Culture Shock

The differences between Minnesota and Florida are legion. The primary difference (the biggest difference that I’ve been able to spot, anyway) is the way people behave in elevators.

In Minnesota, people file quietly into elevator cars, push the button for the floor they want, and stand as far away from everybody else as they can, all the while not acknowledging anyone else is in the elevator at all.

It’s not a perfect system, but it works. It’s a system with which I’ve grown quite comfortable. I like it.

I don’t like Florida’s system. In Florida, the first person in the elevator becomes the wordlessly appointed elevator operator. It’s that person’s job to greet everyone else, ask which floor they want, and push the button for them.

I just can’t seem to get the hang of it.

On day one, I was the first in the elevator. I pushed the number two button and slid against the wall into the corner. That’s the Minnesota way. That’s my way. A stout old lady ambled in behind me, planted herself in the middle of the car and stared at me. The doors slid shut. The awkwardness was thick and hot as my brief sideways glances connected with her intent and meaningful stare.

“Well?” she asked after a while.

“Well, what?” I said.

“Aren’t you going to as me what floor I’m going to?”

There was a moment of dizzying confusion during which I came to the conclusion that honesty would be my best course of action. “No,” I said.

Then came a disgusted snort and a mumbled diatribe about me, Jesus, and the state of the world. I didn’t hear most of it because luckily, the elevator had reached my floor and I was able to walk away. That’s what elevators do when operated properly. I suppose I’ll never know whether the angry, mumbling woman I left behind got to where she wanted to go.

The second day I was not the first person in the elevator. I was second in a line led by another portly old woman who took position in front of the button panel and held down the button labeled Open Door. I instinctively reached in front of her to load in my floor order and literally had my hand slapped away.

“Excuse me, please,” said the old, round woman very sarcastically. “I’d like to make sure everyone gets in before we begin.”

The third day I took the stairs.