Monday, July 16, 2007


Pixar has moved to a small european town, or at least opened a campus there, and i have gone to work there. We try to make nice with the locals, who are rich foreigners (americans) with isolated houses that don't like us... because we've sullied the extravagant opulence by creating an industry where once the only industry was tourism.

Part of making nice, apparently, involves going door to door to have personal conversations with the folks (which seems completely the opposite of helpful in the given environment), so i'm out on a jog (why is it a good idea to be all breathless and sweaty when talking to people you're trying to win over? i have no idea) going door to door. It reminded me of my days selling knives and how awkward i felt talking to some folks, in spite of my fervent belief in the product.

After one particularly awkward conversation, with an obviously hostile neighbor, i leave my wallet and phone at their house. I don't realize this until i'm nearly home, or back to campus. I can't find my way back, but do some ratatouille-game-like moves running around the town's facade trying to find the house (along wires, up drainpipes, etc.)

I wake up to the pitter-patter of little feet coming down the hall, so i don't know if i ever got my personal items back.

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