First day of practical Palio training. It was hectic and my feet hurt, but I think I'll be able to handle it. I'm looking forward to getting out on my own and not having to shadow someone (and get tips!). I had something brilliant to say, but I plumb forgot. Now I'm cooling my heels and warming my belly with some Chivas Regal--an excellent drink.

Edited: Ah ha! I remembered:
Sauntering into the doors, decked out in my spiffy new all-black outfit (with a three-colored tie), I looked for the manager who'd introduce me to my trainer.
"Oh, you're working outside with David."
"Better get a polo for him," he added as an afterthought. The outside sections aren't air-conditioned.
I donned the polo, realizing at the same time that my tattoo was now visible, and I hadn't put on a watch. I was in violation of the no-tattoos-visible policy. Goddamnit, I thought, seeking a wrist band or BandAid. We found tape. Now, taped up, I looked like an athete. In my eyes, anyway. Badass. Yes.
However, I now find myself in flagrant violation of my primary principles, which include, ironically, never holding a job that disallows bearing a tattoo on my left wrist--commemorated, until recently, by getting a tattoo on my left wrist. And now I have to hide it. Ah, me.
Anyway, once I start making money and rolling in dough--by the way, Palio serves Zingermann's bread--I'll be happy. It seems as though the people working there are pretty cool too, which is good. I guess people are pretty cool wherever you are. As I strode (and sometimes scurried) hither and thither, I recognized the odd and wonderful sensation of being in a completely separate world from the majority. Not a patron is privy, not a guest can guess the esoteric and exclusive existence chillin' in parallel to their own. The staff is completely separated, cordoned off as it were, from the guests--never customers: guests. I can't wait to be a connected member.