Improvising access to the bathroom (left)

Rough Crossing
By Stan Morse
March 26, 1998

The ocean-liner-sized ship taking me from Palermo to Genoa is called "Fantastic", which ironically is the opposite of the weather. I board at 7:30 p.m. with the wind howling, driving waves like thunderclaps against the harbor's breakwater.

My cabin is a pleasant surprise -- perfectly designed for wheelchairs. A fully accessible bathroom, including a fold-down shower seat, and plenty of room to maneuver up to either bunk.

When I booked, I paid for an interior cabin. But somehow, I've been given an outside cabin. Maybe all four "wheelchair" cabins are outside cabins? I'm not complaining; I've got a room with a view.

The porter puts my bags down, then says: "This is a good cabin for tonight. It will be a rough crossing."

"How's that?"

He explains that a cabin in this part of the ship will experience less movement than will cabins in other parts of the ship.

I ponder what "rough crossing" means as I unpack the necessities, then brush my teeth. I'm tempted to do a quick walkabout and see what the ship offers for entertainment. But I'm beat. My "Catania Crud" headcold and the four-hour train trip across Sicily have left me exhausted. This will be my first experience on an ocean vessel. I want to be asleep before the ship leaves at 10:00 p.m., and snooze through the storm.

Well . . . maybe.

I'm dozing by the time we get underway. I dream about being tossed around the cabin, then come fully awake and realize it's not just a dream. I'm not being thrown out of my bunk, but the ship is rolling from side to side, and I'm shifting around like a loose sack of potatoes in the back of a moving pickup. Fortunately, my bunk is aligned cross-wise to the keel, with my feet towards port. At least I'm not being rolled sideways in the narrow bunk. But I feel like a human teeter-totter.

I lie in the dark, trying to decide whether I like the rocking, or whether it will make me nauseous. After half an hour my stomach remains calm; I decide the rocking isn't unpleasant, and fall asleep, this time without dreaming.

By morning, we have left the storm. Half-way up the Italian coast, the waves are tame.

I explore the ship, but find little of interest. There is a disco and a live piano bar, but both are now closed. The "casino" turns out to be a few slot machines and video games, and the swimming pool is drained this early in the season. I eat a light lunch and return to my room for a nap. My sinuses are plugged, and I'm hoping they'll clear up soon. I don't want to be hampered by a cold for the balance of my European travel.

Because of last night's storm we arrive in Genoa two hours late, at 8:00 p.m. The city lights are strung-out against the steep hills rising from the harbor. It's tough terrain for wheelchairs, and I'm glad I'll be here for only one night.

Outside, a chill wind has arisen. I sit in the dark on the pier with a small group of fellow passengers, watching cars and trucks come off the ship, waiting for a cab. A cab finally arrives after 15 minutes of goosebumps and raised collar. We zig-zag up the hill and quickly arrive at a quaint hotel on a side street. It has a nice lobby with lots of marble, clean, and a level entry that seems promising.

This hotel was marked with a handicapped-accessible symbol in the travel agent's book, but I've learned that can mean almost anything. It turns out to be anything but "accessible". The "crackerbox" elevator is too small for my wheelchair. To go upstairs I must transfer onto an office chair, while the manager carries my wheelchair up the stairs and meets me on the second floor, where I transfer back into my wheelchair.

The bathroom door is too narrow. After a quick assessment of the options, I have the manager put a side-chair just inside the bathroom door, so I can transfer onto it and "hop/scoot" around the bathroom. It's crude, but workable. And besides, the manager and his assistant are doting over me like concerned uncles, assuring me they will come running if I have a problem. Once again, the lesson of allowing others to help me is hammered home. I'll be okay.

My improvisation of bathroom chairs works fine. I bathe, then hit the sack. I've got to rise early to catch a train for Cannes, France.