Let’s sketch Hanoi, beginning with a rough map. Take an imaginary piece of paper, lay it over a diagram of the human body, and trace the right half of the ribcage. That’s Hoan Kiem Lake. It’s maybe half a mile from top to bottom.
North of the lake is the Old Quarter, a maze of narrow streets. South of the lake is the French Quarter, a grid of boulevards.
That’s the main difference between the two neighborhoods: the size and layout of the streets. In other respects, they’re fairly similar.
Now that we’ve got our streets roughed in, let’s get down in them and put up some buildings.
In the Old Quarter, most of the buildings are one room wide, several rooms deep, and a few stories tall. They adjoin one another. In the French Quarter, there are buildings like that and buildings that are much grander.
The ground floor is usually a shop of some kind. The rest of the building is living space.
Let’s go back out onto the street and look at the facades. The storefronts are mostly merchandise and signage, on which more later. But above their striped awnings is a stratum of fossilized French architecture. Louvered shutters. Wrought-iron balconies. Balustrades. That sort of thing.
Often, the walls are a pale orange-yellow, the color of the mangoes here, and the shutters are dark green. Sometimes the fins are turquoise. It’s a pleasing color scheme. And of course there are all the colors in the Crayola box (the big box with the sharpener).
The original facades are showing their age. Perhaps a century of wear and tear. The plaster is tattered, and whole patches of it are missing, revealing red brick underneath. On some buildings, the brick matches the color of tile rooftops.
Not everything is weather-beaten. Give some of your buildings a fresh coat of paint and some a more extensive renovation. Replace others with new buildings in the same ornate style and still others with plainer, boxier buildings. (Outside the old part of town, these boxes predominate.)
Hopefully you’ve got a pretty clear picture of the streets and buildings. Now merge that picture with another image, that of a swamp. I’m going with the Okefenokee Swamp as depicted in the comic strip Pogo, but you’ll have your own associations.
Don’t worry too much about the marshy ground. It’s been drained, filled, paved over.
What we’re interested in are trees—great twisting forms that lean out over asphalt rivers or find their way level with the buildings.
Their foliage is lush, droopy, and somewhat weedy. These are leaves that stay put in winter and withstand heavy summer rains. Except when those storms are brewing, the leaves don’t much rustle and the trees don’t much sway. The air in Hanoi is pretty still. These quibbles aside, Hanoi’s leafiness is one of its most appealing features.
Back at ground level, the trees clutch their squares of earth or flow into them like lava that was bubbling and popping when it crusted over.
And we haven’t even mentioned the trees’ most distinctive feature: Many of them are utter tangles of aerial roots.
Young roots hang from boughs like bead curtains. Pithy roots run down trunks like melted candle wax. There are trunks that look like the legs of prehistoric creatures—some shaggy, others scaly and caught in criss-crossing snares. And there are roots buttressing organic cathedrals that make the city’s stone cathedral look rough-hewn by comparison.
Echoing the roots are vine-like cables—loose strands of twenty, fifty, even a hundred of them slung messily from pole to pole. Cables radiating like bicycle spokes to houses across the street. Cables coiled, cables snarled.
The cable-vines are only the beginning of the clutter.
There’s the signage on the storefronts, reminiscent of the cover of Radiohead’s Hail to the Thief, but with Vietnamese writing—short strings of Latin letters buzzing with diacritics.
The sidewalk-riverbanks would be ample if not for two more kinds of clutter, one good and one bad.
The good kind is street food joints. They usually consist of makeshift kitchen stations surrounded by plastic tables and blocky plastic stools. The kind of stool you might keep on hand for changing lightbulbs, only you’d hesitate to step on it for fear it was too flimsy.
It’s not the most comfortable setup. Sitting on one of the stools is not so different from sitting on your haunches, and hunching over a steaming bowl on the table puts your head almost between your knees.
The other thing cluttering up the sidewalks is parked motorbikes, like hitched horses outside of Old West saloons.
It’s amazing that we’ve gotten this far without mentioning the motorbikes. Those asphalt rivers are teeming with metal minnows, their flow generally unimpeded by traffic lights.
The motorbikes account for ninety percent of Hanoi’s soundscape: forty-five percent engines, forty-five percent horns. Ten percent miscellaneous.
Which brings us to the motorbike taxi guys. (It’s about time we start populating our city.)
They’re parked at every busy corner, sometimes sitting upright, ready to rev off, sometimes lounging like centerfolds or Sistine Chapel Adams.
Their cry of “Mo-to-bike?” must be the second most commonly spoken English word in Hanoi, after “hello,” which they also use. And these are by no means their only calls. Sometimes they clap, as if calling a dog. Sometimes they hoot, as if it’s owls they’re hoping to attract. Sometimes they woo with a “Woo!” Sometimes they literally yoo-hoo and flutter their fingers as if waving a handkerchief. They are ever-hopeful suitors. And professional nuisances.
Then there are the cyclo drivers. A cyclo is the back half of a bicycle propelling a commodious, canopied wheelchair. The cyclo drivers ding a bell to indicate that they’d like to pedal you around at the speed you’re already walking.
Women in conical rice hats have the most physically demanding job. They walk the streets, each carrying what looks like a giant set of scales—a pair of broad baskets suspended from either end of a bouncy wooden beam balanced over one shoulder. The baskets are usually full of fruit.
These women aren’t as relentless as the motorbike taxi guys. But they sometimes try to get you to pose for a photo carrying their baskets, usually without first finding out if you’ve got a camera. I guess the idea is that you’ll feel like you owe them something afterwards. Particularly when you imagine the beam digging into your shoulder all day. But when they try to get the beam onto your shoulder, it usually ends up coming at your neck, which can be disconcerting.
There are shoeshine guys who carry their brushes and polishes in plastic beach baskets and wear plasticky sandals, I assume so they don’t have to shine their own shoes as well. The more dramatic shoeshine guys will come to a dead halt at the sight of shoes crying out for a shine. Even if, like me, you’re wearing hiking boots that aren’t really supposed to gleam.
These are just a few of the people in the neighborhood—the ones who solicit you. And it’s by no means an exhaustive list of them either. There are guys lugging stacks of photocopied books and guys towing bunches of bobbing balloons. There are girls who claim to be collecting for the Red Cross, a rumpled laminated card their only proof. And so on.
As for the rest of the city’s inhabitants and the way they live, that’ll have to wait for a future entry. But I hope this gives you a sense of Hanoi as an environment.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
fukuoka
09/13/09–09/17/09
It’s my last full day in Japan. Yesterday was also my last full day in Japan, and so was the day before. I’ve had to postpone my departure twice on account of a crippling hangover.
