Ever Gotten Stuck in an Elevator while Traveling? I have.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that every trip will present some unforeseen small or large disaster(s) — it’s just a rule of travel. It’s just a matter of time.
Sometimes it’s laughable: a silly mistake or a minor inconvenience. And sometimes it’s DEFCON 1 level <— getting stuck in an elevator in a seemingly abandoned building, where the emergency button doesn’t work, and you pry open the doors to find that you are not only trapped between floors but behind a solid brick wall.
Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool, cool…
While we laugh about it now, it was NOT funny at the time…nor is it a happy memory.
The Elevator Story
It was about midnight by the time we got back to our Airbnb in London after a full day of exploring Brussels, ready to take showers and sleep soundly after partying hard from dawn until well past dusk! Our phones were almost dead, if not dead already. But, rather than delivering us quickly and safely to our floor, the elevator clanked and bounced and got stuck in between.
When there was no more movement and we were certain of our “stuckness,” our first action was to use the emergency button in the elevator to connect with an operator. But each time it rang through and a lady answered, she would not take our call seriously. She asked for our “elevator number” and we read aloud any and all sequences of numbers we could find in the small space — emphasizing to her that we were stuck, very stuck! She replied that those numbers were not in her database…and hung up. We tried again. Same deal: “You must be in a private elevator, I don’t know where you are” or something to that effect. Eventually, she started treating us like prank callers. Our one hope of rescue was not working…and we were still stuck, very stuck.
My mom dialed 911 while I protested something about roaming charges (the emergency nature of our situation had not caught up to my brain. Roaming charges were the real danger, apparently). Besides, there’s no way 911 would work in the UK!!!
Except that it did.
*FYI: The emergency numbers in the UK are 999 and 112. But the 911 calls (of American tourists stuck in elevators) ALSO transfer to the same emergency call system. Thank you Queen Elizabeth <3
And thank you, Mom, for transforming into Protective Momma Bear and braving the roaming fees.
“Hi! Yes, our emergency is that we are stuck in an elevator. We need help to get out…”
“What is the address of the building?”
I scramble through the contents of my backpack to find our printed itinerary with the address of our Airbnb and my mom reads it aloud. The lady also needs to know which borough we’re in (shouldn’t the address be information enough?) Uhh…we’re on the south side of the river, inland from the London Bridge, a couple of blocks from the Shard…? Mom lists landmarks until we’re all fairly convinced we’re in Southwark. Yes, that sounds right. The conversation ends with a promise that the Fire Brigade is on its way to us! Our hopes and spirits lift — someone is coming for us! All is not lost! We just have to wait.
Let me take this moment to make a few notes:
1) My mom’s primary fear for us, her baby cubs, was that we would run out of air. This is why her immediate instinct was to pry the doors of the elevator open like freaking Samson TO REVEAL THE IMMOVABLE BRICK WALL.
2) This sight induced a horrific feeling of claustrophobia for me (A BRICK WALL is SO MUCH WORSE than shiny elevator doors that provide the illusion of open space beyond). But for my mom, the sight brought relief! Because, while I saw freaky, claustrophobic BRICK WALL (trapped…trapped…very trapped), she saw all the openings where the air was coming in, assuring her that we would not suffocate one by one!!! Geez Mom — worst-case scenario much?!
The plentiful air slots would certainly have been cause to celebrate if limited air had even occurred to me (or any of the rest of us) — three cheers for oxygen! — but I was fixated on the brown wall of very solid bricks staring back at me, and the feeling that the small square we were crammed in was shrinking.
3) At one point, a person passed by exclaiming “someone’s stuck in the lift again,” chuckling like the neighborhood jerk in a movie scene, and then kept on walking. Um, thanks so much for that — really lovely hospitality. This commentary was the only external sound we heard until the fire brigade arrived.
We were elated to hear truck doors slamming, shuffling below, and several voices. Everyone okay in there? Yes. We were dandy. How many are you? 5 of us. Okay, we’re going to try to bring the lift down…just give us a few minutes. Can I get you some water in the meantime? Yes, thank you.
Please don’t leave us.
I’ve never in my life felt so at the mercy of another human being: a horrible feeling...one of my least favorite feelings.
They handed up (what appeared to be their own personal) water bottles through a small crevice and then delivered the very bad, hope-crushing news: this elevator had a specialized, unusual mechanism that required a lift engineer. They, the Fire Brigade, would not be able to bring the lift down like they’d done hundreds before. Because, like no other elevator they had ever seen, there was no manual crank.
