You hate your job.
The moment that you found out you had gotten it you were over the moon. You've never been so fucking ecstatic in your life. Seriously, who would hate travelling all over Europe being a tour guide for plastered 20-somethings? You loved it to begin with. You had never drunk so much in your life over the course of the first 5 months while you went from tour to tour. Your liver and you weren't on speaking terms for a while but whatever; you were having a good time.
Then it all went to shit.
Sure, people think it's a great idea to go on tour to 'meet new people' and make awesome experiences that they'll never forget. Those awesome experiences almost always end up as trips to the hospital or the police station. And you're the poor fucker that has to either bail them out or wait in a hospital waiting room for their drunken arse to be discharged. Seriously. Not the line of work you were looking for.
Then it kept getting worse.
Who thought that putting young adults together who had never met before with a ridiculous amount of cheap booze was a good idea? Fucking terrible. The girls would fight with each other over pretty average looking boys and then they boys would fuck all the girls and shit. It was a disaster. You'd gotten pretty good at picking them from the start though. There are definitely types.
Number 1. Drunken college kids who wanted to drink every city dry and party as much as possible and have the sickest raddest time. Awesome. They sound like fun!
Number 2. The tour bicycle. Self-explanatory right? You can pick them from a mile off and if you're super lucky, you'll have more then one.
Number 3. The ugly guy that all the girls want who is a fucking idiot. Also self-explanatory and also the high chance that there is more then one. Actually, you know from experience that there is going to be multiple.
Number 4. That group of 5 or 6 people who just don't want to have a good time and effect everyone else's overall experience and you're left to pick up the pieces.
And finally, the last group of people. At the end of every tour, the clients have to evaluate your overall performance. So how well you looked after them, that all the information you told them was correct, your overall courteous nature and your knowledge of the areas. There is always that group who rate you horribly. No matter how much you bend your fucking back to help them out, they give you a terrible review because apparently you just 'didn't do you job to their satisfaction'.
There really nothing you can do about them.
So. That's why you hate your job. You're pretty much a baby sitter for drunken idiots who get themselves into trouble with life in general and you're there, watching it all unfold.
And you, Santana Lopez, have to be a fucking saint to all of them.
You knew from the start that the job would entail manners and overall niceness because lets face it; you have to be nice to get the tips. And you can be nice to people. But when you're stuck with some idiot 24/7 that you just want to slap in the face, it's so hard to put on a smile and be friends with them.
Oh so fucking hard.
You really hate your job.
But then sometimes you also kind of love it.
Who else gets to say that they were in France yesterday and are going to Germany the day after next? Not many people. And you have to admit; it is pretty satisfying seeing people's reactions to amazing man-made and natural wonders every day.
Not to mention the awesome hotels you stay at. That's pretty sweet. Even sweeter is the fact that you get to charge room service to the company's credit card. Score.
But the worst thing in the world that you've pretty much gotten use to over the years is the loneliness. But let's face it, you've been pretty lonely your whole life. While you were at college your first roommate dropped out two weeks into the first semester. Your second roommate was a pompous arsehole who changed rooms immediately when she found out you were a lesbian. There was no third roommate. You were left by yourself for the remainder of your college years and you were perfectly okay with that. At least you thought you were.
You never really had friends because you couldn't put up with people for long periods of times and never put in the effort to get to know anybody new. So thus it comes to no surprise that you've never had a seriously relationship. Only girls who wanted to experiment and the occasion hook up from the local gay bar near campus.
So when this job came around you literally thought, fuck it. You have nobody keeping you in America and you've always wanted to travel, why not do it? So you applied and apparently the tour company fucking loved you.
You're pretty much too the point and take no bullshit from anybody. You command a room and know exactly want to do in an emergency situation. But at the same time you can make a group of strangers fall in love with you instantly. It's pretty awesome.
You've been a tour guide now for two years and although you do detest it a lot because of the people who come on your tours, you're ridiculously comfortable and you couldn't imagine doing anything else. Plus you get tipped fantastically.
Oh another thing that makes this job probably the best in the world – the absurd time off you get in between tours sometimes. Whenever you're rostered to work one of the 26-day coach tours around the whole of Europe you get the next month or two off. Bloody brilliant.