I spent all yesterday reassembling myself, like Dr. Manhattan in Watchmen when he first gets disintegrated. A great many particles of gray matter are still unaccounted for.
And I feel . . . chastened.
I can’t afford another night like that. Not that we paid for our drinks. A patron who laughed when I asked what he did kept refilling our glasses with something clear and potent. Everyone kept clapping for us to down them in one.
But in terms of time spent in recovery and momentum halted, such nights are just too costly.
I step out of the hostel. It’s midday. Sunny. Across the street is a sign in English. In big block letters, white on red, it reads, AFRESH.
I start to walk. A few blocks along, I pass a park with a winding clay footpath and consider going for a jog later. I haven’t deliberately exercised since arriving in Japan, though I’ve walked a ton and lugged my backpack from place to place.
A few more blocks, and I reach my destination: a ramen place called Ippudo.
I’ve been here once before, when it was almost empty. Today, I’ve hit the lunch rush, and it’s packed.
One? the waiter asks with his index finger. One, I answer with mine.
He seats me at a table made from a single slab of wood and brings me a small glass of iced tea. There are pitchers of it spaced out along the table if I want more.
I want the same thing I had the other day and point to it on the picture menu. Not too spicy, I pantomime, breathing fire and waving my hands no. Steam rises from vats in the kitchen area behind the bar. Hot jazz erupts from the speakers. Over the usual restaurant clatter and chatter, the staff all call out, not quite in unison, whenever someone pays up and leaves.
After a few minutes, the waiter returns with the following: a boiled egg with a semisolid, bright orange yolk; a good-sized piece of pork; a ball of what I know as Mexican rice; and a sheet of dried seaweed. I already know to roll the rice up in the seaweed and eat that separately. The egg and the pork go in the ramen.
Which arrives a minute later, piping hot. There are really two broths: a light-colored murky one and a reddish-brown, spicy, oily one suspended in the first. Every time I dunk my spoon—I have forgotten to pause and say itadakimasu—the two broths spill into it and swirl around together. There are also noodles that remind me of angel hair, green things that might be chopped scallions, and spicy bits that are sort of part of the spicy broth. Not to mention the boiled egg and the pork, which I have added.
I switch back and forth between spoon and chopsticks. The soup is hot in both senses—“not too spicy” is still pretty spicy—and before long I’m sweating, my nose is running, and my head is starting to tingle. My hangover recedes just a little.
A few hours later, I’m back at the hostel, lacing up by the shoe cubbies. A guest asks where I’m off to, and I tell her I’m going for a jog as a way of doing penance. She’s not familiar with the concept, so I tell her I’m trying to shake off a hangover.
I walk the few blocks to the park, and when I set foot on the footpath, I start to trot. I’ve elected to listen to one of the long-awaited, recently released Beatles remasters: the mono Help!
I follow the path partway round a baseball diamond and branch off. There are a few bikers, a few other joggers, and a majority of walkers, including parents with small children.
After two weeks in Japan, I’m still not sure how to pass people. The Japanese drive on the left, so you would think you’d pass oncoming foot traffic on the left as well, with a “fast lane” to the right of people heading your way. But it doesn’t always work like that. I improvise.
I make several circuits, the late-afternoon sun slanting through the trees. At one point, a guy who’s possibly homeless gives me the peace sign followed by a thumbs-up, and I respond in kind. There’s a hardness in my chest. I am jogging in slow motion, still not out of first gear.
Still hung over, some thirty-six hours after the fact. There may be a lesson there.
But hangover or no hangover, by now it’s certain: Today will be my last full day in Japan.
For a while.
It’s my last full day in Japan. Yesterday was also my last full day in Japan, and so was the day before. I’ve had to postpone my departure twice on account of a crippling hangover.
I spent all yesterday reassembling myself, like Dr. Manhattan in Watchmen when he first gets disintegrated. A great many particles of gray matter are still unaccounted for.
And I feel . . . chastened.
I can’t afford another night like that. Not that we paid for our drinks. A patron who laughed when I asked what he did kept refilling our glasses with something clear and potent. Everyone kept clapping for us to down them in one.
But in terms of time spent in recovery and momentum halted, such nights are just too costly.
I step out of the hostel. It’s midday. Sunny. Across the street is a sign in English. In big block letters, white on red, it reads, AFRESH.
I start to walk. A few blocks along, I pass a park with a winding clay footpath and consider going for a jog later. I haven’t deliberately exercised since arriving in Japan, though I’ve walked a ton and lugged my backpack from place to place.
A few more blocks, and I reach my destination: a ramen place called Ippudo.
I’ve been here once before, when it was almost empty. Today, I’ve hit the lunch rush, and it’s packed.
One? the waiter asks with his index finger. One, I answer with mine.
He seats me at a table made from a single slab of wood and brings me a small glass of iced tea. There are pitchers of it spaced out along the table if I want more.
I want the same thing I had the other day and point to it on the picture menu. Not too spicy, I pantomime, breathing fire and waving my hands no. Steam rises from vats in the kitchen area behind the bar. Hot jazz erupts from the speakers. Over the usual restaurant clatter and chatter, the staff all call out, not quite in unison, whenever someone pays up and leaves.
After a few minutes, the waiter returns with the following: a boiled egg with a semisolid, bright orange yolk; a good-sized piece of pork; a ball of what I know as Mexican rice; and a sheet of dried seaweed. I already know to roll the rice up in the seaweed and eat that separately. The egg and the pork go in the ramen.
Which arrives a minute later, piping hot. There are really two broths: a light-colored murky one and a reddish-brown, spicy, oily one suspended in the first. Every time I dunk my spoon—I have forgotten to pause and say itadakimasu—the two broths spill into it and swirl around together. There are also noodles that remind me of angel hair, green things that might be chopped scallions, and spicy bits that are sort of part of the spicy broth. Not to mention the boiled egg and the pork, which I have added.
I switch back and forth between spoon and chopsticks. The soup is hot in both senses—“not too spicy” is still pretty spicy—and before long I’m sweating, my nose is running, and my head is starting to tingle. My hangover recedes just a little.
A few hours later, I’m back at the hostel, lacing up by the shoe cubbies. A guest asks where I’m off to, and I tell her I’m going for a jog as a way of doing penance. She’s not familiar with the concept, so I tell her I’m trying to shake off a hangover.
I walk the few blocks to the park, and when I set foot on the footpath, I start to trot. I’ve elected to listen to one of the long-awaited, recently released Beatles remasters: the mono Help!
I follow the path partway round a baseball diamond and branch off. There are a few bikers, a few other joggers, and a majority of walkers, including parents with small children.
