Tales from a Lofty Perch: Shanghai Tower

One approaches such a structure with a certain… trepidation, perhaps. Not trepidation of the heights, mind you, but rather the trepidation that accompanies the unveiling of another monument to human aspiration, often with rather predictable results. Before one unleashes the full arsenal of critical commentary, however, it must be acknowledged: the view is quite remarkable. The tallest deck in the world, they boast. And the elevators, those gleaming metallic conveyances, shoot you skyward with a dispatch that makes one wonder if they've somehow skipped a few floors entirely. Forty miles per hour, they say. One almost expects a bellhop to appear midway through, asking if you’ve forgotten anything.

I learned, that while the lead architect was local, the firm responsible was American. A fascinating dynamic, wouldn't you say? It’s rather like commissioning a grand opera only to discover the libretto was penned by a man from Dayton, Ohio, who specializes in jingles. As one shuffles into this cylindrical edifice – nine buildings, they claim, stacked one atop the other, as if it were a particularly ambitious set of children's blocks – a thought occurs, unbidden: transplant this tower elsewhere, say, to the bustling canyons of Manhattan, and what do you have? Merely another glass and steel sentinel, indistinguishable from its brethren. It’s the lasting legacy of Bauhaus, isn't it? These "utilitarian" structures, straining for the heavens, yet so utterly devoid of personality that one cannot discern their origin, their story. They are simply large, reflective surfaces, the final resting place for a great many unfortunate birds. One imagines a perpetual memorial service for avian miscalculations.

The journey inward continues, past corridors adorned with sepia-toned images of towers past, a kind of architectural rogues' gallery. The Chrysler Building, bless its charmingly anachronistic spire. The Sears Tower, a monument to a bygone era of corporate confidence. And then, the Burj Khalifa, the current reigning champion, having outstripped our Shanghai contender by a cool 196 meters. Ah, how the mighty have indeed fallen! From the Hanging Gardens of Babylon to this rather undignified game of "who has the largest and most vertical appendage." Consider the Oriental Pearl Tower, a neighbor of some repute, with its peculiar, spherical charm; it at least suggests a whimsical nod to something beyond mere altitude. But I digress. Back to the Shanghai Tower.

Upon reaching the celestial platform, I found the room, as one always does, teeming. It was prime time: sunset. And who, I might ask, had tracked me to this lofty perch? The TikTokers, naturally. Just when you believe you've escaped the grandmothers executing their various Tai Chi maneuvers and the teenagers contorting their countenances into expressions reminiscent of intergalactic fauna, there they were. Every square centimeter occupied by these attention-starved performers, spoiling what might have been a moment of quiet, if not spiritual, reflection. And the children. Always the children. One wonders if there's a single elevated vantage point left on Earth unmarred by their incessant scurrying.

Near a broad, unadorned, and rather institutional metal staircase – the sort one expects to find in a very efficient, albeit soulless, municipal building – there sat an absurd profusion of heart-shaped tokens and pendants. Each bearing the name of some brave soul who had, presumably, endured the same ear-popping ascent. As humbling as it was to stand on this precipice of the world, suspended amidst the clouds with a 365-degree panorama of the Huangpu River, the majesty was swiftly eclipsed. Eclipsed by the aforementioned grandmothers, no doubt perfecting their synchronized TikTok dances, and the teenagers, feigning various dietary afflictions in a transparent bid for larger tips to cover their inexplicably voluminous food orders. An impossible feat, I might add.

The populace pressed itself against the glass, which, I was relieved to note, is a double-layered "skin," designed, I presume, to allow in natural light without turning the interior into a rather elaborate kiln. I imagine the builders, in a moment of prescience, anticipating humanity's innate desire to hurl itself, metaphorically speaking, against the very walls of eternity at 1,800 feet. And wouldn't you know it, yours truly was soon likewise compressed against the pane, a rather undignified position that precluded any further unobstructed viewing unless one decided to emulate a suicidal pigeon. Alas!

And then, as if to add insult to existential injury, the sun, presumably taking a cue from the mythical Icarus, unleashed a direct assault, blinding me utterly. My camera, which I had, by this point, begun to wield simply to blend in with the throngs of self-appointed film crews, fared no better. I lingered, of course. One must get one's money's worth, mustn't one? And there was always the faint hope that nightfall might bring with it some profound spiritual illumination. It did not.

One considers the possibility of a date to one of the nine atriums, each offering a progressively more perilous, though presumably romantic, view. But beware. Your companion may find a steak dinner, closer to terra firma, with a less vertically ambitious suitor, significantly more appealing after enduring the queue and the general cacophony of a bird’s-eye view, only to retreat, ultimately, to a building of more manageable, miniature stature. One can only endure so much elevation.