Autism makes travel a challenge. Here’s how I learned to cope
23.04.2024 - 10:18
/ theguardian.com
Wandering hand-in-hand through the medieval streets of Bologna, my boyfriend and I were in awe of the sweeping porticoes and distinctive rust-red brickwork of the city. It was our first holiday together. We’d wanted to find somewhere beyond the obvious that would marry our respective interests in architecture and history. Bologna was the perfect fit.
We admired the Church of Santa Maria della Vita, with its imposing baroque interior, lavishly decorated in colourful frescoes and marble carvings. We caught a little red and blue express train up into the hills to the Santuario della Madonna di San Luca, and climbed the bell tower of the Basilica di San Petronio for panoramic views across the city.
But after one particularly long, hot day on our feet, with our stomachs clamouring to be fed, my mood began to shift. With the setting of the sun came the rising of my rage, as we struggled to agree on where we wanted to eat. In a city nicknamed La Grassa(“the fat one”), we weren’t lacking in options; in fact, it was the sheer number of well-reviewed eateries that was overwhelming.
Eventually we decided on pizza, and my boyfriend anxiously led us through sun-dappled alleyways, seeking out a little hole-in-the-wall spot with stellar reviews on Google. Looking back now, I’m ashamed of my reaction once we arrived. Instead of excitedly tucking into the steaming, cheese-drenched deliciousness before me, I burst into tears, refusing to order. And why?
Because they were slices.
In my mind, getting pizza meant that we’d be presented with a whole pizza. The idea of just grabbing a slice or two felt abhorrently wrong. It truly felt to me, in that moment, like I was being asked to do the impossible.
Instead, we had to find a standard bistro and get me the right kind of pizza. Scrolling through photographs from that trip for this article, I find a snapshot of my boyfriend opposite me at the table, looking as if he’d just (barely) survived the fury of the Visigoths during the sacking of Rome.
It wasn’t until three years later – in spring 2020, when I was diagnosed as autistic – that this fragment of my life story, and many others like it, finally began to make sense.
Being autistic means that life is a challenge, every day, in myriad tiny ways most others cannot see. Autistic people often grapple with sensory, social and communication challenges that manifest differently in each of us. As a toddler, for instance, I couldn’t stand the touch of grass on my skin. My parents could pop me down on a blanket by our tent during camping trips, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t stray. The same went for sand – putting me down to build a sandcastle on the beach only led to banshee-esque wailing until someone picked me up. When I