My feet hurt.
So after much hard work and bitching, I have finally and successfully, joined the work force of Rosario. I am employed, unofficially at the moment - I am in the process of getting my work visa, so then it will be more official - by Excalibur. The restaurant of the four-star hotel....drum roll......the Holiday Inn Rosario.
The job, so far, seems to include very long hours - 8 hours a day, very little days off - one to two days per week...I have 6 francos (days-off) for the entire month, and very little pay. I am in a third world country. (I forgot to mention though, I will have great medical coverage.) My salary will be 1400 pesos per month, not including tips - people don't really tip here, so I really don't have much expectations for that.
The people so far are pretty jovial and nice - the staff is huge, about 70 people, which is way more than they need. And I think the people are mostly jovial because it tells you in the intro-packet to always wear a smile and have cara-dura, which translates to without embarassment. I am supposed to work without ever being embarassed to ask anything or do anything. Supposedly.
But I am getting way ahead of myself, by complaining already. :) I like having a job and something to keep me busy outside the house. I now have people of my own which is a good thing. And I am going to try to get mostly night shifts, which are way busier and much more fun, so I wont have to wake up every morning at 6 or 7. I am a terrible morning person - especially when I have to put on a smile and charming personality. And so far, it has yet to bother me, that all the guests, upon discovering that I am a yankee, always ask what the hell I am doing in Rosario. I haven't really come up with a good answer to that one, but today will only be my third day of work.
And soon enough, after I get to the U.S. embassy in Buenos Aires, I will have a visa and can be in Argentina for a whole year, without problems. Otherwise, while the job has yet to give me time to write, I will get there eventually. Especially since I really only want to work nights. When I work days - it kills my whole day.
So yeah! I have a job and somewhat of a routine. And the whole interviewing process, was not actually in vain afterall! Is that supposed to be a relief?
Anyway, thats the news for now. I am using my few francos this next week, to head to Buenos Aires with Ryan to get my box out of customs, go to the US embassy and sort out my visa, and of course for the RADIOHEAD concert on Tuesday night. Radiohead. Radiohead!
Ryan is coming to Rosario for the weekend to visit, which should be interesting since I have not seen him since November.
"Bienvenidos al Holiday Inn, Rosario. Me Llamo Jenna. Como puedo ayudar?"Sonrisa.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
In Vain
I had two interviews yesterday, which from what I can tell so far were in vain. Or maybe they were just good practice. Although they were both for waitressing positions and I am not sure the last time, that I wanted a job so badly. Pretty strange to think that after graduating New York University, I am currently crossing my fingers that I get a waitressing position. Maybe its ironic. But mostly I just feel like its a punishment. A punishment for not publishing anything, but really a punishment for not being able to finish anything I start - in terms of writing.
So oh well. Imagine: I show up in my best clothes at the Holiday Inn. A four star hotel in Rosario, Argentina. I spend a while chatting with Paulo, who is the interviewer. He asks me how I ended up in Rosario - I came for a visit and decided to stay. What I like most about Rosario - the river, the flag monument, and of course the museums. W here I am staying - I stay with my boyfriend in Tavlada. He asks me about my travels - I sum up as briefly as I my trip so far. He asks me what my parents do - a little off guard about why he want to know this, I tell him that my mother is a special ed teacher, and that my father is in promotional products - I explain here that all the pens, keychains, and tags for luggage that say the name brand Holiday Inn, are brought by my father from China to his factory in Los Angeles, and he prints the labels and sends them out to distributors. Oh, he exclaims, your father is an importer. Well, I say, not specifically. But he is the interviewer, so I let him think what he wants. He asks me what my boyfriend does and I explain that he is a historian, that he teaches at the university, and that he is an investigator for the state - bascially he has a grant from the state to finish his doctorate in argentinian history. Well, thats wonderful, Paulo comments. He then plunges into more questions about my personal life, which of course catch me off guard, and I smile an over-friendly smile to stall him as I think of a charming answer.
