Which floor did you want?

At least a few times a week, someone gets on the elevator in my building and finds themselves exiting at the wrong floor. Most usually catch themselves before stepping out, but I’ve seen a few step off with the most puzzled look on their face. 

What the…?

Like they’re having trouble processing why what’s there doesn’t match what was there when they got on. Most make it back on before the door closes but not always. Especially the ones who decide to go around the corner for a larger look, in case somewhere between them arriving and leaving the building rotated 90 degrees.

For some reason only known to the developer, the bottom floor in our building has been labeled the ground floor. Not First. Ground. And it catches a lot of riders off guard. Now if we were in Europe, this wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. According to some friends there, a ground floor designation is quite common. Supposedly this dates to when the ground floor was actual ground. Or at least that’s what Google has to say, and we know that’s never wrong.

One friend from Colombia did mention that buildings there started with “1”, so maybe ground floor is just a European standard. But he also lived on the 13th floor of a building at one point, something I don’t know anyone here would do, much less have a visitor get on the elevator and press the “13” button.

I do know when people get on our elevator if they’re likely to hit the wrong button. Mostly because I don’t recognize them. But then there’s the hesitation as they start to push buttons, which is when I usually pipe up.

However, at that point, I’m tempted to turn into an elevator operator, although that happens more when I’m staying in a hotel and there’s a ton of buttons. Just get on and offer odd options for whatever floors people select.

Sixth Floor: Men’s Lingerie. Tacos. Hamster Wheels.

Fifteenth Floor: Perfume. Chihuahuas. Naughty Bits.

But I’m also the person who thinks it would be hilarious to get on the elevator and face the other occupants instead of the door, although I never do.

Luckily for people unfamiliar with the building, we only have four floors. (Of which I’m on the third, which is labeled 2.) Which means no one has to endure any silliness from me. Or wouldn’t have to for long, assuming they can figure out exactly where they’re supposed to get off.