elevator karma

A summer re-run, because some of you didn't get this email six months ago...

When Americans first get settled into Buenos Aires, one of the first things they fall in love with is all the antique manual sliding-door elevators all over the city. Now, I'm not using "antique" here as a euphemism for junky out-dated machines that don't work properly. No, most of these old elevators, with their wrought iron cages and occasional wood paneling, are inspected and serviced on a monthly basis. The only problems I've ever encountered with them have been my own user error, like forgetting to close the door all the way, which sets off a buzzer alarm. The older model elevators are so common here that I had only used one modern elevator in this city, that is, until I started teaching English. As I might have mentioned before, most of my students are business people, and most of my classes take place in their offices. This means that I not only have to know the address of the office beforehand, but once I get to a new building, I have to contend with security desks and finding my way to the right floor and suite. Most of my students work in banks or brokerage firms, so the facilities at the office buildings tend to be top notch, and all of them come equipped with fully automated elevators. Now, with all I have to worry about with finding an office for the first time, I never guessed that I had elevator karma, so I certainly never knew that my elevator karma was bad.

It all started with my first class at the Banco Central. With more than 2500 employees under its roof, the fact that I had a little trouble finding my way around feels a bit like an understatement. My institute furnished me with the address, floor, and suite number of my student, but other than an instruction to use the "golden elevators", I knew nothing about the place. Upon arriving at the building, I looked up at the marble columns and statues of the facade and thanked the fashion gods that I had put on my best clothes that morning. After climbing the outside steps, I found myself in an entry room. A security guard pointed me through the golden revolving doors into the reception, a room roughly the size of my parents' first house. I gave my name, my student's name, and my passport number to the young lady at the marble front desk (which looked more like an open teller's counter than a receptionist's desk), and in return, I received a visitor's ID, an electronic security pass card, and a receipt. As I followed the receptionist's directions to the elevators, I studied my receipt. It stated my name, my business (profesora de inglés), my passport number, the time I arrived, and my student's name. I couldn't help but think that if I didn't like my student then maybe I could go back to the reception and exchange him for a nicer model.

Looking up from my proof of purchase, I was standing in front of a metal detector. I handed my bag to a security guard and walked through, only to have my briefcase-sized tote returned to me unsearched. I guess if I get anywhere near the vault I'll just exchange my lesson plans for bundles of cash and then freely saunter back through the front entrance. After the metal detectors, I passed through an electronic turnstile with my security pass card and proceeded to get hopelessly lost in the belly of the beast. Finally, a janitor pointed me in the right direction, and I boarded an elevator with a guy who was already waiting. He punched 2, I punched 6, and we were on our way. I reverted to my American ways once inside the lift by flipping through my day planner and avoiding eye contact with my fellow passenger. I snapped back to reality when we reached the second floor. The man said, "Chau!" as he slipped through the closing door, and I smacked myself on the forehead for forgetting that lots of Argentines like to make small talk on elevators. Feeling stupid, I punched the button for the sixth floor again and the door almost closed before opening again. I stuck my head out into the hallway to see if someone was trying to get on, only to find no one standing there. I punched the button again, the door rolled almost shut and then re-opened. I pushed and held my floor button this time, but my situation remained unchanged. This elevator was going nowhere. I stepped out to see if I could find some stairs just as a cleaning lady jumped into my elevator. The doors closed for her without a problem, and I wondered if even the elevator was messing with me because I'm a foreigner. Eventually, I made my way to the sixth floor by a different lift and encountered no further snafus. On a side note, when I finished my class, my student's secretary signed my receipt and wrote the current time down at the bottom. I wonder if that's going to hamper my consumer rights to exchange my student or to help myself to a stack of pesos on my way out.

