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It is one thing to cross countries. It is quite another to cross thresholds, those less visible but far more defining. Thomas Venos, from Anmore, a small village just outside Vancouver, British Columbia, does both. He moves between continents with skill, focus and the quiet certainty of someone who has taught himself to adapt to almost anything. At 26, he has already represented Canada across the globe, competed in over 20 international tennis tournaments last year alone, and travelled solo through Europe booking hotels, driving long distances and negotiating unfamiliar cities entirely on his own.
Thomas is Canada’s top-ranked wheelchair tennis player, currently ranked 37th in the world. Rankings, however, are not the most compelling part of his story. What sets him apart is how confidently he moves through the world. Through airport terminals, foreign transport systems, cobblestone streets and hotel rooms designed with accessible assumptions, not precision.
He was not born into the world of adaptive sport. Before age 16, he played soccer and baseball. It was a dirt bike crash that introduced a new chapter of his life. He left the hospital as a full-time wheelchair user, but not as one who waited for ideal conditions. He entered his first tournament while still in rehabilitation. His opponent was one of the top junior players in the world. The result was less important than the decision to step onto the court in the first place.
Since then, Thomas has built a life not limited by infrastructure, but shaped by how he responds to it. Tennis gave him a reason to travel, but travel itself became something more significant. It gave him experience, self-reliance, and the kind of confidence that comes only from solving difficult problems in real time.
His approach to travel is practical and composed. His technique is part planning, part improvisation. In Europe, he carries his own portable hand controls for rental cars. That single adjustment removes the need to hunt for accessible vehicle options, something many travellers with disabilities struggle to secure. The controls fit into a small bag. Clamp, adjust, drive. He installs them himself.
Hotels are another matter. “You never really know what you’re walking into,” he explains. His first step is always to inspect the bathroom. Door width, grab bars, transfer space, these details determine whether the room will work. When it doesn’t, he asks for another. If there’s no alternative, he adapts. “Once, I had to remove a wheel just to get the chair through the door,” he recalls. Not ideal. But functional. That distinction is one many travellers with disabilities come to understand.
Germany has left the strongest impression. Accessible public transit, well-designed hotels, and attentive airport staff create an experience that feels considered rather than patched together. In Munich, a staff member not only ensured Thomas’ wheelchair was handled correctly during the flight, but also escorted him to his hotel, assisting with luggage and offering alternate, more accessible paths through the airport. These are small moments, but they change the character of travel.
Switzerland follows closely. Its key-access lift system allows wheelchair users to access hidden lifts installed throughout cities many of which connect spaces separated by stairs. “I didn’t expect that,” Thomas says. “It’s a quiet solution, but effective.” In Zurich, even the trams were accessible. The architecture of independence was built into the public space itself.
His least useful experience? Hotels that use the term “accessible” loosely. He has learned to rely less on labels and more on visual information. Websites with detailed photo galleries are his preferred resource. He often uses Expedia, not for the filters, but for the images. “If I can see the layout, I can make my own judgment,” he says.
Though he travels primarily for competition, Thomas finds ways to experience more than courts and training venues. He uses a handcycle with electric assist to explore trails and natural spaces. He appreciates well-designed outdoor infrastructure as much as he does an accessible tram. In cities, he values precision. In nature, it’s freedom.
Asked whether he feels nervous before a solo trip, he answers without hesitation: “Not anymore.” But he understands why others might. His advice is: Begin. “It gets easier. You figure things out. And when you can’t, someone will usually step in.” That optimism comes from his own experiences.
Confidence, in Thomas’ case, is not loud and does not announce itself. It travels quietly alongside a suitcase, a racket, a bag of adaptive tools and a willingness to adjust. He does not expect the world to cater to him. He expects himself to move through it. And he does, city after city, match after match, country after country. Calmly. Efficiently. Without waiting for perfect conditions.
He’s not hoping to be accommodated. He’s simply going.