Published: March 30, 2026
I am a visually impaired woman and a cane user. Before this trip, I carried a quiet but persistent fear: not of travel itself, but of movement. Navigating unfamiliar places, asking for help, and figuring out how to get from one place to another have always been the only sources of my anxiety.
Europe, especially Paris, felt like the ultimate test. The city is ancient, with winding streets and infrastructure that predates any modern concept of accessibility. I questioned how accessible it could realistically be. The answer surprised me far more than I expected.
I began this trip with one of my closest friends, someone who understands how I navigate the world and when I might need help, even though I value my independence deeply.
The first indication that this trip had great potential to go well came at the airport. Our flights on TAP Air Portugal had been booked separately, and we were not seated together. This can complicate required safety check-ins and assistance during the flight for both the flight crew and me. At check-in, an employee named Mohammed noticed the situation and moved our seats so we could sit together without being asked.
That small act set the tone. Across six flights, only twice were we seated apart. Again and again, people noticed what would make things easier and acted on it.
When we arrived in Paris, my anxiety returned. We had been awake for nearly 36 hours and, in our exhaustion, almost immediately got on the wrong metro train during a transfer. In that moment, we were convinced we would never understand the system. Since we had planned to rely on public transportation for most of our trip, that felt like a serious problem.
We eventually made it to our Airbnb, where a new challenge awaited. The staircase was steep, narrow, and uneven, so much so that my first thought was whether building codes existed at all. That first night felt overwhelming, but by the next day, something shifted.
We made a decision: we would learn the metro system instead of fearing it.
From that point forward, we had no issues. The accessibility features were everywhere, though often subtle. Every stop was clearly announced over speakers. Light-up displays showed exactly where we were and how long until the next stop. Buzzers sounded, and lights flashed before doors closed. Even the voices used for announcements differed depending on the direction of travel. Tactile bump dots lined the platform edges, making navigation safer and more intuitive.
As we became more comfortable, the anxiety I had carried for years began to fade.
We had been warned repeatedly about pickpocketing, but we never once felt unsafe. If anything, being someone with a visible disability made me more noticeable in a way that felt protective rather than vulnerable, which is often the opposite of how I feel in the US. People were aware of me, and that awareness often translated into consideration.
This sense of accessibility extended into major institutions. At the Louvre Museum, the Musée d’Orsay (our favorite), and Notre-Dame Cathedral, there were separate entrances or lines for visitors with disabilities. This is more significant than it may seem; rope queue lines are extremely difficult to detect with a cane, so having an alternative makes navigation far easier.
Many attractions offered free admission for visitors with disabilities and a companion, as well as reduced pricing for those under 25. Although websites often mentioned providing documentation, we were never once asked to show proof. In practice, accessibility was based on trust.
The city itself supported independent movement. Tactile paving was present at nearly every intersection and, importantly, was installed correctly, guiding pedestrians safely rather than into traffic, which is a common issue in the United States. Sidewalks were well-maintained, and street signals were consistent and predictable.
Our travels continued beyond Paris to Madrid, where we visited the Royal Palace of Madrid, and then to Valencia. Each destination reinforced what we had begun to learn: accessibility was embedded into everyday systems in ways that made travel feel manageable rather than intimidating.
One thing that stayed the same, Europeans might stare even more than Americans, which is comical because we saw more cane users there than I ever have in the US.
This trip changed more than my perception of Europe; it changed my perception of myself. I have never considered myself an anxious person, but mobility has always been an exception. This experience challenged that long-held belief and replaced it with something stronger: confidence.
Accessibility is not only about infrastructure. It is also about culture, about people who notice, who adapt, and who are willing to help without making it feel burdensome.
By the time I returned home, I was not just proud of the places I had visited. I was proud of how I moved through them. For the first time in a long time, that movement felt like freedom.
Now, I am about to take on the ever-challenging Busky, which is somehow more difficult than the Paris Metro.
