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My car broke down the other day. At the moment there's about a 50/50 chance of it actually starting when I put the key in the ignition on the first try, then I've got to wait a few hours before trying it again. It's really something that I could have avoided by having a service long ago, when I first started noticing little things going wrong, but denial gave way to determination and I became convinced that cars were supposed to make these weird little noises and run out of radiator fluid and sputter for about 30 seconds after ignition. I've only got myself to blame for all of it, quite frankly. Fortunately I live within walking distance of most of the things I want to get to (friends, uni *cough*, shopping centres, pubs...), and it'll kickstart my ambition to start actually using public transport, which will save me upwards of $40/week in parking fees. Usually I swallow that as part of my work expenses, as I make, on average, $15 in tips a day but it's money I don't actually have to spend. Anyway, I'm going to segue into discussing work now if you don't mind.
I've been really enjoying work at the Duxton. Sometimes it drags, sometimes it's totally flat out, but by and large it's relatively interesting, the hours go by quickly and the pay's pretty good. I've got two days off now, which is great because I think my politeness gland is starting to wear out and I want to drink me some beer fer christ's sake. I haven't really explained what the job actually entails, and it's something that's worth explaining. I'm essentially a professional best friend, to use a term Novak, my Duxton progenitor, coined. I make our guests' stay at the hotel as comfortable as possible. For much of the day this consists of little more than greeting people as they come out of cars, parking their cars and bringing them back up later, and carrying bags to and from rooms.
There are also requests for advice on restaurants, shopping centres, things to do in Perth at night (answer: not too much, really) car hire, etc. Anything you would want when going to a foreign city but didn't want to have to work out for yourself. It turns out that the more money people spend, the less they want to work out for themselves, and we get some very stupid pleas for help at times. i.e.
Guest: "I can't connect to the internet!"
Me: "Did you try clicking the 'connect' button after opening your browser?"
Guest: "What's that?"
(go up to guest's room to help them out)
Me: "This button here that says 'connect'. Click on it."
Guest: "Oh. It wasn't very straightforward though, was it?"
(punch guest in face)
(get fired for punching guest in face)
(write about experiences in Livejournal)
I exaggerate, of course. I really don't mind it so much when people make silly mistakes, as decades of life experience have told me that people make mistakes sometimes. Shocking, no? All I ask is that people respect that I make mistakes too. Which they don't, generally, because I'm supposed to be professional, which is a completely different thing from being human. But yeah, excluding gross negligence I can get away with screwing things up once in a while. I'm very tempted to start writing down the more outlandish events around the hotel, with a mind to eventually creating a comedy series about the stuff that happens at a five-star hotel.
It can be very rewarding at times, too. I'm constantly going out of my way to help people out, and 90% of the time they genuinely appreciate the effort, and I'm one of those people that loves to help others out wherever possible. Some might say I'm a doormat, but hey, I'm a professional doormat. Not many people can boast that. The most rewarding thing that's happened at work so far was also one of the more frustrating and exhausting ones, and I'm going to tell you about it now.
We get quite a few Japanese golfers coming to the hotel. Usually they're organised as part of a package deal and they have their own tour guide who actually speaks Japanese and can get everything done for them. All we have to do is take care of their golf clubs and carry their bags down for them (all at once, stacking all the bags as quickly/dangerously as possible on our trolleys). This works fine, because generally it's really freaking hard to communicate clearly with foreigners, you end up needing to do a lot of hand gestures and speak slowly to make sure they've actually understood what you've said. It's fun to exercise your nonverbal communication skills at times, though.
Anyway, the other week we had a group of five Japanese golfers. They weren't part of a tour, they were just going on their own, seeing what there was to enjoy down in the Perth golf circuit. Anyway, there was one guy, Mr Fueki, who was their appointed Foreign Ambassador. It was his responsibility to book their golf courses and transportation to/from said golf courses. Which is to say, it was his responsibility to make it my responsibility.
