By Maureen Rawlings
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Barriers in a city are not always made of concrete, stairs or narrow doorways. At times, a limit is simply being the only person in a crowd who does not know what is happening.
Clearly, something is wrong. Around me, the mood has shifted. People are suddenly standing up, bags are being lifted from the floor. A woman who had been scrolling through her phone is hurrying towards the stairs and, across the platform, another group starts moving in the opposite direction. I look at the departure board. Nothing has changed, but it seems an announcement has been made. Everyone else heard it and, for a few moments, I am standing on a platform where everyone seems to know something I don’t.
This is one of the things about travelling while Deaf that rarely appears in a guidebook. Yes, the station and train were accessible and I was able to purchase my ticket without a problem. But access is not only about whether I can enter a space or use a service. I also need the information that allows me to understand what is happening and decide what to do next. I don’t want a different experience from everyone else. I simply want to have the same information at the same time others receive it. That desire follows me beyond the station. It can surface in a hotel, a restaurant, museum or any other place where something as simple as having to ask a question can determine how independently I move through the day.
I’m in my hotel room and I’ve got a question. The note on the bedside table says For assistance, please call. Really? This is the only communication method they decided everyone must use! Give me a text number, let me use WhatsApp, give me an online chat, let me send a message through the hotel app. Then I can solve my own problem and get on with my day. That is what good access should be. Not assistance – independence! And independence is not only about solving problems when they arise. It is also about having the freedom to change plans, follow an impulse and make decisions in the moment, just like any other traveller.
Understandably, spontaneity is part of a travel experience. You may walk down a street because something catches your eye. Someone tells you about a gallery you hadn’t heard of before and you decide to visit, or you pass by a museum and impulsively pop in. That’s the way spontaneity works. As a Deaf person, however, I have many things to consider when attempting to be spontaneous. These thoughts go through my head: if I dare to venture in, I wonder . . . is the tour signed, and if yes, what sign language is used? Is the film captioned, should I have booked an interpreter? If yes, can I find one on the museum’s website? And many other questions . . . suddenly, a simple decision has become research.
I understand that an interpreter cannot be waiting around every corner in every city and that some services need to be arranged in advance. But what I do notice is how often accessibility depends on my having predicted what I would want to do before I arrived. There is a wonderful freedom in waking up in a city and not knowing exactly where the day will take you. Hearing people get to experience this. I want some of that freedom too.
If the film is captioned permanently then I won’t need to ask or be worried. Schedule signed tours regularly and I can choose one. Tell me clearly online what is available and I can decide whether it works for me. Accessibility is sometimes as simple as removing the need for a conversation before I am allowed to have the experience.
I love museums but they can be strange places when you are Deaf. Sometimes I enter an exhibition and there, in the middle of the room, is a film. People are gathered around it. They laugh, react and learn something. Me? I only watch images because, alas, there are no captions. Suddenly an exhibition I paid the same price to enter has become partly unavailable to me. Certainly, I can see the art, objects and photographs. But somewhere inside that uncaptioned film is part of the story everyone else is being told. That is what frustrates me about the way accessibility is sometimes measured. I entered the building successfully, but entering was never the reason I came. I came for the story.
The story of a city is not only found in museums. It is also in cafés, restaurants, markets and the ordinary exchanges that make a place feel alive. Restaurants run on dozens of small conversations we barely notice until we are the one struggling to follow them. Usually, I have to signal first that I am Deaf. Sometimes I point to my ear and say it. Sometimes I sign it, type it into my phone or simply indicate that I need the person to face me. How I communicate that can depend on the situation. Perhaps the room is too dark for me to see someone’s face clearly. Or the server keeps speaking while looking down at the till. I do not expect every waiter to know sign language. That would be an unrealistic expectation but what makes the difference is awareness and willingness. Now that I’ve told you I’m Deaf, face me. Ask me what works, write it down, type it into a phone. Then we can move on. No fuss and no awkward performance in which everybody becomes uncomfortable because communication has not happened in the usual way.
Those small encounters can determine how welcome a place feels. Not because everyone gets everything right, but because when the communication method you’re used to does not work, you’re willing to try another way.
One of the best things a city I want to visit can give me is information. Not inspirational promises about being “accessible.” Give me actual information. Tell me, then let me decide. That is important. Good accessibility information does not tell me where I should go. It gives me enough information so I can decide where I want to go. When that information is missing, I have to become my own researcher. I have to email the hotel, then the museum, the tour company and the theatre. I wait for replies and most likely, I have to explain what I need again, and again. By the time I know whether the city works for me, I have already done considerably more work than another traveller making the same trip.
Most of the time, missing information is irritating. During an emergency, it can be something else entirely and I think about that when I stay in hotels. Would I know if the fire alarm went off while I was asleep? I think about it in train stations. If everyone had to leave quickly, would the instruction appear somewhere I could see it? I think about it when I arrive in a country where I do not know the emergency systems. Can I text for help? Will an alert reach my phone? Will the instructions be visual? These are not the things I want to think about while planning a holiday. I would much rather think about dinner.
If I get lost while exploring, I want it to be because I followed an interesting street and forgot to check the map. I want to wonder whether I ordered the right dish, whether I have time for one more museum, whether that little lane leads somewhere worth exploring or whether I should stay where I am and watch the sunset. Those are the problems I want . . . travel problems. I certainly don’t want to stand on a railway platform trying to understand why everyone else is leaving and I don’t want every decision to depend on something I have arranged three days ago. I want to be spontaneous too.
For me, that is where the idea of a more accessible city becomes very real. It is not about removing every possible difficulty, but about reducing the number of times I have to stop, ask, wait or work around something that others barely notice.
In reality, a city without limits may never exist. There will always be barriers and situations nobody predicted. But getting closer to limitless begins with something very simple: just let the information reach me so I can make my own decisions. Let me change my plans and participate without having to ask permission first. And then let me get on with the reason I’m here . . .to experience the city.