🧑🦽➡️🇲🇽 Arrival in Mexico City – Part One: The Rough Night
We landed in Mexico City after a five-hour day flight from New York. By the time we arrived, it was already dark, and exhaustion mixed with physical pain, excitement, and worry, all tangled together. A driver arranged by our Airbnb host was waiting for us outside.
The flight itself had been unexpectedly smooth. A kind United employee upgraded us to the front row, which made those scary five hours much easier. For someone with MS, those front seats make a huge difference.
So we landed, we were okay, but here it comes.
✈️ The Most Stressful Few Minutes
Before each flight, we prepare the wheelchair carefully. We attach clear signs with icons and short instructions on how to lock and unlock the wheels. There is a small lever on both sides near the wheels, the ground crew needs to use it to block and unblock the chair before loading it into the hold.
When we depart from New York, I usually explain and demonstrate everything directly to the ground crew as they take the chair down the mobile stairs near the airplane door (the set of movable stairs used to transport wheelchairs and trolleys to the tarmac). But on arrival, I have no way of communicating with whoever brings the chair back up. It is always the most nerve-wracking moment, will they read the signs, or will they improvise?
This time, my worry was justified.
The person retrieving the wheelchair did not bother. It was dark and noisy, and I guess he was under pressure to bring all the baby strollers and wheelchairs up to the airplane door as fast as possible. Because the chair was locked, he tried to push it, and then lift it, essentially carrying 38 kilos, through a narrow service door that connects the mobile stairs to the jet bridge (the enclosed tunnel passengers use to leave the plane).
And this all happened exactly as we were stepping out of the aircraft, for me, the hardest part of the entire journey. After more than five hours of sitting, my legs are weak, super stiff, painfully numb, and sometimes shaking involuntarily. I use my walking stick in one hand, and with the other I hold on to anything stable I can find. Iza cannot help, both her hands are full with luggage, backpacks, jackets, and the camera. Yes, I should have waited in my seat for her to come get me, but I had already started moving and there was no way back with a hundred people behind me.
People behind us are waiting, staring, at least in my mind. It is a tense moment every time, and the challenge is huge, to not fall when all eyes are on you. A few real minutes of horror.
Just as I finally manage to step out of the plane without collapsing, I look up, and there he is. The ground crew worker is struggling with the wheelchair, tilting it at odd angles, trying to shove it through the narrow doorway. The scene has that horrible mix of panic and helplessness, watching something precious handled the wrong way, just out of reach.
Iza reacts instantly. She drops everything, our camera bag, backpacks, jackets, right there on the floor of the jet bridge as passengers stream past, and rushes toward him. She goes out to the mobile stairs platform, it is narrow and dark and windy, and the engine roars deafeningly, and she removes one wheel with practiced precision. Only then can they fit it through the door.
Around us, passengers and crew are staring, some trying to give advice, others looking worried. It is loud, chaotic, and in my tired state, the whole scene feels surreal, like a slow-motion disaster narrowly avoided. But I knew it would be okay.
Thankfully, the chair is intact.
☕ Reassembling Ourselves
A United employee pushes me in my wheelchair (without battery or joystick) through the terminal, since we cannot reassemble it in that chaos. The chair is on manual mode. She takes me through passport control and into the arrivals hall.
At Starbucks, we stop for 25 minutes to breathe, drink something cold, use the bathroom (finally, after six hours of holding it), and slowly reassemble the wheelchair. It is a delicate process, screws, a hex key, everything in the right order, but we have done it many times before.
Our driver waits a bit impatiently, he is paying for airport parking. But once I explain and prepay for the ride with a tip, he relaxes. He has brought a large vehicle, which is exactly what we need. Without disassembling anything, he simply lifts the wheelchair into the back. It is heavy, but he handles it easily.
🚐 Through the Night
The ride through Mexico City is quiet. Streetlights pass by. Bundles of hanging wires cross the streets, old buildings line the avenues, the urban night slowly turning into older neighborhoods.
We enter Condesa, a neighborhood with leafy boulevards and big old trees. Neon signs glow softly from cafés. The atmosphere is strange and unfamiliar, I have never been anywhere quite like this.
We arrive at our street, Avenida Amsterdam. Enormous trees arch overhead. In the dark, the architecture and the lush plantings create a moody, almost cinematic scene. It should have been magical. But right now, confusion, unknowns, and fatigue are overwhelming. I do not know what to think, it all looks a bit intimidating.
The driver cannot find the exact location, the gates are closed, and it is dark. After a few calls and some confusion, we finally find the entrance. He leaves, and we are left outside with our luggage and the chair, tired, but my adrenaline is skyrocketing.
Which, for me, means more power in my legs and better control over my limbs. A strange but welcome boost.
🏠 First Impressions
There are two small steps at the entrance. Normally manageable, but at this hour, after everything, they make me mad.
A new drama begins.
The elevator is a miniature box. My wheelchair does not fit. I try to enter carefully, but the rear shell is completely outside. A moment of deep frustration.
It is just one flight of stairs, but we cannot carry the wheelchair that far. I try again. My heart is pumping. And again.
My adrenaline is high, and I am completely focused. With fine, precise joystick movements, I manage to turn, pivot, and slowly fit the rear wheel inside, maneuvering with zero margins.
I am in. It works.
We struggle with the keys for a long minute before finally opening the door.
The apartment itself looks nice, but the little things start adding up. There is no kettle, and I need hot water for a bottle to ease my foot pain at night. The stove has no lighter or matches, so we cannot boil water in a pot either. I get waves of anger.
I have no walker, it is impossible to travel with one, so moving inside the apartment is hard. At first, I have to wait for Iza for almost every move, especially in an unfamiliar space. Gradually, I learn the layout. With my walking stick and by holding onto furniture and walls, I start moving around. Every movement is calculated.
My first voyage, from the living room to the toilet. I could ask Iza for help, but she is busy unpacking. Reaching the toilet feels like a small victory. Sitting on it is almost impossible, there is nothing to hold onto except the shower glass and the toilet paper holder, but slowly and carefully, I manage to sit with just a little boom.
The shower has a small barrier, about 5 x 5 cm, no handles, and all the soap bottles are on the floor. Taking a shower becomes a tense balancing act, and I do it with help.
Finally, I get into bed, cold and exhausted. No hot bottle. There is no light near the bed, something essential for me since I wake up several times a night to use the pee container, and I cannot do that in the dark. Everything feels heavy.
And then, unexpectedly, luck intervenes. Iza remembers the little motion-sensor light that my sister-in-law gave me in Boston. It is in my backpack. I turn it on, and just like that, every time I move, a soft glow fills the room. A tiny gadget saves the night.
🌙 A Rough Start
I eventually fall asleep, though not well. I wake up the next morning quiet, stiff, and frustrated.
But that is for Part Two, when the day slowly unfolds, and this strange, beautiful neighborhood begins to reveal itself.
#trekinetic #wheelchairlife #wheelchairaccessibletravel