The cane, the walker, and the dog

Yesterday after lunch I was struggling with the restaurant doors so I could leave (Mary had gone to get the car), when one of the wait staff rushed to help me, apologetic because he’d been at the other end of the restaurant when he saw me. He told me his grandmother is in a wheelchair and he’s recently been taking her around. He was surprised at how hard it is to go a lot of places, though he said I probably already knew that. We chatted for a moment, and I thanked him. I appreciated his open friendliness more than I can say.

Truly, that’s the reaction my walker elicits from most people—genuine courtesy and caring, a willingness to open doors and wait patiently for me, a smile, a friendly word of reassurance. Most people are genuinely good, and I’m more convinced of it every day.

But I’ve had some experiences that made me think wait staff in some restaurants don’t want the reputation of their establishment touched by the handicapped. It’s not chi chi or whatever. Recently friend Nancy and I went to an upscale wine bar. She, who had a knee replacement yesterday, was on a cane and walked with obvious difficulty and pain. I was on my walker. Next day she emailed me that she was still chuckling over the dismayed looks that greeted us when we entered, and I recalled that our waiter was more than a bit patronizing—when he paid attention to us.

One night not long before that I went to a new Mexican place at Clearfork, the now “place to be” in West Fort Worth, with Subie and Phil. While Subie parked the car, Phil and I went in, me on the walker and he with Porter, his seeing-eye dog. Again, those astounded looks on the staff faces. I explained that we had a reservation. After a moment’s confusion, they said, “Here take this table.” It was one right next to the door and in the bar area rather than the main dining section. And it was noisy.

Subie has more chutzpah than I. She immediately announced it was unacceptable and sought out a staff person, who said, “Well, if you’d had a reservation.” Subie held firm and told her we did. Eventually we were moved to the main dining area, where carpet softened the sound. Subie said matter-of-factly, “It’s the dog. Happens all the time.” That “troublesome” dog, Porter, crawled under the table, and you’d never have known he was there the whole meal.

Those two incidents, so different from the reception I’m used to, stuck in my mind. I’m not sure what to make of them, except that maybe restaurants ought to do a lot better about giving their staffs sensitivity training. I have been with Subie and Phil when hostesses tried to turn them away because of the dog, apparently unaware of the ADA rules.

There was the time, however, that Subie and Phil got up and left Pacific Table without giving me my walker. The host, who was standing nearby, said, “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of you.” I asked if they’d feed me, and he said for sure. Of course, Subie and Phil barely made it to the door before they had that “Oops” moment. But it shows some restaurant staff have their hearts and heads in the right places.

I do keep a list of places I won’t go again and won’t recommend to friends. And Jordan really wants to write a blog—well, dictate it to me—about the lack of accessibility in Fort Worth. Our pet peeve: a restaurant which has a nice, long ramp—of herringbone brick. I challenge you to take a walker up a herringbone brick walkway. And in a lot of restaurants, the restrooms are not accessible.

Seeing the world from behind a walker gives you a whole new vision. I’m not crying “Poor me.” Far from it. I lead a full and active life, with my walker. But I think the world could do a lot better.