Number Eleven

After living two weeks in Cairo and going up and down the elevator several times a day, I have gotten used to the sudden thump as the small lift decides to move.

The first day I saw the elevator, my heart stopped for a few seconds. It barely fits five people, but in Egypt, you can fit as many as you can. After a few seconds of finally closing the floor door to the elevator correctly, I find out that there is no inside door.

My eyes widen as we start moving. All I see are different colored doors with narrow windows and concrete walls scratched by what I am hoping to be keys.  I turn to the right side of the elevator and a red crooked number changes slowly as it passes a floor on my way up.

The elevator stops with another blow as it reaches the eleventh floor. I open the door, and I feel as if I escaped a death trap.

Three weeks later, a hundredth elevator rides, and three roommates stuck for 20 minutes on the elevator, I have embraced my everyday lift to my Egyptian home.



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