I once believed my body was my prison. For four years, I lived practically immobile while awaiting surgery for juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. Walking through life—when I could walk at all—made travel seem like a fantasy, especially solo travel.
But once my health improved and the pandemic restrictions lifted, I booked a flight to Italy for five weeks, where I found myself again. I didn’t have clarity on what I wanted until those weeks alone in historically rich places allowed me to rediscover my capabilities. Here’s what I learned along the way.
The first week is always the hardest
Rome is beautiful, but it’s built on hills with cobblestone streets that are hell on bad knees and two hip replacements. I didn’t speak the language well, and I was pushing myself to walk.
That first week, I thought often about coming home early and cried several nights, questioning everything about my decision to travel by myself.
But around day four, I realized that I needed to give myself more grace. Could I push through the pain to go out to eat? Sure. Would my knees punish me for it later? Absolutely. Because of this, I started taking cabs everywhere to spare my knees the extra punishment.
Italy’s ancient streets taught me the most important lesson: Pain and possibility can coexist. With all its limitations, my body is still capable of carrying me to extraordinary places. But it’s also okay to work within your body’s limitations. It can be tempting to see as much as possible and really push yourself, but at the end of the day, a vacation is supposed to be relaxing—and that’s exactly what I wanted.
“Accessible” doesn’t mean the same thing everywhere
I was genuinely shocked by how inaccessible many parts of Rome were. For example, the Palazzo Colonna is stunning, but you have to climb a set of curved stairs to reach it, and the disability entrance is hidden on a side street with no clear signs or close ticketing office.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only spot in Rome where I struggled. These accessibility issues became a pattern: “accessible” museums with unmarked elevators, entrances with stairs, and areas you couldn’t reach in a wheelchair or with mobility aids.
For anyone with mobility issues considering a trip to Italy, I highly recommend reading through online forums and finding blogs about accessible travel before leaving to avoid the trouble I ran into.
Italy’s train system is difficult to navigate
Yes, Italy’s train stations are technically accessible, but the accessible train car is often in the middle of the train or at the far end of the platform. The language barrier made it worse—good luck asking about accommodations when most rail staff speak limited English.
I stayed by the train station in Florence, which was terrific because it’s central for food options and lets you get to nearby towns easily. But I had to leave about 30 minutes early to get through the train station each way. The station isn’t large, but getting to the right cabin took me a while.
Eventually, I scrapped my train plans and instead took a ride service to get from one area to the other. It was expensive—about $500 per leg—but I don’t regret it. Sometimes, you have to do what keeps you moving forward, even if it costs more.
Florence was better for accessibility overall. The Uffizi Gallery had clear, accessible entrances and staff who seemed to care about helping, as well as walkers with seats. After Rome, this felt like a luxury.
I found solutions to seemingly unsolvable problems
Before the trip, I had legitimate concerns: keeping medication refrigerated, carrying two suitcases, getting those suitcases onto train platforms and avoiding pickpockets. I handled each methodically.
The pickpocket issue was easily rectified—I bought a purse with a security mesh. It’s one of my favorite travel items I’ve ever purchased. I also got two hard shell carry-on rollers because they use Hinomoto wheels, which are known for being very smooth and easy to roll. If you’re doing a long solo trip with a disability, I wouldn’t skimp on luggage—you need to be able to get your stuff around easily.
My medication worried me most because it was a long flight. Even in business class, the best the airline could do to help was give me ice throughout the flight, but that doesn’t keep it temperature-controlled. Instead, I bought a portable insulin fridge and stayed near electrical outlets in the airport to keep it charged. I also kept it plugged in on the plane the entire time. The flight staff was accommodating and didn’t make me unplug it at takeoff or touch down.
My body was stronger than I’d expected
I realized on this trip that my body could do much more than I’d given it credit for. Before Italy, walking for more than an hour seemed impossible. But during the trip, I regularly moved for 6–8 hours daily. Yes, I paid for it with pain. Every morning, I’d swallow my medications and pick up my canes, and by afternoon, my joints were screaming. But I kept going.
I had to sit down a lot more than other people, but one nifty device—a telescoping stool—made it a lot easier for me to do that, no matter whether the attraction I was visiting had seats or not. My telescoping stool looks like a giant hockey puck, but it extends into a stool that you can bring anywhere. This was especially helpful while I was waiting in line since the queues can sometimes be half an hour long during peak season, and there’s not always a separate disability line.
Italy taught me about what I’m capable of
For others with physical limitations who dream of travel, it’s not about whether you can—it’s simply about finding out how you can. When I travel solo now, I start researching up to six months beforehand about attractions, accessible entrances and everything else I might need to know.
Since coming home from that first solo trip, I’ve completely rethought what I’m capable of. I don’t have to be so afraid of on-sites or other things I’d avoided up to that point. Yes, there are things I can’t do—but I’ve learned that I’m way more capable than I’d thought.
Photo by kwanchai.c/Shutterstock.com
