Elevators here are essentially just roomy coffins. Most of them are only meant to hold two people, and even then, you'll probably still be spooning. Despite this, I have managed to fit a clunky stroller and two small children in these elevators with me. I don't do this gracefully, but I still do it — because Paris goes out of its way to be as stroller and wheelchair-unfriendly as possible.
The first time I got stuck in an elevator here, my then-2 year old was in the stroller, while my then-newborn was strapped to my chest. When I realized the doors were stuck, my panic must have been so palpable because the newborn started screaming. This prompted the toddler to do the same. Never have I been in more of a literal metaphor for early motherhood than when I was trapped in a matchbox-sized elevator with two shrieking babies, while trying to yell at the elevator repair hotline in French.
We eventually got out because in the midst of the pandemonium, I decided, I can't die like this. And I summoned my mom-strength and pried the doors open with my bare hands, shrieking baby still hanging from me. I didn't have any time to admire my Hulk-like strength in that moment because we all tumbled out, desperate for fresh air and snacks.
The second time we all got stuck in an elevator happened approximately a year later in a new building.
