Santiago, Chile with UPenn: Vibrant, colorful and Bohemian, a delightful country I shall visit again.

It would not be my first trip to South America. In years past, many a day was spent on the prominent avenues of Buenos Aires, Argentina. However, it would be my first trip south injured in a wheelchair. A graduate student at University of Pennsylvania, as part of their MSOD program, I signed up for a course taught in Chile – meant to give students a better understanding of one of the most thriving economies in South America. So many questions arose in my head: How would the flight go; what will the hotel room and bathroom be like; how accessible is Santiago; will I be able to attend all planned program events; will they accept my injury and be helpful, and most of all, how will my overall experience be in Chile?

At first, UPenn did not want to allow me to sign-up for the course. Alan Barstow, Director of MSOD, was not in favor me attending the trip, suggesting perhaps I choose another course. Horrific discrimination aside, I laughed off his ignorance and sought the permission of the professor, who ultimately had the final decision. He was an intelligent jolly German who, after a short conversation on the phone, granted me permission. After all, he would be facing all the same concerns as me. I have since left the program. If you are a well connected tier-four school student with a 2.3 GPA but are willing to pay, they will find you a spot. I went there to be surrounded by the brightest minds, not the dullest money could buy.

After all, upon writing this article, the program has gone downhill and is approaching its last breath. Alan Barstow, an unpublished Columbia elitist, wholly unqualified to direct anything, has methodically ruined the program – becoming a fraternity of corporate Ivy-Tower sycophants who gladly apply brown lipstick and write the check – thus causing a brain-drain to a former colleague of his, Larry Star – now a UPenn competitor, running a similar program at Jefferson University in Philadelphia. As all things in life are for a reason, as there are no mistakes in life – after becoming an esteemed Ivy-League dropout, I went on to write Unbreakable Mind, now selling worldwide. It can be found on Amazon, iTunes, Kindle and Audible.

With so much planned by the university the trip required especially meticulous planning. We all had to find our own way of transportation to Santiago – instructed to arrive within a twenty-four hour period. Luckily I knew another participant who lived not far from my home and was willing to let me travel with him to the airport. In the end, a group of us all reserved the same flight from Baltimore, Maryland to Santiago, Chile. The first glowingly obvious fact to pay attention: Chile is in South America, the Southern Hemisphere, and has opposite seasons as the US. So, while it is warm and summer in North America, it is cold and winter in South America. That means if I could escape for a day I could possibly adaptive ski.

Flight itinerary sussed, it was time to prepare for the trip. Packing was not difficult for me as prior I was a corporate traveler, on the road 90% most months. Packing medical supplies only required multiplying the # days of trip by # needed for each item, per diem. Proper planning for the flight was a bit more complicated. Years ago when I left the hospital I decided I would heal naturally, without any prescribed medications or contraptions attached to my body, which meant I had no urine bag attached to my leg. Once getting past the idea of catheterizing on the plane in front of strangers, anxiety of other bathroom functions set-in. All that preparation made for a successful first flight – a 500-pound gorilla off my back.

When we arrived at Santiago International Airport everything was a chaotic zoo. People, as far as the eye could see, were jockeying for position at the luggage carousels like hornets protecting a nest. We tried searching for the immigration area to no avail – Doing the Dirty Dishes of life! Where normally there would be an area for diplomats, crew and injured to escape the public mayhem, it did not exist. It was the Wild West: my first experience in an over-crowded second-world airport, quickly becoming long on the tooth. Once sorted with luggage and immigration, we tried finding the group for transport to the hotel. With no group in sight, we decided on a taxi. This was an omen of complications soon to arrive.

Only ten minutes into the taxi ride and it was very quickly evident we were in a developing country. The entire ride on the highway into city center poor shanty-towns peppered the landscape along the hungry Mapocho River (Rio Mapocho),filled with plastic and other rubbish. It begins in the Andes Mountains and flows into the city, dividing the capital into two. This foreground is shadowed only by the power and wealth of new economic development in the background, including the famous Great Santiago Tower (Gran Torre Santiago), at a cost of USD $1 billion. At 300-meters high, it is the tallest building in Latin America and second in the Sothern Hemisphere. Its six floors of shopping make for an eye-catching day.

Mayhem aside, it was nice to finally start feeling the cosmic energy and vibrant vigor of South America. There is this certain familiar comforting feel you get when there, as if you just entered an old friend’s house for a family sit-down meal together. It is no surprise then that their culture is so hot and spicy; food and dance included. Latinos are a warm-blooded group, passionate and emotional – the men are overly filled with a peculiar brand of machismo, as if always on stage. As well, the women, not lacking in their own unique inner special flare, with their fragile psyche always front-an-center on display, are sure to let you know what they are thinking. Taking it all in, I was finally in Santiago, a place I longed to visit.