Our minds were groping for understanding…
OKAY…SOO…HOW DO WE GET OUT??
We needed to track down the building manager or something. This was complicated since we were not residents — only temporary guests of this private, seemingly abandoned building — and the Airbnb host was not responding to my messages. We didn’t know how to contact the building manager or designated lift engineer, and my phone was on its last bar.
Our rescuers would need to make some calls… it was going to take a while…possibly all night. Our newfound elation was replaced by the sour weight of hopes dashed.
We were all keeping it very cool, though. No yelling, no crying, no hyperventilating. Had to be strong for one another, ya know? Besides, we weren’t in any immediate danger. It would be okay…eventually. I curled into a small ball in one of the corners on the floor and closed my eyes, willing time to go by faster.
I only once heard the exasperated worry in my mom’s voice when she insisted “You’re not leaving us, though, right?” whenever the man who was our lifeline walked a little too far away.
Helpless. That’s the word.
That’s the feeling.
When the firemen decided there was nothing else they could do for us, they acted as if they were going leave and come back later (um no). My mom again insisted we needed someone to stay - if only for the human assurance that we wouldn’t be forgotten. Please, please don’t leave us.
We needed them to wait — to feel the long minutes with us. And the longer they did, the more they grew antsy.
The lift engineer is supposed to be on the way, they said. But it’s been too long…who knows if he’s even coming! We need to get you out of there. And they started devising a plan of action.
We were comforted by the sound of their heavy boots going up and down the stairs, the banging above our heads, and the flickering of lights. Even if it amounted to nothing, it felt like they were trying things, which made the waiting a little easier.
Their best idea was to break pieces off of the top of the elevator, so that (in theory) we could crawl out through the narrow space between the elevator door and the brick wall.
It was my dad’s turn for worst-case scenario thinking (surely born of all the action movies he’s seen): Nope! No way! What if the elevator decides to drop at the exact second one of you is being pulled out? Your legs could be torn right off! Nope! Not worth the risk!
*This was another injury/death scenario that had not even occurred to me. It must be awfully scary and exhausting to be a parent.
The crew talked my dad through what they would do and how. They assured him that the elevator was not going to move. It was all going to be okay.
In the end, Dad was outvoted.
We threw all of our backpacks, coats, and bags of souvenirs up to our new friends, who were shocked at the number of items we had housed down there with us. Well, we were in Brussels all day sightseeing and brought back our weight in chocolate, soo…
Speaking of weight…who was the lightest? That person would get pulled out first, and the heaviest would go last. I don’t actually remember who went first, though. I think maybe Gabe volunteered to be the guinea pig.
And so, one by one, we began climbing the brick wall on a ladder they dropped down until we were within arms reach of the burly firemen who lifted us up to the spacious floor above — to freedom (and for Courtney who really had to pee, to the loo).
After one, two, three, and four of us exited safely, with relieved sighs, huuuuuge smiles, and uncontrollable giggles, Dad was the last to go. Take off your jumper and toss it up, one of the men instructed. And so he did (after he figured out what a jumper was), but his exit was still not smooth.
His head made it up where we could see his worried expression, but his middle hadn’t yet cleared the gap. The space between the brick wall and the elevator was so narrow — too narrow. He knew this was a bad idea! But the firemen would hear none of that. We’ve got ya! they said in their thick English accents. And with one last mighty heave, four large men of the London Fire Brigade pulled Dad up and out — and all sprawled out on the floor, exhausted.
Just as the lift engineer arrived. Welp.
We thanked them profusely — for not giving up on us, for making a way when there was no way — and asked for a commemorative picture.
It had only been 2 hours since we realized we were stuck, very stuck…
But, there was nothing we could DO in all that time. We could only BE.
We could only wait and hope and exercise trust in a handful of strangers. We could only breathe …and make jokes to lighten the mood… when seconds felt like minutes and minutes felt like hours and hours felt like days.
Then, feet on solid ground again, gratefulness washed over us and we slept the sleep of bears in winter.
We’ll never ride elevators the same (carefree) way again. We’ll never pack in tight like sardines — with strangers and suitcases — again. We’ll choose stairs over lifts whenever possible (especially when there’s no one around to hear or help us if we get stuck). We’ll hold this memory in our bodies forever.
But it’s a pretty fantastic dinner-party story…eh?
