Navigating around the labyrinth of stairs

I am one of those people who greatly overthink walking from place A to place B. Taking into consideration traffic flow, hypotenuses, and underused back stairwells, I am an ambulatory machine (perhaps with undiagnosed OCD) that takes pride in shaving seconds off trips. So when I walked into Lerner my freshman year, I felt like Garry Kasparov staring down Deep Blue.

It was well-honed human skill versus a temple of modern engineering. Except while Deep Blue was able to plan dozens of moves ahead, Lerner shows about as much forethought as a game of drunken Jenga. I vowed that I would figure out Lerner, master its ramps, and finally find its stairwells.

This would be a great challenge on my bucket list. Smaller items, like going to the Metropolitan Opera, were beans compared to the unfathomable task ahead of me. And unlike Theseus, I have no supernatural powers, so I would have to beat that beastly building on my own.

So where am I now? Can I successfully pass through the revolving door of madness on Broadway and get to my mailbox without crossing the entire length of the building twice?

Nope. And I’ve given up trying.

There were glimmers of hope, though. I remember the first time I found the stairwells in Lerner sophomore year. I thought I had unlocked the key to getting from here to there in a logical manner. But then I realized something that bewilders me to this day: There is no stair access to the stairwells from the ground level of Lerner.

Or rather, there is stair access, in the sense that there are stairs (can’t blame the architects on this one). But there isn’t stair access in the sense that these stairs are not accessible. For some reason, the doors to all the stairwells are locked from the outside. I get the sense that we’re supposed to earn the right to those doors through some feat of strength (successfully wrestle PrezBo?). Or maybe there’s some password that just needs to be discovered. I’ve tried “Panama Canal,” “hullabaloo,” and “please?”—all to no avail.

So here’s a shot in the dark: I’m not sure if anyone at Columbia has the authority to make life easier for students, but if it’s possible to open those doors, that would be great. If you need to put ID scanners on the doors, then go ahead and do that. Thanks.

How can one build a building that is so difficult to navigate? As a result of the restricted stair access, the elevators (which are among the slowest on campus) are overused and are often taken up just one or two floors. This bothers me more because it wastes energy than because it wastes time.

At this point, you’re probably thinking I’m an idiot for not realizing that there are stairs attached to the ramps on the inside of the building. Call it a pet peeve, but when I want to get to the fifth floor, I don’t want to have to choose between taking three separate sets of stairs and waiting for the elevators from the Haunted Mansion. Especially when you need to walk down the ramp to get to stairs going up. Beyond that, if you’re in a part of the building away from those orphaned stairs, you’re probably better off entering the maze and spiraling down the ramps like some dying moth.

Perhaps the inefficiencies of Lerner’s design—its waste of time, of space, of energy—represent a warning to would-be entrants. It seems that Lerner’s physical illogic is meant to send the message to students: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Beware the suffering you will find in the Ferris Booth line, the mail center line, the Center for Student Advising, and all the other institutions of wasted time within.

Checkmate, Lerner. In a year of committing to strike out item after item on my bucket list, I must leave one item undone. There is simply no way to beat you. And while I will remain full of frustration every day I enter your doors this year, I know I will miss you when I’m gone.

Nuriel Moghavem is a Columbia College senior majoring in neuroscience and behavior. He is a representative on the Activities Board at Columbia. My Columbia Bucket List runs alternate Thursdays.