Evenutually, he seems pleased and asks me to wait while he gets his superior to interview me next since he has to continue with the other interviews. I stare at the wall for about 15 minutes or so and think about how fun it would be to work in the ritsy hotel and how it seems like I might get the job, since none of the other girls were asked to wait to talk to a superior nor did they spend so much time with the interviewer. Cesar, a gerente of the Holiday Inn, then comes to ask me the same personal questions, instead of asking me about my experience, why I would be good for the position, what I bring to the table, etc. I answer this time around, much more intelligibly since I have now said these answers twice. He explains how I fit the profile of what they are looking for as a waitress for their fine dining restaurant - they want young, motivated, and interesting people. But after about 20 minutes, he tells me he will talk with Paulo, and let me know. I have yet to hear back.
The second interview I had yesterday, took about ten minutes. It is for a bar in the center of the city, that has bands play and poetry readings, and gatherings of the sort. Maximilliano, my interviewer, explains the job - it will be thursday, friday, and saturday nights from 9 until 3 or 4 in the morning. I would work with one other person, and I should be prepared, since I am a Janqui (Yankee) to hear the wrath of the people. I tell him that it is a good conversation starter, so he shouldn't worry. They will pay me 8 pesos an hour and that doesnt include the measly tips that people barely leave here, especially if they are drunk. He tells me he will call me early next week and let me know, but if I don't get a call, well, its because I am not getting a call.
So like I said - in vain. I'll let you know.....just like they supposedly will......
So oh well. Imagine: I show up in my best clothes at the Holiday Inn. A four star hotel in Rosario, Argentina. I spend a while chatting with Paulo, who is the interviewer. He asks me how I ended up in Rosario - I came for a visit and decided to stay. What I like most about Rosario - the river, the flag monument, and of course the museums. W here I am staying - I stay with my boyfriend in Tavlada. He asks me about my travels - I sum up as briefly as I my trip so far. He asks me what my parents do - a little off guard about why he want to know this, I tell him that my mother is a special ed teacher, and that my father is in promotional products - I explain here that all the pens, keychains, and tags for luggage that say the name brand Holiday Inn, are brought by my father from China to his factory in Los Angeles, and he prints the labels and sends them out to distributors. Oh, he exclaims, your father is an importer. Well, I say, not specifically. But he is the interviewer, so I let him think what he wants. He asks me what my boyfriend does and I explain that he is a historian, that he teaches at the university, and that he is an investigator for the state - bascially he has a grant from the state to finish his doctorate in argentinian history. Well, thats wonderful, Paulo comments. He then plunges into more questions about my personal life, which of course catch me off guard, and I smile an over-friendly smile to stall him as I think of a charming answer.
Evenutually, he seems pleased and asks me to wait while he gets his superior to interview me next since he has to continue with the other interviews. I stare at the wall for about 15 minutes or so and think about how fun it would be to work in the ritsy hotel and how it seems like I might get the job, since none of the other girls were asked to wait to talk to a superior nor did they spend so much time with the interviewer. Cesar, a gerente of the Holiday Inn, then comes to ask me the same personal questions, instead of asking me about my experience, why I would be good for the position, what I bring to the table, etc. I answer this time around, much more intelligibly since I have now said these answers twice. He explains how I fit the profile of what they are looking for as a waitress for their fine dining restaurant - they want young, motivated, and interesting people. But after about 20 minutes, he tells me he will talk with Paulo, and let me know. I have yet to hear back.
The second interview I had yesterday, took about ten minutes. It is for a bar in the center of the city, that has bands play and poetry readings, and gatherings of the sort. Maximilliano, my interviewer, explains the job - it will be thursday, friday, and saturday nights from 9 until 3 or 4 in the morning. I would work with one other person, and I should be prepared, since I am a Janqui (Yankee) to hear the wrath of the people. I tell him that it is a good conversation starter, so he shouldn't worry. They will pay me 8 pesos an hour and that doesnt include the measly tips that people barely leave here, especially if they are drunk. He tells me he will call me early next week and let me know, but if I don't get a call, well, its because I am not getting a call.
So like I said - in vain. I'll let you know.....just like they supposedly will......
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
A Fat Tale
after talking to Tamara this morning, I thought over what she said. And so I dedicate whatever this crap will be today, to her.
