[continued from previous entry]
It seemed pretty clear that I needed to withdraw from classes, but I decided to flee back to Vermont for the weekend and ponder the sitch before making a decisive move. Left Friday a.m., post-rush-hour -- heading south on a beautiful summer morning. A long stretch of the ride between Montreal and the border is a two-lane that stretches through southern Quebec farm country -- a two-lane that sometimes expands to three, providing a passing lane. I found myself driving behind an immense pack of Harley riders, a double column of motorcycles filling the road ahead as far as the eye could see -- raising the spectre of arriving at customs behind a sprawling collection of bikers, having to wait forever while they trickled through. A thought that got me using the passing lane every time it appeared, speeding past as many Harleys as possible, inserting myself back into their lane as slowly and politely as I could when the passing lane disappeared. Kind of a harrowing process, me wondering if I would get past them all in time. And it mostly went well, most of the riders showing courtesy, allowing me in, only a handful making the process hairier than it already felt, refusing to cede space, me having to finesse my way along. Until I made it past them a few miles north of the border, wide-open farmland spreading away in all directions, summer air sweeping through the open windows of the car.
And then Vermont, green mountains rising up, highway moving south to Burlington then east to Montpelier. Arriving back just before midday, parking near the post office, realizing I had no change for meters, finding enough coins in the street to allow me to check mail and grab a fast, excellent bowl of curry from the little Thai food stand that sets up shop in front of the courthouse two or three lunchtimes a week.
As small towns go -- and that's all it is, really, despite being the state capital -- Montpelier is a sweet, overgrown crossroads. Green, mostly quiet away from the small downtown. I arrived back just as songbirds were pointing themselves south and taking off, mornings growing increasingly quiet, though enough of summer lingered that daytime traffic remained slow, swollen with tourist vehicles.
The middle school across the street from the building that houses my current squat was coming back to life after two quiet months, trees and greenery around the area showed the very beginnings of what will become the annual autumn show.
Spent a couple of days thinking, then headed back north on Sunday. Showed up at the school Monday morning after the 9 o'clock bell, hallways empty and quiet. Strolled into the office, talked with a staff member I'd spoken to after classes on Thursday (giving them fair warning at that time that I might bail).
I confirmed that I was withdrawing, his response was to get a sheet of paper laying out their refund policy. Here's what it said: if you've completed 10% of the classes you've paid for, they will return 70% of your money. If you've completed 10-30% of the classes you paid for, they will refund 30%. I'd paid for four weeks and completed one -- they would only return 30% of the cash paid. That amounts to a huge penalty -- a classic case of caveat emptor.
On the strength of this one bit alone, I could not recommend this school to anyone. I haven't even -- you may have noticed -- mentioned its name. Me being discrete. (Individual requests will receive discretion-free details.)
[continued, sorta, in the following post]
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Vermont, 9/10/09:
España, te echo de menos
rws 4:13 PM [+]
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