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.
I approached Venice strategically. Instead of staying deep within the maze of narrow streets and bridges, I booked my stay at the Palazzo Veneziano hotel along the outer edge of the island, sitting directly on the waterfront facing the Giudecca Canal and a short walk from the Gallerie dell’Accademia. It was a small but critical decision—one that meant I could reach my hotel directly from the train station with a single vaporetto (or water bus) ride, without navigating multiple transfers or unknown barriers.
For wheelchair users, travel is often about reducing friction before it begins. Fewer connections. Clearer routes. Contingency built into every decision. My hotel room was on the ground floor, opening directly onto a tiny canal. Each morning, I woke to the sound of church bells and the gentle slap of a rare small boat passing by. The air smelled of damp stone and salt. Outside my window, the Chiesa di Ognissanti stood quietly across the canal behind gates.
Vaporetti (waterbuses) offer a more accessible way to explore Venice than the often unpredictable maze of streets.
Photo by Pauli Nie/Unsplash
At first glance, Venice feels impossible. A city suspended on water, stitched together by bridges that seem to rise at every turn. But like any place, it has its own internal logic; you just have to learn how to move with it.
The vaporetti were all accessible to me and became my anchor. Instead of trying to force my way through every alley or over every bridge, I moved through Venice by water, hopping on and off along the Grand Canal and the outer edges of the city.
From there, I explored on land, sometimes freely, sometimes with limits. Around the major landmarks, I found temporary ramps placed over bridges, powerful interventions that opened entire sections of the city. Larger pedestrian corridors, especially near St. Mark’s Square, were easier to navigate than I had expected.
And then there were passages where the city simply said no. A narrow street that ended in a staircase, a stepped bridge with no alternative route, or a path that required turning around.
But I stopped thinking of these as failures. Every blocked bridge forced a turn toward something unplanned. Discovery by necessity. I discovered a tucked-away artisan shop, a quiet café off the main flow, and a stretch of canal so still it felt untouched.
For wheelchair users, Venice’s unique geography requires some additional planning, but it can also reward those willing to get lost.
Photo by AXP Photography/Pexels
One of the most unexpected experiences happened at the Doge’s Palace. A staff member called me forward. “Come,” he said, unlocking a narrow door I hadn’t noticed. We moved through service corridors, spaces built for function, not spectacle. Bare stone. Lower ceilings. Exposed beams that had supported the palace for centuries. The architecture beneath the architecture. In those passages, I saw rooms most visitors never encounter, passed through doorways designed for servants and officials, not crowds.
Accessibility, in this case, didn’t just grant entry, it reshaped the experience entirely. I was seeing Venice from a different vantage point.
So what did Venice teach me? Venice is not fully accessible. It likely never will be, not in the way we define accessibility in newer cities. But that’s not the whole story.
What I found instead was a city that required negotiation but also rewarded it. A place where beauty and accessibility weren’t mutually exclusive but in constant conversation with one another. Where effort didn’t diminish the experience, it deepened it.
Travel, at its best, asks something of you. Venice reminded me that access doesn’t have to mean perfection. It has to mean possibility. And that sometimes, the places we’re told are not for us are exactly the ones that stay with us the longest.
I would go back in a heartbeat.
