The hotel appeared to be open for business. Entering, I climbed the stairs to the convention floor, rubbernecking at the decor like a tourist. (Which I was.) I passed some closed ballroom doors and paused before a door that boldly declared itself an emergency exit and warned me of the consequences of its use. I used it; nothing happened.
I was in a stairwell. I climbed.
A handwritten sign warned me that Stairwell A was closed between the fourth and seventh floors, and advised me to use Stairwell B. I seemed to be in Stairwell C, and so was unconcerned.
I climbed twenty-two flights, perhaps excluding a thirteenth (floors ending in fours were present and accounted for), and came to a solid door with a sign on it. The sign informed me that no public access to the rooftop patio was permitted. Nevertheless I pulled at that door. It was locked.
I went down a floor and, through an unremarkable hotel corridor, crossed over to Stairwell D. It too went no higher than the twenty-second floor, where it ended in an elevator lobby with three elevators, one locked glass door to the rooftop patio, and one locked bathroom door. (The women's. The symbol for woman was a circle atop a tall upright triangle -- something like an upside-down exclamation mark. I gazed at it blankly. Was it supposed to represent a keyhole? A vagina? (The circle the clitoris?) Then I understood: It was supposed to be a head atop a long dress.)
I seemed to be stuck, and seemed not to be in the tallest tower at all. I needed to find that Stairwell B!
I went back down a floor, against crossed over, and again climbed Stairwell C, seeing no other alternatives. I tried the door again, and took a look at its latch. The deadlatch was touching the plate, but there was a sizeable gap between the door and the frame, so perhaps it wasn't engaged. I looked in my wallet for a piece of plastic with which to try shimming the latch open. Finding nothing readymade, I folded an old phone card diagonally till it snapped in half. It seemed a highly unpromising tool for the task. But it worked.
I found myself outdoors on a patio, but not a rooftop: there was more tower overhead. Nonetheless I enjoyed the view, and some wine.
 |
| Looking south at Central City and SFU. |
I found the men's room (I had been wondering where that was), which was not locked, and refilled my water bottle. (The symbol for man was a circle atop the same tall triangle, but upturned: presumably his head on his burly shoulders, dwindling to tiny feet.)
I crossed the patio and found myself outside the glass door to the elevator lobby, which I could pass through from this side. I went in, gently leaving the door unlatched behind me, just in case, and called an elevator -- which refused to deliver me to any floor higher than 3. So instead I reentered the stairwell and began the descent, crossing over to alternate stairwells every other floor at first, then less and less frequently, then again every floor below 8, in search of some other stairwell to take me back up.
I had no luck till 4, but there I suddenly found myself in a construction site that spanned a much wider space than the tower I had just been crossing back and forth through.
I entered new, not-quite-finished washrooms and locker rooms.
I went out on a balcony, where there was a small, filled swimming pool with dirt on its bottom, and a small unfilled jacuzzi, with none.
From here I could again see exactly where I wanted to go:
Through one window I looked across at the Skytrain station, which also appeared to be under construction. As I looked, I noticed someone was squeezing past a wooden barrier at the end of the platform, as if preparing to walk down the rails. The station seemed closed -- so I assumed I was looking at a fellow explorer! He saw me, and made some gesture. I waved. He gave me the finger. I gave him the thumbs up. He gave me the rock-and-roller's sign of the horns. I waved goodbye. I believe we parted friends.
I found myself in Stairwell A. I started climbing it.
Half a floor up, my way was completely blocked by some scaffolding. Oh yeah. I went in search of Stairwell B.
I found Stairwell B. I climbed it.
At every floor, a sign listed the dozen or so crossover floors, but also announced each and every floor to be a Crossover Floor. And, indeed, all the doors were open, every floor a crossover floor. The stairwell was dusty and cluttered with tools: obviously, this taller tower was still under construction. There could be little doubt that I was going to make it onto the roof.
I climbed fifty flights. I was dripping with sweat.
Aw, damn it.
The roof hatch to the very top was in fact locked, but, one flight down, I enjoyed fresh air and unobstructed views in several directions from the mechanical penthouse. In fact, I so enjoyed it that I forgot to take any pictures. So here's that one from the twenty-second floor again.
When at last I was ready to leave (my wine nearly finished), I went down a few floors to call an elevator. But the elevators would not be called.
So I got back in Stairwell B and climbed all the way back down.
On my way out, I passed through one of those conference rooms I'd passed when I had first arrived.
Waiting for my train at the station, I peeked around a wooden barrier at the end of the platform, and saw the empty, unfinished room I had waved from, an hour before.
