It was a beautiful Sunday in late October, our last day in Amsterdam. I had spent the previous five days on an intensive research visit at the University of Amsterdam, determined to make the most of my sabbatical leave. The week had been rewarding but demanding, particularly with the additional challenges of navigating an unfamiliar city as a wheelchair user. I had reserved the weekend to relax and enjoy Amsterdam beyond the university.

That Sunday morning, my personal assistant and I visited one of my former Romanian students at his apartment. His wife and her sister had also been my students, and it was wonderful to reunite with all three. The visit was particularly meaningful because, as a wheelchair user, I rarely have the opportunity to visit people in their homes. Private homes are often inaccessible, making even an ordinary social visit difficult or impossible. Being welcomed into their home was one of those simple pleasures that many people take for granted. Later, we enjoyed a lovely afternoon at the Van Gogh Museum. The weather was pleasant, we were in high spirits, and I felt happy that, despite the challenges, my research visit had been a success.

We left the museum when it closed at 6 pm and headed to the tram stop at Concertgebouw, travelling towards Amsterdam Amstel station to return to our hotel. Amsterdam's trams are equipped with manual ramps to bridge the gap between the tram and the platform. An on-board tram attendant, seated in a glass-enclosed compartment, was responsible for deploying the ramp whenever a wheelchair user needed to board or disembark. I was already familiar with this arrangement from a previous visit to Amsterdam, and knowing that assistance was available had given me a reassuring sense of confidence. It might seem like a small detail, but for someone who depends on accessible public transport, knowing that a ramp is available and that someone is responsible for deploying it can make all the difference between approaching a journey with confidence and approaching it with anxiety.

However, what should have been a straightforward journey became one of the most unsettling experiences of our stay. As we approached the tram, the on-board tram attendant asked whether I could tilt my electric wheelchair backwards, gesturing as though I could lift its front wheels and effectively jump across the gap. My wheelchair weighs 123 kilograms, not including my weight. The gap was wide enough for its wheels to fall into it. Her suggestion was not merely impractical; it was dangerous.

I explained that I could not do that. Visibly annoyed, she got up, released the ramp, and let it drop from the height of her hand. It struck the ground with a loud bang. Her gesture gave me the impression that helping me board was an unreasonable inconvenience. During the journey, she sat in her glass-enclosed compartment directly in front of me. I could not escape the feeling of contempt in her looks.

When we arrived at Amsterdam Amstel, the gap between the tram and the platform was smaller, but I still did not feel safe crossing it without the ramp. I politely asked the attendant to deploy it again.

She refused, adding: “No. Everything is designed to be accessible. You should turn around and go backwards.” She insisted that the tram was already running late and needed to depart quickly. I tried to follow her instructions, but turning my wheelchair around in the confined space was difficult. My hands had become numb from the cold, making precise control of the joystick increasingly challenging. I accidentally bumped into the doorframe twice while trying to position my wheelchair to exit. Ironically, the whole process took at least as long as it would have taken to deploy the ramp.

While struggling to get out of the tram, I explained that the ramp existed for a reason and that crossing the gap without it could put my safety at risk. I had previously experienced a frightening incident when my wheelchair became trapped between a train and the platform. Its front wheels fell into the gap while the legrests were already inside the train and the rear wheels remained outside. The train doors then closed on my legs while I was still trapped. It was an experience I would never forget. I tried to explain this to the attendant, hoping she would understand that my request was not about convenience, but safety. Yet she continued talking over me, repeating that the tram was designed to be accessible and that I was delaying the service.

Eventually, I stopped trying to explain. I felt uncomfortable, frightened and, perhaps most painfully, ashamed that I had to justify needing a ramp that had been installed for precisely that purpose. Her dismissive attitude made me feel as though I were asking for a favour rather than requesting a basic accessibility measure.

One passenger appeared visibly upset by the exchange. He remarked that the attendant was being unkind and tried to speak to her. I did not hear the rest, as I was concentrating on getting off the tram and making room for other passengers.

I want to emphasise that this incident was not representative of my experience in Amsterdam. Quite the opposite. Throughout our stay, we encountered kind, considerate people, including transport staff who were willing to help. This experience stood out precisely because it contrasted so sharply with everything else.

Yet a single negative encounter can have a disproportionate impact when travelling with a disability.

For me, visiting unfamiliar places already involves considerable anxiety. Every journey requires planning and a degree of trust: Will the ramp be available? Will the lift work? Will the gap be safe to cross? Will someone help if something goes wrong? These are not minor inconveniences. They are questions about my physical safety and independence. An incident like this undermines the confidence that makes travelling possible. It reminds me that even when accessible infrastructure exists, my safety may ultimately depend on another person's willingness to use it.

What stayed with me was not simply the refusal to deploy the ramp, but the attitude behind it: the impatience, the contempt, and the insistence that something must be accessible because it had been designed that way, regardless of the experience of the person actually using it.

Later, my personal assistant made an observation that captured the entire incident:

“They had everything they needed to make it easy for you. The tram, the ramp, the infrastructure. Everything except the right attitude.”

Then she added:

“If you cannot change people's mentality, all the investment in accessibility means nothing.”

Her words stayed with me.

As a researcher in accessibility and assistive technology, I spend time exploring how environments and technologies can enable disabled people to participate fully in society. But experiences like this remind me that accessibility cannot be measured solely by the presence of ramps, lifts, or infrastructure that meets technical standards.

A ramp is of little use if the person responsible for deploying it treats your need for it as a mere whim rather than a matter of safety, and considers providing that assistance an inconvenience. Perhaps the bitterest part was having to defend my right to use something that had already been installed to make my journey safe.

I left Amsterdam with many happy memories and genuine appreciation for the kindness we had encountered. I would not want this one incident to overshadow them. But I also left with a renewed awareness of how easily a moment of hostility can transform an accessible journey into an experience of fear and vulnerability.

The tram was accessible. The attitude was not. No amount of engineering can bridge a gap created by negative attitude. And perhaps the most damaging consequence of such incidents is the fear they leave behind, a fear that undermines our confidence and makes us anxious about travelling again, even when the infrastructure is accessible.