For various reasons, I'm about to set off on a new adventure. Starting in August, I'll be teaching ESL once more--this time in Shanghai. I hope you'll follow along.
Right now I'm running around frantically trying to get my visa in order. I'd also love it it my house elf came back from wherever he's been hiding and started packing my stuff, but you can't have everything, I guess. These tasks--plus trying to export my cat--should make me very busy the next few weeks, not least because we've got a big family wedding to go to at the end of this month. Excitement is what pushes the world forward, I guess. Wish me luck!
XOXO,
Kate
Showing posts with label career. Show all posts
Showing posts with label career. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
New things
I'm home again, for the month of November, and considering my options.
I had almost decided to start graduate school. I'd even aspired to a voice Master's from UNC Greensboro. It's supposed to be a very competitive school, but I thought that the competition might motivate me to try harder.
Then I had a voice lesson. My confidence deflated like a balloon. It's amazing how much you can forget in four years away from singing! The slump passed quickly, but it was too late: I'd already let the doubt in.
I love to sing, and I never want to stop, but I'm pretty sure now that voice is not the ideal career path for me. To succeed in the performing arts, you must be absolutely positive about what you are doing. There is no room for self-doubt, and you must be 100% committed. I've tried to take it that seriously, but in truth I've never been that resolved.
The problem is that my real ambition-- and I know, I've waffled a lot on this blog, but this is the real one-- was always to be an author. Not a writer. An author. If you'd asked me at age five or six what I wanted to be, that's what I would have told you. If you'd asked me at age seven, eight or nine, I would have said the same thing. It wasn't until I hit middle school, and started hearing about how hard it was to succeed as a writer, that my career ambitions started to waver.
I once heard that the job you dream of at age six is usually the best one for you. I'm sure that in most cases, that's not true-- "fairy-princess-ballerina" comes to mind. However, I have always wanted to write. I've littered my life with notebooks half-full of stories I never had the steam to finish-- and they're fascinating stories. I find them and want to keep reading, even though the ideas were eaten by moths a long time ago.
I've never given up on this. I've let my music slide-- I've let my languages slide-- I've let everything else slide, but I've always had a story going. I guess this should have been a sign to me.
I knew, though, that it was hard to make a living as a writer. Anyone you ask will tell you that. I've always tried to have some solid career trajectory in mind to keep my loved ones from worrying. "Oh... I'm going to be a teacher. I think I could be a pretty good teacher." "Maybe I'll be a nurse. Do you like being a nurse?" "Urban planning. It should be fun, and it's compatible with my talents..." My most recent scheme was to come home and become a wedding singer.
I still might do some of that, if life works out that way. I love to sing. I love weddings. I love to dress up and be fancy.
I just don't think I can make my life out of it.
Right now I'm thinking seriously about taking a CELTA course after my current contract is up, and using it to find a job somewhere new and interesting. I don't want the best job, or the most prestigious job, or the most glamorous job. I want a solid, reliable, low-stress job, where I can get all my work done and have plenty of time left over to write. ESL jobs are great in this respect-- and have the added advantage of taking you to exciting new places. I don't have to find A Perfect Thing; I just need to find A Thing That Works For Now.
I was talking to a friend about this yesterday, and she pretty much got it.
"All of this," I said, "is pretty much a way to bide my time until I start finishing and publishing books."
"But you no longer feel guilty about this."
"No."
And that seems to be the crux of the matter. I no longer feel guilty about devoting myself to the one kind of work I have always known I could do.
I've set up a writing blog to document my progress, and am using National Novel Writing Month as a way to kick-start a new project. It's not easy: I've finally, finally realized that serious writing is hard work.
But I'm up for it.
I had almost decided to start graduate school. I'd even aspired to a voice Master's from UNC Greensboro. It's supposed to be a very competitive school, but I thought that the competition might motivate me to try harder.
Then I had a voice lesson. My confidence deflated like a balloon. It's amazing how much you can forget in four years away from singing! The slump passed quickly, but it was too late: I'd already let the doubt in.
I love to sing, and I never want to stop, but I'm pretty sure now that voice is not the ideal career path for me. To succeed in the performing arts, you must be absolutely positive about what you are doing. There is no room for self-doubt, and you must be 100% committed. I've tried to take it that seriously, but in truth I've never been that resolved.
