By Blake Gilmore

Cesar Figari is on a mission: find someone who’ll cover George Williams’ shift while he’s on vacation.  This is a surprisingly daunting task.  As reigning king of the front desk for the past 20+ years, George sets a high precedent.  He knows everything about the Institute- who’s in the building, the services the institute offers, who the computer class teacher was in 1992.  He handles potentially chaotic incidents with adroitness and a smile that would soften Kim Jong-Il.  George has big shoes to fill, and it shows in fellow employees’ aversion to doing so.  As a lowly intern, though, I had no clue what his occupation entails.  “The job is tough,” Cesar tells me, his Spanish accent adding spice to his words, “You have to ring the bells, answer the phone, sign out the keys, and be here at 8:00AM every day.  You must always keep your eye out for anyone suspicious.  Are you prepared for this?”  Seems simple enough, I think.  How hard could it be? 

Flash-forward to my first stint as front-desk girl.  People of wide-ranging ethnicities gather by the counter, armed with questions I probably can’t answer.  Just as I assign a young mother a morning class registration number, the phone rings.  Then, rushing to answer it in 3½ inch heels, I slip and dramatically plop onto the floor.  Laughter ensues- apparently the hilarity derived from others’ small misfortune is universal.  Swiftly recovering from my embarrassing faux pas, I grab the receiver and attempt to play it off as if nothing happened.  “Good morning, International Institute.  How may I help you,” I cheerfully greet, masking the fact I’ve repeated this about fifty times this morning.  “Jasmina!  Please!  JASMINA,” the woman on the other end clamors in a thick Bosnian inflection.  She sounds distressed.  I skim the extension list for the name as the phone rings again.  A tiny red light flashes, pulsating with the sound of the ring.  “Jasmina A— or Jasmina J———-,” I ask.  “OK,” shouts the woman hastily.  I search through the four pages of type-written notes I collected from George’s training session for an answer.  Nothing.  I take a guess and transfer the woman, accidentally hanging up on the next caller.  As I notice I’m late on chiming the bell, yet another call comes in.  “Good morning, International Institute, how may I—no, George isn’t here.  He’s out until Wednesday, but I can probably help… hello?  Sir, are you there?” 

It’s now obvious why staff members run for their cubicles when asked to cover George’s shift.  Thankfully, however, I figured out the technical aspects by the end of the week.  This allowed me to focus on the enjoyable features of the job.  Yes, it carries a great deal of responsibility, but it’s accompanied by a sense of accomplishment.  The greatest part about working the front desk, though, is what you gain from interacting with clients and staff members from around the globe.  As George so poignantly articulates, “This is the only place where you can see the whole world without ever leaving your chair.”  I’m grateful for the knowledge I’ve garnered from this experience, but happy I will no longer have to endure headaches from irate foreigners yelling into their phones.