Today when I went down to collect the mail, something new had arrived at our building entrance: a massive metal ramp, cut to fit half the width of the five steps that go from the door up to the courtyard level.
I returned to the apartment to announce this startling event to my wife. She said, “Oh yes, we were talking about that at the last condominium meeting.” Was it requested by the families with small children, I wondered? Certainly it’s easier to roll a baby stroller up a ramp than to carry it up the stairs. “No,” said my wife. “It’s required for handicapped access. It’s code.”
“But this building is six years old,” I said.
“Mm hm,” she answered, giving me the yeah-so-what look.
“So if it’s code, shouldn’t it have been installed when this place was built?”
Now she looked patient. “This is Portugal,” she said.