After two weeks in Japan, I’m still not sure how to pass people. The Japanese drive on the left, so you would think you’d pass oncoming foot traffic on the left as well, with a “fast lane” to the right of people heading your way. But it doesn’t always work like that. I improvise.
I make several circuits, the late-afternoon sun slanting through the trees. At one point, a guy who’s possibly homeless gives me the peace sign followed by a thumbs-up, and I respond in kind. There’s a hardness in my chest. I am jogging in slow motion, still not out of first gear.
Still hung over, some thirty-six hours after the fact. There may be a lesson there.
But hangover or no hangover, by now it’s certain: Today will be my last full day in Japan.
For a while.
tokyo
09/01/09–09/06/09
A highlight:
The evening of my second full day in Tokyo, I headed to Shinjuku to meet Yushi, a friend of a friend. I didn’t really know what to expect. All I knew was that Yushi was taking me out on the town and that communication might be tricky, since neither of us spoke the other’s language at all well.
On the way there, I saw a sumo wrestler in the flesh. I was changing trains at Ueno Station, and I caught up to him on the stairs to the above-ground platform. From that angle, what I noticed were his massive heels spilling off his undersized flip-flops. I took in the rest of him on the platform, trying not to gawk. He was wearing a robe and sash, and, as if in counterpoint to his bulk, he was thumbing a slim-model iPod.
The train let me out in Shinjuku with over an hour to explore before meeting Yushi. Shinjuku is the quintessential neon wilderness. What makes it different from similar areas in cities I know better—say, Times Square, or Gran Vía in Madrid—is that in Shinjuku, you can’t turn off the main drag if you want to get out of the glare. You find yourself on another main drag, as busy and built up and brightly lit as the first.
After twenty minutes or so, I felt completely enervated, the way I get at the mall. I was also starting to worry about what the night had in store, because all of the bars looked like tourist traps, cheesy and expensive.
Then I heard the John Lennon portion of “I’ve Got a Feeling” (“Everybody had a hard year . . .”) emanating from a tower of oversized jigsaw puzzle pieces. The bar inside was playing only Beatles songs, perhaps in anticipation of the remasters on 09/09/09. I didn’t want to go in, but I bought an overpriced beer in a plastic cup at a nearby stand so that I could take a table and listen.
I nursed two beers and people-watched until it was time to go meet Yushi. My spirits lifted when he arrived. He looked like the Japanese version of the Dude from Big Lebowski, in a white undershirt, shorts, and flip-flops. I liked him immediately.
And then things got good fast. We turned a few corners, and we were in an alley where every doorway led into a tiny eatery, and every back door led to another alley where people went to relieve themselves. (There were facilities, but I gather there hadn’t been for most of the alley’s history.) It turns out you can get off the main drag in Shinjuku, if you know the way.
Yushi ordered us beer and food. I don’t remember exactly what we had, which will disappoint my sister, but it involved some absolutely succulent beef, assorted goodies in broth, and chicken skewers.
Then we moved on to Golden-gai, a village of parallel alleys and one or two hundred tiny bars. The bars have a lot in common with my favorite bars in Malasaña or Lavapiés in Madrid. They have the same ramshackle, bohemian vibe, with perhaps a touch more sophistication (the odd chandelier, some patrons in suits). But what really makes the bars special is their size. Because they can only squeeze in a half dozen people at a time, those people share a space as one group, and conversation comes naturally.
Well, where I was concerned, conversation was like a party game where you’re limited to the most basic vocabulary plus gestures. Fortunately, a couple people spoke pretty good English. I met Sam, a production manager who works mainly on ninja movies, and later I flirted a bit with an actress from an altogether different genre. And then I caught the last train back.
A second highlight followed from the first. The next morning, feeling hung over but determined to get out and see stuff—unlike some of the folks at the hostel, who seemed content just to hang around—I met Sam for a tour of Ueno, the neighborhood where he grew up. We strolled through the market and then surveyed it from a metallic perch with vending machines. Later, we climbed to the top of a seven-story toy store and worked our way down floor by floor. I picked out something for my friends at Tupperware Club in Madrid. Afterwards, I went back to the hostel for a much-needed nap.
I fell asleep watching Lost in Translation on my laptop in my capsule. This time I couldn’t get into it. The Tokyo of the film just didn’t match the Tokyo that I was experiencing. I wasn’t feeling any alienation or ennui. Things seemed different, sure, but not at all incomprehensible. It didn’t seem all that difficult to connect.
Of course, it helps if you’ve got one or two connections to get you started. For that, I have to thank my Japanese friends in San Francisco, who gave me great advice and really smoothed my transition into my first foreign country in three years. And thanks especially to Taka for the night out in Shinjuku.
A highlight:
The evening of my second full day in Tokyo, I headed to Shinjuku to meet Yushi, a friend of a friend. I didn’t really know what to expect. All I knew was that Yushi was taking me out on the town and that communication might be tricky, since neither of us spoke the other’s language at all well.
On the way there, I saw a sumo wrestler in the flesh. I was changing trains at Ueno Station, and I caught up to him on the stairs to the above-ground platform. From that angle, what I noticed were his massive heels spilling off his undersized flip-flops. I took in the rest of him on the platform, trying not to gawk. He was wearing a robe and sash, and, as if in counterpoint to his bulk, he was thumbing a slim-model iPod.
The train let me out in Shinjuku with over an hour to explore before meeting Yushi. Shinjuku is the quintessential neon wilderness. What makes it different from similar areas in cities I know better—say, Times Square, or Gran Vía in Madrid—is that in Shinjuku, you can’t turn off the main drag if you want to get out of the glare. You find yourself on another main drag, as busy and built up and brightly lit as the first.
After twenty minutes or so, I felt completely enervated, the way I get at the mall. I was also starting to worry about what the night had in store, because all of the bars looked like tourist traps, cheesy and expensive.
Then I heard the John Lennon portion of “I’ve Got a Feeling” (“Everybody had a hard year . . .”) emanating from a tower of oversized jigsaw puzzle pieces. The bar inside was playing only Beatles songs, perhaps in anticipation of the remasters on 09/09/09. I didn’t want to go in, but I bought an overpriced beer in a plastic cup at a nearby stand so that I could take a table and listen.
I nursed two beers and people-watched until it was time to go meet Yushi. My spirits lifted when he arrived. He looked like the Japanese version of the Dude from Big Lebowski, in a white undershirt, shorts, and flip-flops. I liked him immediately.
And then things got good fast. We turned a few corners, and we were in an alley where every doorway led into a tiny eatery, and every back door led to another alley where people went to relieve themselves. (There were facilities, but I gather there hadn’t been for most of the alley’s history.) It turns out you can get off the main drag in Shinjuku, if you know the way.
