You Can't Go Home Again

When I was 17 I moved to San Francisco. I jumped on the cable cars, never waiting until they stopped, rode to my job near the warf. I climbed on Mt. Tam, swam at the Dolphin Club, found my way down narrow alleys to hidden restaurants and bars. I wasn't afraid. I didn't notice steps, door width, or grab bars. I was young and strong and whole.
SF today is like a maze. Each turn reminds me of what I can not do. My first left started at North Beach Pizza to find a bathroom blocked by chairs, hassle over access for my service dog, and several explanations as to why ADA didn't apply to them. Right turn. I arrive at Wild Side West to be confronted by a customer who lets me know I'm breaking the law by coming in with my service dog. A quick left brings me to a bathroon with a narrow door. "We would have changed things, but people like you don't come here." Another wall blocks my path. Quick right, then left, to the extra heavy door leading out of the W hotel. A metal sign with a picture of a wheelchair tempts me to relax with the thought of an automatic door opener. I smack into another wall of this cleverly designed maze. It's a sign, perhaps they are showing me where I can not go? Left and I start to think I've figured the key. Clear space ahead. An unanticipated trap. A mop bucket is rolled into my path. One of our heros, a firefigter, has appeared to act as a human wall. A clever plan by this city I used to be a part of. I battle on, wondering if the reward of completing the maze will be worth the struggle. There must be others who want to make it through. Where are they? What tricks do they use? How can I get help to make my way, to integrate myself, to feel the strength of the girl who hopped onto the cable cars without ever waiting for them to stop?