The elevator incident at the Banco Central should have registered as a warning to me that my luck with elevators had shifted to the dark side, but I'm an optimistic skeptic when it comes to these things. The next day, I had my first class at Vitol Argentina, a commodities broker with offices in Puerto Madero. The building complex is pretty contemporary with a brick facade and elevators so modern, there are no buttons, only touch sensors. For some reason, Vitol was the first company on my list that listed an address but no floor number. As the Puerto Madero complex only has three floors of offices, I assumed I could find my way easy enough. I checked in at the security desk and, ignoring the giant floor directory behind the guard, I inquired which floor Vitol was located on. The guard told me to go to the first floor, and I thanked her and waited for an elevator. (Note: In many countries, you enter a building on the ground floor, and the first floor is located on the story above.) I made my way inside the first of three elevators and hit the first floor touch sensor. However, upon exiting the elevator, it was clear that I had the wrong floor. I thought that I might need to head for the second floor, so I hit the "up" touch sensor and waited for my carriage. The middle elevator came to my rescue, and I punched the number two. The elevator rose up one floor, and I finished fixing my hair in the mirror as I waited for the doors to open. But they didn't. I looked at the digital read out, and it stated that I was indeed at the second floor, but with no way to get out onto the second floor. It's funny how the realization that you are stuck in an elevator can take so long to grasp, but it did finally dawn on me that I should call for help. Right. Call for help. I looked up at the telephone above the touch sensors and then over to the instructions on what to do if you need assistance. Of course, since I'm in Argentina, the instructions were in Spanish. I could understand what I had to do easily enough: pick up the receiver, dial 0, and tell the operator that I'm in elevator number 2. What I couldn't figure out was how to explain that I was stuck in an elevator in Spanish. After a moment's panic, I settled on saying, "El ascensor se paró." (The elevator stopped.) Here's how the conversation went with my elevator tech...

Tech: Hola? (Hello?)
Me: Hola. Estoy en el ascensor numero dos y el ascensor se paró. (Hello. I'm in elevator number two and the elevator stopped.)
Tech: Se paró? (It stopped?)
Me: Sí, se paró. (Yes, it stopped.)
Tech: Bueno. Blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah. (Alright. Blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah.)
[Long pause]

Tech: Gracias, eh? (Thanks, eh?)
Me: Uhhhh, gra- (Uhhhh, tha-)
[Line cuts out]

I hung up, slid to the floor and hoped that somewhere in all those blahblahblahs there was a promise to get me moving again. Seventeen minutes later, the phone rang. If my first call for help was bad, then this one was worse. I lunged for the receiver only to receive a string of incomprehensible Spanish that I had to admit to not understanding three times before the guy on the other end stopped and asked me who he was speaking to. I told him that I was an English teacher for Vitol, and a miracle occurred. My elevator tech actually started talking to me as if Spanish wasn't my first language. We then established that the doors wouldn't open, and I guessed he said he'd see what he could do. Four minutes later, the light for the parking garage light up. Half a minute after that, the elevator started moving down. Then my second miracle of the day took place, the doors actually opened! Just as I was stepping out to freedom, the phone rang again, and again I caught a rush of Spanish in my ear that I couldn't understand. I interrupted the tech and told him that the doors had opened...

Tech: Las puertas se abren en el segundo piso? (The doors opened on the second floor?)
Me: No. Estoy en el garaje. (No, I'm in the garage.)
Tech: En el qué? (In the what?)
Me: Estoy en el garaje. (I'm in the garage.)
Tech: Ah! Estás en el garage. (Ah! You're in the garage.)
[Right, silly me for not knowing I needed to use an English word to be understood.]

I thanked the guy profusely, and let the evil middle elevator take off for a different floor. There was no way I was getting back in that one! But what do they say about your plans being evidence of God's sense of humor? The other elevators wouldn't come to my rescue. No matter how many times I tried or how long I waited to push the "up" sensor, the evil middle elevator always came. I looked around hoping to find a staircase. I was willing to do anything rather than tempt fate (and the evil second elevator), even if it meant hiking up four flights of stairs in high heels, but no such luck. I was in a room with three elevators and a glass door looking out to "el garage" that you needed a security pass card to open. So, wishing myself luck, I boarded the second elevator and hit the ground floor, realizing that I still had no idea where the Vitol office was located. I arrived in one piece and asked the security guard which floor I needed to go to. She asked me which company I was headed to again, and as I started to answer, "Vit-", I remembered that theres no "v" sound in Argentine Spanish. "Bitol" I replied. "Ah, Bitol! I thought you said something else!" she chirped in Spanish. "Second floor," she told me. "Second floor, thanks." I caught elevator number one and besides arriving to my class 20 minutes late, everything seemed to be fine. I apologized profusely to my student once I had the pleasure of entering the Vitol office, and explained that I got stuck in the elevator.

Student: Did you take the one closest to our office?
Me: No, I took the middle one.
Student: The middle one? Oh, because the one close to us usually doesn't work. In fact, it is very rare that all three elevators work here. Did the inside doors open but not the outside ones? You get to see all the gears that way!

The English teacher I inherited this student from never mentioned the finicky Vitol elevators. Thanks a lot! I think this episode only cements my love for antique elevators all the more...