Yushi ordered us beer and food. I don’t remember exactly what we had, which will disappoint my sister, but it involved some absolutely succulent beef, assorted goodies in broth, and chicken skewers.
Then we moved on to Golden-gai, a village of parallel alleys and one or two hundred tiny bars. The bars have a lot in common with my favorite bars in Malasaña or Lavapiés in Madrid. They have the same ramshackle, bohemian vibe, with perhaps a touch more sophistication (the odd chandelier, some patrons in suits). But what really makes the bars special is their size. Because they can only squeeze in a half dozen people at a time, those people share a space as one group, and conversation comes naturally.
Well, where I was concerned, conversation was like a party game where you’re limited to the most basic vocabulary plus gestures. Fortunately, a couple people spoke pretty good English. I met Sam, a production manager who works mainly on ninja movies, and later I flirted a bit with an actress from an altogether different genre. And then I caught the last train back.
A second highlight followed from the first. The next morning, feeling hung over but determined to get out and see stuff—unlike some of the folks at the hostel, who seemed content just to hang around—I met Sam for a tour of Ueno, the neighborhood where he grew up. We strolled through the market and then surveyed it from a metallic perch with vending machines. Later, we climbed to the top of a seven-story toy store and worked our way down floor by floor. I picked out something for my friends at Tupperware Club in Madrid. Afterwards, I went back to the hostel for a much-needed nap.
I fell asleep watching Lost in Translation on my laptop in my capsule. This time I couldn’t get into it. The Tokyo of the film just didn’t match the Tokyo that I was experiencing. I wasn’t feeling any alienation or ennui. Things seemed different, sure, but not at all incomprehensible. It didn’t seem all that difficult to connect.
Of course, it helps if you’ve got one or two connections to get you started. For that, I have to thank my Japanese friends in San Francisco, who gave me great advice and really smoothed my transition into my first foreign country in three years. And thanks especially to Taka for the night out in Shinjuku.
Monday, July 5, 2010
to explain
No, is too much. To sum up:
I spent a year in San Francisco. For most of it, I lived in a hovel in an otherwise posh part of town, and I couldn’t say which aspect was worse—the shabby inside or the snobby outside. But I enjoyed living with my roommate, which is why I stayed put. That and inertia.
On the upside, my teaching gig was the best I’ve ever had, and I’ve had some good ones. Four hours a night, Monday through Thursday. A great boss who made sure I knew what I was doing and then left me to it (pretty much the definition of a great boss). Cool fellow teachers. And students to die for.
They were adults from around the world who already spoke great English and who were eager to master it further. Also eager to have fun, up for anything. They inspired me to put a lot into the classes, which is to say actually prepare instead of coming up with something on the bus or during the break (although with four hours to fill each night, there was plenty of that too).
We became friends, and we would get together outside of class. I have fond memories of drinks, dinners, and day trips, and the send-off they gave me before I left was the proudest moment of my professional life. Thanks, guys.
Work was so enjoyable that it was sometimes hard to believe I was getting paid, but in fact the pay was generous. Teaching sixteen hours a week and living frugally—indeed, ascetically—I saved up enough for visas, shots, gear, a one-way ticket to Tokyo, and three months of travel through Japan, South Korea, China, and Vietnam—where I’m spending the second year of my trip.
I had originally planned on a stint in Japan before the stint in Vietnam, but the more I looked into it, the more it seemed like teaching in Japan would be a grind. I wanted to live there but not to work there, and I settled for simply visiting.
Other than that, I pretty much followed the course I imagined in my first entry. Along the way, I typed and scribbled, and I’m hoping to finish those entries—and also write a few about my present environs—before hitting the road again toward the end of this year.
I spent a year in San Francisco. For most of it, I lived in a hovel in an otherwise posh part of town, and I couldn’t say which aspect was worse—the shabby inside or the snobby outside. But I enjoyed living with my roommate, which is why I stayed put. That and inertia.
On the upside, my teaching gig was the best I’ve ever had, and I’ve had some good ones. Four hours a night, Monday through Thursday. A great boss who made sure I knew what I was doing and then left me to it (pretty much the definition of a great boss). Cool fellow teachers. And students to die for.
They were adults from around the world who already spoke great English and who were eager to master it further. Also eager to have fun, up for anything. They inspired me to put a lot into the classes, which is to say actually prepare instead of coming up with something on the bus or during the break (although with four hours to fill each night, there was plenty of that too).
We became friends, and we would get together outside of class. I have fond memories of drinks, dinners, and day trips, and the send-off they gave me before I left was the proudest moment of my professional life. Thanks, guys.
Work was so enjoyable that it was sometimes hard to believe I was getting paid, but in fact the pay was generous. Teaching sixteen hours a week and living frugally—indeed, ascetically—I saved up enough for visas, shots, gear, a one-way ticket to Tokyo, and three months of travel through Japan, South Korea, China, and Vietnam—where I’m spending the second year of my trip.
I had originally planned on a stint in Japan before the stint in Vietnam, but the more I looked into it, the more it seemed like teaching in Japan would be a grind. I wanted to live there but not to work there, and I settled for simply visiting.
Other than that, I pretty much followed the course I imagined in my first entry. Along the way, I typed and scribbled, and I’m hoping to finish those entries—and also write a few about my present environs—before hitting the road again toward the end of this year.
Monday, September 22, 2008
good news
I got a job at the school I like. Here’s how it happened.
I mentioned in my last entry that my friend’s place doesn’t have Internet, so I’ve been lugging my laptop to various free wifi hotspots. Well, it turns out the baseball stadium, which is right around the corner, is such a hotspot. The coverage extends to the waterfront, where I’ve taken to sitting on a bench under some trees, looking out on the moored boats—not far from the fishing pier I mentioned last time, although the pier itself is just out of range.
It’s a pleasant spot, except for one inconvenience and one nagging concern. The inconvenience is that my screen is all but unreadable in direct sunlight, forcing me to take shelter under those trees. And the nagging concern is that the trees also shelter some avian bombardiers who’ve given the area a real blitzing. It looks like a monochromatic paintball range, and every time I open my laptop out there, I run the risk of getting guano in the keys.
The cell phone situation is likewise problematic. Either because my friend’s place is in the interior of the building, overlooking a courtyard instead of the street, or because my carrier isn’t the best, I can only make or receive calls if I sit right by the window with the phone plugged in. The signal doesn’t reach the bedroom area, where I use the phone as an alarm.
