Elevators have always seemed fancy to me. I know that sounds ridiculous -- we've probably all been trapped in a decidedly humble elevator before -- but when I was eighteen, and freshly moved to New York City, "elevator buildings" seemed the height of luxury to me. Those big loft elevators still seem gorgeously Carrie Bradshaw. The thing I really like about elevators is their slow curtain-up feeling -- when the doors start to slide, you get to make your entrance, and people on either side of the doors have a second or two of suspense. Surprise! It's a handsome stranger. Poof! It's your landlord -- to whom you owe the rent. Plus, that tiny little intimacy bubble with your neighbors or co-workers -- trying to figure out what's poking out of their purse -- is such a magical little moment. It is a total fantasy of mine to fall in love with someone I met in an elevator.* (That's not a euphemism -- though I'm sure I've given a lot of really silly smiles to pleasantly confused members of the opposite sex. Spare me your Scarlett/Benicio comments.) In any case, The New Yorker has a lovely and extensive cultural history of the elevator -- and we'll be talking to Nick Paumgarten about it today.
*Sigh. I fell in love on a train, which is sort of like a horizontal elevator.
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