The problem is that my real ambition-- and I know, I've waffled a lot on this blog, but this is the real one-- was always to be an author. Not a writer. An author. If you'd asked me at age five or six what I wanted to be, that's what I would have told you. If you'd asked me at age seven, eight or nine, I would have said the same thing. It wasn't until I hit middle school, and started hearing about how hard it was to succeed as a writer, that my career ambitions started to waver.
I once heard that the job you dream of at age six is usually the best one for you. I'm sure that in most cases, that's not true-- "fairy-princess-ballerina" comes to mind. However, I have always wanted to write. I've littered my life with notebooks half-full of stories I never had the steam to finish-- and they're fascinating stories. I find them and want to keep reading, even though the ideas were eaten by moths a long time ago.
I've never given up on this. I've let my music slide-- I've let my languages slide-- I've let everything else slide, but I've always had a story going. I guess this should have been a sign to me.
I knew, though, that it was hard to make a living as a writer. Anyone you ask will tell you that. I've always tried to have some solid career trajectory in mind to keep my loved ones from worrying. "Oh... I'm going to be a teacher. I think I could be a pretty good teacher." "Maybe I'll be a nurse. Do you like being a nurse?" "Urban planning. It should be fun, and it's compatible with my talents..." My most recent scheme was to come home and become a wedding singer.
I still might do some of that, if life works out that way. I love to sing. I love weddings. I love to dress up and be fancy.
I just don't think I can make my life out of it.
Right now I'm thinking seriously about taking a CELTA course after my current contract is up, and using it to find a job somewhere new and interesting. I don't want the best job, or the most prestigious job, or the most glamorous job. I want a solid, reliable, low-stress job, where I can get all my work done and have plenty of time left over to write. ESL jobs are great in this respect-- and have the added advantage of taking you to exciting new places. I don't have to find A Perfect Thing; I just need to find A Thing That Works For Now.
I was talking to a friend about this yesterday, and she pretty much got it.
"All of this," I said, "is pretty much a way to bide my time until I start finishing and publishing books."
"But you no longer feel guilty about this."
"No."
And that seems to be the crux of the matter. I no longer feel guilty about devoting myself to the one kind of work I have always known I could do.
I've set up a writing blog to document my progress, and am using National Novel Writing Month as a way to kick-start a new project. It's not easy: I've finally, finally realized that serious writing is hard work.
But I'm up for it.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Why I Want to Study Urban Planning
(or, "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the City.")
I've been reading a lot of nonfiction books lately. A People's History of the United States told me about American people's movements and common folk trying to change the world. Endless Forms Most Beautiful let me marvel at the intricate, clever workings of the evolutionary process in animals, then pointed out how many of those animals are being wiped out before they can even be studied. The more nonfiction I read, the more I want to influence the world for the better. I want to do something with my life that has a real, immediate impact on the world.
At this point I can finally say, with about 90% certainty, that I've chosen urban planning.
I used to think that I wanted to live far away from cities-- out in the mountains, in a house deep in the forest with only the sounds of birds and wind for company. I used to think I hated cities. It's taken me a while to realize that I love them.
It's not my fault, entirely. I was a suburban child from the age of nine. Before that I lived on military housing, which was similar but even more boring. I hated the uniformity of the houses, the monotony of the lawns and regularity of the streets, the fact that there was never anything interesting to do. (You can only ride your bike so many times around the block before it starts to get old.) I read a lot of fantasy novels as a child, most of which described city life as soulless and dirty. I loved the country-- or what I'd experienced of it from visits to my grandparents' house-- and I figured that if suburban life sucked, then city life had to be a hundred times worse.
Even so, when our family went on trips that had us out after dark, I always loved to look at the city lights as we passed them. Something was always going on in the cities-- everyone was awake and alive, shopping and eating in restaurants and doing lots of interesting things. When it was raining, the lights would blur, and stain the drops of water that rolled down the windows. They seemed even more exciting, then: despite the cold and the dark outside, the life of the city was obviously continuing unabated.
I never really liked leaving those lights behind. Highway driving at night meant long, long stretches of black countryside, with only the lights of other cars for company. (The red taillights we were following always seemed demonic to me, and the white headlights on the other side of the highway looked angelic. I remember wondering, when I was really small, why the other side got the pretty lights and we were stuck with the ugly red ones.) Sometimes my parents would tell us stories, but more often the car was quiet, with most of my siblings sleeping and maybe Rush Limbaugh crackling on the radio. At the end of the drive was a quiet, sleeping neighborhood; a quiet, sleeping house; and bedtime, with an end to adventures.