This got me into trouble two Fridays ago. I had set the alarm for eleven, and when the phone rang at about that time, I fumbled with it and resumed dreaming, go-getter that I am. A few minutes later, the phone rang again, which was, er, alarming, since I hadn’t hit snooze. It was now eleven on the dot. So this was the alarm, and the earlier, false alarm was a call that had somehow gotten through. A call that I had hung up on. Was it the school I was waiting to hear from? One of the other schools I had contacted? A potential housemate? Finally jolted awake, I tried to recover the number, but apparently my phone only logs missed calls, not ones that are outright rejected.
I could have called the school to check in, but I was already planning to visit in person (as part of the “stick to them like glue” strategy I enunciated last time), and I figured it would be better to turn up first thing on a Monday rather than last thing on a Friday. When I woke up Monday afternoon, I decided that first thing on a Tuesday would suffice. And by Tuesday afternoon, a pattern was beginning to emerge.
Wednesday afternoon, I was again sleeping late and feeling like an egg in an incubator, when a beep from my cell phone roused me. Someone had left me a message early that morning, and the alert for it had just reached my phone, several hours later. Perhaps it had been butting against the window trying different spots, like a bug. The message wasn’t from the school I was most interested in, but rather a more businesslike academy that I had contacted before I flew out here. They hadn’t responded right away, and I had written them off, but from the sound of it, they were in urgent need of a teacher.
This was a welcome development, but one that required a little finesse. I was more interested in working at the school that hadn’t yet contacted me than the one that had, so I wanted to get in touch with them first. There was also another school, which I had just emailed the night before from my spot outside the stadium. Only, I wasn’t sure the email had gone through, because literally seconds after I hit the send button, my computer ran out of juice and shut down. I wanted to check on the status of the email, which meant heading back out there to get online. And I was under some time pressure in all this, because it was getting on towards close of business. The most pressing concern of all, however, was getting a cup of tea in me, since I was way too groggy to make good decisions or impress potential employers.
After a quick cup of English breakfast, feeling considerably sharper, I trotted over to the stadium and took up my position in the shade and faded splatter. I got online and determined that my email to the third school had gone through (or at least it was in my sent mail folder), but I hadn’t received a reply. One down, two to go.
Next, I called the school that I had been waiting to hear from. When the director came on, he began, “The reason I called you . . .” So he had called me. The Friday before, when I had accidentally hung up on someone? Or more recently, while I was unreachable inside the apartment? I didn’t ask, not wanting to sound quite so unprofessional. The important thing was that they had a class to offer me. We agreed that I would come by the following afternoon to iron out the details.
Finally, I called the school that had left the message. I apologized for the delay in getting back to them and said that I was interested in the class, but if it was in the morning, I already had a commitment (as of a minute before). It was indeed a morning class, but we agreed that I would come by the next day so we could meet face to face, in case something came up down the road.
Which I did, and while it certainly seemed like a respectable place, it didn’t seem like my kind of place. Too formal. I could tell that work there would feel like, of all things, work. (Keep in mind that I don’t get paid much. I consider actually enjoying what I do to be part of the compensation.)
Later, I met with the directors at the other school. (It turns out there are two.) From the phone call the day before, my understanding was that I pretty much had the job, but we conducted an interview anyway, and actually, it was a lot more comprehensive than the chat that had gotten me in the door the first time. Still relaxed though. The only tricky part was communicating my philosophy of teaching and work without sounding like a total slacker.
And, well, I got the job. Afterwards, I paid my first visit to Japantown, feeling triumphant and at the same time reverent, like I was actually in a foreign country, and a tranquil one at that.
I got home pulverized from walking all over town (and operating on very little sleep, since I had gotten up at a reasonable hour) and put on some celebratory Sam Cooke.
Oh, my baby’s coming home tomorrow
Ain’t that good news
Man, ain’t that news
And then, after taking a short while to rest up, I went back out to my “office” to get on the Internet. It didn’t take long for a bird to shit right next to me. I actually consider this the last in a string of successes and lucky strikes, since I only got a bit of spatter on the computer, in easy-to-clean places, and it so clearly could have been worse. But I did take it as a sign that my time in that office is done.
I mentioned in my last entry that my friend’s place doesn’t have Internet, so I’ve been lugging my laptop to various free wifi hotspots. Well, it turns out the baseball stadium, which is right around the corner, is such a hotspot. The coverage extends to the waterfront, where I’ve taken to sitting on a bench under some trees, looking out on the moored boats—not far from the fishing pier I mentioned last time, although the pier itself is just out of range.
It’s a pleasant spot, except for one inconvenience and one nagging concern. The inconvenience is that my screen is all but unreadable in direct sunlight, forcing me to take shelter under those trees. And the nagging concern is that the trees also shelter some avian bombardiers who’ve given the area a real blitzing. It looks like a monochromatic paintball range, and every time I open my laptop out there, I run the risk of getting guano in the keys.
The cell phone situation is likewise problematic. Either because my friend’s place is in the interior of the building, overlooking a courtyard instead of the street, or because my carrier isn’t the best, I can only make or receive calls if I sit right by the window with the phone plugged in. The signal doesn’t reach the bedroom area, where I use the phone as an alarm.
This got me into trouble two Fridays ago. I had set the alarm for eleven, and when the phone rang at about that time, I fumbled with it and resumed dreaming, go-getter that I am. A few minutes later, the phone rang again, which was, er, alarming, since I hadn’t hit snooze. It was now eleven on the dot. So this was the alarm, and the earlier, false alarm was a call that had somehow gotten through. A call that I had hung up on. Was it the school I was waiting to hear from? One of the other schools I had contacted? A potential housemate? Finally jolted awake, I tried to recover the number, but apparently my phone only logs missed calls, not ones that are outright rejected.
I could have called the school to check in, but I was already planning to visit in person (as part of the “stick to them like glue” strategy I enunciated last time), and I figured it would be better to turn up first thing on a Monday rather than last thing on a Friday. When I woke up Monday afternoon, I decided that first thing on a Tuesday would suffice. And by Tuesday afternoon, a pattern was beginning to emerge.
Wednesday afternoon, I was again sleeping late and feeling like an egg in an incubator, when a beep from my cell phone roused me. Someone had left me a message early that morning, and the alert for it had just reached my phone, several hours later. Perhaps it had been butting against the window trying different spots, like a bug. The message wasn’t from the school I was most interested in, but rather a more businesslike academy that I had contacted before I flew out here. They hadn’t responded right away, and I had written them off, but from the sound of it, they were in urgent need of a teacher.
This was a welcome development, but one that required a little finesse. I was more interested in working at the school that hadn’t yet contacted me than the one that had, so I wanted to get in touch with them first. There was also another school, which I had just emailed the night before from my spot outside the stadium. Only, I wasn’t sure the email had gone through, because literally seconds after I hit the send button, my computer ran out of juice and shut down. I wanted to check on the status of the email, which meant heading back out there to get online. And I was under some time pressure in all this, because it was getting on towards close of business. The most pressing concern of all, however, was getting a cup of tea in me, since I was way too groggy to make good decisions or impress potential employers.