Santiago, literally “St. James,” also known as Santiago de Chile, Chile’s largest and most densely populated city, its capital, part of the Santiago Metropolitan Region – with a total population of seven million residents, home of well-known poet Pablo Neruda – sits surrounded by stunning snow-capped mountains (Andes and Chilean Coast Range), entirely in the country’s Central Valley, is unlike any other city I have visited. It is the political, cultural and financial axis of the country – making Santiago one of the largest and critically important cities in the Americas. It is also home to many regional headquarters of global companies, only adding to the multi-cultural feel of the city, its inhabitants and neighborhoods.

Founded in 1541 by the Spanish conqueror Pedro de Valdivia, it has been the capital of Chile since colonial times. Though most parts of the government are located in Santiago, Congress meets in nearby Valparaiso. The city is very welcoming, with many parks and neighborhoods to visit and enjoy. It is within one hour of the mountains and Pacific Ocean. Chile’s famed wine vineyards are also only a short drive away. A seductive and charming city, its winding streets are dotted with astonishing neoclassical architecture, art-deco, neo-gothic, and other styles ascetically pleasing to the eye. Everywhere you go in the city there is a special ambiance in the air – and a bit of smog too, as the mountains trap pollution.

The capital is separated into districts (comunas) and further into neighborhoods (barrios), each with its own distinct lively character. As good friends live in Las Condes, an area of upper income households, I visited but we soon left for an area with a bit more excitement. By far my favorite barrio is Bellavista, a Bohemian area with lots of street art and performers, as well as amazing night life. The barrio is super-energetic and animated, filled with great bars and restaurants for dining outside (winter is mild enough to still sit outside with LP lamps) with friends. Pablo Neruda, famed Chilean poet, has a home here: La Chascona. The barrio also provides entry to Santiago’s Metropolitan Park – with amazing city panorama.

As we were there on a university program, the focus was not so much on enjoyment in the city (mine was) but rather the budding economy and industries that dominated that arena. One day we had lunch at the Union League of Santiago (Club de la Union), a key influential institution in Chile’s history and future. In its heyday it had over 10,000 members, literally making it the center of Santiago’s public affairs and high-society. I could only imagine what the group of influential heavyweights joining me for lunch thought of me catheterizing at the table (was too involved to get to the loo in time). At one point, Oscar, the manager from South Africa, had to physically carry me to the toilet – the door dated to 1925.

Authoritative buildings and pretentious titles aside, it was time to see Chile outside the big city. One day we visited the largest copper mine in the world, run by Codelco – nationalized in 1971 as a state owned mining company. We also visited a private farm where artisan cheeses were produced for export, mainly goat. The world renowned Chilean vineyards are not a far drive from the city. One day was spent at a boutique winery, where the tasting was generous and food gourmet. By far, my favorite excursion was our trip to Valparaiso, the coastal port city most well known for its street art, steep hills and colorful clifftop homes. European immigrants left their mark on local design, mostly nearby Plaza Sotomayor.

On our one free day I decided to hire a private driver for eight hours to take me to diverse sites outside Providencia district limits. My driver, Terod, with his non-existent English and my sub-par Espanol, taxied me to every possible spot a photo could be taken. As skiing was out, our first stop was gorgeous Parque Bustamante, filled with bold designs and cozy cafes, a great place to warm up with a hot drink outside in the brilliant winter sun. We also visited Bellas Artes, Lastarria, Yungay and Barrio Brasil – all very trendy and fashionable barrios, including urban art installations and various museums. The center of Santiago, Centro Historico, home to Plaza de Armas, includes Cathedral of Santiago and National Historic Museum.

As Chile is filled with diverse terrain and old buildings with small doorways and lots of stairs, it can be quite challenging to navigate unassisted in a wheelchair – there are hazards most everywhere you look. Though I did not use the metro, they are in the process of making subway lines more accessible. Some buildings have ramps but the majority does not. New buses have access ramps and spaces for handicap travelers, otherwise you roll the dice. Still, buildings there have little to no access for disabled travelers. We stayed at an international hotel and even there, in the lobby, I could not access a bathroom stall. Chile is a wonderful country, one I will return to one day, hopefully next time standing upright – walking.

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Colombia: You sweet, hot and spicy, beguiling temptress – your kiss seduced me.

