Our summer schedule has been shifted a bit this week, mostly because the elevator has been out two mornings in a row.
We get to the pool the Flintstones way – through the courtesy of my two feet while the kids recline in the stroller. The stroller is too wide for the regular door and stairway, but it’s just fine in the elevator. And the elevator is one of those fancy contraptions that opens right into our apartment. Which makes it such a crushing blow to discover that it isn’t working.
Now. I happen to be on the email list for the people who own the condos in this building and there’s been quite a bit of yapping about the elevators in the other buildings with the same management company, built by the same developer. Not happy. One of the members suggested going to the NYTimes. I suggested storming the Bastille, but then decided against actually sending that email.
But I think they may have a point with the company that maintains the elevators – called Rotavele (tricky, no? and also ironic since they tend to get things backwards). See, on the days they fixed the elevators they left a scrawled note on the ground floor door saying that they needed to get parts and it would be another day.
Too bad I didn’t take a picture for evidence, because the best part followed. Carelessly scratched out were the words “Sorry for.”
Obviously they thought better of having any compassion for the tenants. Heavens forefend there might be a wheelchair-bound person on an upper floor. (There’s not, but a family with twinfants on the fifth floor who were quite inconvenienced, I’m sure.)