After a quick cup of English breakfast, feeling considerably sharper, I trotted over to the stadium and took up my position in the shade and faded splatter. I got online and determined that my email to the third school had gone through (or at least it was in my sent mail folder), but I hadn’t received a reply. One down, two to go.
Next, I called the school that I had been waiting to hear from. When the director came on, he began, “The reason I called you . . .” So he had called me. The Friday before, when I had accidentally hung up on someone? Or more recently, while I was unreachable inside the apartment? I didn’t ask, not wanting to sound quite so unprofessional. The important thing was that they had a class to offer me. We agreed that I would come by the following afternoon to iron out the details.
Finally, I called the school that had left the message. I apologized for the delay in getting back to them and said that I was interested in the class, but if it was in the morning, I already had a commitment (as of a minute before). It was indeed a morning class, but we agreed that I would come by the next day so we could meet face to face, in case something came up down the road.
Which I did, and while it certainly seemed like a respectable place, it didn’t seem like my kind of place. Too formal. I could tell that work there would feel like, of all things, work. (Keep in mind that I don’t get paid much. I consider actually enjoying what I do to be part of the compensation.)
Later, I met with the directors at the other school. (It turns out there are two.) From the phone call the day before, my understanding was that I pretty much had the job, but we conducted an interview anyway, and actually, it was a lot more comprehensive than the chat that had gotten me in the door the first time. Still relaxed though. The only tricky part was communicating my philosophy of teaching and work without sounding like a total slacker.
And, well, I got the job. Afterwards, I paid my first visit to Japantown, feeling triumphant and at the same time reverent, like I was actually in a foreign country, and a tranquil one at that.
I got home pulverized from walking all over town (and operating on very little sleep, since I had gotten up at a reasonable hour) and put on some celebratory Sam Cooke.
Oh, my baby’s coming home tomorrow
Ain’t that good news
Man, ain’t that news
And then, after taking a short while to rest up, I went back out to my “office” to get on the Internet. It didn’t take long for a bird to shit right next to me. I actually consider this the last in a string of successes and lucky strikes, since I only got a bit of spatter on the computer, in easy-to-clean places, and it so clearly could have been worse. But I did take it as a sign that my time in that office is done.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
two weeks in
Two weeks into my stay in San Francisco, I don’t have a whole lot to report.
My flight was uneventful, and just like that I was three time zones further west, roughly an eighth of the way round the world.
A friend has asked me to keep an eye on his place while he’s away, and I have generously consented. (In truth, he’s doing me a colossal favor, and not for the first time.)
Incidentally, my friend is an accomplished traveler, and I’m hoping he’ll visit me when I’m halfway around the world. Even now, he’s doing business in the Middle East, and when he’s not hard at work, he’s taking in wonders like Petra that I’m dying to see for myself when the time comes.
His place in San Francisco is right by the water, and there’s a fishing pier where I can sit and listen to the clinking of the moored boats and drift like Otis Redding.
The only downside is no Internet, which is an impediment to job and apartment hunting, not to mention nascent blogging. Fortunately, a couple places around here offer free wifi with or without a purchase. And it gets me out of the house.
I’ve been walking everywhere I go, averaging maybe four or five miles a day. Last Wednesday and Thursday, it was six each, I figured out. Which is the way to get to know a city, in my view.
Only, the neighborhood is pretty spread out. Expansive. It’s seven blocks to Market Street, each block an eighth of a mile, and the hustle-bustle doesn’t begin until Market is well in view. That’s heading northwest. Heading southwest across the numbered streets, the blocks are even longer, and attractions are fewer and farther between. So a lot of the walking I’m doing is simply that, as opposed to proper exploring.
The reason I know the mileage for Wednesday and Thursday is that both days brought me out to the school where I want to teach. That’s been my biggest success so far: discovering this place, and getting my foot in the door by subbing a class.
I came across the school while looking through expired Craigslist ads. What caught my eye was that it was nonprofit; my last school was nonprofit, and it was by far the best job I’ve ever had. No dress code, no paperwork, no meetings. No interference. Everyone there because they wanted to be, enthusiastic about what they were doing.
This school in San Francisco turned out to be every bit as laid back as I had hoped. I showed up without an appointment, casually dressed, and out of breath and a bit sweaty from the hills I climbed getting there. None of it seemed to count against me. I had a chat with the director, who was about my age and easygoing, and it turned out they needed a sub the following night. Easy as that.
And subbing itself went swimmingly, thanks in no small part to the five very cool students in the class. I’m a year out of practice, but it didn’t feel that way. Of course, the kind of teaching I do isn’t very complicated. It’s about equal parts hanging out with people from other countries and examining the workings of the language, both of which I find fascinating but not at all difficult.
Anyway, I think my job hunt is over, even though I don’t have a job. I know where I want to work. I couldn’t take the hassles of a profit-minded academy now that I know there’s a better option out there.
My plan for closing the deal at this school is pretty simple: let them know I’m dying to work there, and then stay close at hand, ready to sub or pick up classes at a moment’s notice. The main thing is that when something comes up, I want them to know who to call. And by “call,” I mean call out to the reception area, or the teachers’ room, or the neighborhood coffee shop downstairs, since I’ll have taken to hanging around like a hopeful stray.
That’s the plan. Here’s hoping it works.
My flight was uneventful, and just like that I was three time zones further west, roughly an eighth of the way round the world.
A friend has asked me to keep an eye on his place while he’s away, and I have generously consented. (In truth, he’s doing me a colossal favor, and not for the first time.)
Incidentally, my friend is an accomplished traveler, and I’m hoping he’ll visit me when I’m halfway around the world. Even now, he’s doing business in the Middle East, and when he’s not hard at work, he’s taking in wonders like Petra that I’m dying to see for myself when the time comes.
His place in San Francisco is right by the water, and there’s a fishing pier where I can sit and listen to the clinking of the moored boats and drift like Otis Redding.
The only downside is no Internet, which is an impediment to job and apartment hunting, not to mention nascent blogging. Fortunately, a couple places around here offer free wifi with or without a purchase. And it gets me out of the house.
I’ve been walking everywhere I go, averaging maybe four or five miles a day. Last Wednesday and Thursday, it was six each, I figured out. Which is the way to get to know a city, in my view.
