Traveling Blind

So we bought combination rail and bus passes and discovered that the trains were more cramped, more closed-in, and more impervious to conversation than the buses. Soon, we chose only bus travel and Mick, our driver from Tralee to Limerick, rewarded the decision. He made us sit behind him and narrated the trip in the poetic manner that only an Irishman can do.

He described people on the bus and pointed out the "undulatin' hills." We were instantly converted. Ever since, buses have served us well, making us "travelers," some might say, in touch with the people, not merely "tourists," in touch with the sights. By that definition, being a "tourist" is impossible for me. I have been blind since the age of 26, from mysterious retinal hemorrhages that began when I was 24.

Even with Bob's English-professor narration, I would still love to see the Brandenburg Gate, the canals, the paintings in Amsterdam's museums. But I've been blind so long that I feel few yearnings for my visual life of twenty-six years. And I'd rather travel blind than never travel again. Fortunately, my remaining senses provide sufficient information and enjoyment.

At tourist attractions on this trip, I used my hands, molesting everything they could reach. Through my size-10 feet I perceived the lumpy, narrow, quaint streets of Brussels, the buildings so close they brushed my arm. Neither Brussels nor the other cities were festooned with litter, something I experienced to my ankles in the States. Because I felt more of a breeze and more openness on Berlin's streets, I concluded that they were wide. Pedestrians bustled by, jostling me, giving the impression of purpose, prosperity. As I stepped on or off subways or escalators, friendly hands touched my elbow, giving unobtrusive support. The hotels were cozy, creaky places with small rooms and baths, sporting showers that required a tall person like me to squat low in order to bathe the upper half. The elevators barely accommodated two backpack-wearing travelers, so we inhaled and plunged in, knowing an exhalation would trap us forever.

In every city, I used my posh hearing aids to discern echoes from my footsteps and visualize widths of streets and heights of buildings. Audiotapes describing the exhibits in art- and other museums increased my attention-span exponentially. Berliners especially, were easy to engage in conversation. They saw Bob studying a map and approached, seizing the opportunity to practice their English. Still, they seemed pleased to let him use his German. The multiple languages reverberating around mostly- monolingual-me were music. The only sad notes were appeals from beggars in Brussels, mostly in Arabic, and the requests by the German homeless to buy magazines, the legal form of begging.

The toots of boats helped me picture canals. The change in the sound of my footsteps, as I stepped from concrete paths to wooden boardwalks, combined with clangs of larger boats, told me I was at a harbor. My nose careened through Brussels, absorbing the rich, deep aroma of chocolate, through Berlin, with wurst and mustard smells wafting from outdoor venders. Open-air markets in briskly cold, sunny weather offered fragrant breads and baked goods, falafels and other Middle Eastern fare. As I walked along Hamburg's and Amsterdam's canals, I took in the scent of damp earth, wood, and water. The only smell that turned my nose back to the United States was the stench of cigarette smoke, indoors and out.