For as long as I can remember, Venice existed in my imagination as both a dream and a paradox. It was the place my grandmother loved, immortalized in delicate pieces of Murano glass, in paintings that hung on her walls, in the quiet stories she recounted about its beauty. But it was also the place people told me, again and again, wasn’t for me. Too many bridges. Too many stairs. Not worth the effort.
As a wheelchair user, you learn to listen to those warnings, but you also learn when to ignore them. So when Florence became one of the stops on my first trip to Italy, I decided to keep going. I boarded a train and made my way to Venice, not entirely sure what would be waiting for me when I arrived, only that I needed to see it for myself.