Only, the neighborhood is pretty spread out. Expansive. It’s seven blocks to Market Street, each block an eighth of a mile, and the hustle-bustle doesn’t begin until Market is well in view. That’s heading northwest. Heading southwest across the numbered streets, the blocks are even longer, and attractions are fewer and farther between. So a lot of the walking I’m doing is simply that, as opposed to proper exploring.
The reason I know the mileage for Wednesday and Thursday is that both days brought me out to the school where I want to teach. That’s been my biggest success so far: discovering this place, and getting my foot in the door by subbing a class.
I came across the school while looking through expired Craigslist ads. What caught my eye was that it was nonprofit; my last school was nonprofit, and it was by far the best job I’ve ever had. No dress code, no paperwork, no meetings. No interference. Everyone there because they wanted to be, enthusiastic about what they were doing.
This school in San Francisco turned out to be every bit as laid back as I had hoped. I showed up without an appointment, casually dressed, and out of breath and a bit sweaty from the hills I climbed getting there. None of it seemed to count against me. I had a chat with the director, who was about my age and easygoing, and it turned out they needed a sub the following night. Easy as that.
And subbing itself went swimmingly, thanks in no small part to the five very cool students in the class. I’m a year out of practice, but it didn’t feel that way. Of course, the kind of teaching I do isn’t very complicated. It’s about equal parts hanging out with people from other countries and examining the workings of the language, both of which I find fascinating but not at all difficult.
Anyway, I think my job hunt is over, even though I don’t have a job. I know where I want to work. I couldn’t take the hassles of a profit-minded academy now that I know there’s a better option out there.
My plan for closing the deal at this school is pretty simple: let them know I’m dying to work there, and then stay close at hand, ready to sub or pick up classes at a moment’s notice. The main thing is that when something comes up, I want them to know who to call. And by “call,” I mean call out to the reception area, or the teachers’ room, or the neighborhood coffee shop downstairs, since I’ll have taken to hanging around like a hopeful stray.
That’s the plan. Here’s hoping it works.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
a good way to hear god laugh
That’s what Swearengen on Deadwood says about announcing your plans. All the same, I thought I’d start with a rough outline of my plans for the coming years—bearing in mind that things will turn out differently, and much of what happens will be unforeseen.
I’m planning to travel west around the world, teaching English. My idea is to settle in a given spot for several months to a year, explore it as thoroughly as possible in the time I have, and use it as a base for forays into the surrounding region. I’ll also try and save up some money, so that when I move on to the next spot, I can take my time traveling overland.
The places I have in mind so far—and you’ll see these get increasingly vague, from city to country to region to region—are San Francisco, Japan, Southeast Asia, and the Middle East. After that, it’s open-ended.
I’m currently in the DC suburbs, where I grew up, and where I spent the past year. I’m flying out to San Francisco later today. By rights, I should probably be driving, or biking, or taking the train. But it didn’t seem workable on this go-round, for reasons that might make it into another entry.
I’m also flying from San Francisco to Japan, by the way. A friend suggested that I crew on a ship to get across the Pacific, but apart from knowing nothing about the work I’d be doing, I think I’m more interested in goings-on in other lands than in vast expanses of water. Anyway, from Japan onward, I’ll slowly wend my way, and the red line tracking my progress across the map, Indiana Jones style, will go from straight to squiggly.
Let me say a word about each of my four main stops, as well as some of the places I’ll visit along the way.
Regarding San Francisco: If I’m willing to skip the middle of the country, you might wonder why I don’t just skip all the way to Japan. One reason is that I’d like to learn some Japanese and line up a job first. Then there are issues that pertain to the trip in general: visas, shots, what backpack to bring, what to put in it. I’ve got a lot of preparation to do before I’m ready to leave the country.
As for why San Francisco specifically, I visited a few months ago, and I was pretty taken with it. I’ll write a whole entry about my first impressions of the city, but for now I’ll just say that it seemed relaxed and carefree and generally like my kind of place. Before that, I had never been out west, so this is uncharted territory for me, which is another plus. And I imagine I’ll have lots of students from the countries I’ll be visiting next, so I’ll have a chance to make friends and contacts. Finally, I’m happy to give winter a miss this year.
Regarding Japan: I don’t have a city in mind yet, although I’d prefer someplace warm. My biggest fear when it comes to Japan is that I’ll end up having to wear a suit and tie, perform menial tasks, and generally work my ass off, all of which I became an English teacher in part to avoid. I do feel drawn to Japan in other ways; I’m just a little wary of the teaching there. So if I can find a job that exceeds my expectations and comes a little closer to my ideal, I’ll live almost anywhere (warm).
Gotta remember to pick up some kitschy bric-a-brac at the hundred-yen shops for the folks at Tupperware Club in Madrid.
As I say, after Japan, I plan to take my time getting from one longer-term spot to the next. If I haven’t already, I’ll visit Seoul on my way to Beijing. I was originally planning to head for Shanghai next, and then Hong Kong—in other words, hug the coast all the way down. But a friend suggested that after Beijing, I first head inland to Xi’an, where I could teach for six months and learn a bit of Mandarin, and then head back out to Shanghai and pick up the trail. I might do that.
In Southeast Asia, the countries I’m most interested in at this point are Vietnam, the Philippines, Indonesia, and Thailand. I’m tentatively planning to make Vietnam my base and settle for visiting the other three. I’ve gotten a good impression from the few people I’ve met from Vietnam, and it sounds like I could live pretty well as an English teacher and put away some money for further travel. I’d love to do more than just visit the Philippines and Indonesia, but it sounds like I might have trouble finding work. And Thailand sounds like quite the scene, but I also get the impression that with so many expats passing through, the pay for English teachers is pretty low.
Sounds like, sounds like, sounds like, impression, impression. Quite a bit of hearsay in the above paragraph, but I’ve got plenty of time to arrive at a more informed decision.
After Southeast Asia, my route becomes even more uncertain. The backpack issue will help decide whether I make it to places like Nepal. I’m eager to see India, and in fact I’d think about sticking around for a while, except that I don’t think they need foreigners to teach them English. And working in a call center in any capacity strikes me as torturous. Although I guess I’d be doing accent reduction, not manning the phones. Another option would be to volunteer to teach children in a rural area, in return for room and board. I’m told that’s a possibility.
Then I’ll continue west, sidestepping any war zones. Looking at the map, it seems like I could go India, Pakistan, Iran, Turkey, and from there to the Levant. But I’ll have to find out if that’s practical. Anyway, I’d like to stop for a spell somewhere in the Middle East. My first thought was Lebanon, but it would depend on the situation at the time. A friend who lived there tells me I’d have nothing to worry about, but my mom might not see it the same way. If not Lebanon, maybe Syria? Or Turkey? Turkey is definitely someplace I want to see, but I had hoped to learn some Arabic on this leg of the journey. In any case, I’m looking forward to reaching the Mediterranean. I imagine myself taking a dip and finding it warm and inviting, same as it is at the western end, meaning I’ve arrived at familiar waters, if not yet familiar lands.
