Diminishing Returns

I just counted on one hand the "real" jobs I've had in the decade since I graduated from Berry. There are five that could qualify as real, and many more that were part-time, temporary "life undecided" sort of things. I won't bother counting the temp jobs. The real jobs have taken me on some whirlwind adventures, and, as any adventurer knows, that word is most definitely a euphemism for "how many ways could I possibly lose a limb / all my important documents / my sanity / all the pennies to my name?" on a disturbingly frequent basis. Along with the adventures and the unknown, there are some certainties, and some rituals, to the pack-and-go lifestyle.

Four of the five real jobs I've had required a phone interview and a decision, on my part as well as the institution's, sight unseen. I remember that first phone interview and the process that followed. I remember sitting in the back of my marriage and family class in college, a class I took because I was overloaded with writing intensive courses and needed a break, and working on the application form (unsurprisingly, more writing). When it came time to pack up and head north, it felt odd to book a one-way flight to an unknown destination. At some point on the too-short flight, I realized I had never seen the director of the program where I'd be working, and I hadn't asked for a picture. So, I would arrive in a new country, a new city, with just one suitcase and no idea of where to go except for a name. I figured it'd all work out fine.

In the years since then, I've boarded many more planes with little real idea of what I'd signed up for. I have been stricken with visa tremors, the body-racking shakes that accompany a less than 24-hour window when the documents needed to take off still haven't arrived. I have set up, more or less - and often less - homes on three continents. I've bought coat hangers in three countries. I have subjected myself to needle pricks in places where I understood the doctor's language and places where I was clueless. I've had chest x-rays in China, where the x-ray tech was a devoted chain smoker, and in Zambia, where the hospital's electricity cut out just before I stepped up to the machine.

The habitual international traveler is often rather quircky at best or obstinately superior at worst when it comes to packing and flying rituals, from which suitcases can best withstand the rigors of careless baggage handlers but are lightweight to folding versus rolling one's clothes. This breed of person tends to have a routine, and he or she sticks to it with religious fervor. In a life of change, it's perhaps the one thing a person can follow without compromise. And after the plane takes off anyways, any sense of control vanishes. I probably fall on the quircky rather than superior side, but no one has ever threatened to upend my packing and flying ritual. I haven't even made many trips with another traveler by my side, so it's really an untested theory.

The more interesting rituals begin for me in the first few days following arrival. Getting to China puts a person from N. America approximately 13 hours in the future. Since I went to the further ends of the country and usually took from 3 to 4 flights to get there, my total travel time was something like 30 hours, with more than half a day lost to time zone changes. When I flew to Zambia, well, I have no idea. I was awake, in transit, a long time. The direct flight from Atlanta to Jo'burg took 15 hours. The point is, I arrive dead tired. Nonetheless, the first thing that I must do on arrival is unpack - every. single. item. The jetlag, local time of day/night, and general condition of my new digs have no influence over this ritual. It must be done. Usually, I stay up all night unpacking. This is due primarily to my tiredness and my interest in seeing every item I touched in the process of packing and then realizing, "Oh no, I didn't put in _______," than my large amounts of stuff. So far, I've stuck to the two-bag rule, and my family has been generous enough to send some of the forgotten items. On my second day in country, I always venture out to explore my immediate surroundings. Depending on my arrival time and the amount of daylight, this might even happen on the first day. Some of the Chinese students who picked me up at the airport in Shantou were surprised to pass me in their van the following day. I was on the 6 bus, headed nowhere, as it turned out.

Following the arrival rituals comes all that defines life and work in a completely foreign environment. The diminishing returns strike at the moment that I decide not to stay somewhere. Those coat hangers? Yeah, I'll donate them. This winter jacket? Perhaps I won't need it where I'm going. The leftover food items get passed on to whomever would be most excited by them. If there isn't space for the books and the decorations, I'm more likely to keep the decorations since I will probably be able to find a bookstore wherever I go next. And then there's always a box or two of goodies to ship "home" (aka, my oh-so-generous parents who are still willing to store boxes of my things, and sometimes me, in the garage). These boxes are filled with crazy items, things of little value really, but that give me a sense of continuity. I can sit in my apartment in AL and sip from my 12 kuai mug from China at the table covered in a bright chitenge. My decor choices have so little to do with "market cool", which it is, and so much more with bringing all my homes under one roof. So, things get packed, donated, shipped, or tossed out, and I start over. Again. Although it sometimes seems an effort in futility, all of this restarting one's life, it has become my way of life, and I'm happy with that. I think I could keep it going for a while because, even if I have to live a half-settled existence, it has given far more than it has stolen, and I'm so grateful.