The Professional

My first days of classes were nothing short of an absolute miracle. A slew of buses of various colors pass me by as I await the one destined to bring me to where I am going. I know nothing of the bus system-how their color seperates them from others, what exactly the number in the corner means or where any of the streets are listed on the windshield of its route. I, atlast, hail one down and jump on with high hopes I make it to Duoc, the university in which I am an English Professor. God granting, I arrive on Monday morning at the right place. I conquer the steps in front of the university and with my head held high and blazer buttoned I enter the common area flooded with sunlight. My eyes scan the lovely patio built in the center of the structure while the classrooms twist around it's border, floor 1, 2, 3, and 4. and atlast my eyes meet where a roof once had been. I see the horizon of the houses built high up in the hills, the palm trees with their leaves nearly peaking into the university. I make it to the fourth floor and search for my materials in the admissions office. I struggle to spell my name to the secretary when atlast she finds my folder: "Kendall Vanden" inscribed on it's binding. She asks me which key I will be needing...as I frantically dig through my documents to find my classroom number. "Tres cientos quince" I reply and the single key attached to a 2x4 is placed in my hand. I enter my classroom to find 18 desks (just enough to fit my class) in a 8'x5' room, a whiteboard stretching across its longitude. Unsure where the bathroom is, where I can find a photocopier, what the password is for the internet, or how to even work the projector in the classroom. I am sure of one thing, I did it...I'm a Professor.