It had to be the fourth floor. Twenty-seven times. Up the stairs, down the stairs. And the hidden bonus was that one must climb half of a flight of stairs before you even got to the first floor of apartments. It was exhausting, yet, if I lived in my daughter’s apartment for one year, I could probably drop my YMCA membership. My legs might look like toothpicks. Not only that, once in her apartment, her bedroom is on the second floor and to get there, you must use a spiral staircase. I don’t even want to think about her coming down on the morning after a party. They would be better off with a fireman’s pole. Whoever designed these apartments apparently never lived in one.