The Question That Follows Me Everywhere

It’s not about fun. It’s about something better.

“Are you having fun?”

The woman asking me this is sitting in the lively bar of a castle in Donegal, wine glass in hand, still glowing from the guided tour of the folk park we had just finished. She means it kindly. Behind her, other guests are comparing photos of the rainbow over the peace bridge in Derry.

I’m calculating whether the bus pickup time in town tomorrow should be 3 or 3:15 to avoid clashing with the service buses that pick up in the same spot. I remember that one of my guests is gluten-free, one vegetarian, and remind myself to reconfirm that the restaurant has the details. I’m mentally reviewing the forecast, rain likely, which means I need to reroute our walking tour in two days.

“Of course!” I say, smiling.

She looks relieved. After all, I have a dream job, travel, beautiful hotels, incredible food, spectacular views.

But here’s what I’m actually thinking: I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in six weeks.

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2 AM in Fairbanks

The shrill ring of the phone in my room wakes me up instantly. I look at the time, 2:17 AM, that’s never good. It’s the front desk. My eighty-nine-year-old guest has fallen. She is a spitfire, had introduced herself as soon as she arrived. She was the leader of a group of fifteen from Texas.

I’m up and out of bed in seconds. Thankfully I had laid out my clothes for the morning, I am knocking on her door in minutes. My mind is already whirring: how bad is the fall? How do I get her to Fairbanks Memorial? Do I have her emergency contact information? What happens to tomorrow’s itinerary if I’m at the ER until dawn?

She opens the door, pale and shaking. “I’m so sorry to wake you. I fell.”

“That’s exactly what I’m here for,” I say, and I mean it.

We sit in her room. I assess. She had gotten up to use the bathroom and fallen in the bath. She had been able to extract herself and thankfully slept in pajamas. She was in obvious pain and couldn’t raise her right arm. I call the front desk and ask them to get the ambulance. I call the guest’s emergency contact. I stay with her until the ambulance arrives, then follow to the hospital.

At 6 AM, I’m back at the hotel. The guest has a broken collar bone but nothing worse. I have two hours before I need to be in the lobby, cheerful and ready to take thirty-six people on a riverboat ride on the Chena.

Am I having fun? No.

But when that guest comes back to the hotel in the evening, embarrassed and grateful, and quietly thanks me, I feel something that goes far deeper than fun.

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The Highlands

Last October, I’m standing in the rain in the Scottish Highlands, feeling ridiculous wearing my kilt and holding an umbrella like Paddington Bear.

My guest turned to me and said, “I don’t know how you do this job.”

I almost laughed.

I was on week seven of an eight-week stretch. I was so exhausted that my eyelids were sore and my limbs heavy. My voice was nearly gone from narrating the same journey again and again. I’d eaten hotel food for nearly two months straight. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a conversation that wasn’t about logistics or history or where the nearest bathroom was.

She went very quiet, and I looked up at her.

She was gazing up at the Three Sisters, mist rolling down the glens. Her face had that expression people get. She looked like she might cry.

“This,” I wanted to say. “This is why.”

Instead I just said, “Beautiful, isn’t it?” and watched her nod, speechless.

That night, before dinner, she told me the story of her grandfather who’d emigrated from Scotland. How she’d always wanted to see what he had talked about. Now she understood.

I didn’t plan that moment. I can’t make it happen. But I made it possible, got us there on time, chose the right stop, knew when to talk and when to shut up.

That’s not fun. That’s something better.

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What Fun Actually Looks Like

If I wanted to have fun, I’d stay home.

I’d sleep past six. I’d write without interruption. I’d make things with my hands. I’d learn new skills just because they interest me, not because I need to explain them to twenty strangers tomorrow.

I wouldn’t spend my mornings explaining hotel Wi-Fi passwords for the thousandth time. I wouldn’t ration my peopling energy like a scarce resource, protecting my health, snatching sleep, staying perpetually one step ahead of burnout.

But then I’d miss the guest who connected with their distant Irish cousin. The colleague who taught me a better way to explain the Reformation. The spontaneous moment when everyone on the bus started singing, and for thirty seconds, I forgot I was working.

Fun is spontaneous, unstructured, self-directed.

My job is the opposite.

And yet.

Last week, at the end of a tour, a guest said, “You made this look so easy.”

That’s the invisible work. The mental load. The 24/7 vigilance. The crises managed, the plans adjusted, the details looked after so they don’t have to.

When someone says it looked easy, I’ve done my job right.

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The Truth About Dream Jobs

So, am I having fun?

Not in the way people mean when they ask. Not the way I’d have fun traveling with Liz.

But I feel purpose. I feel the quiet pride of creating an experience. I love what I do, even when it’s hard.

I’m lucky. Not everyone in my industry gets to work for an organization that provides this level of quality. But privilege and ease aren’t the same thing. You can have a dream job and still come home so tired you can barely speak.

Most guests assume that because they’re having fun, I must be too. It’s an honest mistake. They don’t see the mental checklist. The constant vigilance. The months without a break.

They see the sunsets and champagne. They don’t see me at 2 AM in a Fairbanks hospital.

Both are true.

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The question still follows me everywhere: “Are you having fun?”

These days, when I’m honest, I say: “No, but that’s not what I’m here for.”

When the season ends and I’m finally home in my own bed with no alarm set, no guest calls, and I have all the time in the world to have fun, I catch myself thinking about next season.

About mist-covered mountains. About guests seeing something for the first time. About the behind the scenes work that makes it all possible.

I don’t need my work to be fun. I want it to matter.

And most days, it does.
And on the others, that’s all right too.