LJ Idol -- Adventures of Being a Tour Guide (Week 17, Topic 2)
therealljidol Topic of the Week: MY GREATEST ADVENTURE.
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Chills run down my spine when I hear these six simple words:
"We'd like to take a tour!"
I cannot think of many people who must endure this particular phrase on a daily basis. Out of duty and obligation, office workers push papers from the safety of their desks while retail clerks ring up sales from the safety of their cash register. Many of the world's employed can flit from home to work without ever dealing with the public. Sometimes people choose these jobs because they've been trained for a specialized field. Others, quite honestly, would rather stab themselves in the eyeball than face customers or clients.
Every single day, I hear those same six words, give or take a few self-satisfied smirks or stupid remarks. They lumber towards me, their bellies protruding over their fanny-packs, their visors shading beady eyes. They carry crumpled maps and postcards covered with horses. America is teeming with tourists and they cannot be stopped!
"One dollar per person, please," I answer, unscrewing the lid of the plastic jar in front of me. Chills run down the tourists' spines whenever they find out something isn't free.
-------
I began my job as a candy-factory tour guide in July 2006. I will never understand to this day why I chose such a profession, given two large aspects of my personality--Extreme Shyness and a General Dislike of People. Like a parent hurls an infant into a lake to teach it how to swim, my manager tossed me into groups of people after watching him conduct a few tours himself. Needless to say, I was terrified. I couldn't hide behind mail-bins like my post-office clerk job, and I didn't have the privilege of working solo like in my stint as a church secretary.
I was the center of attention for periods of 15 minutes at a time. I had to take good care of my appearance, and my depression couldn't follow me into the store-front, even when I wanted to cry. The first few weeks, I'd hide in the employee bathroom, trying not to vomit. I'd cringe at the sound of bells jingling at the door whenever a family waltzed in, demanding their candy tour. Sometimes, my co-worker Katie and I laugh and roll our eyes at the people standing outside, photographing themselves in front of the building and gawking at the roadside plaque.
On any given day, I will give one to sixteen tours during my shift. After about ten tours, I turn light-headed and dry-mouthed. Except for a half-hour lunch break, I am on my feet non-stop, rushing from place to place. My customers I can usually handle, even the fussy old women. The tourists are an entirely different story. When conducting a tour of our facilities, I transform into a shepherd, a storyteller, a teacher, an actress, and a historian, all rolled into a 105-pound frame. I deal with children, senior citizens, tour busses, students, mentally handicapped, businesspeople, families, and couples. Outside of our scheduled tours, I never know who to expect to walk into our doors.
I've learned about the predictability of people through my job. Typical tourists exhibit all the same behaviors--they dawdle, they interrupt, they attempt to touch the conveyor belts and chocolate vats, and they ask really prying questions that I am not qualified to answer. Some act rather indignant when our line isn't running, as if we expect our production workers to toil night and day. Others will not respond to my engaging story at all. They stare at me with the blank eyes of sheep, and they leave without so much as a thank-you upon the end of the tour. When my tour is over, I need to act charming, even when my greedy gluttonous tourists gulp down $5 worth of bourbon ball chocolates in front of me.
Luckily, I've never had to deal with severe cases of Bad Tourist Syndrome. One group of mentally retarded people I had to send away because one of their patients had rushed next door, broke into the neighbor man's house, and stole some pop out of the fridge. If these people couldn't even watch one of their own when walking into the building, how was I to expect them to use caution in my factory? Other times, I keep a sharp eye on people with cameras. Photography is not allowed, and I frown on people who break this rule in other places. I've never had to send anyone away. They might scowl at me, but they'll put their camera away.
How does an introverted, misanthropic person handle this line of profession? With a lot of grace, charm, and a sense of humor. I jokingly tell people that I won't let them try candy after the tour if they straggle behind. I always remember the Golden Rule--treat people how I would like to be treated. If someone asks a stupid question, I take it very seriously and try to answer the best I can. When people ask me, "How do you stay so skinny working here?" and poke me, I chirp, "I stay in shape by giving tours!" They love when I banter with them. Sure, most days I need to force myself to act happy. But even forcing myself into a positive emotion can help improve my mood.
I'm not knocking all tourist when I write this--it's hit and miss in the hospitality industry. I love most of my tourists, especially the ones who come in with smiles and interested murmurs. They have a zeal for learning and they love the oral history I share with them. People enjoy hearing about how two teachers quit their jobs and started a candy company in 1919, a year before women could even vote in public elections. They leave satisfied and with bulging shopping bags. I feel accomplished when this happens, and it happens more times than not.
I never knew that a job could be such an adventure. I may only commute ten minutes away to reach my candy factory, but this job has forced me to leave my comfort zone and battle demons that I've always carried inside of me. This job has taught me how to emphasize and act like the model customer. It's been amazing and I look forward to more tours and meeting more fascinating people.
