As I am typing this, I am using the Camp coffee maker for my morning fix. I will have to get used to weak and interesting-tasting brew for the bulk of my time here. I tried as hard as possible to not inconvenience the Camp director, but apparently my requests to just allow me to go fill up in their kitchen is, in and of itself, an inconvenience. A colleague at school had suggested the Starbucks Via packets, and while I considered it, I decided to be bullheaded and just ask if there was any way I could score coffee without needing my wanna-be Mr. Coffee placed into my room. It is, after all, Yuban, and I am sure that this can and its coffee grounds are the same that were in my room at Camp last year.
Of course, I also considered the 2+ mile walk up the road to the local strip mall. It would have been a nice exercise once I completed the round trip, but last night was somewhat spooky. As I was working at my computer, I was greeted with a knock on the door, asking who I was, with the person identifying himself from the connected resort. I gave him my last name and he left. Tripping hard, I immediately texted T., my colleague, across the walkway from my farm cottage, asking her if he had knocked on her door. Nope. No knock she tells me, and I lowered the sound on my iTunes to see if he was continuing around the group of cottages. I didn’t hear anything. Weird, as T. put it.
This morning, I think I will tell that I think it was another colleague of ours–W.–who knocked on my door last night. T. and I have gone on several road trips together for school. On our first trip, we traveled to a magnet school conference in Charlotte, N.C. Our colleague, W., was/is our school magnet coordinator, and on this trip, she decided that she needed to tap into her inner-Nazi and make me the focus of some suppressed rage. It’s not like this attention from her was unsubstantiated mind you. She was worried that I would go “Gingerbread Boy” and run away from the conference, so she was determined to make sure I stuck with the group at all times. Truth be told, the previous year, at a school conference in Brooklyn, I had slipped away from the sessions to take the subway into Manhattan to visit Wall Street and the Flatiron District before our school’s principal started calling my cell phone. So, yeah, I understand W.’s concern–to an extent. My fault, but I had legitimate cause to “miss out” on a conference material that was merely rehash of learning I had gotten as a grad student years before at Cal State Long Beach.
Still, I do think I’m getting too old for road trip room checks. And I told W. that, in no uncertain terms, much to the delight of T. and another of our colleagues, her bestie, who were in the hotel room across the hall from me. Of course, I was extremely impolitic in my choice of language, but the point was made. And the story entered the library of stories that teacher’s swap over lunch.
Thinking about my dream to wander off down the road in search of a decent cup of Joe, I think I will give W.’s name to the anonymous knocker from last night. It just makes sense. If it wasn’t threatening to rain as well, I might even decide to wander off in search of my elusive coffee, just for old-time’s sake…