I went to college in a very small town, three miles down the road from a medium-sized one, forty-five minutes from the nearest city. Late at night, when my friends and I got bored, we'd watch movies in each other's dorm rooms, or go down the road to Wal-Mart and play around in the empty aisles. There was nothing else to do. I loved college, actually, but the fact remains that any time we did anything really interesting, it meant a trip to Asheville. New movies were what usually drew us there-- Firefly, Mirrormask, the latest Harry Potter. (The nearest movie theater to the school had screens you could count on one hand and never got anything new until well after the release date.) We'd make an evening of it: go shopping downtown, where the stores were quirky and artsy; hit up Barnes & Noble, the mall, the comic shops my friends liked to go to; have Japanese for dinner, or Indian, or whatever else we felt like eating.
The opera is in Asheville, and the symphony. There are little galleries and a wonderful chocolate shop and the Asheville Pizza and Brewery, where you can take in your movies along with good food and great beer. There are art and music festivals, historic buildings, strange little twists and turns to get lost in. Asheville is not a big city, but it was the center of culture for us.
When I moved back home, after school, there was no real center of culture at all. We had movies, sure. My hometown has huge theaters, chain stores galore, every high-demand consumer product you can shake a stick at. It does not, however, have the opera. Or the symphony. It has no museums that I'm aware of. There are apparently galleries, but they're far flung (and, anyway, at that point I was not cool enough to want to visit them.) Worse: anything you want to do there, you have to do by car. Even the corner market might be a quarter-mile away, or more, and the nearest bookstore might well be across town. With an area of 43.5 square miles (according to Wikipedia) and a population well over 100,000, Cary is like a small city that's been stretched out like silly putty until it does no one any good.
After dark, the town shuts down. Closes its eyes. At ten p.m. in a residential area, you can go outside and feel like the only person alive in the world.
Contrast my current home, in a rapidly-developing area in South Korea. The town started out as a farming community, but is urbanizing with amazing speed and fast approaching city dimensions, if it isn't there already. Right now I live in a fifth-floor apartment cornering on a downtown back street that's bordered half by stores and half by high-rises. At any hour of the day or night, there will be someone passing by below my window. It may be a street sweeper or trash collector, or a group of friends out on a binge, or a bunch of rowdy high school students just getting out of their cram schools, or a solitary walker whistling or singing as he or she strolls along. From five stories up, you can hear the scrape of feet on the pavement and the echoes of conversations. The buzz and rumble of car engines is white noise now. Sometimes it's exceptionally noisy, and then it's hard to get to sleep, but most of the time I find the constant presence of other humans outside surprisingly comforting. I'm never alone, even when I'm tucked up in my apartment and haven't spoken to a soul (except the cat) all day.
I always used to feel guilty for shopping and eating out, but I couldn't help myself. I love shopping in cities. There are always things on the shelves I never thought of before-- clever little ornaments, books by authors I've never heard of (some of whom would never make it in a Barnes & Noble). I used to buy way too much. Restaurants are another downfall-- I can't see a new place without wanting to try it out. I would chastise and guilt trip myself, convinced I was being wasteful and greedy.
I've only recently realized that the food, and the jewelry, and the baubles and books and gadgets, aren't really the point of shopping, delightful as they may be. The pleasure comes in being out on the streets, in seeing the people and enjoying the multiplicity of ideas and just being part of the scene. For a suburban girl, this is a huge revelation: I had never learned to think of street-wandering as something to do for pleasure. Where I come from, all the stores and buildings look the same. You go where you need to go, maybe a couple other stores if they're close by, then get in your car and go somewhere else. City shopping-- especially downtown shopping-- is different. You don't even really have to buy anything-- just enjoy the presence of the art and the music (because a good store will always have good music) and the other people who you'd never see if you stuck to your normal routine.
I used to think of that kind of shopping as a guilty pleasure, and of city amenities (like all-night businesses, subways, and all that jazz) as the good parts of a necessary evil. "We need these now," I thought, "but someday, when the world is perfect, we'll have to regretfully wave good-bye to these things as we phase out the cities altogether." Now I want to get rid of the bad sides, instead-- make city life seem like less of a "necessary evil" and more of a viable and beautiful thing.
