I am not disabled. My girlfriend
synecdochic is, thanks to
a genetic disorder of the connective tissue. When not at home, she uses either a cane or a wheelchair.
Before her disease progressed to the point where she required an assistive device to walk more than twenty feet, I gave physical accessibility as much consideration as the average non-disabled person: when I thought of it at all, it was to note the presence of a ramp or parking space or the like. I never realized the sheer number of small (and not-so-small) obstacles a physically-disabled person must navigate to traverse the same distance I can walk across without a second thought.
synecdochic jokes that I'm more apt to rant about a non-accessible space than she; I say that's because I have the energy to spare, since I'm not the one who has to hoist myself over a crappy curb-cut or make a fifty-yard detour to find an entrance without steps.
We're spending the next couple evenings at a Marriott in northern Virginia while I attend a work-related conference. My annoyance at our less-than-ideally-accessible room spurred the creation of this community.

This is the doorway of our handicapped-accessible room. Hardly noticeable to someone not in a wheelchair, jumping a threshold this high takes surprising momentum with the standard-sized casters equipped on this wheelchair. (The casters are the two small wheels in front.) Not only is momentum difficult to build up when you're on carpet, it can't be done when you're maneuvering through a doorway alone, as you need one hand to hold open the dor and the other on the doorframe; you have to haul yourself through from a standstill.</td>

Some effort has clearly been made to make this sink accessible. Note the lack of a vanity, allowing the wheelchair-user to get close to the sink.

But removing the vanity's only the first step: the sink was installed at the standard height for the non-wheelchair user. Note how high I have to lift my arms to reach the bowl. The mirror's also mounted too high. I can't see anything below my nose while sitting straight-backed in the chair.

A standard toilet bowl sits 14"-15" off the floor. An accessible toilet bowl should be 17"-19" high. It's amazing how much of a difference those couple inches make. Lacking a ruler, you can judge the height of this toilet by the height of D's wheelchair: her seat is 15" high. Not only are higher-than-standard seats essential for the disabled, they're more comfortable for seniors, heavily-pregnant women, or anyone who experiences hip and knee pain. I really don't know why this higher height hasn't become the standard.

While the main doors in the lobby are accessible, the doors to the sole designated outdoor smoking area are not. Each door is less than 24" wide. D's chair is about 21" wide at the base; she could not get through without having two doors held open (remember that a certain amount of clearance is required for your hands to push your wheel rims). Even worse, the doors were poorly hung, making them extremely heavy. Again, this isn't just a problem for a person in a wheelchair. It's difficult for anyone using a cane, for anyone with decreased upper-body strength, or for a senior citizen.