We had a wonderful opportunity here at the Inn to host a group of hearing impaired guests recently. We were very excited and did as much as we could think of to prepare for their arrival. We also had two from the group who came before everyone else and gave us some good tips for when the rest of the group came. Like, carry around a note pad and pen so that if someone finds you around the house, they will have a way to communicate with you.
When we check people in, we offer them a glass of welcome wine. So, of course, my bosses (heretofore known as Red and Dreamer, they are a married couple that have been running the Inn for the past two years and were recently promoted to regional managers. Woo!) and I learned the sign for wine. We thought we were prepared for anything.
The first room showed up and we did all they official stuff with the help of a blank note pad and a pen. I took them on their tour of the Inn and up to their rooms. They were bubbly, friendly, and attentive. Just the sort of guests everyone wishes for. AND they read all of the signs. ALL of them. I was so excited when we got to the rooms, I pulled out the home run. I asked them if they wanted wine, through American Sign Language. They were so excited and quickly signed that they would like some red please.
Feeling proud of myself and puffed up like a blow fish, I ran downstairs and poured them their glasses. I returned upstairs with a big smile on my face…which died when I got to their CLOSED room door. I stood there, at a complete loss of what to do. "Well, I can't knock," I thought, "they won't hear me. I can't just walk in, that's rude. Do I set the glasses of wine in front of their room so that when they come out wondering what in God's name happened to that girl that promised us wine, it will be right there?"
I pondered, standing like a creep outside of their door. Then it hit me, a NOTE. Thats what I need. I pulled out my handy note pad and wrote, WINE DELIVERY on a piece of paper and slipped it under their door. And waited. A couple minutes past when I heard footsteps behind the door, then laughter and the door swung open.
Monday, August 4, 2014
New Yorkers Overheard in ME
Hi! Welcome to the first post of my first blog ever. My name's Jess and I am a resident assistant Innkeeper. That means I am lucky enough to currently be living in 200 year old captain's home that was turned B&B. I love it.
As a girl who grew up in Georgia, I am ever fascinated by historical homes. I don't say that because there were an abundance of them that I frolicked through as a child. The idealized plantation mansion with the white columns and porch is actually pretty hard to find thanks to Sherman's strange revulsion to Southern architecture of the 1800's.
We hosted a group of New Yorkers here at the Inn. Now, having also lived in NYC, I feel the necessity to clarify what type of New Yorkers came to visit. I'm talking 18 middle to late aged Long Islanders. They were wonderful. Full of character and life. They were mostly old ladies, but there was one lovely gentleman who wore track suits everyday.
Living in old homes comes with a few quirks. Like the beautiful original white pine flooring, that over the course of a couple HUNDRED years, has warped just a bit. One morning, as I was setting tables, people were trickling downstairs to get their coffees and I overheard one woman say, "When I got up this morning, I felt like I was on the ferry. They need to replace these floors."
I snorted under my breath and successfully turned it into a cough, so they didn't notice. As a side bar, the floors are nothing even resembling a hazard, and who gets rid of original hard wood flooring?! Seriously.
The next day, I was serving breakfast and I over heard this conversation at a different table:
Old lady #1 "What kind of jam is this?"
Old lady #2 "Well, in New York I would say grape, but here it could be blueberry or blackberry or something local."
Keep it classy New York.
As a girl who grew up in Georgia, I am ever fascinated by historical homes. I don't say that because there were an abundance of them that I frolicked through as a child. The idealized plantation mansion with the white columns and porch is actually pretty hard to find thanks to Sherman's strange revulsion to Southern architecture of the 1800's.
We hosted a group of New Yorkers here at the Inn. Now, having also lived in NYC, I feel the necessity to clarify what type of New Yorkers came to visit. I'm talking 18 middle to late aged Long Islanders. They were wonderful. Full of character and life. They were mostly old ladies, but there was one lovely gentleman who wore track suits everyday.
Living in old homes comes with a few quirks. Like the beautiful original white pine flooring, that over the course of a couple HUNDRED years, has warped just a bit. One morning, as I was setting tables, people were trickling downstairs to get their coffees and I overheard one woman say, "When I got up this morning, I felt like I was on the ferry. They need to replace these floors."
I snorted under my breath and successfully turned it into a cough, so they didn't notice. As a side bar, the floors are nothing even resembling a hazard, and who gets rid of original hard wood flooring?! Seriously.
The next day, I was serving breakfast and I over heard this conversation at a different table:
Old lady #1 "What kind of jam is this?"
Old lady #2 "Well, in New York I would say grape, but here it could be blueberry or blackberry or something local."
Keep it classy New York.
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