If There's a Loo, I'll Make Do--Usually!

"Everyone has his own Mount Everest to climb."

"Even the strongest warrior has an Achilles Heel."

These adages have rung wise and true over the ages. My Mount Everest, and yes, my Achilles Heel is the bathroom. Not to worry, I am not taking this post "to the toilet," so to speak, but I am referring to the fact that probably only 75 percent of public restrooms are wheelchair accessible. I haven't looked up the number, so please don't criticize my made-up statistics. Of course, new buildings all have accessible restrooms because of the Americans with Disabilities Act, but unless you live, work, go out, and die in the suburbs, or in retirement communities, you're bound to encounter old buildings that haven't adapted their restrooms.

I was reminded of this issue because of an interesting article in the New York Times the other day. The article, by Frank Bruni, a food critic of all things, is titled "When Accessibility Isn’t Hospitality." It discusses how many efforts to make restaurants and other venues in New York accessible are somewhat half-hearted. In other words, instead of just placing a ramp in front of the building, many restaurants require wheelchairs to go into the back door, through the kitchen, and up a freight elevator to get in. My experience in kitchens and freight elevators is a large and entertaining matter that deserves it's own post, which I promise will be forthcoming. Generally, I feel that if I can get in, even if it is through a maze that starts in the boiler room, I am satisfied. The most important thing is that I get in. Restrooms, on the other hand, are a whole other issue.

I spent this past summer in New York, and looking at all of the places I wanted to go (i.e. restaurants, bars, theaters, etc.), I would guess that perhaps 20 percent have accessible bathrooms. But I, Nora Wiles, am resourceful! I would never let something as trivial as a lack of restrooms prevent me from following the the party to all corners of the city.

Unfortunately, one night, I followed the party to the West Village. For those of you not familiar, the West Village is trendy, hip, fun, and very old. I went with some friends to Fiddlesticks. It was fun. We were drinking, laughing, frolicking, and generally having a good time. Then it hit me. All three drinks hit me at once, actually. I had to use the bathroom. IMMEDIATELY. Not to be crude, but anyone who's ever knocked back a beer or vodka tonic or two knows that using the bathroom is not optional when you've been drinking!

I grabbed my friend and told her my dilemma. The restroom at Fiddlesticks was down a flight of stairs--not an option. I am always willing to improvise in a dicey situation. Where there's a loo, I'll make do. Sadly, even my spunky persistence couldn't levitate me down fifteen stairs. "If we go outside, I am sure there is a place nearby that is accessible," I insisted.

Now, an insider's tip: the best option is obviously a restaurant next door that has an accessible bathroom. But if there is no such place, Starbucks actually has decent, single-room accessible bathrooms. And now that there's one on every corner, you'll always be within one block of a doable restroom.

Again, fortune was no friend of mine that night, since it happened to be around 1:00 a.m and all of the Starbucks were closed. Lucky for me, I had spotted a hospital across the street. Let me explain my usual train of thought:

1) Is the restroom where I am at accessible?
2) If not, do any of the restaurants next door have accessible restrooms?
3) If not, look for a Starbucks.
4) If there is no Starbucks, or it is closed, look for a hotel. [If you act like you're staying there, they usually have very nice, clean, and accessible public restrooms.]
5) If there is no other option, find a medical facility. Their mission is a healthy community. What are they going to do? Send a poor girl with a full bladder away?

There was no hotel, so I went to the emergency room and asked to use the restroom. At 1 in the morning in the West Village, the emergency room is a safe haven, a friendly common gathering place, a beacon of light in a dark, lonely city--if you're overdosing on drugs. Otherwise, it is a room full of people who are overdosing on drugs and their friends with drug-induced paranoia. Very pleasant.

When I was using the restroom a woman actually called into my stall (because I couldn't close it all the way since it was too small for my wheelchair) and asked if anybody was in there. A moment after I responded, "Yes! Somebody is in here," she threw the door open and looked in at me. "Oh, sorry," she mumbled. When she stumbled into the stall next to me, I could hear fiddling in her purse. A minute later, she sighed loudly with relief, as she did something which I suspect had little to do with using the bathroom. I'll leave it at that.

"Wow, Nora!" you must be thinking. "This is a gritty story for such a refined, classy girl like you." You're right. The world has hardened me. Taking me to such places as seedy emergency rooms in the middle of the night.

The takeaway: Restaurants, bars, places of fun, enjoyment, and drink...I beg of you! Please make your restrooms accessible!

Oh, believe me, though. This won't stop me. It might be a long, arduous, excruciating, and - er - "urgent" climb up that mountain, but I'm determined to lift every rock to find accessible pit stops anywhere I can so that I, and all of the others in my predicament, can enjoy city nightlife to its fullest.