The Sunday BlindSpot | Issue #07

David Langdon
Aug 3
7 min read

Accessible, Apparently” – A Hotel Stay to Remember (for All the Wrong Reasons)

A blind man in a dark hotel room stands between the bed and a floor-to-ceiling window, holding a TV remote in one hand and a white cane in the other. He appears to be searching for something. The room includes a minibar, a bathroom entrance with a grab rail, and partially drawn blinds. The words “The Sunday BlindSpot #07” appear in the corner.

When people think of accessibility, they often picture a wheelchair ramp or an accessible toilet. But true accessibility is far more layered – and often far more invisible to those who don’t need it.

If you’ve ever wondered what navigating the world with low vision can feel like, here’s a story that captures it. Not a worst-case scenario. Not a dramatic one. Just… a hotel stay.

A stay that turned into a scene straight out of Faulty Towers.

And yes – every single part of this happened.

Faulty Towers

It always starts simple, doesn’t it? You think, “Checking into a hotel. How hard can it be?” Well, if you have low vision or any kind of disability – the answer is: infuriatingly hard.

First, I find the check-in desk. Easy enough, with the doorman vaguely gesturing toward something that might be the front desk. I arrive, give my name, and – like clockwork – get handed a form to fill out. Here we go. I make my usual declaration: “I can’t read the form; I’m visually impaired.” This information is generally met with a mix of confusion and mild panic. Then, predictably: “Oh, no worries, just sign anywhere!”

Anywhere. Anywhere?! Brilliant. I have no idea if I’m signing my name on an arrest warrant, the Declaration of Independence, or an autograph book, but I scribble something anyway and off it goes. The person behind the desk seems entirely indifferent, and why wouldn’t they be? It’s just another piece of paper they have to file away.

Next comes the EFTPOS machine – the modern-day villain of my life. Some machines are blessedly simple: raised buttons, a tactile ‘5’ to orient yourself – easy. But no, not this time. I’m confronted by a sleek, modern touchscreen model, the kind that’s less accessible than a Rubik’s Cube in the dark. After a bit of blind button-mashing, I miraculously enter the right PIN. Success! Onward to the next challenge.

The room key. This credit-card-sized piece of plastic becomes the most elusive part of the entire process. It’s handed to me in a sleeve, the room number scrawled on the back in microscopic handwriting. “Can you tell me which room I’m in?” I ask, already knowing what’s coming. “It’s written on the card,” they reply, because of course it is. Clearly, they’ve forgotten the whole “I’m visually impaired” bit from ten seconds ago.

I ask again, slight exasperation creeping into my voice. “I can’t see it; can you just tell me the number?” They look around like they’re about to reveal national secrets, and then lean in to whisper the room number, as if we’re doing a dodgy deal in the hotel lobby. For goodness’ sake. Honestly.

Room number in hand (or ear, in this case), I head to the lift. Once I get in, I’m faced with the next bit of nonsense. Floor buttons, lined up in their shiny silver glory, with silver embossed numbers. Who designs these things? I spot some Braille, which would be a relief, except – oh right – I don’t read Braille. Brilliant touch though, thanks for that. Out comes the magnifying glass again as I lean in like Sherlock Holmes, trying to make out which floor I’m supposed to be heading to.

At this point, the lift doors have probably reopened because I’ve taken so long. I jab the right button, and finally, I’m off.

The lift arrives at my floor – at least I think it’s my floor, because there’s no audible announcement – and I step out, straining to read the floor number on the wall four metres away. I can turn left or right – there’s a small sign on the wall with arrows pointing in each direction and room numbers assigned to each arrow. I need to head right. I’m looking for 1505, and the sign tells me that 1501 to 1535 is to my right. Magnifying glass in hand again, I slowly make my way down the corridor. And when I say slowly, I mean slowly. Every hotel seems to have these fancy door numbers now – swirly fonts on backlit panels, blending seamlessly into the wall like they’re trying to win an art prize. It’s decorative, sure, but utterly useless.

I come across the first door – nope, this is the emergency exit to the stairwell. I peer closely at the next door. Room 1535. I take a few more steps to the next door – 1534. Great. I’m headed in the right direction, so 1505 is obviously at the other end. I continue down the corridor, but things are not adding up. Room 1519? How have I already run out of hallway? I’m now staring at a dead-end, feeling like I’m trapped in some kind of labyrinth. Naturally, I turn around to retrace my steps, cursing under my breath. As I head back, I’m finally getting closer, then I think I see it – my room, 1505 – practically right by the lift where I started. Of course.

