My first trip to Paris with my mother was in 2014. Every morning, we started walking along the Seine River, and by the end of each day had covered a dozen miles. One afternoon, we wandered through the Marais district, popped into gardens, and posed in front of fountains between the 11th arrondissement and our attic apartment near the Louvre Museum. On the cusp of evening, we ascended the dark, narrow spiral staircase up to the bell tower of Notre-Dame cathedral. We spent much of our month-long stay this way, willing and able to climb toward what we wanted to see, never considering the limits of our bodies.
Three years later, we flew to Paris again, and I realized my mother’s mobility had deteriorated. For decades, she had worked a physically demanding job as a mail carrier, and it had taken its toll. During that trip in 2017, she required assistance getting through the security line and couldn’t get comfortable on the flight. I noticed the shuffle step she adopted. She needed a cane, or perhaps a wheelchair. Unprepared, we had neither.
Visiting some of her favorite fabric stores meant winding through the cobbled streets of Montmartre, which sits atop a large hill. When the metro was under construction, we had to take a maze-like detour. I watched my mother tackle flights of stairs and creep through tunnels, stopping every 10 steps or so. I acknowledged that our definition of travel would have to change—and quickly.
The change forced us to articulate what our Paris priorities and desires were. While she was processing her feelings about the shifts in her body’s abilities, I made myself the logistics person, reorganizing the remainder of our trip and researching ways to still experience the city.
I’d always coordinated and arranged our family’s trips, but now I had to remind myself: Have I considered my mother’s point of view? Even though she knows I have her best interests at heart, she likes her independence and hates when people assume what she wants.
Taking access needs into account while traveling leads to more fulfilling trips.
Illustration by Hayley Wall
As we made our way around Paris, I asked my mom if she wanted to take more breaks. She did, so we sought out benches. I checked websites and called establishments to confirm elevator access, toilet grab bars, and shower seats.
This real-time adjustment was my first experience with accessible travel. I realized that, if armed with the right information, I could alleviate some frustrating—and possibly humiliating—situations for someone I loved.
In the years since, my mother and I have continued traveling together. We’ve visited waterfalls and stood on top of mountains. We’ve found our way around San Francisco on its public transit system. The cobblestone streets of Charleston, South Carolina, are less of a challenge than they once were, because I know to rent a wheelchair beforehand and explore alternate routes. I scour visitors’ bureaus and blogs such as BLD Experiences (with stories by Black disabled travelers) and Instagram accounts including @curbfreecorylee.
But our travels take more than research—they require constant communication. On the road, I ask my mother a series of questions: How’s your pain? Is there anything we should cut or rearrange? If things go awry, what would you like to prioritize? When possible, we allow her answers to shape our days.
We talk. We adjust. We attempt to do our best.
When we fly together, I double the amount of time I think we might need to get through the airport. Ahead of our trips, I refresh my knowledge of the accessibility policies for planes, trains, and buses as well as federal laws such as the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) and the Air Carrier Access Act (ACAA), which prohibits airlines doing business in the United States from discriminating against passengers with disabilities. I book everything as far in advance as I can, knowing that there might be a limited number of ADA-compliant hotel rooms or all-terrain wheelchairs.
Now in my late thirties, I’m also being forced to reassess my relationship with my own body. There are moments 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 unending into the distance. I’m more sensitive to noise, and I often double-check restaurant reviews before I reserve to see if other visitors have had issues with din that can overwhelm crowded spaces.
On the road, I speak up when I see solutions. Sometimes it’s as simple as asking for a different type of seating at a café or inquiring about the availability of all-terrain wheelchairs on beaches. I do what I can to be an advocate—not just for my mother but also for every other traveler with a seen or unseen disability. Because I know that one day, I might be in the same boat.