All I can remember is thinking, “Wow, is this really happening?” It was late 1990s and I had just been hired as a teacher at a collegio in Bucaramanga, Santander Department, north-central Colombia, for a two year contract. As it turns out, at the time I had received my work Visa for Colombia, I was also offered a position in Tokyo Japan, with the Japanese government. I chose to move east instead of south, determined I would find another time and opportunity to get back to Colombia. Well, usually life does not provide us a second opportunity but, twenty years on, finally she did. Colombia has been calling my name ever since, with boundless allure, whispering to me softly, the seductress de Indias – once bitten, not shy; I’m in love. This is the tale of my adventure to Colombia, traveling injured in a wheelchair, and all the wonder and splendor that resulted from the magic of the trail.

It was an early flight to the land of piccante y caliente from Philadelphia: 06:00. That meant a 03:00 wake-up call with little to no sleep. Not a prudent start to a long trip with a stopover each way. Being able to rest my body in horizontal position at night gives my body and muscles the relief from the daily onslaught of spinal pressure it so desperately needs. The stopover in Atlanta was a gift and a curse, all the same – it allowed me to stretch and easily access a bathroom but also lengthened my travel time, thus unnecessarily stressing my body. Before any trip I weigh all viable and imaginable variables: cost, total time of travel, airports, layovers and possible stopovers, food, and current recovery status. Each airline and/or airport has their own staff to assist those in need. Every year I notice these services not only increasing in their sheer numbers but also, most importantly, efficiency. They are a godsend – thank you for your assistance.

Upon arrival in Colombia one instantly knows one has arrived in the tropics. Old school airports where they roll out steel stairs, plane parks in the middle of nowhere, verdant palms abound, as the air hits you like a heated wet towel, navigation required, are the best; especially when in a wheelchair and need to be carried off the plane in a shaky old metal aisle chair by two slender ground-crew members. It was a fun ride. They did not drop me. One point for Stevo. (Photos of my travels can be seen here.) As I authored in my book, in life, if one wants to get anything grand or substantial accomplished, one must get in the mix, show up, take a risk, live and participate in: Doing the Dirty Dishes [of life]. This was to be my first trip to an industrialized country where I knew the standards would not be up to international specification, if they existed at all. Challenges abundant – like weeds in spring, they were everywhere.

No sooner I walked out of the airport and was accosted by a gaggle of local taxi drivers. Peter seemed like a nice choice. I liked his resume: biblical name in a very Catholic country. Good pick. Score two for Stevo. Solo bag in the backseat, wheelchair in the trunk, Cumbia music blaring, we were off to the hotel. It was a short drive, only 9 kilometers. It did not take long to know I was at the right place; the energy in Colombia was all encompassing; I could feel it in my heart. I was where I was supposed to be at that time, in life. There are no mistakes. I was still unsure why the universe had sent me to Colombia at this juncture but I was soon to find out. As we entered Boca Grande, meandering down the highway as it hugged the beach and waves, it was 420 and ‘Peter the Pope’ was more than happy to share some brotherly love. Bonus score for Stevo. Welcome to Colombia – a mighty nice Bienvenido, if you ask me.

Not a moment out of the taxi and my first real serious obstacle appeared. The slope of the driveway of the hotel was too steep to get up in the wheelchair on my own. That situation was not helped by the fact there were no sidewalks for 90% of the beach area surrounding my hotel. And when they had some form of sidewalk or stepping stones made of broken uneven pieces of jagged concrete, the curbs were almost a half meter high. Access to local eateries and bars was out of the question without assistance or a taxi ride. Even getting to the elevators of the hotel required a push up a small but steep incline. There were no accessible bathrooms except in my room on the 29^th floor. I could not access the café in the lobby as it had a large step as an impediment. Travel while injured requires impeccable planning.

It reminded me of my days at Magee Rehabilitation Hospital, a “supposed” top physical therapy hospital in Philadelphia, where they wanted to kick me out of in-patient therapy for refusing to agree to learn how to jump my wheelchair up large curbs. I saw no point; I found it violent and dangerous. My answer to them was easy: “I’ll ask for help (throughout this trip I would be carried in my chair in the air, over more obstacles and occurrences than I could count).” Cartagena was a never-ending veritable obstacle course in a wheelchair; best left to the advanced; but never an issue. This is injured travel – welcome to the club. In my book, Unbreakable Mind, I speak of the need to get out into the world to live again, that it is not falling down that counts, it is how many times you get up that counts – that is the greatest source of maturity and development in life – in living – happiness. La Buena vida, mi amiga.