But before I can feel victorious, I stop to check the number on the door. Oh no – it’s 1506. I lean in really close to make sure I’ve got it right, almost pressing my nose to the door, when suddenly, it opens. Standing there is some poor hotel guest, and we both freeze. He stares at me like I’m about to mug him, and I leap back so fast you’d think I’d just been electrocuted.

“Sorry, sorry!” I stammer, flustered and trying to pretend that none of this ever happened. He nods, wide-eyed, before stepping past me, probably thinking, What on earth is this guy’s problem? I wait a few seconds until he’s out of sight, then turn my attention to finding my room – of course it’s the one right next door. Victory. At last. Well, kind of.

Now I’ve got to figure out how to get into the room. Tap the card? Insert it? Maybe wave it around like I’m conducting an orchestra? I try everything. Eventually, there’s a faint beep, and I’m in.

It’s dark, naturally. No lights on, and the room is bathed in the soft glow of city lights from the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. Very fancy. But here’s the thing – those windows are wide open for all the world to see me fumbling around like an idiot. Time to close the blinds.

Now, in most places, you’d just pull a cord. Not here. Oh no, this hotel’s got electric blinds. Which would be cool, if I could figure out how the hell to operate them. I fumble around, hitting buttons on a mysterious control panel that I’ve found near the window. This panel also appears to manage the lighting, air conditioning, and possibly the national grid. I press one button and – whoosh – on come the overhead lights – all of them! Great, now the whole city can definitely see me. After more frantic button-pushing, I finally figure out that I have to keep my finger pressed down on the button while the blind ever-so-slowly rolls down. I stand there, finger on the button, watching it inch down at the speed of molasses. Come on already. I’m so glad I don’t need to pee.

Finally, the blind comes down. Privacy. At last. At this point, I eye the minibar. I’ve earned a drink, surely. But wait – no. I’ve learned this lesson before. The minibar is a trap. Every item in there is rigged with a sensor, and the moment you move anything, it’s charged to your room. Not wanting to accidentally rack up another $164 on untouched beers, I carefully shut the fridge door. Not today, Satan.

I flop onto the bed, worn out. Maybe I’ll order room service, I think. But where’s the menu? Not near the minibar, not on the desk, not in the drawers – there’s a Bible though, so that’s helpful. I’ll have to call reception.

Where’s the phone? Ah, yes, there’s one in the toilet – for some reason? And there’s another one next to the bed. There’s about 30 neatly lined-up buttons on the phone in addition to the familiar number pad. Out comes the magnifying glass once more to find the button that will hopefully connect me to reception.

“Please hold, Mr. Langdon,” says the receptionist, her voice far too cheerful for this late in the game. The hold music is the same as the music blaring out of the TV, which I also haven’t figured out how to turn off yet.

Finally, she’s back on the line. “I’m looking for the menu in my room,” I tell her. “There’s no paper menu, it’s on the TV,” she informs me, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “Anything else I can help you with?”

I open my mouth to explain that I can’t read the TV screen, but before I get the chance, she’s hung up. Perfect. Now I’m back on the phone, explaining once again that I’m visually impaired. Her bright solution? “We have some Braille menus.”

“Great,” I mutter, “but I don’t read Braille.” Silence. I think at this point she’s run out of blind person solutions. “You can just tell me what you’d like,” she says finally. I consider requesting something really complicated but decide against torturing myself any further, and I ask for a burger and chips and a glass of wine.

Done. Dinner sorted. The blinds are finally closed, and I have no idea how I’ll turn all the lights off later, but that’s a problem for future me.

Now, where’s that TV remote? …

You may think this story is made up, but I can assure you all of these things have happened to me on many occasions. This is an example of how a simple hotel check-in turns into a scene from Faulty Towers, with enough colourful language to drive anyone to drink – lucky I can’t work the minibar.

Oh, and the even funnier part? This was one of their accessible rooms. Accessible, apparently. I found this gem of information out when I checked out the next morning. “Accessible Rooms” are near to the lift on each floor and they have a hand rail in the bathroom with wheelchair access. I guess you can’t win every time. The wheelchair guy would have been able to order dinner easily enough, but he’d have trouble with the blinds, as there was no room to get the wheelchair around to that side of the bed where the buttons were….

Want to Do Better Than This?

Join me for a free session on Wednesday 7 August at 11:00am AEST, where we’ll talk about what accessibility actually means – and what it doesn’t.

It’s called Accessibility is Everyone’s Business – because it is.

We’ll look at: