“What is the dullest conceivable subject for an essay?” I asked myself.
Stairways. Ugh. Truly, I fought the urge to write this piece, but the idea kept returning each time I went to baggage claim.
Why? Because stairways tell a story, and I invite you to understand it. Stairways are functional, but also expressive. They solve a simple problem of elevation, but in how they do it, they make bold, or quiet, statements.
The dog-legged stairwell at the office? It whispers cost savings.
The concrete stairwell in a fancy hotel? Take the elevator, you idiot!
The absurd steps at stone temples in Mexico and Cambodia? They ask “How hard are you willing to work for spiritual elevation?”
These and other questions are asked of us, and my goal is to help you hear and understand them. But first, a story about a Cambodian king who asked his own question: Can you take me higher? Because really—why do we need to go any higher?
King Suryavarman: “I’d like to go higher.”
In the late 9th century, King Yasovarman I of the Khmer Empire—present-day Cambodia—designed his temple with an ambition that pushed him above his predecessors. He chose a 60-meter natural hill north of the later Angkor Wat for his state temple. It was one of the earliest temple-mountains in the Angkor region. Though logistically complex to subdue, the elevation gave his temple both metaphorical and strategic power: a god-king dwelling near the heavens, a ruler with a commanding view over his kingdom and his enemies. Elevation is the difference between a king on the ground and a king on a throne—between a temple you simply walk past, and a temple that demands you to look upward.
And what is upward? Besides, you know, salvation. Stairway to heaven. The underworld is below us. We climb upward toward success. We wallow in the depths of despair. Even this world’s gods chose peak real-estate: Mount Meru, Olympus, Sinai, Kailash, and the Himalayas. It is no surprise that people built mountain-like temples to bring them closer to the gods’ domain. And to get there, they needed a path.
Me, on the stairs: “Praise be to Francois!”
Most stairways are built for comfort and ease. Today, we use the 7-11 Rule: for each step, no more than 7 inches up, and no less than 11 inches across. You can thank François Blondel, who, in 1675, formalized a rule of proportions for the natural-feeling stairs we use today. But, what if comfort isn’t the goal, and rather, we want to control the climbers experience?
The Stairs: “The joke is on you.”
Yes. Stairways manipulate your experience. They make you feel or act in a certain way. Are they steep and aggressive? They hurry you—they push you upward with brisk, purposeful momentum. Hopefully there is a landing midway to catch your breath. If not, someone really wants you to move your ass (or lose weight). Gentler stairs do the opposite: they slow your pace, invite you to linger, to notice. This is especially true if they are also wide. They urge you to slow down and pay attention, perhaps even invite conversation in that space between levels.. Narrow stairwells ask you to be quick and move along before the person behind you steps on your shoe. In some cases, stairways dare you to make the climb at all.
Ancient Architect of Unknown Origin: “Sacred spaces should not be easily reached.”
In Cambodia’s quiet stone temples, once half-swallowed by jungle, the steep steps force you to lean forward, hands pressed against warm stone, your body tilted as though the temple itself demands supplication. This was the point. For the kings and priests who climbed them, each step was a physical enactment of spiritual ascent, a sacred ritual. The steeper the climb, the more you had to surrender to it.
La Escalera Mexicana: “Arrrrrrribaaaaaa!!! ayyayayayayyayayaaaaaaaaa!!!!”
It was in Puerto Vallarta Mexico, that I first noticed the patchwork staircase. The stairs of no one’s grand design. They appear mid-sidewalk like an afterthought—a sudden jog upward of six steps, then the pavement continues as though nothing happened. They are a way of negotiating between parcels: awkward little compromises stitched into the walking path. You don’t climb them so much as stumble into them, mid-stride, mid-thought. Frankly, it makes walking the sidewalk less like a stroll and more like an adventure sport. They are far from the grand staircases of Chichen Itza, or Phnom Bakeng. But, that’s just the point isn’t it? Every step has a message, and if you pay attention, you can understand it.
I ask you to pay attention, what are these stairs telling you?
Or, let’s be honest, maybe they’re just functional. How else do we get down to baggage claim?
<3 Colin —- Todos Santos, MX
Attribution
Coedès, George, and George Coedès. The Indianized States of Southeast Asia. East-West Center Pr, 1996.
“Digital Codes.” Accessed February 3, 2026. https://codes.iccsafe.org/s/IRC2021P3/chapter-3-building-planning/IRC2021P3-Pt03-Ch03-SecR311.7.5.2.
Staircases – Structural Analysis and Design. Routledge, 2019. https://doi.org/10.1201/9780203738801.
Templer, John A. The Staircase. MIT Press, 1992.
“The Philosophy of Stairs: Ascent, Design, and Human Experience.” Accessed February 2, 2026. https://www.pnasteelstairs.com.au/the-philosophy-of-stairs-ascent-design-and-human-experience.