On my one visit to Disneyland, I received an unexpected lesson in the difference proper training for true service can make.
Being uncharacteristically crabby (who, me? Never!) from the California heat and crowds, I rebelliously planted myself one step across the bright yellow arbitrary line separating customers from the nightly Electric Light Parade of Disney characters along the theme park’s Main Street.
A Disney worker nearby very politely asked me to take a step back. It was the moment for my Mr. Cranky Pants stand.
“What difference would it make?” I said with churlishness that was equal parts sophomoric Nietzschean nihilism and sullen rhetorical gotcha.