Leaving home is an act that costs a disabled person tremendous effort because there is so much to think about: architectural and sensory barriers, the availability of parking and services, who can accompany us, but above all, being ready to face potential prejudice.
Going to a restaurant can be a difficult experience: first, you have to decide to face the curious stares of strangers, and then you have to choose your spot with extreme care. Sometimes choosing the wrong spot means running headlong into stereotypes, prejudice, and cruelty—and finding yourself eating in the most out-of-the-way corners, assuming you're accepted at all.
The first time this happened, I was on vacation in Paris with my parents in the early 2000s. We went back to a restaurant where we'd eaten before, but this time I arrived in my wheelchair. We'd just finished a long tour of the city, and to keep from getting too tired, I was using my trusty four wheels. The awkwardness was palpable from the start—the staff fumbling over who was responsible for finding us a table. We waited for quite a while until a rather rude waiter squeezed us into a table in a hallway, inconvenient for them but a world away from where we'd sat on our previous visits, when I wasn't in a chair. Strange, isn't it? Apparently when I sit in a regular chair, my disability vanishes—better than a magic wand.
The other incident I remember clearly happened during my first vacation with the man who would become my husband. We were at the beach, and at lunch we were looking for a place to eat. We found a beachfront spot like any other—and it was empty. Yet we were told there was no room for us. Not even for us. We swallowed hard and looked elsewhere.
What I learned from these experiences, once the sting faded, is that some people simply aren't ready to accept our presence anywhere except in medical settings or within family. But our desire to live is stronger than any barrier, stronger than any prejudice.