Sunday, November 13, 2011

Oh, Wynn Anne, Wynn Anne, Wynn Anne

One of the unusual things I planned as part of our weekend getaway was a bus tour of the city of Montreal. Say what you will about bus tours, they do give a fairly concise overview.

The tour company's website offered hotel pick-up, but when I confirmed with them, they told me to go to 1255 Peel (the blue pin).

A sense of entitlement made me complain that they weren't picking me up at the hotel (pink pin), until I looked at a map. Then I just felt silly. We were going from the pink pin to the blue pin.

View Getting to the Bus-Tour Point of Departure in a larger map

BUT, instead of going past the front (short edge) of Mary-Queen-of-the-World Cathedral, I led Steve on a wild goose chase. He took over navigation once we reached Rue Saint-Antoine.

Once we reached the blue pin, I was disgruntled to find that we had to walk ALL THE WAY THROUGH THE BUILDING back towards our point of departure, because they had given me the Peel Street address instead of the Dorchester Square address.


As we waited for stragglers to arrive, I sat on the bus stewing with indignation: It's false advertising to fail to pick us up at our hotel! Why did they give the wrong address and make us walk all the way through the building? What if we were elderly and feeble? Huh? They didn't ask, they couldn't know! And everyone is probably late because they got lost, just like we did! (Steve, meanwhile, was contentedly observing our tour mates.)

[Oh, Wynn Anne, Wynn Anne, Wynn Anne. What is your thinking errorThat would be thinking error number four: Disqualifying the Positive.]

Fortunately, our tour guide was friendly and very informative and the tour itself was quite interesting, so I forgot about the tour company's failings.

But I have a confession: I started writing this post -- and even created a Google Map, for heaven's sake -- so I could whine to you about this company's utter failure in communicating to its clients.

It wasn't until I drew the little blue and green lines that I realized the complete ludicrousness of my complaint.

Oh, Wynn Anne, Wynn Anne, Wynn Anne.

I need help, folks. I'm not depressed anymore, but I'm still stupid. And there is no pill for stupid.

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