It seems like a dense, well-managed city, replete with public transportation and free from high-crime areas, is much better for the earth than a sprawling suburb with half the population. The remaining land can be kept beautiful and unencumbered.
I really believe that the suburban lifestyle as it is currently practiced-- sprawling developments, endless highways-- is not sustainable, and that it will someday come to a crashing halt. Maybe people will rebel against zoning regulations and start building things they need where they actually live. Maybe everyone will shake their heads in disgust and move off to denser, more workable cities. Whenever that system collapses, the country will be left with an endless desert of concrete, unfit for anything but reflecting heat. I've been wondering for a while what we're going to do with it. How do you reuse laid concrete? Can it be shattered and used as building materials somehow? Is there a way to dissolve it? So much money gone into something that's ultimately going to be a waste-- there has to be something we can do with it.
Overextension never did anybody any good. The British Empire overextended; look where it got them. Look where it got every other empire that ever dared... imperialize. (I like impericize better; can I use that?) If you spread your feet too far apart, you're going to fall over eventually. Modern suburbanism is a form of hyperextension that can only go on for as long as an extensive support system is in place. When it becomes too expensive to support, it's all going to collapse. I used to think that city life was polluting and wasteful. Now I'm realizing that the suburban lifestyle, as it's currently conducted, is the real evil.
I'm going through graduate schools now, making a list, checking it twice, etc. I'm looking for big, interesting cities with state universities where I can study urban planning affordably. Suggestions are welcome. :)
(This entry is brought to you mostly courtesy of Jane Jacobs, author of The Death and Life of Great American Cities. I have been doing a lot of thinking about this stuff latetly, thanks to this amazing book. Go read it!)
I've been reading a lot of nonfiction books lately. A People's History of the United States told me about American people's movements and common folk trying to change the world. Endless Forms Most Beautiful let me marvel at the intricate, clever workings of the evolutionary process in animals, then pointed out how many of those animals are being wiped out before they can even be studied. The more nonfiction I read, the more I want to influence the world for the better. I want to do something with my life that has a real, immediate impact on the world.
At this point I can finally say, with about 90% certainty, that I've chosen urban planning.
I used to think that I wanted to live far away from cities-- out in the mountains, in a house deep in the forest with only the sounds of birds and wind for company. I used to think I hated cities. It's taken me a while to realize that I love them.
It's not my fault, entirely. I was a suburban child from the age of nine. Before that I lived on military housing, which was similar but even more boring. I hated the uniformity of the houses, the monotony of the lawns and regularity of the streets, the fact that there was never anything interesting to do. (You can only ride your bike so many times around the block before it starts to get old.) I read a lot of fantasy novels as a child, most of which described city life as soulless and dirty. I loved the country-- or what I'd experienced of it from visits to my grandparents' house-- and I figured that if suburban life sucked, then city life had to be a hundred times worse.
Even so, when our family went on trips that had us out after dark, I always loved to look at the city lights as we passed them. Something was always going on in the cities-- everyone was awake and alive, shopping and eating in restaurants and doing lots of interesting things. When it was raining, the lights would blur, and stain the drops of water that rolled down the windows. They seemed even more exciting, then: despite the cold and the dark outside, the life of the city was obviously continuing unabated.
I never really liked leaving those lights behind. Highway driving at night meant long, long stretches of black countryside, with only the lights of other cars for company. (The red taillights we were following always seemed demonic to me, and the white headlights on the other side of the highway looked angelic. I remember wondering, when I was really small, why the other side got the pretty lights and we were stuck with the ugly red ones.) Sometimes my parents would tell us stories, but more often the car was quiet, with most of my siblings sleeping and maybe Rush Limbaugh crackling on the radio. At the end of the drive was a quiet, sleeping neighborhood; a quiet, sleeping house; and bedtime, with an end to adventures.
I went to college in a very small town, three miles down the road from a medium-sized one, forty-five minutes from the nearest city. Late at night, when my friends and I got bored, we'd watch movies in each other's dorm rooms, or go down the road to Wal-Mart and play around in the empty aisles. There was nothing else to do. I loved college, actually, but the fact remains that any time we did anything really interesting, it meant a trip to Asheville. New movies were what usually drew us there-- Firefly, Mirrormask, the latest Harry Potter. (The nearest movie theater to the school had screens you could count on one hand and never got anything new until well after the release date.) We'd make an evening of it: go shopping downtown, where the stores were quirky and artsy; hit up Barnes & Noble, the mall, the comic shops my friends liked to go to; have Japanese for dinner, or Indian, or whatever else we felt like eating.
