Caged

“You can’t tell me that with hundreds of thousands of dollars in renovations, they couldn’t spare one dime for the elevator,” I gasp, pulling my suitcase up to the first of four narrow flights of stairs; obviously untouched in the remodel as well. So far, nothing about this hotel looked inviting except the ‘EXIT’ sign. It very closely resembled the Warner Kasern, father used to drive by, in Munich. Its institution style walls, towering and ivory white, commanding attention from its surroundings. Though no one I knew ever made it inside the Warner Kasern, I pictured the inside as bland and white as the outside, relying on its prominence rather than aesthetic appeal. The bare concrete walls are better suited inside a penitentiary and just about as imposing.

Inside the lobby is nearly silent, though I swear you could hear the receptionist dying of boredom. Though she made quick work of checking us in, her enthusiasm for conversation only demonstrated her lack of human interaction. Not that I could blame her, the entire town in the hills below seems more of a modern day ghost town than a thriving tourist economy. I try my best to engage in small talk, something I admittedly have never been both good at, or fond of. Without fail, simple banter quickly turns to awkward pauses. Now she is back holding up her counter, and I am tasked with choosing to trust my life inside of a lift built in the 1800s, or to squeeze my bag through this stairwell like the last dab of toothpaste from the tub.

Each flight of stairs is roughly only twelve steps, however just as tight as the walkway up, the 180 degree turn to go up the next flight is equally as cramped. The tiny space doesn’t even look like it was meant for use. For a second I felt like a child again, playing the game where you have to put a square peg into the square hole, until all the shapes fit. Except, in this instance, it was a rectangle hole, and a circularly packed tight suitcase ready to bust at every seam. History told me how this would end. Exasperated before I begin, I let out a preemptive heavy sigh.

“Well, no one said you had to take the stairs,” my sister Eva calls from inside the elevator shaft as she slides a loud and rickety cage door shut. Something about that eerie elevator makes me feel old and musty, not unlike my great grandmother’s coat closet; and probably as ancient. Just hearing the metal hinges makes my skin crawl and my muscles tense. Eva casts an odd glance my way, halfway pleading me to reconsider.

“Are you kidding? that thing is a death trap!” At this point I am not sure if I am responding to Eva, or attempting to offend an inanimate object with the force of my words.

“It was built in the ’20s, not in ancient Egypt.” Eva spits back. Though she is trying to convince me, her and I both know there is zero chance of me approaching that cage door. As if purposefully interrupting, two barely functioning automatic doors close around the cage and I can hear the noises of the machinery lift her away.

“I would trust it more had the Egyptians built it,” mumbling under my breath. I turn to face my current task, of not only getting myself through this stairwell, but also my belongings. Seemingly I crammed every article of clothing I have ever owned into this bag that is more apt to handle an overnight sleepover rather than two weeks in the mountains. I glance back at the front desk, oddly out of place and dysfunctional. Like an afterthought of the hotel it sits in a dim dark corner of the room.

Halfway up the stairs, I can’t help but begin to think, how so far everything has seemed like it came second. What kind of hotel has such a tiny staircase and outdated elevator unless you are priding yourself in vintage restoration, and not even music in the lobby? I felt vane as soon as the thought crossed my mind, but it would appear these things are in place merely for appearance. Chuckling to myself, I pictured the lobby much like a Hollywood movie set, equipped with standing cardboard cut outs and wax figurines. This thought keeps me perplexed enough to forget the agony my arms are enduring with this baggage. I hear the echo of the elevator door lumber down the corridor, enveloping me, and rattling the tiny space as I round the last flight.

Almost as if the sound will topple me back to ground floor, my free arm lunges toward the handrail. In a brief moment of terror my hand falls right through thin air, down along the wall, missing any handrail that would have been there, had one been installed. The reverberation travels down the stairs away from the point of origin, leaving little ghosts of its echo in its trail, and leaving me more shaken and baffled than before. One more deep breath, and its time to resume lugging this mass inch by constricted inch to the top floor. It isn’t until the final step that I see the absolute grandeur of the hotel.

The heavy dark hardwood covers the floors and door frames. Crimson runner rugs line the hallway almost entirely wall to wall, so not to scuff the wood, leaving only a few inches on either side to complement the mahogany. Ivory white walls adorned with beautifully hand-blown glass sconces, unique in each one’s shape, yet all uniform in glaze. Where every other aspect of this inn seems overlooked, not a single inch of the fourth floor was discounted. Every entryway hand carved with flowers and blossoms, and each curtain swept perfectly open, offering a view of the mountains and the town below. It’s as if so much time and detail went into this level, that every subsequent level was underfunded and undervalued. This hotel, and I imagine my time within its confines, shall be strange to say the least.