When I decided to stay in Boston and search for jobs, I began the hunt with my crosshairs locked on big bloated publishing houses.  After a few quiet days, I broadened the scope to include smaller publishing houses.  It didn't take long before I was sleeplessly stalking every company, American or otherwise, that had hired an editor in the past two centuries, begging them to let me in for an interview and a bowl of soup.  Eventually, I surrendered and sent my application to a restaurant named Vlora that was looking for a hostess.  During the interview I could have guessed that the situation wouldn't work out.  Pop music rocketed out of the loud speakers, and blue lights rose up from the floor like beacons beckoning from Dante's icy canto.  "Do you have lots of clothes?" Aldo, the owner, asked me.  I nodded, but truthfully I was living out of a carry-on suitcase.  "You need to dress nice.  No blue jeans."  He frowned at my jeans.
        I returned the following day for training.  "Nice outfit," Aldo said, nodding approvingly.  I didn't tell him that I had bought the dress, tights, and flats after our interview the day before.  My training included directions on how to properly wipe menu covers and how to stand appropriately by the door.  (Standing etiquette discourages pocketed hands.)
        As soon as I was home, I sent Aldo an email that said I appreciated the generous offer to work at his prominent restaurant, but I didn't think it was a good fit for me.  "There are more important things than money," I told Hannah.
        "Obviously," she said.  "You had a job and you quit."