The opera is in Asheville, and the symphony. There are little galleries and a wonderful chocolate shop and the Asheville Pizza and Brewery, where you can take in your movies along with good food and great beer. There are art and music festivals, historic buildings, strange little twists and turns to get lost in. Asheville is not a big city, but it was the center of culture for us.
When I moved back home, after school, there was no real center of culture at all. We had movies, sure. My hometown has huge theaters, chain stores galore, every high-demand consumer product you can shake a stick at. It does not, however, have the opera. Or the symphony. It has no museums that I'm aware of. There are apparently galleries, but they're far flung (and, anyway, at that point I was not cool enough to want to visit them.) Worse: anything you want to do there, you have to do by car. Even the corner market might be a quarter-mile away, or more, and the nearest bookstore might well be across town. With an area of 43.5 square miles (according to Wikipedia) and a population well over 100,000, Cary is like a small city that's been stretched out like silly putty until it does no one any good.
After dark, the town shuts down. Closes its eyes. At ten p.m. in a residential area, you can go outside and feel like the only person alive in the world.
Contrast my current home, in a rapidly-developing area in South Korea. The town started out as a farming community, but is urbanizing with amazing speed and fast approaching city dimensions, if it isn't there already. Right now I live in a fifth-floor apartment cornering on a downtown back street that's bordered half by stores and half by high-rises. At any hour of the day or night, there will be someone passing by below my window. It may be a street sweeper or trash collector, or a group of friends out on a binge, or a bunch of rowdy high school students just getting out of their cram schools, or a solitary walker whistling or singing as he or she strolls along. From five stories up, you can hear the scrape of feet on the pavement and the echoes of conversations. The buzz and rumble of car engines is white noise now. Sometimes it's exceptionally noisy, and then it's hard to get to sleep, but most of the time I find the constant presence of other humans outside surprisingly comforting. I'm never alone, even when I'm tucked up in my apartment and haven't spoken to a soul (except the cat) all day.
I always used to feel guilty for shopping and eating out, but I couldn't help myself. I love shopping in cities. There are always things on the shelves I never thought of before-- clever little ornaments, books by authors I've never heard of (some of whom would never make it in a Barnes & Noble). I used to buy way too much. Restaurants are another downfall-- I can't see a new place without wanting to try it out. I would chastise and guilt trip myself, convinced I was being wasteful and greedy.
I've only recently realized that the food, and the jewelry, and the baubles and books and gadgets, aren't really the point of shopping, delightful as they may be. The pleasure comes in being out on the streets, in seeing the people and enjoying the multiplicity of ideas and just being part of the scene. For a suburban girl, this is a huge revelation: I had never learned to think of street-wandering as something to do for pleasure. Where I come from, all the stores and buildings look the same. You go where you need to go, maybe a couple other stores if they're close by, then get in your car and go somewhere else. City shopping-- especially downtown shopping-- is different. You don't even really have to buy anything-- just enjoy the presence of the art and the music (because a good store will always have good music) and the other people who you'd never see if you stuck to your normal routine.
I used to think of that kind of shopping as a guilty pleasure, and of city amenities (like all-night businesses, subways, and all that jazz) as the good parts of a necessary evil. "We need these now," I thought, "but someday, when the world is perfect, we'll have to regretfully wave good-bye to these things as we phase out the cities altogether." Now I want to get rid of the bad sides, instead-- make city life seem like less of a "necessary evil" and more of a viable and beautiful thing.
It seems like a dense, well-managed city, replete with public transportation and free from high-crime areas, is much better for the earth than a sprawling suburb with half the population. The remaining land can be kept beautiful and unencumbered.
I really believe that the suburban lifestyle as it is currently practiced-- sprawling developments, endless highways-- is not sustainable, and that it will someday come to a crashing halt. Maybe people will rebel against zoning regulations and start building things they need where they actually live. Maybe everyone will shake their heads in disgust and move off to denser, more workable cities. Whenever that system collapses, the country will be left with an endless desert of concrete, unfit for anything but reflecting heat. I've been wondering for a while what we're going to do with it. How do you reuse laid concrete? Can it be shattered and used as building materials somehow? Is there a way to dissolve it? So much money gone into something that's ultimately going to be a waste-- there has to be something we can do with it.
