The address I had been given was a flophouse called Casa Salvador in the scummy side of downtown, the part where the city's redevelopment (read: "gentrification") efforts hadn't yet managed to drive out the sundry undesirable elements. I walked inside past the front lobby. I could tell the desk manager wanted to hassle me, but he was too busy arguing with a middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman in a leopard-print top. Her skin was leathery and weather beaten, and I guessed she was the type who was actually a good ten years younger than she looked. I made my way up the narrow staircase that smelled of urine and bleach, going all the way to the third floor. I continued down the dimly lit hallway, past a series of closed doors that muffled the sounds of women faking moans of pleasure. Room 313 was down at the far end of the hall, and its door was already slightly ajar. I knocked anyways, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open just enough to poke my head in, I called, "Hello? Is anybody in there?" There was no response, so I went in and felt along the wall for the light switch. A single weak bulb came on, lighting up the tiny, sparse room with a dim yellow glow. The room was about 8 feet by 8 feet, and the only furniture was a dingy, unmade bed and a metal foot locker. There were no windows, no closet, and no bathroom. As I stepped all the way in, I noticed a wooden baseball bat propped up beside the door. My watch said 6:20 - twenty minutes late for the interview. I sat on the edge of the bed to wait, hoping that maybe my contact had just stepped out momentarily. After a few minutes, a phone started ringing out in the hallway. I let it ring six times with no one answering before I decided to get it - partly in the off chance it was my contact, but mostly out of morbid curiosity as to what kind of business someone would have calling this dump. Who was argung with the middle-aged peroxide-blonde woman? Pick the correct answer from the following options: A. Desk manager B. Interviewer C. not enough information D. Office manager
A

Some years ago a woman on our staff came into my office to, basically, tell me off and complain to me about others and about myself. This woman had not been very supportive of me in my role ever since I began working there. I couldn't figure out if she was arrogant or lacking in self esteem. During this meeting / confrontation, she told me, in no uncertain terms, just what she didn't like about some recent decisions I had made. I listened to her speak for about 30 minutes. She, quite methodically, tore me apart. Initially, I had planned to hear her out, make a few vague remarks, and send her on her way, thinking that maybe she just needed to be heard. But about 20 minutes into her harangue, I had a change of heart. I decided that, if she asked for a response for me, if she asked my advice, I was going to tell her exactly what I thought. She did, in fact, ask me for a response. I asked her if she was a happy person, and said that I suspected that she was not, as she came across as a bully and was acting like a horrible person. She sat and looked at me, then burst into tears. I waited. Looking up, she said, "Yes, you are correct. I am a horrible person. And I am miserable. What can I do?" We spent some time discussing what she could do, and (even though I didn't want to take the time to do it) I asked her if she would like a mentor me? She said that she would like such a thing. This woman and I ended up becoming fairly, no, very good friends and she has been one of my strongest supporters. I didn't expect that. Who had a change of heart? Pick the correct answer from the following options: A. The other staff members B. not enough information C. The author D. The woman
C

When a friend tells you she has wild roses blooming everywhere, it's not hard to imagine where the conversation headed to next to turning them into rose petal jam, of course. My friend Simona Quirini and her family run the beautiful Canto del Maggio, a B&B, restaurant and garden, about one hour's drive from Florence. We arrived to catch Simona with a wooden crate in her hands, already half full of blush pink flower heads, small and as fragrant as honey. It wasn't just roses that were bursting out of their bushes with colour and fragrance. In fact, every time I go to Canto del Maggio, I notice how lush the property is with fruit, flowers and plants, and every season there are bounties to be collected. The first time I was there I noticed the myrtle bushes and heirloom fruit trees little tiny, red pears and apples. The garden was full of summer produce and I stole green-skinned figs harbouring raspberry-red flesh off the trees. The next time I went, we picked ripe olives off the trees around the pool and took them down to the local frantoio, olive oil mill, to press the bright green oil out of them. I also came home with buckets of corbezzoli, or Irish strawberries, to make jam. This spring, I noticed the hedge rows of flowering wild strawberries and this last visit we picked the berries off them for an afternoon snack. With the help of my daughter (who was slightly more interested in playing with Simona's new puppy), we filled a crateful of roses and picked the petals delicately off and into bowls. We were using the rose petal jam recipe and the technique I learned between two wonderful sources Pellegrino Artusi's 1891 cookbook (this pastry recipe below is also inspired by it) and the Armenian monks on Venice's Isola di San Lazzaro Island where I worked for two autumns. The secret, other than having beautiful, small and fragrant roses to begin with, is in massaging the petals with a bit of the sugar and the lemon juice until almost a pulp to release the essential oils. How long did the author work with the Armenian monks? Pick the correct answer from the following options: A. 12 months B. 1 month C. 6 months D. not enough information
C