Scoping out a yoga class to work on my flexibility is pointless. Two days before my departure for France, I fractured my ankle. Arriving at the Little Sugar Creek Greenway in Charlotte for a walk, I exited the car, and promptly stepped into a several-inch-deep hole hidden by grass.
My left ankle rolled sharply, and I landed in the street lying on my back. I boarded the plane wearing a shin-high, stacked-heel, supportive walking boot on my left foot. On my right foot was a hiking boot, an Evenup shoelift attached to accommodate my different leg lengths. When I disembarked the train in Avignon, a fellow passenger scolded others in French for trying to board as he offered me his arm for assistance down the steps.
Appreciative of their courtesies, I nevertheless feel conspicuous and vulnerable, an unsettling sensation anytime, but especially on the road. Normally, I stride confidently and in high gear. Nowadays, my gait is ungainly and uneven, frequently spiked with pain. A Quasimodo parody. And what of it?
Life at this moment could be so much worse. A slower, more contemplative pace can bring new insights. Pills and the passage of time can lessen the pain. Perspective and gratitude quickly restored, my thinking switches back as it should to what I am doing. The river here is narrow, perhaps 20 feet across, and shallow, possibly a yard deep. The gently flowing water is amazingly clear and sparkling like an emerald thanks to vibrant green plant life springing from the riverbed.
Fish trout, Bill says and squawking and splashing ducks are plentiful. Several canals also run between the ancient and narrow cobbled streets.
