh seafood, my friend suggested that my mother visit el faro (the nearby lighthouse) while I finished my last day of classes.

I arrived at her room the next day to find that she had not yet returned from the excursion, so I waited on the hotel’s sun-drenched deck, enjoying the sea breeze. Almost an hour had passed when I saw an ambulance driving towards the hotel. My stomach dropped. I ran to the ambulance and there was my mother, drenched in seawater with tears in her eyes. She slipped on the rocks near the lighthouse and had likely broken her ankle.

After an endless ambulance drive to the hospital, her doctor told me in Spanish that she needed emergency surgery. I broke the news to her gently. She wailed that it was her first full day in Europe in thirty years.

She underwent surgery and stayed in the hospital for three days. At her release, the doctor recommended to me that she go home. My mother, with my nod of agreement, instructed me to tell the doctor that she would finish our trip. The doctor sighed and told me where to purchase a wheelchair and then gave me a list of prescriptions.

I dropped my mother off at the hotel after purchasing the prescriptions, found the wheelchair store and then readied her for the early train departure to Paris the next morning.

My mother and I traveled together for the next 10 days, navigating four cities, six trains, 10 taxis and three planes. I cried twice. She apologized profusely for “being difficult.” We learned that no amount of planning could ever account for serious accidents.

In the end, we decided that a trip on two feet and four wheels is much more interesting than no trip at all… even without her suitcase.