An hour of darkness is a real eye-opener

Out of the darkness, a hand
I fumble down the aisle, nervous and frustrated that I've lost the group. Out of the darkness, I feel a hand on my arm. I am being grabbed by a stranger and I feel safe.

Another voice pulls us into the next room. It belongs to Georgeo Vickers, and he's singing. Anxiety gives way to anticipation. What new adventure awaits?

I can hear seagulls. Feeling my way, I touch rope. We're on a pier, about to board a boat. One by one, we leave shore and take a seat on deck. I'm not as hesitant now, and I pat the wooden bench to tell "Is That Your Foot?" to sit next to me.

The boat rocks and I instinctively close my eyes. I'm experiencing the ocean in a new way, not transfixed by the sight of crashing waves, but enchanted by the rhythm, the sound of seagulls flying overhead. We merrily sing a few rounds of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" before reaching shore.

My good mood is interrupted at our next stop. I can hear a bus and my cane hits a metal pole. We're on a city street, and if I really were blind, I'm sure this would be one of my fears. Our guide Frank tells us that we'll have to cross on our own, without tripping on the curb or stepping into traffic. I grip my metal sidekick and tap the sidewalk until I hit something. A parked car.

I touch with my toe, feeling for the curb and step down. Atlantans can be hostile to sighted people at rush hour, so I want to get this right. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. I move deliberately but try not to be slow. I find the curb on the other side, step back onto the sidewalk and exhale.

We finally reach the last stop — a bar. I order a Diet Coke, but I forget that I'm blind and need to gesture for the bottle. "I'm here," I say, and tap the ground with my cane. Mission accomplished. I get my drink.

Our group walks over to a booth to sit down with our drinks and discuss the hour that seems to have flown by. I can't see anyone, but I can feel everyone's presence around me. I can hear people smiling. No one feels like a stranger, and I trust them as much as I do my cane.

Our guides are especially interested in what we have to say. For them, this is not just an exhibit; it's their life. They are blind, and among the more than 5,000 people who are blind or visually impaired who have worked with "Dialog" exhibitions around the world.

I am filled with questions, feeling sheepish and foolish at my curiosity — or naivete: How do you know when to wake up in the morning without the sun? How do you make phone calls? Can you use the computer?

I can almost feel Vickers looking in my direction as he tells me something someone once told him: "It is not blindness that is the disability. It is fear."

Fear of the unknown, of what we cannot see, is indeed a scary thing, and I recognize for the first time how right he is. We leave the room and enter a corridor that gradually reintroduces us to the light.

I emerge squinting and probably more than a little relieved, but determined to see the world with new eyes.

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