Overextension never did anybody any good. The British Empire overextended; look where it got them. Look where it got every other empire that ever dared... imperialize. (I like impericize better; can I use that?) If you spread your feet too far apart, you're going to fall over eventually. Modern suburbanism is a form of hyperextension that can only go on for as long as an extensive support system is in place. When it becomes too expensive to support, it's all going to collapse. I used to think that city life was polluting and wasteful. Now I'm realizing that the suburban lifestyle, as it's currently conducted, is the real evil.
I'm going through graduate schools now, making a list, checking it twice, etc. I'm looking for big, interesting cities with state universities where I can study urban planning affordably. Suggestions are welcome. :)
(This entry is brought to you mostly courtesy of Jane Jacobs, author of The Death and Life of Great American Cities. I have been doing a lot of thinking about this stuff latetly, thanks to this amazing book. Go read it!)
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Friday, June 12, 2009
Stuff and Things
I spend a lot of time thinking about what I want to do next. I'm about to start a new contract, and it will be my third year of teaching here- same school, same job. I like it, but it's starting to get old.
I want to keep Having Adventures. The more I read, the more I want to see. I've thought about the Peace Corps, but I don't feel very comfortable with the whole go-where-you're-sent, do-what-you're-told thing. (I briefly considered the military, back in high school, and rejected it mostly for the same reason.) Ditto the Foreign Service, though that would be more to my taste. I'm not sure I want a full-on career working in Points Abroad, and embassy work sounds a bit boring. (There's also the exam and hiring process, if it comes to that.)
The easiest thing would be to just keep on teaching, maybe in another country. I briefly thought of going to China for a year or so, just for the experience. I feel like I'm starting to be in a rut, though, and the thought of spending years and years more teaching ESL abroad for profit is starting to feel a little suffocating.
Another option would be to try and do grad school abroad. I don't know where I'd study, but I'm still thinking about urban planning off and on (especially whenever I read something remotely environmentalist). My main concern there is the expense: from what I know, most places won't let you work on a student visa, so I'd be living abroad and pouring my savings into school with no guarantee of a job afterward.
It sounds cliche, but I do feel like I'm being pulled in two different directions. One part of me gets a little wistful whenever I see updates about friends my age getting married, moving into new apartments, having friends with other friends I haven't seen in years. Another part thinks I'm lucky to be free of all that, and wants to cut all ties and go wandering in Cambodia or something. I've tied myself down a bit with the cat, which is one weight on the "settling" side of the balance, but I don't quite want to put down permanent roots yet.
On the other hand, I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss going to parties with people I've known since college, catching up on people's lives, being at home and making a place for myself in a neighborhood I can plan to stay in for a while. My life here is many things, but one big one is TEMPORARY. I have to avoid picking up too much stuff-- knickknacks, dishes, things to move later. My friends come and go-- one of my best friends here is leaving in a couple of weeks, and I've only known her a year. Starting over again means I'll have to pull up what roots I have put down and start the whole awkward feeling-out process again, in a new town at least, maybe a new country. It's a daunting prospect.
The obvious downside about going home, right now, is that the job market is terrible. If I go home, even for graduate school, there's no guarantee I'd be able to find a decent job, and there's the terrible risk of ending up right back where I started. The one thing I DO NOT want to do is get stuck in a retail rut all over again, even if I could start at a slightly higher level. I've gotten used to being able to afford to do the things I want to do. I like having the money to travel, eat out, buy clothes-- these are things I couldn't do, before, not with a bank account that was always veering towards the negative. I'm luxuriating in stability. The problem is that it's a false stability. No matter how many roots I put down here, this is not a place where I could stay forever.
I want to keep Having Adventures. The more I read, the more I want to see. I've thought about the Peace Corps, but I don't feel very comfortable with the whole go-where-you're-sent, do-what-you're-told thing. (I briefly considered the military, back in high school, and rejected it mostly for the same reason.) Ditto the Foreign Service, though that would be more to my taste. I'm not sure I want a full-on career working in Points Abroad, and embassy work sounds a bit boring. (There's also the exam and hiring process, if it comes to that.)
