I’ve actually gotten a few pokes from people about updating this thing, which I find odd. It’s a travel blog. I am not traveling. I even failed completely at updating y’all about my five day stint in Reykjavik back in May.
It’s much harder to do so when you’re “home.” When you’re crazy interning and allegedly writing a master’s thesis and applying for jobs. Also, dating. Turns out I’m a little social butterfly and in the two months I’ve been home I already acquired and lost a boyfriend.
Presently, I am sitting in my hometown of Washington, D.C., alone in a kitchen with my latest indie music playing. My laptop is stacked on the current draft of my thesis. Behind me the kitchen table (which is not mine, I am house sitting for good friends) has been repurposed as an epic mess of thesis research. Stacks of books perch precariously on the edge of the table. Piles of journal articles with highlights and half-sensical notes. I’m taking a break for a glass of wine and writing something other than explaining the federalist structures of the United States and its affect on immigration policy.
What has gone down since May?
I went to my grandfather’s burial service in Maine. I had forgotten that my grandfather was a vet – he never really talked about it. And now I can’t even think about the military taps service for the funeral of vets without choking.
I started an internship doing what I want to be doing. Now I’m trying to find an organization that will pay me to do the same thing. Turns out my masters might be more of a liability than a help – I don’t have quite enough management experience to apply for most jobs that want a masters, but people don’t want to hire me for entry level advocacy positions.
Chalk that up as things to think about before you add a couple hundred dollars a month to your loan payments for the next fifteen years.
I am primarily looking for jobs in the Washington, D.C. area but recently surprised myself by applying for one in Nairobi. I was surprised further by just how excited I got at the prospect of moving it Africa, a continent I have never really expressed any interest in (Asia’s always had my heart). Living in so-called “developing” countries gets under your skin. The chaos. The adventure. The miscommunications. The “must be willing to travel extensively in dangerous hardship conditions” line of the job requirement. The only deterrent is a concerning Ebola situation in the neighboring country of Uganda and the seemingly endless string of diseases that could kill me.
Take a moment to contrast this with polite happy hour chats with people who have no concept of the privilege they possess.
Mix that with a sense of self-scorn towards those flashes of judgement: All we can truly do during our time here is be happy and not hurt others. It is not my place to pass judgement on another’s happiness.
And I could be happy with the condo, the 9-5 (with a paycheck!), the corgi. A life partner. Trips to IKEA.
Part of me wants that desperately.
The other part hopes I get that job.
But first: this paper thing.
I’m fundraising for anti-trafficking organizations this fall. If you would like to help fight modern slavery, you can do so here.