And from there, we’ll have to wait and see. I’ve done some traveling in Europe, but I’d be eager to do some more. I could head west across North Africa, or head south into the rest of the continent. I don’t know.
I can tell you that my first real homecoming will take place when I get to Madrid. I can hardly wait to roll into the only city I could say I love, having taken the long way round. A second will come when I get to London, which I don’t know quite as well, but where I have friends and of course speak the language. And a third will come when I fly from London to DC, when I will be, in fact, home.
Home to loved ones, creature comforts, and overgrown greenery that I always marvel at when I come back after being away. Other aspects of this part of the world are guaranteed to drive me batty, and the trick will be to relish being back and then make my escape before they do.
And there you have it. A line on a map, at this point—or round a globe, I guess—to follow or depart from.
I hope you’ll check back now and then.
I’m planning to travel west around the world, teaching English. My idea is to settle in a given spot for several months to a year, explore it as thoroughly as possible in the time I have, and use it as a base for forays into the surrounding region. I’ll also try and save up some money, so that when I move on to the next spot, I can take my time traveling overland.
The places I have in mind so far—and you’ll see these get increasingly vague, from city to country to region to region—are San Francisco, Japan, Southeast Asia, and the Middle East. After that, it’s open-ended.
I’m currently in the DC suburbs, where I grew up, and where I spent the past year. I’m flying out to San Francisco later today. By rights, I should probably be driving, or biking, or taking the train. But it didn’t seem workable on this go-round, for reasons that might make it into another entry.
I’m also flying from San Francisco to Japan, by the way. A friend suggested that I crew on a ship to get across the Pacific, but apart from knowing nothing about the work I’d be doing, I think I’m more interested in goings-on in other lands than in vast expanses of water. Anyway, from Japan onward, I’ll slowly wend my way, and the red line tracking my progress across the map, Indiana Jones style, will go from straight to squiggly.
Let me say a word about each of my four main stops, as well as some of the places I’ll visit along the way.
Regarding San Francisco: If I’m willing to skip the middle of the country, you might wonder why I don’t just skip all the way to Japan. One reason is that I’d like to learn some Japanese and line up a job first. Then there are issues that pertain to the trip in general: visas, shots, what backpack to bring, what to put in it. I’ve got a lot of preparation to do before I’m ready to leave the country.
As for why San Francisco specifically, I visited a few months ago, and I was pretty taken with it. I’ll write a whole entry about my first impressions of the city, but for now I’ll just say that it seemed relaxed and carefree and generally like my kind of place. Before that, I had never been out west, so this is uncharted territory for me, which is another plus. And I imagine I’ll have lots of students from the countries I’ll be visiting next, so I’ll have a chance to make friends and contacts. Finally, I’m happy to give winter a miss this year.
Regarding Japan: I don’t have a city in mind yet, although I’d prefer someplace warm. My biggest fear when it comes to Japan is that I’ll end up having to wear a suit and tie, perform menial tasks, and generally work my ass off, all of which I became an English teacher in part to avoid. I do feel drawn to Japan in other ways; I’m just a little wary of the teaching there. So if I can find a job that exceeds my expectations and comes a little closer to my ideal, I’ll live almost anywhere (warm).
Gotta remember to pick up some kitschy bric-a-brac at the hundred-yen shops for the folks at Tupperware Club in Madrid.
As I say, after Japan, I plan to take my time getting from one longer-term spot to the next. If I haven’t already, I’ll visit Seoul on my way to Beijing. I was originally planning to head for Shanghai next, and then Hong Kong—in other words, hug the coast all the way down. But a friend suggested that after Beijing, I first head inland to Xi’an, where I could teach for six months and learn a bit of Mandarin, and then head back out to Shanghai and pick up the trail. I might do that.
In Southeast Asia, the countries I’m most interested in at this point are Vietnam, the Philippines, Indonesia, and Thailand. I’m tentatively planning to make Vietnam my base and settle for visiting the other three. I’ve gotten a good impression from the few people I’ve met from Vietnam, and it sounds like I could live pretty well as an English teacher and put away some money for further travel. I’d love to do more than just visit the Philippines and Indonesia, but it sounds like I might have trouble finding work. And Thailand sounds like quite the scene, but I also get the impression that with so many expats passing through, the pay for English teachers is pretty low.
Sounds like, sounds like, sounds like, impression, impression. Quite a bit of hearsay in the above paragraph, but I’ve got plenty of time to arrive at a more informed decision.
After Southeast Asia, my route becomes even more uncertain. The backpack issue will help decide whether I make it to places like Nepal. I’m eager to see India, and in fact I’d think about sticking around for a while, except that I don’t think they need foreigners to teach them English. And working in a call center in any capacity strikes me as torturous. Although I guess I’d be doing accent reduction, not manning the phones. Another option would be to volunteer to teach children in a rural area, in return for room and board. I’m told that’s a possibility.
Then I’ll continue west, sidestepping any war zones. Looking at the map, it seems like I could go India, Pakistan, Iran, Turkey, and from there to the Levant. But I’ll have to find out if that’s practical. Anyway, I’d like to stop for a spell somewhere in the Middle East. My first thought was Lebanon, but it would depend on the situation at the time. A friend who lived there tells me I’d have nothing to worry about, but my mom might not see it the same way. If not Lebanon, maybe Syria? Or Turkey? Turkey is definitely someplace I want to see, but I had hoped to learn some Arabic on this leg of the journey. In any case, I’m looking forward to reaching the Mediterranean. I imagine myself taking a dip and finding it warm and inviting, same as it is at the western end, meaning I’ve arrived at familiar waters, if not yet familiar lands.
And from there, we’ll have to wait and see. I’ve done some traveling in Europe, but I’d be eager to do some more. I could head west across North Africa, or head south into the rest of the continent. I don’t know.
I can tell you that my first real homecoming will take place when I get to Madrid. I can hardly wait to roll into the only city I could say I love, having taken the long way round. A second will come when I get to London, which I don’t know quite as well, but where I have friends and of course speak the language. And a third will come when I fly from London to DC, when I will be, in fact, home.
Home to loved ones, creature comforts, and overgrown greenery that I always marvel at when I come back after being away. Other aspects of this part of the world are guaranteed to drive me batty, and the trick will be to relish being back and then make my escape before they do.
And there you have it. A line on a map, at this point—or round a globe, I guess—to follow or depart from.
I hope you’ll check back now and then.
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