Best of Me: How Climbing The Acropolis Helped Me Step Into My Power
- Themi Alexandra
- Jun 16
- 6 min read
In one of my early blogs from Athens I used the hashtag #DisabledFemaleSoloTravel for the first time and noticed it had less than 100 posts. I remember thinking, “Wow that's not a lot,” and moving on. It wasn’t until I climbed the Acropolis recently that I felt how rare that combination of four words really is.
Sometime during week three I noticed I was using my cane less and traveling familiar routes without it which felt really empowering. By week four I had adopted the local approach to sidestreets: walking in the street versus the sidewalk. The street is paved and much easier to navigate than the uneven minefield of the marble sidewalk. I never walk with headphones so my ears are open to the sounds of traffic. I can tell the difference between the sound of a bus, a car, and a scooter. When I hear one coming I move between parked cars and let it pass.
My body confidence was at an all-time high as I walked into week four! With this boost of confidence I booked my ticket to the Acropolis. For the first time in decades the Acropolis is scaffolding free and I wanted to get a clean look at the architectural masterpiece of balance.
I’ve climbed the Acropolis before but each time with a helping hand. I felt secure that I could conquer the high city with the help of my cane.
I booked a 6 PM ticket in the hope that early evening would be cooler than daytime hours. It was still warm but not intolerable as I began my ascent. The initial climb felt very manageable and my optimism propelled me forward. I stopped to catch my breath and enjoy the view at the first lookout point.
After that first stop things changed quickly. From here on out it was a series of staircases without railings (one of my worst nightmares). I took them slowly and with gratitude for my cane for the added stability and support. At the next stopping point I found myself looking straight up towards pieces of the city in the sky.
A sequence of steep, marble, railing-free, stairs stood between me and the Parthenon, the Propylaea, and the rest of these world famous architectural achievements. As I looked up, the panic in my veins was immediate. My body knew that my safety was more important than any monument, no matter how famous. The decision to stop was easy.
Another instantaneous decision was to focus on how far I got instead of dwell on the path I didn’t feel comfortable taking. I had a stranger take my picture where I proudly stood to mark how far I got within my comfort zone.
I descended down in relief. I was honoring my body and keeping it safe by operating within my ability. I was proud of my decision and myself for how far I have come in my journey of disability acceptance, which is one I literally walk daily. A previous version of me might have stubbornly tried to go all the way to prove my ability or lack of limitations.
Present me is done trying to pass as able bodied. Present me has not only accepted my disability and its limitations but claims them and embraces them in ways I never have before.
I was almost done, the exit visible in my line of sight, when I heard someone behind me exclaim “Jesus Christ!” followed by a sudden thud. A seemingly able bodied man had fallen hard. It was like putting an exclamation point on my experience. I fall more often than I like. My proclivity for falling is a combination of poor balance and a scissors gait that can sometimes lead to tripping over my own feet. I take my falls hard. I internalize them as disabled me failures. Hearing a stranger fall reminded me that everyone falls. And sometimes they’re just that, a moment of surprise when anyone can be caught off balance.
At the exit I stopped to take a picture. If I hadn’t stopped I wouldn’t have seen a fellow traveler with forearm crutches get on a golf cart with the ISA - International Symbol for Access - or the stick figure in a wheelchair you usually see in blue and white on it. She and her companion drove past before I could ask questions, or say “take me with you!”
I was shaking my head. Such is life that I see accessible options on the way out, AFTER I battled so many stairs. I started following more exit signs, when I saw the ISA again! This time with an arrow pointing to Elevator Access. There’s an elevator at the Acropolis?! I had no idea. When I bought my ticket online there were two options: EU and non-EU resident. I didn’t think to look for accessible options at the time of purchase.
I was kicking myself the whole way home for not doing research before buying my ticket. Telling myself a savvier disabled person would have done their homework. My reactive response was to put the miss on me: I should have done more. It wasn’t until the day after when I posted a story that I realized I needed to re-wire my thinking. Accessibility goes both ways. Yes, I could have researched, but the ticket sites can also do a better job of highlighting accessible options.
Then there’s the voice that questions if I’m disabled enough to be seeking these accommodations. Just last year I went to see an adult CP specialist who told me “I don’t present sitting down,” which felt like an accusation. I wanted to say I'm no doctor but my CP impacts my mobility and I’m not moving. But I bit my tongue and was on the offensive for the rest of the visit.
Truth is it has taken me years to own my disability. My Remote Year experience in my late 30s opened my eyes to traveling with a disability. Prior to RY I did not notice my disability on the road either because it wasn’t an issue or I was traveling with a helping hand, usually my dad’s, to ensure I made it up the stairs or down an incline. RY was the first time I felt othered and excluded. Every month there were curated activities for my Ohana and me. Every month there was a hike. Every month I didn’t go.
Our first month in Cape Town I remember seeing a flyer in our building for an early morning Lion’s Head Mountain hike. I wanted to go so badly (google Lion’s Head and you’ll see why) but I decided to sit it out and see how the others handled the hike. Afterward my Ohana shared how difficult it was, so steep at certain points that they used chains to ascend. Hearing this I knew I made the right choice. That first month I didn’t know anyone well enough to feel comfortable asking for help. In the months that followed my Ohana would have gladly lent a hand, but I never wanted anyone to have to carry the responsibility of my safety. My rule was I wouldn’t do the activity if I wasn’t comfortable doing it on my own.
We were ten months in before I asked for accommodations again after my request was denied in Marrakech (see Cover Girl). There was a group horseback riding trip in Córdoba through the Argentine countryside. I’ve never ridden a horse and I would love to try. Yet I questioned my balance and ability to get on and off, so I asked if I could ride alongside them on a bike (something I knew I could do). I got one better than a bike, an ATV with a canopy that ended up being clutch since it rained all day. I drove dry while my Ohana rode in the rain. Remote Year was critical in changing my relationship to travel and my identity as a disabled traveler.
In the years since RY I have done a lot of work on my disabled identity and acceptance. So by the time I did the Acropolis I was a more confident me. I am a full fledged disabled female solo traveler. When I used the hashtag that first time it made me realize how few women like me there are (of those sharing their adventures on Instagram, less than 100 posts worth).
When I went to use it on my Acropolis post it made me realize I AM unique. I was raised not to boast. I even lost a grade school election by one vote because I didn’t vote for myself. As women we are conditioned to dim our light. I left those pieces of me behind, relics of the past just like the stones around me.
After my experience at the Acropolis I am done downplaying. This trip and these experiences as a disabled female solo traveler make me realize my power. And I have news for you, I am damn proud of my power. There aren’t many disabled female solo travelers. And there is no other me. I finally understand what it means to stand in my singularity.
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