Well, it may not be hard to climb a few stairs, but it's kind of like roping an oyster to climb eight flights of them. Going down isn't too bad.
But up is an altogether different story. The first flight was fine, as were the second and third. About the fourth flight things started getting more interesting. By the time I hit the sixth, part of me was still hanging
out on the fifth floor. The seventh made me wish I'd brought an oxygen tank and the eighth found me barely conscious.
OK so I'm out of shape. I admit it. But I didn't realize how horrid eight flights of stairs could be
when walking up them empty-handed, much less carrying a ton of laundry or groceries or shopping bags loaded with half of the gross national product of England.
I originally reserved it because it had a kitchen and a small
living room, plus there was a laundry room in the basement. I thought we could eat in and save a couple of bucks. I figured we'd come down the stairs every morning as we headed out to see the sights and then climb back up in the
evening before we retired. So even after climbing the Everest of staircases the first time I didn't think it would be so bad.
I packed very lightly, reasoning that I'd wash clothes while we were there and wouldn't have
to bring as much as a result. My logic proved flawless: After one airplane ride and 48 hours in England, we were down to one clean outfit apiece, so I gathered up the dirty clothes and hauled them down nine flights of stairs to
wash them.
Yes nine. The laundry room was in the basement, which meant one more flight. But when I arrived it was to find that someone was already using the one washer and dryer. So I hauled everything back up the stairs
again. Thirty minutes later I ventured down one more time, only to find it was still full. In the meantime, the people on the floor below us who were decidedly neither English nor American popped a goat or perhaps a chipmunk
covered in garlic cloves into the oven and the odors wafted skyward right into our apartment.
While I was hauling clothes between Hell and Hell's penthouse, my children were being rendered nauseous by the cooking
smells. Our apartment's odor factor was similar to a locker room right after a football game in 95 degree weather. So I clunked back down the stairs to talk to the night manager.
The night manager went to check on the
neighbor's culinary preferences and I finally found the washer empty. While I was washing, the manager sprayed some air freshener up and down the staircase, then gave the rest to me for our room.
Between the laundry and the
goat barbecuing I made about nine more trips up and down the stairs that night. By morning, I was standing in the day manager's office with my complaint. I must be a better diplomat than I thought: That afternoon he moved us to the
first floor.
The rest of our visit went pretty much without a hitch, except I came back a couple pounds heavier, indicative, I'm sure, of the extra muscles I accumulated while climbing stairs.
Of course, it also could have been all those jelly doughnuts I ate
