Lafayette, LA

Any wonder we love Louisiana? Bilingual signage and labeling is almost as common here as in Quebec -- I walk past these signs every time I go to the medical center where I do my physical therapy.

And that therapy, by the way, is going well. Three days a week, Fran, a quiet, petite woman with a soft lilt in her voice and a warm spark in her eyes, supervises my two-hour treatment. I'm heated and tingled for 20 minutes, then start a 90-minute exercise routine. Finally, Fran plays the Marquessa de Sade, slowly stretching my stiff shoulder. She pushes, pulls and leans against my arm until tears come to my eyes, then, while I pant like a LaMaze student, holds me at the point of agony for a countdown somewhere between a NASA liftoff and a network commercial break. Rinse and repeat for every direction a shoulder moves. Bless her heart, she always apologizes for having to be "aggressive," in between sotto voce reminders to "relax ... relax."

But it's working. I can reach the top shelf of the cabinets again. When I can hold my arm over my head long enough to fix that ceiling light that blinks intermittently over my chair, we'll be ready to travel...