I watched the last of my money clink into the payphone slot. “Is there a message?” The man asked.
“Yes,” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “Please tell my pal Mary that I’ll ring again next week. When she’s back from … um … this ... Thanksgiving."
“Sure,” he said.
Then ... Clunk.
Even more than a job, I needed a place to be—somewhere far away from that damp, November afternoon in Ireland. Oh, yeah, as I left that phone box to walk through Dublin's city center, I knew it in my soul: I needed a life.
But there’s one big advantage to being 24 and jobless. Your emigration to-do list is really short.
Get yourself a temporary American visa. Check.
Empty your savings for a transatlantic airline ticket. Check.
Start saying ‘goodbye’ to your family. Check.
Track down an expatriate friend to lend you a couch and a place to stay.
Um … well … I was working on that last one. But I couldn't work on it until this Thanksgiving thing was over, when I’d scrape up enough courage and spare change to call across the Atlantic again.
A month after Visa Day, I landed in JFK Airport, New York on a freezing afternoon. I had a backpack and a borrowed $200 and yes, a place to stay.
I never did get to California, at least, not to live. From New York I took a Trailways bus three hours upstate, where, as an act of mercy, a family member had set me up with his American friend. That American friend, a man I had never met before, would pick me up and put me up until I got on my feet.
In America, I went and found me some jobs. I became a waitress, a bartender, a secretary (when we still called it that), a college administrative person, a marketing assistant and ... well, a host of other things. In fact, one year, by the time Tax Day rolled around, I submitted a whopping nine W2 forms. I went back to grad school at night. And, even with a strange accent and with substantial holes in my resume, even during the most recent U.S. recession, I managed to stay (mostly) employed.
Turkey? Check.
Cranberries? Check.
Sweet potatoes? Check.
A really good writing life? Check. Check.
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