The easiest thing would be to just keep on teaching, maybe in another country. I briefly thought of going to China for a year or so, just for the experience. I feel like I'm starting to be in a rut, though, and the thought of spending years and years more teaching ESL abroad for profit is starting to feel a little suffocating.
Another option would be to try and do grad school abroad. I don't know where I'd study, but I'm still thinking about urban planning off and on (especially whenever I read something remotely environmentalist). My main concern there is the expense: from what I know, most places won't let you work on a student visa, so I'd be living abroad and pouring my savings into school with no guarantee of a job afterward.
It sounds cliche, but I do feel like I'm being pulled in two different directions. One part of me gets a little wistful whenever I see updates about friends my age getting married, moving into new apartments, having friends with other friends I haven't seen in years. Another part thinks I'm lucky to be free of all that, and wants to cut all ties and go wandering in Cambodia or something. I've tied myself down a bit with the cat, which is one weight on the "settling" side of the balance, but I don't quite want to put down permanent roots yet.
On the other hand, I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss going to parties with people I've known since college, catching up on people's lives, being at home and making a place for myself in a neighborhood I can plan to stay in for a while. My life here is many things, but one big one is TEMPORARY. I have to avoid picking up too much stuff-- knickknacks, dishes, things to move later. My friends come and go-- one of my best friends here is leaving in a couple of weeks, and I've only known her a year. Starting over again means I'll have to pull up what roots I have put down and start the whole awkward feeling-out process again, in a new town at least, maybe a new country. It's a daunting prospect.
The obvious downside about going home, right now, is that the job market is terrible. If I go home, even for graduate school, there's no guarantee I'd be able to find a decent job, and there's the terrible risk of ending up right back where I started. The one thing I DO NOT want to do is get stuck in a retail rut all over again, even if I could start at a slightly higher level. I've gotten used to being able to afford to do the things I want to do. I like having the money to travel, eat out, buy clothes-- these are things I couldn't do, before, not with a bank account that was always veering towards the negative. I'm luxuriating in stability. The problem is that it's a false stability. No matter how many roots I put down here, this is not a place where I could stay forever.
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I tried to spend yesterday making plans for Tokyo. Made lots of lists, but didn't get much concrete planning done. I've almost decided-- pending in-person inspection of the area-- to stay in Ueno, at least. I plan to find a motel first, set up camp, then read my guidebook a little and go out for a bit of sightseeing before dinner. That will probably be all I'm up for, the first day. Ueno's the area that had most of the most interesting restaurants, according to the guidebook. It's also right on the railway, and has some interesting things to see. It seems like a safe, comfortable area to base myself from. I tried to make reservations for a ryokan, but I'm not really comfortable doing that over the internet. Since travel plans always change, anyway, I'm leaving mine fluid this time. I plan to take my laptop and will try to update as possible; if nothing else, I'll try to do some kind of a write-up when I get back next week.
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A story for you. I'll preface it by explaining that all the foreign teachers' apartments are leased by our school, and the school handles all the maintenance requests (largely because none of us speak much Korean).
A year ago, I came back from my end-of-contract vacation and noticed that a section of my ceiling was sagging a bit. I didn't do anything about it, because I thought it was just the wallpaper coming loose and didn't want to deal with the fuss of repairs over something so simple.
Over time, the sag got bigger, and I realized there was stuff inside the paper-- as in, the damp, crumbling contents of the ceiling. I told John, our school's man-of-all-work, and he brought in the building guard to look at the problem. The guard opened the ceiling panel, looked inside, frowned a lot and made some noises. He left, promising repairs.
A few weeks later, the ceiling started to drip. I put a pot under the leak and called in John again. He called the building guard. The building guard came up, opened the ceiling panel, looked inside, spotted the leak, and commandeered my (one and only) mixing bowl. He put the bowl up inside the ceiling to catch the drips and went away, promising repairs.
The leaking stopped for a while. John said that the problem had been a leak in the water pipes upstairs (our floors are heated with hot water), but that it had been fixed. I forgot about the problem (and the mixing bowl) and waited for the ceiling to dry out. The bulge was by now very unsightly, and the paper was starting to peel a little at the seam.
A couple of months later, the leaking started again. I called in John. John called the building guard. The building guard came in, opened the ceiling panel, took out my mixing bowl (now overflowing with water and silt), emptied it out, and stuck it back up again. Apparently the problem had not been fixed. He left, and John promised me they would fix it this time. The leak seemed to stop, the ceiling dried up it was ugly, but not unstable. I breathed a sigh of relief and went on with my life.