He came up to me one day with a variety of printed-out Japanese websites, scarcely a shred of English on them, and wanted me to book golf times for him. The first one he wanted me to book, Collier Park Golf Course, wasn't too hard to work out as that was the only English word printed out on a page of incomprehensible scratchings. Those were the only words written in English on all of his papers put together, the other golf course names were written in Kanji Katakana (thank you thia_cat for correction). Katakana, for those who don't know, is the phonetic Japanese alphabet that's often used to approximate sounds in foreign languages. It's not always accurate though, as I was about to find out. The next golf course Mr Fueki wanted to book was Joondalup Golf Course. That was easy enough, as phonetically Joondalup could pass for a Japanese word anyway. The third was nearly incomprehensible, though.
Basuto, he told me. Basuto Pubalika Gofa Corsu. Well, fuck.
Eventually I was forced to feign understanding and just write down "Basuto Golf Course" in the reservation book to work out what it meant later. After discussions with coworkers, I figured out that he actually meant Burswood. I guess Katakana wouldn't have a way to accurately represent the rs sound or the w sound, and putting them together completely eradicated any possible understanding to the casual observer. Technically, I suppose it didn't matter which golf course I booked for them, so long as they were able to get out there and play their 18 holes of golf. However, there was quite a bit of trepidation as I had absolutely no idea whether or not they would enjoy their time. Work was pretty flat out at the time of taking the bookings, and it was far too late to book the courses by the time I actually got a free moment (after working out what Basuto was), but they'd given me a few days leeway and I managed to get the courses and taxis all booked for them.
Over the next few days, whenever I saw Mr Fueki I would give him an update of what had been arranged. He wanted Maxi Taxis to and from the golf courses, but you can't actually guarantee a Maxi Taxi unless you're heading to the airport. It's just how they work, but pretty damn inconvenient. I struggled with the telephonist at Swan Taxis for about five or ten minutes, trying to work out what exactly was on offer; it was the first time I'd really had to cope with booking taxis like that. The taxi situation took a bit of failed explaining to Mr Fueki, and in the end I just told him that I'd booked "a big taxi" on certain days and "two small taxis" on others. What actually ended up happening with the taxis bore very little resemblance to what I'd booked, but in the end they all managed to get out to their golf courses.
I'd felt like I'd taken these golfers under my wing, in a way. I was the one responsible for them, I took it upon myself to put their golf clubs into storage and take them out again for them when they wanted to go off to the courses, to explain what was happening with everything and leave messages under the door for them if there were any changes. I got to know which room Mr Fueki was in. One night when I was carrying bags up to a guest's room, I noticed something: he was staying in Mr Fueki's room. The bastard. I delivered the bags to his room, filled with mixed feelings. The guest was an Australian businessman, a type we get a lot of in the hotel, bossy yet blokey. I wanted to tell him, "My FRIEND lived here. You EVICTED him." Of course, I was all smiles and pleasantries as usual. I was a little worried though, I thought they'd all left without saying goodbye. I went down to the storeroom behind the concierge desk, full of trepidation, and found that the golf clubs were still there. Phew. Mr Fueki was still here, and he would yet play the golf courses and use the taxis I had booked for him.
Over the course of his stay, Mr Fueki gave me two separate $10 tips. Given that it's drilled into foreigners when they come over here that they're not to tip, it means a lot when they actually do. A lot more than it would mean in a tipping-friendly country like America, at any rate. On top of that, on the morning of their final golf game, Mr Fueki's golf group pulled me aside to personally thank me, and they gave me three juice-boxes of Sake. They were about 150ml, and 15% alcohol, so approximately a pint of beer in each container. I still haven't drunk them. I may yet, but I'm definitely going to keep the empty containers as a keepsake. It just gave me such a euphoric rush to know that all the effort that I'd put into making their golfing trip a success had been recognised and they rewarded me with a gift that I normally couldn't have gotten from anyone but a Japanese tourist who really respects what you've done for him.
