I lived in a building with one of these. It was old and dusty, its exterior unassuming, the interior suggestive of grander days, with its marble floors and winding staircase, high ceilings, and apartments with parquet floors. It was on a side street across from the Budapest Opera House, and the living room and bedroom of our fourth floor unit gave us spectacular views of the Opera House roof, which was undergoing numerous repairs.

On some mornings, we would awaken to pounding, and see ladders stretched over the roof to its peak, the workers poised perilously on it. After a few mornings like that, we reminded each other to shutter the windows before retiring. It was nice to have light streaming in, but we preferred our privacy.

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The concept of personal space was different in Budapest than here, and the idea that it was a desirable thing was clearly not a consideration when the elevator was chosen and added, as it was barely big enough for three people. Nor was fulfilling the needs of the residents on the fourth floor a consideration, as the elevator would only go as far as the third.

We had our doubts about the elevator’s structural integrity, and only used it when necessary. Clearly, its limitations were an inconvenience, but we adjusted. We never rode it to the lobby, as the descent on foot was faster. But we did use it when our grocery bags outnumbered us. At those times, we’d set our bags at our feet as the door whined shut, say a quick prayer, press “3,” and brace ourselves for the trek up the final flight of stairs to our apartment when we emerged.

I think about that elevator a great deal these days — its obvious deficiencies, age, sluggishness, creaks and complaints, likelihood of malfunctioning, and wonder whether or not it’s been replaced. Of the hundreds of apartment owners in that building, surely, by now, they would have wanted something better….

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