It is a pity that my appetite for and ability to fund international travel has only increased as my mobility has decreased, but such is life. Luckily my appetite for new adventures is impressive enough to compel me forward toward strange borders, even if I do so in a wheelchair laboring over cobblestones.
I could–and perhaps someday should–devote a series of blogs to the frustrations of traveling while disabled. Waiting ages at a gate for someone to push me to my connecting flight. Paying for an aisle seat near the toilet to ensure I can make it there on weak legs. Discovering the only toilets in an initially accessible restaurant are down (or up!) a steep flight of stairs.
There are advantages to disabled travel. Security and immigration lines are shorter. Handicapped bathrooms are usually single serve and cleaner than the group stalls. Sure, my hand tremors mean I’m prone to pouring my cappuccino down my shirtfront, but at least I have a private space in which to clean up.
Writing this I realize just how many of life’s joys and frustrations are toilet-related for me. Yet another topic for another day.
On my recent trip to Denmark, I had two encounters that really stuck with me. The first was when I arrived at the gorgeous Hornbaekhus Hotel where Cultivating Leadership was having its first large gathering in three years. I hauled myself up the stairs at the front entrance, spurred on by the promise of hugging long-unseen colleagues within, then plopped down on a (beautifully upholstered) couch inside to catch my breath. A woman who worked at the hotel sat next to me and essentially said, “This building was not designed with you in mind, and I am sorry. We have an elevator. And there are small ramps I can place in some spots to make it easier. Please tell me what more we can do to help.”
This conversation did not make my travel between rooms at Hornbaekhus easier, but it sure made me feel seen. Much as I love to consider myself to be the center of the world, I know it is unreasonable to expect all spaces–especially older ones–to be fully accessible. I have no problem with this. What I do have a problem with is people not acknowledging that it’s a pity that their spaces cannot accommodate me–and others like me. The simple act of saying, “I’m sorry this is so,” eases things greatly. For me, at least.
The cherry atop this delicious trip occurred as we exited the country. The mustachioed man who stamped my passport said, “I know people like you see things from a different perspective than the rest of us. How did our country do for you?” Never mind that Copenhagen is indeed that most accessible European city I’ve encountered; this simple interaction sealed my love for Denmark forever. How amazing that someone in a bureaucratic role literally involving rubber stamps could really see me and say these words! I don’t even recall how I responded besides feeling the impulse to push through the glass and hug him. I’m a little teary just writing about it.
So many things in work and life are not the way they should be, and we have limited power to make things right. Hiring freezes mean employees are overworked. Limited promotions mean they feel underappreciated. And beautiful, smart young women get degenerative diseases that mean they feel excluded from cool things that happen up/downstairs. It sucks to experience these things, and it sucks to feel helpless to repair them.
Please remember that sometimes simply acknowledging the thing that cannot be changed can make a huge difference.