Talking to people

Years ago I learned to talk to janitors, secretaries, service workers, gas station attendants, waitresses, those that many consider invisible or not worth paying attention to. I do it for one reason—sharing a conversation warms the day.

At the WOCCU Conference I’ve found several people who’ve become part of my daily life, albeit it temporary.

Eduardo is the guard at the entrance of the conference centre. There is strict security this year and a badge is necessary. He is at least six three, dark haired. The first day before the conference his uniform was more janitorial, but during the conference he wears a good quality black suit, black shirt and sky blue tie. “You’re looking dapper,” I told him the first day he was so dressed. We had already established he had excellent English (always a good ice breaker). On my second entry into the building he had recognized me from the first time. It might be at that point not many people were present outside the WOCCU staff, or it might be I was the only aging, short red-head, a description that has led to most people locating me based on those four words. Eduardo likes his job and his favourite place is at the entrance rather than patrolling the corridors. Now each morning as I enter, he always has a special hello. I must ask how the football game he was playing tonight went when I see him tomorrow morning.

Raoul works at the hotel and stands between the elevators and internet café a good part of the day helping people as needed. “Do you get bored?” I asked. “Sometimes,” he said. He works one weekend on, one off, but there are advantages to having days off during the week, he says. The beaches are less crowded and so are the stores. Raoul looks like a short Telly Sevalas, sans lollipop for readers old enough to remember the TV show, Streets of San Francisco. He agreed to forget that I couldn’t find the light in the ladies’ room and had to show me, and kindly said that I wasn’t the only one. The light was at thigh level.

Guillermo (?Sp) is behind the registration desk. He is handsome, with a skin that most women would die to have. Originally from St. Lucia, he has lived in Barcelona for several years, but misses the part of his family that is still there. Everytime I walk by he waves.

Marco was my favourite. He brought my frizzy green salad with walnuts, apples and feta cheese. I thanked him and said I was hungry but too tired to go out. “Where are you from?” he asked. “Switzerland,” I said. “You speak English wonderfully,” he said. “I was raised in America, but your English is good too.” He confessed he watched a lot of shows on BBC to improve his accent. Noticing the books on my bed, he said, “You like to read.” We talked about our favourite authors for a few minutes and he was surprised that I knew that Cervantes recently had his 400th anniversary. As he left, I told him, he was one of the nicest room service people I had ever met. His dark eyes crinkled. “And you’re one of the nicest guests I’ve served.

As a child I noticed that both my parents talked to every one, and often I thought they knew them well. I am not sure my habit of doing it is genetic, or just that it makes my day a little brighter and I hope whatever stress they are under might be a little lighter with a friendly person rather than a grouchy one, for they surely get their share of those.