Like this entry? Vote for it HERE. :^)
Chills run down my spine when I hear these six simple words:
"We'd like to take a tour!"
I cannot think of many people who must endure this particular phrase on a daily basis. Out of duty and obligation, office workers push papers from the safety of their desks while retail clerks ring up sales from the safety of their cash register. Many of the world's employed can flit from home to work without ever dealing with the public. Sometimes people choose these jobs because they've been trained for a specialized field. Others, quite honestly, would rather stab themselves in the eyeball than face customers or clients.
Every single day, I hear those same six words, give or take a few self-satisfied smirks or stupid remarks. They lumber towards me, their bellies protruding over their fanny-packs, their visors shading beady eyes. They carry crumpled maps and postcards covered with horses. America is teeming with tourists and they cannot be stopped!
"One dollar per person, please," I answer, unscrewing the lid of the plastic jar in front of me. Chills run down the tourists' spines whenever they find out something isn't free.
-------
I began my job as a candy-factory tour guide in July 2006. I will never understand to this day why I chose such a profession, given two large aspects of my personality--Extreme Shyness and a General Dislike of People. Like a parent hurls an infant into a lake to teach it how to swim, my manager tossed me into groups of people after watching him conduct a few tours himself. Needless to say, I was terrified. I couldn't hide behind mail-bins like my post-office clerk job, and I didn't have the privilege of working solo like in my stint as a church secretary.
I was the center of attention for periods of 15 minutes at a time. I had to take good care of my appearance, and my depression couldn't follow me into the store-front, even when I wanted to cry. The first few weeks, I'd hide in the employee bathroom, trying not to vomit. I'd cringe at the sound of bells jingling at the door whenever a family waltzed in, demanding their candy tour. Sometimes, my co-worker Katie and I laugh and roll our eyes at the people standing outside, photographing themselves in front of the building and gawking at the roadside plaque.
On any given day, I will give one to sixteen tours during my shift. After about ten tours, I turn light-headed and dry-mouthed. Except for a half-hour lunch break, I am on my feet non-stop, rushing from place to place. My customers I can usually handle, even the fussy old women. The tourists are an entirely different story. When conducting a tour of our facilities, I transform into a shepherd, a storyteller, a teacher, an actress, and a historian, all rolled into a 105-pound frame. I deal with children, senior citizens, tour busses, students, mentally handicapped, businesspeople, families, and couples. Outside of our scheduled tours, I never know who to expect to walk into our doors.
I've learned about the predictability of people through my job. Typical tourists exhibit all the same behaviors--they dawdle, they interrupt, they attempt to touch the conveyor belts and chocolate vats, and they ask really prying questions that I am not qualified to answer. Some act rather indignant when our line isn't running, as if we expect our production workers to toil night and day. Others will not respond to my engaging story at all. They stare at me with the blank eyes of sheep, and they leave without so much as a thank-you upon the end of the tour. When my tour is over, I need to act charming, even when my greedy gluttonous tourists gulp down $5 worth of bourbon ball chocolates in front of me.
Luckily, I've never had to deal with severe cases of Bad Tourist Syndrome. One group of mentally retarded people I had to send away because one of their patients had rushed next door, broke into the neighbor man's house, and stole some pop out of the fridge. If these people couldn't even watch one of their own when walking into the building, how was I to expect them to use caution in my factory? Other times, I keep a sharp eye on people with cameras. Photography is not allowed, and I frown on people who break this rule in other places. I've never had to send anyone away. They might scowl at me, but they'll put their camera away.
How does an introverted, misanthropic person handle this line of profession? With a lot of grace, charm, and a sense of humor. I jokingly tell people that I won't let them try candy after the tour if they straggle behind. I always remember the Golden Rule--treat people how I would like to be treated. If someone asks a stupid question, I take it very seriously and try to answer the best I can. When people ask me, "How do you stay so skinny working here?" and poke me, I chirp, "I stay in shape by giving tours!" They love when I banter with them. Sure, most days I need to force myself to act happy. But even forcing myself into a positive emotion can help improve my mood.
I'm not knocking all tourist when I write this--it's hit and miss in the hospitality industry. I love most of my tourists, especially the ones who come in with smiles and interested murmurs. They have a zeal for learning and they love the oral history I share with them. People enjoy hearing about how two teachers quit their jobs and started a candy company in 1919, a year before women could even vote in public elections. They leave satisfied and with bulging shopping bags. I feel accomplished when this happens, and it happens more times than not.
I never knew that a job could be such an adventure. I may only commute ten minutes away to reach my candy factory, but this job has forced me to leave my comfort zone and battle demons that I've always carried inside of me. This job has taught me how to emphasize and act like the model customer. It's been amazing and I look forward to more tours and meeting more fascinating people.