Anyway, hopefully that gives people some insight into the things I do at work. At a lower-quality hotel, my job just wouldn't exist. The guests would do it all themselves, and they are perfectly capable of doing so. However, despite this reflection, it still feels great to do a job where I'm basically helpful and friendly all day long, and people recognise the things I do for them. I've been writing this update for about two hours now, and even though there are a few more things I could say I really should stop.
And thus concludes another episode of Livejournal Theatre. Please take your rubbish with you on the way out.
I've been really enjoying work at the Duxton. Sometimes it drags, sometimes it's totally flat out, but by and large it's relatively interesting, the hours go by quickly and the pay's pretty good. I've got two days off now, which is great because I think my politeness gland is starting to wear out and I want to drink me some beer fer christ's sake. I haven't really explained what the job actually entails, and it's something that's worth explaining. I'm essentially a professional best friend, to use a term Novak, my Duxton progenitor, coined. I make our guests' stay at the hotel as comfortable as possible. For much of the day this consists of little more than greeting people as they come out of cars, parking their cars and bringing them back up later, and carrying bags to and from rooms.
There are also requests for advice on restaurants, shopping centres, things to do in Perth at night (answer: not too much, really) car hire, etc. Anything you would want when going to a foreign city but didn't want to have to work out for yourself. It turns out that the more money people spend, the less they want to work out for themselves, and we get some very stupid pleas for help at times. i.e.
Guest: "I can't connect to the internet!"
Me: "Did you try clicking the 'connect' button after opening your browser?"
Guest: "What's that?"
(go up to guest's room to help them out)
Me: "This button here that says 'connect'. Click on it."
Guest: "Oh. It wasn't very straightforward though, was it?"
(punch guest in face)
(get fired for punching guest in face)
(write about experiences in Livejournal)
I exaggerate, of course. I really don't mind it so much when people make silly mistakes, as decades of life experience have told me that people make mistakes sometimes. Shocking, no? All I ask is that people respect that I make mistakes too. Which they don't, generally, because I'm supposed to be professional, which is a completely different thing from being human. But yeah, excluding gross negligence I can get away with screwing things up once in a while. I'm very tempted to start writing down the more outlandish events around the hotel, with a mind to eventually creating a comedy series about the stuff that happens at a five-star hotel.
It can be very rewarding at times, too. I'm constantly going out of my way to help people out, and 90% of the time they genuinely appreciate the effort, and I'm one of those people that loves to help others out wherever possible. Some might say I'm a doormat, but hey, I'm a professional doormat. Not many people can boast that. The most rewarding thing that's happened at work so far was also one of the more frustrating and exhausting ones, and I'm going to tell you about it now.
We get quite a few Japanese golfers coming to the hotel. Usually they're organised as part of a package deal and they have their own tour guide who actually speaks Japanese and can get everything done for them. All we have to do is take care of their golf clubs and carry their bags down for them (all at once, stacking all the bags as quickly/dangerously as possible on our trolleys). This works fine, because generally it's really freaking hard to communicate clearly with foreigners, you end up needing to do a lot of hand gestures and speak slowly to make sure they've actually understood what you've said. It's fun to exercise your nonverbal communication skills at times, though.
Anyway, the other week we had a group of five Japanese golfers. They weren't part of a tour, they were just going on their own, seeing what there was to enjoy down in the Perth golf circuit. Anyway, there was one guy, Mr Fueki, who was their appointed Foreign Ambassador. It was his responsibility to book their golf courses and transportation to/from said golf courses. Which is to say, it was his responsibility to make it my responsibility.
He came up to me one day with a variety of printed-out Japanese websites, scarcely a shred of English on them, and wanted me to book golf times for him. The first one he wanted me to book, Collier Park Golf Course, wasn't too hard to work out as that was the only English word printed out on a page of incomprehensible scratchings. Those were the only words written in English on all of his papers put together, the other golf course names were written in Kanji Katakana (thank you thia_cat for correction). Katakana, for those who don't know, is the phonetic Japanese alphabet that's often used to approximate sounds in foreign languages. It's not always accurate though, as I was about to find out. The next golf course Mr Fueki wanted to book was Joondalup Golf Course. That was easy enough, as phonetically Joondalup could pass for a Japanese word anyway. The third was nearly incomprehensible, though.
