By admin 
My first trip to Paris with my mother in 2014. Every morning we started walking along the Seine River, and by the end of each day we had covered dozens of kilometers. One afternoon we wandered through the Marais district, entering gardens and posing in front of fountains between the 11th arrondissement and our attic apartment near the Louvre Museum. On the eve of evening we climbed the dark, narrow spiral staircase to the bell tower Notre Dame cathedral. We spent much of our month-long stay this way, willing and able to climb to what we wanted to see, without regard to the limits of our bodies.
Three years later we flew to Paris again and I realized that my mother’s mobility had deteriorated. For decades she had had a physically demanding job as a postman, and it had taken its toll. During that 2017 trip, she needed help getting through the security line and felt uncomfortable during the flight. I noticed the shuffle step she was doing. She needed a cane, or maybe a wheelchair. We had neither unprepared.
Visiting some of her favorite fabric stores meant strolling the cobblestone streets of Montmartre, which sits atop a large hill. When the subway was under construction, we had to take a maze-like detour. I watched my mother climb the stairs and crawl through tunnels, stopping every ten steps. I recognized that our definition of travel would have to change – and quickly.
The change forced us to articulate what our priorities and desires were in Paris. As she processed her feelings about the shifts in her body’s capabilities, I turned myself into a logistics person, reorganizing the rest of our trip and exploring ways to still experience the city.
I had always coordinated and arranged our family’s outings, but now I had to remind myself: Have I taken my mother’s point of view into account? Even though she knows I have her best interests at heart, she loves her independence and hates it when people assume what she wants.
Taking access needs into account when traveling leads to more satisfying journeys.
Illustration by Hayley Wall
As we walked through Paris, I asked my mother if she wanted to take more breaks. She did, so we started looking for benches. I checked websites and called branches to confirm elevator access, toilet bars and shower seats.
This real-time adjustment was my first experience with accessible travel. I realized that if I had the right information, I could alleviate some frustrating (and possibly humiliating) situations for someone I loved.
In the years that followed, my mother and I continued to travel together. We visited waterfalls and stood on mountains. We have found our way San Francisco on its public transport system. The cobblestone streets of CharlestonSouth Carolina, are less of a challenge than they used to be because I know I’ll have to rent a wheelchair in advance and explore alternate routes. I scour visitors bureaus and blogs like BLD experiences (featuring stories of Black disabled travelers) and Instagram accounts including @curbfreecorylee.
But our journeys require more than just research: they require constant communication. Along the way I ask my mother a number of questions: How is your pain? Is there anything we need to cut or rearrange? If something goes wrong, what would you prioritize? Whenever possible, we let her answers shape our days.
We talk. We adapt. We try to do our best.
If we fly together, I double the amount of time I think it will take us to get through the airport. Before our trips, I refresh my knowledge of accessibility policies for airplanes, trains, and buses, as well as federal laws such as the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) and the Air Carrier Access Act (ACAA), which prohibit airlines from doing business in the United States against discrimination against passengers with disabilities. I book everything as far in advance as I can, knowing that there may be a limited number of ADA compliant hotel rooms or off-road wheelchairs.
Now that I’m in my late thirties, I’m also being forced to reconsider my relationship with my own body. There are times when my feet are less steady than they used to be, when I find myself searching for a handrail, when I feel daunted by steps that seem to stretch endlessly into the distance. I am more sensitive to noise and often check restaurant reviews before booking to see if other visitors have had issues with noise that can overwhelm busy areas.
Along the way I will say it if I see solutions. Sometimes it’s as simple as asking for a different type of seating at a cafe or inquiring about the availability of all-terrain wheelchairs at the beach. I do what I can to be an advocate – not just for my mother, but for every other traveler with a visible or invisible disability. Because I know that one day I might be in the same boat.