Just a short stroll outside my hotel room door, there is a spot. It’s not inside the hotel actually, but just outside. My hotel room, located on the first floor, shares space with a Hotel Bresil employee that hides behind a wooden counter, a handful of mix and match, rickety wooden tables and their chairs, and a very small chandelier made of five bulbs, one crystal dangling ball, and a safety pin that keeps the parts together. Just two steps to the right of my door, outside the sliding glass door, on the sidewalk and to the left about one hundred paces is my spot. There the sun waits for me.

For the past few days, I have sat there every morning reading or writing. Today was unlike any of the other days because it rained. Consequently, my vacation has taken a new turn. I’m returning home Wednesday, three days earlier than I had originally planned. Before I explain why, I must tell you about my day yesterday. My parents and I took a private bus tour (Okay so it was a wheelchair accessible van, but in Paris it could be called a bus. The cars are miniscule here) to the other side of the Sienne River where there are more monuments, gardens, and structures the same. On the other side, The Ritz, the most expensive street in Paris, shoppers and tourists thrive. In the Latin Quarter, where our hotel is, there are rows of bookstores and locals lingering. It’s much more quite. I prefer it there.

On the tour, our driver took us to Sacre Couer, which is a church on top of a hill that overlooks most of Paris. On the weekends and in between the alley street ways, a square block of artists gather and paint Paris for the gaggles of tourists herding the streets. One artist used neon paint, another mimicked impressionism, the artist I bought a piece of work from added newspaper to her background. It would have been a beautiful little town if it weren’t for people like me hovering around. The picture takers, all of us, sucked the life out of that little village, but I suppose it had been allowed because at the same time we gave life to the local talent. It was all an exchange—our picture for theirs. What I hated was the cobblestone street. It sent me bouncing like a child in a stroller. The church, like every other building in Paris, was meticulous, a perfect sculpture. While my parents climbed the stairs inside of the temple, a woman approached me. “Are you a veteran?” she asked. “Absolutely not,” I answered. This led to a conversation about disability that was followed by the airing of her dirty laundry. The ring lady had scammed her too. Well she wasn’t scammed exactly, but this man she had breakfast with, who in no way was related to the woman she was traveling with that stood her up two days ago for saying the word “pissed” and dressing like an American, had been. He didn’t fall for it and she was military. She wasn’t scared to be touring Paris alone, although I sensed otherwise.

Next, we visited the cemetery where Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison are buried. The cobblestone made it absolutely impossible for me to see those particular gravesites, but those buried around them seemed to be just as important. I could only tell that from the picture I was shown, no one seemed to want to take care of his grave. My step-dad saw a man take three puffs of his joint before he threw it on top of the site in homage. Finally, we made it to the class dinner. The place was just two blocks from our hotel, yet I hadn’t seen it before. That’s thing with Paris, you can walk the same streets again and again and it feels different every time. There is always more to see. At dinner, we ate roast, drank wine, then ate chocolate mousse and not necessarily in that order. Afterwards, Ginny, Ilana, my parents and I made an impromptu Internet café in front of my hotel because it has free Wi-Fi. This blogging session has been one of my favorite memories of Paris and I can’t explain why. I’m usually not one to blog on vacation, but there is something about roaming the streets of Paris that makes me want to write. The wine certainly is encouraging.

So back to why I’m leaving this magnificent place. Within four minutes of my wheelchair charger arriving today it blew up. It wasn’t an explosion of fire but more like the ignition of a smoke bomb. That’s apparently what happens when you plug American electronics into French outlets, even with converters.  Since we’ve arrived in France, we’ve blown two converters, a wheelchair charger, a blow dryer, a curling iron and possibly a hair straightener.  Still, my mother refuses to give up on her hair. She doesn’t understand the difference in electricity between the two countries. Since no one can explain it to her (in a language she can understand), she refuses to give up. So patiently we’ve endured one mini-explosion after the other.  The smoking charger, however, was the final straw for me. Well, almost.  The rain shorting out my chair was pretty much what made me decide to change our flights home.

The rain. ugh. Not only could I not go to my spot, it commanded more time for our hike to the Louvre. Since a handicapped taxicab ride in Paris nearly cost $200, we walk/roll everywhere. This has contributed to my short battery-life left, which has become quite the concern considering my charger blew up. With hopes of finding a French charger, my step-dad stayed behind while my Mom and I started our trek across Paris to the Louvre, in the rain. Three blocks into our journey, we were saturated. I also noticed my wheelchair computer screen flashing, back and forth, on then off. Not being able to use my chair because of a dead battery is one thing. Having a broken wheelchair in a foreign country is another. So we turned around and headed back to the hotel, where my chair decided to end its life. Lucky for me, it resuscitated itself a few hours later. It was in between this time that we rebooked our flights home.  (We were just going to take the Eurostar to England for the last couple of days, but I’ll save that for another trip.)

Since doing that, we found a French charger that works (it was a 12 mile bike ride away). We’ve gone to a lovely French Restaurant with authentic cuisine. I’ve met up with my school pals for drinks, and life in Paris is restored and exceptionally good again. We’re hitting up the museums tomorrow, and then saying our good byes. My mom is looking forward to having good hair again.