Basuto, he told me. Basuto Pubalika Gofa Corsu. Well, fuck.
Eventually I was forced to feign understanding and just write down "Basuto Golf Course" in the reservation book to work out what it meant later. After discussions with coworkers, I figured out that he actually meant Burswood. I guess Katakana wouldn't have a way to accurately represent the rs sound or the w sound, and putting them together completely eradicated any possible understanding to the casual observer. Technically, I suppose it didn't matter which golf course I booked for them, so long as they were able to get out there and play their 18 holes of golf. However, there was quite a bit of trepidation as I had absolutely no idea whether or not they would enjoy their time. Work was pretty flat out at the time of taking the bookings, and it was far too late to book the courses by the time I actually got a free moment (after working out what Basuto was), but they'd given me a few days leeway and I managed to get the courses and taxis all booked for them.
Over the next few days, whenever I saw Mr Fueki I would give him an update of what had been arranged. He wanted Maxi Taxis to and from the golf courses, but you can't actually guarantee a Maxi Taxi unless you're heading to the airport. It's just how they work, but pretty damn inconvenient. I struggled with the telephonist at Swan Taxis for about five or ten minutes, trying to work out what exactly was on offer; it was the first time I'd really had to cope with booking taxis like that. The taxi situation took a bit of failed explaining to Mr Fueki, and in the end I just told him that I'd booked "a big taxi" on certain days and "two small taxis" on others. What actually ended up happening with the taxis bore very little resemblance to what I'd booked, but in the end they all managed to get out to their golf courses.
I'd felt like I'd taken these golfers under my wing, in a way. I was the one responsible for them, I took it upon myself to put their golf clubs into storage and take them out again for them when they wanted to go off to the courses, to explain what was happening with everything and leave messages under the door for them if there were any changes. I got to know which room Mr Fueki was in. One night when I was carrying bags up to a guest's room, I noticed something: he was staying in Mr Fueki's room. The bastard. I delivered the bags to his room, filled with mixed feelings. The guest was an Australian businessman, a type we get a lot of in the hotel, bossy yet blokey. I wanted to tell him, "My FRIEND lived here. You EVICTED him." Of course, I was all smiles and pleasantries as usual. I was a little worried though, I thought they'd all left without saying goodbye. I went down to the storeroom behind the concierge desk, full of trepidation, and found that the golf clubs were still there. Phew. Mr Fueki was still here, and he would yet play the golf courses and use the taxis I had booked for him.
Over the course of his stay, Mr Fueki gave me two separate $10 tips. Given that it's drilled into foreigners when they come over here that they're not to tip, it means a lot when they actually do. A lot more than it would mean in a tipping-friendly country like America, at any rate. On top of that, on the morning of their final golf game, Mr Fueki's golf group pulled me aside to personally thank me, and they gave me three juice-boxes of Sake. They were about 150ml, and 15% alcohol, so approximately a pint of beer in each container. I still haven't drunk them. I may yet, but I'm definitely going to keep the empty containers as a keepsake. It just gave me such a euphoric rush to know that all the effort that I'd put into making their golfing trip a success had been recognised and they rewarded me with a gift that I normally couldn't have gotten from anyone but a Japanese tourist who really respects what you've done for him.
Anyway, hopefully that gives people some insight into the things I do at work. At a lower-quality hotel, my job just wouldn't exist. The guests would do it all themselves, and they are perfectly capable of doing so. However, despite this reflection, it still feels great to do a job where I'm basically helpful and friendly all day long, and people recognise the things I do for them. I've been writing this update for about two hours now, and even though there are a few more things I could say I really should stop.
And thus concludes another episode of Livejournal Theatre. Please take your rubbish with you on the way out.