Working My Way Around the World

I got my first paying job when I was nine. My father agreed to pay me ten dollars to carry his golf clubs for eighteen holes. The bag got too heavy for me after only eight, but Dad gave me the money anyway. I remember the lush green fairways, the few hours of my father’s undivided attention, and how he let me hit a few balls on the sixth hole, even though it was against the rules. But what I remember most is the ten bucks, which was promptly blown on Bonnie Bell lip-gloss and candy cigarettes—the ones that puffed clouds of sugar dust.

Since then, I’ve had lots of jobs. I’ve babysat, house sat, and dog sat. I even sat for a neighbor’s nasty goat. I cleaned houses and hotel rooms. I stocked and sold books, t-shirts, and tacky souvenirs. I’ve been a desk clerk, a file clerk, a gift wrapper, and a cook. I even had a short-lived gig refinishing boats. When it took my friend, Michelle, and me a laugh-filled four hours to get the paint off one quarter of a twenty-five-foot boat, we were fired.

My reasons for working evolved with age, moving from indulging my sweet tooth to buying the latest Bryan Adams record. Later, I worked for beer money, rent, and Ramen noodles. I worked to please my parents, to pad my resume, and to buy yet another black turtleneck sweater. Someday, I hope to work because the baby needs new shoes.

Now I work to pay the mortgage, to keep clothes on my back, and to one day be able to retire and stop working all together. I’m looking forward to filling my days with books and adventures instead.

Luckily, I haven’t had to wait until retirement for the adventure part. I’ve lived in Europe and in Mexico, and after a trip to Kabul one summer, I even have two ‘stans under my belt. And recently, I went to Egypt with my best friend. Like all tourists, we saw the pyramids, posed for pictures in front of the Sphinx, and looked in awe at the antiquities in the Egyptian museum. But we also danced to the best local band, sailed on the Nile at sunset, and fell in love with the local cuisine. We even braved a four-hour drive across the desert to the Bahariya Oasis for two days of safari.  

Our guide, cigarette dangling from his lips and a beer in one hand, tore across the sand in a beat-up Toyota pointing out the volcanic peaks of the Black Desert, littered with tiny black stones. He showed off the fetid spring where water oozed from the ground, bringing life to the middle of nowhere. He introduced us to a distant relative who was herding camels. We dined on simple meals of pigeon, rice, and stewed vegetables. We sipped tea in the Sahara. It was all lovely, but nothing prepared me for the highlight—the White Desert.

I read the guidebook on the way, since I’d never heard of the White Desert. It described the beautiful landscape and said that the wind-carved limestone formations resembled a painting by Salvador Dali. But when we pulled up and saw the chalk-white mounds and towers, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was stunning and surreal, just as described, but so unexpected; it was like stumbling onto the Grand Canyon.

Standing at the base of one ten-foot tower shaped like a white-chocolate Easter bunny, brushing aside clam shell fossils just to find a place to sit, I was struck by a single thought: This is why I work. Not for manicures, dinners out, or yet another black turtleneck. Certainly not for my favorite boots or beer money. I work for sweeping views of the White Desert, for the tin sound of Arabic pop music in a hair-raising taxi ride through Cairo, for the hot, sweet smell of overripe fruit at a Mexican market, for the melt-in-your-mouth taste of a croissant in Paris.

This is why I work holidays and overtime, why I went to graduate school.