I have never been good at the love story chronicles. Any time I have ever put myself to write something about love, it usually comes out as a disgusting attempt. I did once write two pieces for a prose composition class my freshman year at NYU that could actually be considered autobiographical love stories.The first was a piece for an assignment for Professor Goldfin, where he asked the class to write about 5 pages or so, double-spaced, about something we were passionate about; i.e. a hobby, a person, a type of food, an abstraction, etc. I remember writing a really shitty first draft about escapism. How I have trouble being passionate about anything and that I use television as an escapism to avoid reality. Professor Goldfin hated the piece and we scheduled an appointment to talk during his office hours.
When we met, he told me I was copping out of the actual assignment and that I should change my topic. I spent the next week trying to think of things that I could possibly be passionate about and came up with nothing. The night before I had to turn in the redo, I went up to see a friend. I told him about how I couldn't do the essay and I was completely blocked. After much debating, he finally told me that maybe it would be a good idea to just write about being passionate about passion, since I used to say things like that my Freshman year of college. I sat at his desk and after a brief time, I had my first draft.
I basically wrote a count of my years of tumulutous boy-traumas - there were not many, I was only 18. But I ended the piece explaining how I had been hurt many times and yet I was always willing to get myself back together and put myself out there again. Because ultimately, I was passionate for that pang in your stomach when you know you like someone.You know what I mean...the fleeting second when the top of your belly drops like you are riding a roller coaster and you are about to make the big drop on Collasus.
The second piece I wrote later that year, after I fell for that friend. It was a bit cliched, just like the first. I dont think I had really become acquainted with my writing thumb yet or thought that any one in the world had gone through what I had. But it was a more of a quiet story about how things never actually work out the way you want them to in love.
Yet neither of the pieces were actually love stories. The first was a non-fiction drag and the second was about two failing relationships that occur simultaneously based on my life experience. Maybe I figured that once I was in love, it would somehow make the entire genre easier to write about --- well, it hasn't.
So sorry Tamara. Maybe some other day. But at least I tried.........
I have never been good at the love story chronicles. Any time I have ever put myself to write something about love, it usually comes out as a disgusting attempt. I did once write two pieces for a prose composition class my freshman year at NYU that could actually be considered autobiographical love stories.The first was a piece for an assignment for Professor Goldfin, where he asked the class to write about 5 pages or so, double-spaced, about something we were passionate about; i.e. a hobby, a person, a type of food, an abstraction, etc. I remember writing a really shitty first draft about escapism. How I have trouble being passionate about anything and that I use television as an escapism to avoid reality. Professor Goldfin hated the piece and we scheduled an appointment to talk during his office hours.
When we met, he told me I was copping out of the actual assignment and that I should change my topic. I spent the next week trying to think of things that I could possibly be passionate about and came up with nothing. The night before I had to turn in the redo, I went up to see a friend. I told him about how I couldn't do the essay and I was completely blocked. After much debating, he finally told me that maybe it would be a good idea to just write about being passionate about passion, since I used to say things like that my Freshman year of college. I sat at his desk and after a brief time, I had my first draft.
I basically wrote a count of my years of tumulutous boy-traumas - there were not many, I was only 18. But I ended the piece explaining how I had been hurt many times and yet I was always willing to get myself back together and put myself out there again. Because ultimately, I was passionate for that pang in your stomach when you know you like someone.You know what I mean...the fleeting second when the top of your belly drops like you are riding a roller coaster and you are about to make the big drop on Collasus.
The second piece I wrote later that year, after I fell for that friend. It was a bit cliched, just like the first. I dont think I had really become acquainted with my writing thumb yet or thought that any one in the world had gone through what I had. But it was a more of a quiet story about how things never actually work out the way you want them to in love.
Yet neither of the pieces were actually love stories. The first was a non-fiction drag and the second was about two failing relationships that occur simultaneously based on my life experience. Maybe I figured that once I was in love, it would somehow make the entire genre easier to write about --- well, it hasn't.
So sorry Tamara. Maybe some other day. But at least I tried.........
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