On Tuesday, the ceiling started to leak. Again. I touched the bulge, and found that it was wet again. The paper is now gaping about two inches at the seam, the inside of the crack is black with mold, and the whole thing looks like it's thinking about coming down. (I tried to take some pictures, but was unable to capture the full effect.) The kindergarten had its 100th Day event today, and I'd gone in for fun, so I let John know that the Problem had returned. He brought the building guard over right away. Lo and behold: My mixing bowl, still faithfully serving its new purpose, was once more overflowing, and the problem had SPREAD. Water was now pooling in other areas of the ceiling, which are now subtly beginning to sag. The guard mopped something up inside the panel, replaced the bowl again, and stuck the biggest sag with my paring knife like he was lancing a boil. Water immediately began to drip out-- and not clean water, either, but brown and rusty, enough to fill a tupperware container halfway. The guard said it would stop after about ten minutes; it was more like three hours, though it did stop.
I started crying. This is my house; this is where I live. The fact that Upstairs is having a problem with its sink (that's the latest explanation) should have no bearing on the structural soundness of my roof. The guard left. John gave me a hug and promised that someone would be in to work on the thing tomorrow-- I'm leaving him my key so he can let the guy in whenever he ends up coming, since I have an errand to run in Seoul tomorrow and we don't know when the repair guy would be coming. John also promised they would fix the problem permanently next week. We'll see.
A year ago, I came back from my end-of-contract vacation and noticed that a section of my ceiling was sagging a bit. I didn't do anything about it, because I thought it was just the wallpaper coming loose and didn't want to deal with the fuss of repairs over something so simple.
Over time, the sag got bigger, and I realized there was stuff inside the paper-- as in, the damp, crumbling contents of the ceiling. I told John, our school's man-of-all-work, and he brought in the building guard to look at the problem. The guard opened the ceiling panel, looked inside, frowned a lot and made some noises. He left, promising repairs.
A few weeks later, the ceiling started to drip. I put a pot under the leak and called in John again. He called the building guard. The building guard came up, opened the ceiling panel, looked inside, spotted the leak, and commandeered my (one and only) mixing bowl. He put the bowl up inside the ceiling to catch the drips and went away, promising repairs.
The leaking stopped for a while. John said that the problem had been a leak in the water pipes upstairs (our floors are heated with hot water), but that it had been fixed. I forgot about the problem (and the mixing bowl) and waited for the ceiling to dry out. The bulge was by now very unsightly, and the paper was starting to peel a little at the seam.
A couple of months later, the leaking started again. I called in John. John called the building guard. The building guard came in, opened the ceiling panel, took out my mixing bowl (now overflowing with water and silt), emptied it out, and stuck it back up again. Apparently the problem had not been fixed. He left, and John promised me they would fix it this time. The leak seemed to stop, the ceiling dried up it was ugly, but not unstable. I breathed a sigh of relief and went on with my life.
On Tuesday, the ceiling started to leak. Again. I touched the bulge, and found that it was wet again. The paper is now gaping about two inches at the seam, the inside of the crack is black with mold, and the whole thing looks like it's thinking about coming down. (I tried to take some pictures, but was unable to capture the full effect.) The kindergarten had its 100th Day event today, and I'd gone in for fun, so I let John know that the Problem had returned. He brought the building guard over right away. Lo and behold: My mixing bowl, still faithfully serving its new purpose, was once more overflowing, and the problem had SPREAD. Water was now pooling in other areas of the ceiling, which are now subtly beginning to sag. The guard mopped something up inside the panel, replaced the bowl again, and stuck the biggest sag with my paring knife like he was lancing a boil. Water immediately began to drip out-- and not clean water, either, but brown and rusty, enough to fill a tupperware container halfway. The guard said it would stop after about ten minutes; it was more like three hours, though it did stop.
I started crying. This is my house; this is where I live. The fact that Upstairs is having a problem with its sink (that's the latest explanation) should have no bearing on the structural soundness of my roof. The guard left. John gave me a hug and promised that someone would be in to work on the thing tomorrow-- I'm leaving him my key so he can let the guy in whenever he ends up coming, since I have an errand to run in Seoul tomorrow and we don't know when the repair guy would be coming. John also promised they would fix the problem permanently next week. We'll see.
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