the Shangrelah

It lays two streets from broadway, the massive concrete building rising up over the quilt-work landscape of takeout booths, gas stations, laundry mats and pawn shops (the latter nowhere to be seen but certainly present). The nighttime drizzle had painted the towering side walls a dark gray and glistened their surface so that red and green streetlights decorated the whole structure. The front entrance at first seemed out of place; an exploding melange of oriental and maritime ornaments, heavy rugs with colorful plumes sprawling through the foyer and down the corridors. Bright illumination seemed to be coming from the same multitude of sources as the noise of skittering feet. All sorts of people were whisking by, each on different paths, all of which seemed to loop endlessly in perpetual cycles; I could have sworn that one guy was constantly coming out of the elevator but never going in.

"Siiiiiiirrrr, can I help you siiiiiirrrrr" the calling was for me. Behind the booth was a skinny, collared kid looking at me impatiently with a slightly effeminate hand-on-hip posture. Next to him sat his much heavier colleague. This kid was of ambiguous age and had the characteristics of all the races in the world (something like I would have imagined Adam to be in the garden of Eden; Asian yet African, Nordic but also Aboriginal); truth be told, he fit perfectly in this setting! I approached the reception booth.

"Excuse me, can I have some toilet paper please" comes a voice from beside me. The heavy one in the booth does his best to smile and stretches to grab a roll without ever detaching from his chair. A man with disproportionately long arms and drooping belly stretches across the counter taking the toilet paper roll. Happy enough with his new possession, he turns to his somewhat inappropriately overdressed lady and escorts her into the lift; she, smiling with pride at her husband. My depression was fading fast!

I had come with suspicions. I was here just to look at a room, a smoking-permitted room actually, nothing more. Just curious as to which dark basement they've put smoking rooms at. "Well, the room we have available for you sir is on the top floor, balcony facing North to the skyline; veeeery beautiful!" Says the kid. Interesting...

The theme of the elevator cell was gold and blue. The walls were so densely covered with trinkets that it was difficult to find the elevator buttons; twelve. All around were posted messages addressed to me, the client. "Be happy at Shangrelah!" "We'll brighten up your days and flavor your nights" "the management has put a lock on the trash bin behind the parking lot to avoid unwanted trash.". Oddly enough, despite the swarms of people that seemed to be infesting this hive-like dwelling, the elevator was faithful to me and went all the way to the top without stopping in between. A 'ding' on twelve as a respectful confirmation of my orders being fulfilled and the doors open. The colorful parade on the carpeting and walls had surely enough made it all the way up here as well. On the row of doors stretched ahead were miniature golden ship wheels that encircled the room numbers. The number on my key was all the way to the end, the last room of the top floor.

Walking out of the Shangrelah was like stepping out onto a new city; flashing neon lights must have hastily been installed along the streets while I was in the building. The authorities brought in people from street corners, squares and alleys from all across the world in truckloads to infuse this city with life, all while I was inside! From the alleys came intense smells of things surely inedible. Colorful umbrellas followed awkward silhouettes as they drifted together with the haze that was creeping down the sidewalk over the spattering raindrops. My senses had multiplied; I was in awe. The little slip of paper in my pocket certifying that in two days I was to be an official resident at the Shangrelah was effecting everything and everyone around me. I now realize... it was decadence that I was craving.

I must have been smiling those smiles that are permanently plastered on your face without you realizing. To have escaped from my "exclusive west-side neighborhood" was to have a brilliant new scope on things. The bus had already stopped with doors open in front of me. "Hello bus driver!" I yelled doing like the locals; Shanghai noodles in soup (number 4) spilling out a bit from the takeout bag as I held on to the rails with the bus fare in hand.