And those two months have just come to an end.
Your next to starts tomorrow and you're not looking forward too it. Travelling with large groups of hungover people is really not that fun. You've had more vomit on your shoes in 2 years then a normal person will have in their whole lifetime. The tour starting tomorrow is the most hated among the tour guides in your company.
Your kind-of-friend whom you get drunk with at staff functions Courtney, always pesters you to swap with her. The 37-day tours usually bring the crazies and the drama and you just hate them so much. But alas, you're a pretty decent human being and Courtney really wanted to go see her boyfriend so you begrudgingly agreed. She also bought you a bottle of gin and new Raybans. You were clearly conflicted.
You're sitting in your hotel now, carefully going over the day-to-day activities and itinerary while you sip on your morning coffee. The tour kicks off in London and then progresses to France the same day. You currently live in London and you love it. You always enjoy telling people brief facts about the city but the tour only starts from London and you really don't get the chance to show off your knowledge. Although you live in the city, you really can't get enough of it.
You start to look over the traveller information for the tour. Usually there are around 45-60 people on the tour but for a reason unknown to you there's only 36. You enjoy the smaller tours purely because there's less work and it is a lot easier for you to remember names. But the problem with smaller tours, there's more drama and sometime it can get pretty brutal.
You remember one of your first tours when there were two girls. They were pretty nice, just the usual two close friends after an amazing adventure. Day 1 was pretty normal they were having fun and partying and just loving live. Fast-forward to day 20 and they're at each other's throats because one of them slept with the other one's 'tour interest' and then bam. Slap. It was pretty enjoyable at the time and you're always up for a good girl fight but terrible for you, the company does not condone violence. Surprise, surprise. Much to your dismay (because seeing hot girls grab each others hair and call each other whores is a pretty fun way to spend the afternoon) you had to kick them off. Pretty sad.
You continue to look at all the travellers and notice that the majority of them are Australian and American. You chuckle to yourself because it is always so amusing watching Australians talk to naïve Americans. The conversations are sometimes outright hilarious. You also know that whenever there are copious amount of Americans on tour, it gets pretty loud and most of the time, obnoxiously annoying. It's the first group of people that stem from that country and you've gotten pretty good at handling them because you yourself was a member of that category a long time ago. You kind of still are when you have some tequila.
After a couple of strenuous hours going through mountains of paperwork and sorting out stupid, pointless administrative tasks, your stomach starts to grumble. You love food. You never really understood how you stay so skinny because you shove a lot of unhealthy shit down your throat. But whatever, you're hot and you aren't gonna stop with the junk food. You briefly contemplate going back to your own apartment and just eating some leftovers in the fridge that probably no human should consume, but you remember the fact that you have the company's credit card and a lunch buffet downstairs. There's no competition.
You quickly have a shower and put on some light make-up before throwing your hair up into a massive bun. Finding your glasses, you readily open the door and walk down the corridor to the elevators. You know that you look like shit but really you don't have to start making an effort until the pre-tour meet up tonight in the lobby of the hotel.
That is where you get to judge the shit out people and work out who is going to tip you fantastically and who is going to wreck the next 37-days for you.
You sigh loudly and smack the button to the elevator, waiting impatiently for the damn thing to arrive. It finally does and you descend down to the lobby, all the while imagining the moment you get some good food into your mouth. Buffets are awesome.
You sit down at the table with a full plate in front of you and dig in. You order a beer as well because you've had a rough morning and need a pick me up. As you take a swig from the beer you look around the restaurant and your eyes land on a group of people. Americans.
It is pretty easier to pick your tour occupants straight away. Many of them stay the night before the tour starts at the hotel just so it is easier when you kick off the tour the next morning. You watch for a moment, or rather listen, and they're loud and definitely college kids. You're already dreading the next month and a bit. Sighing and taking a longer swig of your beer you dig back into your breakfast and prepare yourself for the onslaught of drunks and slut bitches who think they're all that.
You really hate your job.
A/N: First story. Be nice. Next chapters will be longer.