Hotel Dubai Cartagena did not originally come up as having accessible rooms in my initial search online with the big three travel websites. I knew better and so contacted the hotel direct. Good thing I did as they were willing and able and more than happy to have me as a guest. Most often you will find the information on travel websites to be inaccurate or flat out wrong. Be smart and seek out more information – write the property, ask the appropriate required questions and make sure all concerns for your injury or special requirements are addressed beforehand. Because even when you think you have it all worked out beforehand, it can easily go to shit, quick. This hotel assured me they would reserve a room with accessible shower and all the other required whistles and bells for an injured guest. Well, can you guess what happened? Welcome to a day in my life.

The doorman accompanied me to my room. Relieved to see a bed to lay down on to stretch my body, I shooed him off, performed a bathroom check, washed my face with soap and water, when no sooner was I prostrated across the California king duvet I realized I was not in an accessible room. Ramone, Operations Manager, arrived a few minutes later. After visiting ten different hotel rooms, all with unalike room layouts, we determined that some modifications had to be made to the shower and toilet to make one accessible. Three large glass panels had to be removed in order to allow access for my wheelchair to the toilet and shower area without having to go through a near impossible set of hurdles; ones that would cause trouble in an emergency situation, if required urgency. Juan, the hotel manager, was the most caring and accommodative person an injured person could wish for. He prepared the best calabaza y bombilla of Argentinean mate. Fabio and his kitchen crew went above and beyond to make the most delicious food. In the end, they upgraded me to a top floor suite. Pass GO, collect $200.

Cartagena, founded in 16^th century, on the Colombian coast, replete with squares, cobblestone streets and brightly colored colonial architecture, is magical. The people are just as interesting and eclectic as the endless pastel painted buildings in the Old City. Everywhere you go you come across friendly Colombians, from taxi driver to street vendor to waiter; only a small tatter of the fabric that binds together this phenomenal El Caribe people and city. The seafood is some of the best I have tasted on the planet. And the very established Lebanese Diaspora, immigrating to Colombia from the Ottoman Empire in the 18^th & 19^th centuries for religious and economic reasons, also has out-of-this-world delectable eats. All the best local tourist spots are close-by and are easily visited by car or public bus. Since injured, I opted for a private driver for the day. And since I would be shooting photos with my new Sony Alpha 6300, the car’s window would serve as my creative aperture.

Not a week had gone by and two of my most feared injured traveler scenarios fructified. On my list of most feared anxious happenings while traveling the world in a wheelchair, two of the top three, are getting a sick stomach and a bad cold. Well, the time had arrived; of course, when it rains, it pours – both arrived back-to-back. After being nursed back to health by Simon and friends I decided to explore the Old City by taxi at night. It was just what the doctor ordered – allowing me to take in the city at its magnificent nocturnal glory. At night there is a different ‘feel’ to the people and city – as if a button is pushed and the energy becomes even freakier relaxed. Over the next two weeks I would take many taxi trips with my camera on the ready to shoot everything from Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas, Plaza de Las Bovedas, Getsemani and many other local cultural barrios, some with world renown street art. Cartagena is a city rich in history and culture, with infinite beauty, sure to delight. Go visit.

Other than your standard travel mishaps, occasional cultural faux-pas in Espanol, being robbed blind by a street money changer, fighting off beach hawkers and the perpetual fight with taxi drivers over padded fares , my adventure to Colombia was a huge success. It could not have been done without the loving care and support of others, friend and stranger alike. Michael, a friend from Germany, whom I met while living in Amsterdam, came to visit for a week. It was so great having him there; being a part of his inner-self journey as it commenced. Simon, my neighbor and a Norwegian yacht captain, based in Majami, Florida, was my arms and legs many a day when laid up in bed fighting a vicious cold or the horrendous stomach issues I experienced, requiring anti-biotics, pro-biotics and some international TLC. The hotel staff was so friendly and helpful. I am forever grateful for all the love and help I received.

As a result of my accident I was unable to travel internationally for six years. My will and spirit were broken. While traveling the globe I am most comfortable – being in the flow of life, living life. It was the last part of my freedom recovered and I was beyond ecstatic to travel and experience the world again. It is the same reason I started this blog: to help inspire other injured to travel again, to open their eyes to the possibilities that exist when one leaves the safety of their home. Each trip I push my boundaries a bit further than the last. This has provided me limitless inner growth and the most wonderful of experiences meeting extraordinary people and visiting supernatural places, the type only found when your eyes and heart are wide open; accepting and tackling new challenges at every curve, forming indelible memories – all while forging life-lasting deep and meaningful relationships. Colombia delivered on all the above. I drank her Kool-Aid and now find myself pining to hear her to call my name again – she is forever in my heart. Besitos, mi amor!