Adventures in Paris and Rome


Accessible travel to Paris and Rome
Illustration by Mark Weber

Last year, my parents and I smashed our piggy banks and took a two-week vacation to travel from Toronto, Canada, to Paris and Rome.

While boarding the eight-hour flight, my mind was busy setting rules and expectations for this vacation: First, I shall become no more than two shades darker — tanning is not an Asian thing. Second, when confronted with endless food and dessert, I shall practice restraint. It could happen. Lastly, maybe I will meet a “Jack” whom I will die with in a hopelessly romantic, yet no less fatal, maritime disaster.

Somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean, I began to think about weightier topics. I was told there are a lot of cobblestone roads in Europe. How will my wheelchair travel over them? Accessibility could be a concern in many older parts of these cities. And what about the people, will they be kind?

The Last Boat of the Day

As soon as we left the Paris airport, I realized I should have learned more French, as Bonjour and Merci did not get us very far. We were like three giant pandas in a world of polar bears and it was impossible to communicate with the locals for directions. Fortunately, body language is universal, and so with hand gestures, finger pointing, and maybe a few lucky guesses, we managed to find our way.

I was mesmerized by the beauty and majesty of Paris — the creative and delicate minds of the city planners were truly gifts from the divine. Also, the cobblestone roads in Paris were not as hard on my wheelchair as I thought they would be.

After strolling around the city for hours, I was still going strong in my wheelchair, but my poor parents had to walk. “Slow down!” they constantly commanded me, their weary feet as slow as turtles.

We decided to conclude our day by taking a boat tour and were lucky enough to buy tickets for the last boat of the day, which was scheduled to come in 10 minutes. Then we realized in order to reach the dock we had to go down a steep stony staircase that had at least 20 steps.

It was a downward spiral to hell.

“Looks like the only way to do this is carrying you on my back,” said Dad. As he squatted down, I saw his legs were shaking. He had just climbed the Eiffel Tower 30 minutes ago! “OK, hop on,” he said, his voice betraying his confidence.

“Dad, I don’t think this is a good idea,” I said.

From afar, we saw our boat slowly approaching, adding panic to our situation.

Then we heard someone ask in Chinese, “Do you need help?” That simple line was poetry to our ears.

We turned around and saw another giant panda. And oh boy, was this man indeed a giant! He was half times taller, thicker and younger than my dad. His son and wife looked up to him as a hero, and I made it to the bottom of the stairs on his back. We are forever grateful.

Do Not Say ‘Pizza’

My time spent in Rome was even more memorable. Most of the subway stations were wheelchair friendly and the announcement for each stop was bilingual — English never sounded so musical back home in Canada. A visit to the Vatican is now the pinnacle of my spiritual encounters, as I was refreshed and humbled by that experience.

However, what happened afterward was even more worthy of mentioning.

On our way back from the Vatican, we were lost. A few miscommunications led us even further from the nearest Metro. Asking for directions was an act of humility, as it hurt our pride when people brushed us off, and so we took turns.

When it was my mom’s turn to ask for directions, her strategy was to approach a young person who she thought might have learned some English in school.

“So, what did he say?” I asked in hope and anticipation. “I don’t know! I can’t believe he cannot say ‘left’ and ‘right’ in English,” said my mom.

Being the empathetic person that I always am, I scolded her. “We are in Italy! It’s their country! Name one sign on this street that you can pronounce,” I said. “DO NOT say ‘pizza!’”

Finally, it was my turn to give it a shot.

I closed my eyes and decided to ask the very next person I saw. When I opened my eyes, a priest was walking toward me. “Do you speak English?” I asked. “We are trying to find the nearest Metro.”

“Oh! We are going there, too,” he said, and I realized he was with five other people. One of the ladies in his entourage said, “We asked him the same thing earlier and he is leading us, too.”

They were all English speakers with perfect North American accents! It turned out the priest was actually from Toronto and in Rome for a conference. More amazingly, we would be getting off at the same subway station! Apparently prayers offered from inside Vatican City reached Heaven faster than anywhere else.

The nine of us had a pleasant walk to the subway station, but when we arrived, we discovered it was an older one without an elevator. There was a long staircase leading down to the platform.

Hell had opened up its bloody mouth again.

The priest asked if I thought he and his companions could carry me and my wheelchair down, but I was too embarrassed about the scene that would cause.

“Father,” I said, “I don’t think this is God’s will.”

So he pointed us in the direction of the next station, which he said had a lift, pressed a kiss on his fingers, anointed my head with a hint of saliva, and drew a cross before departing from us.

Lost, Again!

We walked in the direction the priest had pointed, but could not see the Metro sign anywhere. All at once, our hearts became heavy. We were lost again.
My dad stopped to ask a young mother of two young children for directions, but she spoke no English at all. The only word she understood was the name of the subway station. From her lengthy explanation, of which we could not understand a single word, we figured it would be another long and complicated journey.

My dad suggested we take a taxi, but there were none in sight.

Then, suddenly, that young mother came back and beckoned us to follow her. She wanted to lead us to the subway station! The older of her two children, a little girl around 6 years old, wasn’t happy about this. Fortunately I was not able to understand what she said, but the tone of her voice suggested she was very upset. Her mom’s replies sounded equally fierce and determined.

Occasionally, the young mother turned around and checked to see if we were still following along.

Twenty minutes later, she pointed out the sign for our Metro station and we could not thank her enough. “Grazie! Grazie! Ciao! Ciao!” — that was all the Italian I knew, and it proved to be truly useful. She nodded and walked back in the direction we had just come from. We were incredibly touched.

On my flight home, I reflected upon our adventure. I experienced humanity in different shades and tongues, and came back with a deeper love and appreciation for  Canada. Life is just great!


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