Let Me Tell You ... About My Escape to South America.

My destination was Mendoza, Argentina. I had read that the local wine was superior to Southern Spain or Napa-Sonoma or Mendocino. Besides, I was running away from home to grasp what I considered to be the closing moments of my life. MS, which had entered my life 20 years earlier, had taken my legs and arms, leaving me unable to roll over in bed, sign my name, or scratch my nose. I was angry and frustrated. My joy of living was gone. I had nothing to lose.

The closest international airport was in Santiago, Chile. My stateside travel agent had booked me into a small, family-owned hotel there. I spoke no Spanish, but fortunately, the owner spoke fluent English. "Before you go to Mendoza, you should go over to Vina del Mar on the coast and see how you like it. I think you'll get a better bang for your buck," the hotel owner advised. So I hired a taxi and traveled the two hours to Chile's Pacific Coast. He was right. I lived in cities on the edge of Valparaiso Bay for the next 10 years.

I had brought a Sanyo tape recorder, my old and battered Complete Works of Shakespeare, my electric scooter, a discount-store converter for the battery charger (so astute, I thought, as they use different voltage in South America), and Fodor's South America.

With optimism and almost adolescent bravado, I set out to conquer my new world.

It was a new world of unpaved or quaintly cobblestoned streets, side-walks littered with obstacles, and no curb cuts. ADA was a peculiar, very Yankee notion.

It was summer when I arrived at Vina del Mar. I rented an apartment on the ocean. A maid named Juana Tapia came with the rental agreement. Juana shopped, cooked, and cleaned me and my clothing. She was accustomed to working with "gringos" and introduced me to the proper banks and money exchange houses.

I was an unsophisticated traveler. Never having concerned myself with the facts about the greenback abroad, I was pleasantly dazzled at the buying power of my limited resources. Juana, on the other hand, did not have my degrees in English and Education, but was conversant in pesos, dollars, and yen. She was also a stickler for legality, warning me against street-corner money merchants. As a caregiver, Juana learned quickly to lift, pivot, and seat me in my wheelchair. She took me shopping and I learned an entire supermarket vocabulary. Pleasant, affable Juana knew the police, or carabineros, who directed traffic and patrolled the beaches. They waved when we passed. She worked for me on and off during my decade in Chile, and she trained other women to assist her or replace her on weekends and vacations. I was indeed blessed.

I learned with time and Juana's help to navigate the streets and sidewalks. I was used to automobiles, of course, but here only the wealthy or the taxi drivers owned cars. The taxi of choice was the Russian-made Lada, inexpensive and very small. Most people traveled by bus. For in-town trips I relied on a series of taxi drivers. Each learned to lift me under the arms as Juana picked up my ankles. Then, feet first, I was shuffled into the passenger side of the Lada. Body, feet, butt, slide. My wheelchair, disassembled, was stowed in the trunk. All were loyal, diligent gentlemen. They knew which buildings had parking garages thus malting them more accessible, where bargain housing was located, how to apply for national identification, what documents were needed for notaries, and the best places to buy empanadas--Chilean meat turnovers--when cruising in the suburbs. None of these faithful associates spoke English. Their patience with me as I acquired a second language was admirable.

Chile's long-distance buses were comfortable and had rest rooms. A steward, or "Junior" as he was always called, traveled on long-haul passenger buses serving coffee (always presweetened) and sandwiches. On shorter trips, pop was sold, and hucksters entered the bus and pitched their wares at every stop. When I traveled by bus, two sturdy fellows would pick me up and carry me on board. My wheelchair was then disassembled and stored with the other luggage in a long compartment under the bus. Chileans carried everything on passenger buses: small Fensa refrigerators, dining room sets, backpacks, sacks of onions, chains of garlic.

Over the years, I taught English, capitalizing on my knowledge of standard English tests. With these meager earnings and a skilled pair of handymen, I managed to buy an earthquake-damaged house, repaired and sold it. Then I bought another one and did the same. In teaching and renovating, I assimilated a culture. This was enhanced by a chance meeting with a physical therapist from the rehabilitation hospital for disabled children in Valparaiso. I taught English to this young man who had a contract to work in the United States and lacked only proficiency in the language. As American companies recruited medical professionals in Chile, I became the "quadriplegic North American English teacher" in Valparaiso. Now, I worry that there are a dozen or more PTs working in the United States who speak with my peculiar Seattle accent!

My destination of Mendoza, Argentina, was finally achieved. I crossed the Andes Mountains by bus. While Juana passed through customs at the frontier, I waited alone in the bus struggling with my Spanish to answer the officials who came to question me about my country of origin and destination. The first city at the bottom of the Pass of the Liberators is Mendoza. So in the end, I visited Argentina as a tourist from Chile. And yes, the wine is excellent.

Lenore Severson now lives in Seattle, a most accessible city, where she works as a consultant to several small businesses and is a partner in TourCHILE, an agency that facilitates excursions to Chile for tourists who use wheelchairs.