I’m leading an off-site training these past two days and part of next week.
My teammates and I wrote the material and proofed it but you don’t know how
it’s going to go until you actually get up there in front of a real class. I’ve done
a handful of trainings for my employer and I’ve taught high school and college
courses.
So far, it’s going well. I’m working out the pacing a little, the topics are not of
equal length, and I’m one of the last of several providing technical instruction
on our respective topics so I am finding out what others did or did not cover
in their classes.
After the second day, one of the students walked out of the
building with me and while we chatted on the way to our cars,
remarked that this class was good,
that I was training them instead of just teaching the material. That is the
sort of off-hand comment that makes me feel like I’m doing a good job.
Our uneventful trip back was all but ruined by Highbridge car service. Nothing enrages Maria like incompetent service and instead of a soft landing and
speedy delivery to our home we had a nasty experience.
They fouled up even though we made a reservation five days in advance
and left us standing in the rain on the passenger pick up island outside the terminal at JFK for over an hour. The car “broke down” and they forgot to dispatch another. To their credit, they knocked the price down
in apology and both dispatcher and driver were pleasant but you have to
wonder if there is a decent car company in this city.
We’re relaxing on the left coast for a few days. Taking a vacation on the
cheap at my brother and sister-in-law’s place in Santa Cruz, CA. I’ll write and
upload pics when I get back.
Packed another thirty-odd boxes of books. No where to move yet.
We might put all this stuff in crates or in a steel container for storage
somewhere until we get a place. At least we have each other.
The house we saw this rainy evening was, in a word, beautiful. The exterior was
done in subtle Victorian colors and the small front and rear yards were perfectly
planted and fenced in wrought iron.
The inside was pristine. The pocket doors glided on their tracks,
the plaster was intact and solid, the all original woodwork, complete with
dentils, was stripped and oiled. The windows were set with leaded glass.
Even the basement was dry and spacious and the utilities were in excellent shape.
And Maria disliked it from the moment we entered. She put on a good face
but I could see she didn’t care for the place at all as we walked around.
The foyer ate up too much of the first floor. There was no room for both the
couch and piano on the first floor.
With all the wainscotting and the large windows there was
no wall space for bookshelves and there were no built-ins. The kitchen,
three times the size of the cramped galley we make due with now, was
not large enough. The numerous rooms on the second and third floors were small. Some rooms were interconnected making her feel like she was in
a warren. We would have to pare our things down or pack them in tightly.
It was a long walk, several blocks, to the shops and stores and, the final problem, was that the neighborhood is served primarily by city-chartered buses because the two local subway lines are as far as the shops.
So it is a beautiful house. Perfect for some, but that some isn’t us.
