We’ve already been four months without an elevator. Fourteen stories down, fourteen stories up, and there’s no clear date for when the contraption will be ready. The installation goes at a Cuban pace, which seems like that of one of those Galapagos tortoises that needs hours and hours to advance a few meters. Something always happens to extend the date for inaugurating the new Russian elevator, and meanwhile my legs are like those of an alpine mountain climber.
If you see that at times the blog has the rhythm of the eight steps that form each flight of my stairs, no need to worry; Generation Y will survive this too.