Reverse Culture Shock

I grew up in New York City, on the fourth floor of a 16 story building. In my 18 years of living there, the elevator broke down once. Possibly twice.

In London, the lifts I used regularly (at work, at home…) broke down almost daily.
We lived in a building off High Street Kensington — not the most expensive building in the neighborhood, but also not the cheapest — where one lift looked like a bomb site. The two needed to be replaced, but while one was out of commission, the other broke down repeatedly.

The replacement process for one lift was supposed to be finished by Christmas (it started in June). When I visited in March, it still looked as though the work had barely begun.

That meant either walking up five flights of stairs for us, with a double stroller, or riding alongside sacks of rubbish in the freight elevator.

But most residential buildings in London are too short to need lifts. And I suppose a country as old as Great Britain doesn’t need to excel in lift technology.