We are in Thunder Bay.
We drove here.
It took two days.
It's a long way.
And I worried a lot. It's kind of what I do.
You see as I looked at the map, all I saw were really, really, small towns dotted along the highway. I imagined pulling in to gas stations and being unable to enter, unable to pee, unable to access in any way. And, sure enough, as the miles flew by, I saw small gas stations that huddled for warmth next to the asphalt. They all looked both welcoming and forbidding at the same time. Welcome, just because they were there, peopling the north. Forbidding because they were small and small isn't often good for people in wheelchair.
Then, we had to get gas. We had to go pee. Joe said, 'Next station, we're pulling in.' So we did. And sure enough it was small. Very small. We gassed up first, figuring the later we peed the longer before next one was necessary. Then Joe pulled over beside the small station, only slightly larger than our apartment, I got out, and got in. There was plenty of room for me to make my way to the washroom and back. It was like they were expecting a disabled guy that day and had moved everything out of the way.
But of course, that's not what happened. It just was accessible. The curb was cut in, the aisle were wide enough for a chair, the toilet had grab bars placed exactly right. Here in the middle of no where, I was able to simply use the service that other people simply used too.
That happened three times on the long, long drive. Every time I worried I wouldn't get in and every time I did. Either we were really, really lucky - though the fact that our scratch and win tickets lay in our waste basket seems to suggest otherwise - or things are slowly and steadily changing.
This 'worry' as a habit needs to be examined.
I'll get to that tomorrow. And, to keep the pattern alive, I'll worry about it until it's done.