I'm in Texas. Hard to believe.
So, with the help of my loving brother, I got to the airport just in time to stand in a security line of 150 and barely make my plane to Dallas. The three hour flight was spent reading the Economist, fidgeting in my Bannana Republic suit, reviewing Mary's charming play and working on my own novella, which my neighbor in 12C tried to read over my shoulder. Upon arrival, we had to go straight to the training convention to hear a lecture about The Firm's great history and the many branches of its business. And, holy crap are we big. (We? They? Well, "we" for now...) We've shoved our finger into pies very literally all over the world. It was, in fact, surprisingly interesting, though in the fifth hour even my attention began to swain.
We were released at 5 Dallas time and checked into the hotel. Four star hotel. Very, very swanky. It has three different types of restaurants, two bars, a patio, gym, indoor and outdoor pools, Jacuzzi, etc. etc. bla-bla-bla. Still, I feel super chic. Oh, here’s my room. It’s the size of a one bedroom apartment.
So, since they gave us a lame per diem, I decided to go look for cheap food. I wandered around a bit and found Subway and a neat little Turkish market. As I was walking back, a man in a BMW pulled up and asked for directions. I explained that I’d just checked into my hotel and that I had no idea how to get there. He was also looking for a hotel and decided to check out mine.
I went back to the hotel and changed into a nice skirt, red top and sexy heels. I gathered up my books, The Economist and journal and headed down to revel in swanky atmosphere and an overpriced glass of wine. Who should I run into other than Mr. Directions who, in addition to being rather handsome, had the very good sense to instantly ask me out for a dinner or a drink. So, we went on the patio and I had a glass of port and we talked about global business, our favorite cities to live in or visit and various ill-conceived approaches to the stock market.
And you know, I actually felt like I knew what I was talking about. I’m an embryonic stockbroker! Really!
So, aren't you all dreadfully impressed?
(Hey, I heard that. Stop snorting in derision...)
We were released at 5 Dallas time and checked into the hotel. Four star hotel. Very, very swanky. It has three different types of restaurants, two bars, a patio, gym, indoor and outdoor pools, Jacuzzi, etc. etc. bla-bla-bla. Still, I feel super chic. Oh, here’s my room. It’s the size of a one bedroom apartment.
So, since they gave us a lame per diem, I decided to go look for cheap food. I wandered around a bit and found Subway and a neat little Turkish market. As I was walking back, a man in a BMW pulled up and asked for directions. I explained that I’d just checked into my hotel and that I had no idea how to get there. He was also looking for a hotel and decided to check out mine.
I went back to the hotel and changed into a nice skirt, red top and sexy heels. I gathered up my books, The Economist and journal and headed down to revel in swanky atmosphere and an overpriced glass of wine. Who should I run into other than Mr. Directions who, in addition to being rather handsome, had the very good sense to instantly ask me out for a dinner or a drink. So, we went on the patio and I had a glass of port and we talked about global business, our favorite cities to live in or visit and various ill-conceived approaches to the stock market.
And you know, I actually felt like I knew what I was talking about. I’m an embryonic stockbroker! Really!
So, aren't you all dreadfully impressed?
(Hey, I heard that. Stop snorting in derision...)