Every evening on my way home I pass by one of the new high-rise condominium complexes that started springing up around Nashville about 20 minutes before the economy hit the skids. Four or five are complete now (one that I pass every day only got as far as a giant hole in the ground ) and they have fancy-pants names like Terrazzo and ICON. They’re beautiful and sleek and expensive.
The one I see on my daily route is called Rhythm, a word you see and hear a lot around here. It’s a place where I always creep along so I have plenty of time to contemplate what I see. Day after the day, what strikes me is this: what on earth is holding up the balconies?
Each unit has these slabs of concrete jutting out over the unit below, and there’s nothing holding them up. Sure, they’re attached to the walls, but there’s nothing underneath. No pillars or poles. No foundation.
Just thin air.
Don’t get me wrong, despite my gut-wrenching fear of heights, I do love balconies. But balconies are kind of like hot dogs–you don’t want to think about how they’re made while you’re enjoying them.
On my one and only cruise, I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about being such a small speck in such a large ocean…and the same concept works here–what was holding up the million-ton ship I was on? Water. What happens when you throw a rock in a pond?
Right. It sinks.
And what about airplanes? What holds them up?
Same thing that holds up balconies–thin air.
So maybe it all comes down to faith. Faith in science and builders and architects.
Faith in pilots and engineers and ship captains.
And faith in hot dog makers.