Bookstore Wisdom

While visiting Powell's Bookstore in Portland I found the job seekers section. Then the job seekers self help. Then I found "Detour". This guy started out on a rainy recession soaked day and ended up as the Director of Architects for Humanity in Port-au-Prince. Not bad.

[Dorothy] Which way do we go? He's pointing both ways? [Scarecrow] Of course, some people do go both ways.

“The never-ending hell of a recession has finally hit the midwest and my firm is now requiring us to furlough, which has resulted in my salary being less than what I was making 5 years ago without a masters degree. It's depressing. That and I feel like a slave most of the days. Sitting in an office, attending tumultuous meetings with clashing egos, and rarely feeling like I am being heard are really getting to me”(sic) – landscape architect and friend in email from today.

I am east of Seattle, staying with friends who live on a mountainside. This has its advantages like beautiful views, a secluded location with lots of space for chickens, ducks, a garden and an Anatolian Shepard that is the size of a small pony. It has its disadvantages like a hill that winds up the mountain with no reprieve. On my second trip up it on my bike I tried to hitch hike. I got no takers and ended up pushing my way up the hill, at full tilt, nose to the ground. Other than the hill, this place is idyllic and Scott and Mini are fabulous hosts. They drove me into Redmond to catch a bus into the city for my meetings with firms. I won’t call them interviews since that implies that there is a job to be filled. There are amorphous, future, hopefully potential jobs at the end of this yellow brick road but nothing is for-sure. I’m waiting for the wizard to finally let down his guise, come out from behind his thundering front and get honest with me.

“Ya, Dorothy. It’s not easy out here”.

There are positive things to be learned from these meetings. I am realizing that the meetings are often about growing my knowledge of the situation and where I fit. I understand why I am asked to explain my process, walk through my portfolio and talk about projects – firms want to see what I’m made of. I got some good feedback from one HR woman who interviewed me recently. I will take another swipe at my portfolio with her comments. Good stuff. Was it worth huffing it to Seattle for this? Perhaps. But the more important meetings are the ones where my ideas and their ideas for what may/could/fingers crossed come along are discussed and turned over, I start to see myself as part of their team (and hopefully they see me in their team). It’s like a trial run at working with them. Except that I don’t get paid. But I hope they remember my face, the conversation and when the time comes, inshallah, they give me a call.

As I evoke different religions’ gods, offer up my future to fate and get superstitious about what I have no control over, I pray that no black cats cross my path today and the salt I threw over my shoulder primes up some clairvoyance for Portland.

“When written in Chinese, the word ‘crisis’ is composed of two characters. One represents danger and the other represents opportunity”
John F. Kennedy

Back in the USA - back to the Debt Ceiling Vortex

LEFT: Milk cartels from yesterday at work at the border.

Day 2:
No sleeping pad was a bad idea. The cold, hard ground made for a rough night and I woke up with a snotty nose. I hoped to spend a bit of time recording the previous day since there wasn’t an iota of downtime in the 11 hours in the saddle. But with mileage to make and legs that may be unwilling, I got on the road.

It occurred to me that the genesis of this trip came from the numbing routine of writing cover letters from my parents’ kitchen table (although appreciative of their generosity) and the seemingly clear connection between needing to move.

It wasn’t really about the economy or the fear of swirling down the economic toilet as “Debt Ceiling” discussion is on every front page. However, this bike trip was inspired and made a necessity by elements having to do with both of those things. Still, thus far, it seems that the bike part and the job-searching part of the trip have been very separate. I flew to Seattle from the east coast and spent four days “procuring” used touring bike equipment in the summer – a task all bike shop salesmen and community biking groups said would be impossible. I found a Croatian American bike fanatic, a friend of a friend, who had been hit on his bike while commuting to work three weeks ago. His horrible misfortune (a badly bruised leg and a totaled bike) turned into a stroke of luck for me as he can’t work at his job but spends his days hobbling around his living room, fixing up old bikes. He made me a little diddy I named Tito after his ancestral dictator. While doing this I arranged meetings and interviews while sitting on curbs and at coffee shops. I researched pannier set-ups and chased down maps. Bikes then jobs then routes then interviews.

So far the open road has assuaged the psychological aggravation and angst of being unemployed. My little grey bike is my noble steed carrying me on my job-hunt. Starbucks and McDonalds with free wi-fi are my office. I put a set of pressed “interview clothes” in a plastic bag and buried them in one pannier so that I can arrive crisp at meetings. Yet often I tell my interviewers about my journey. Jobs are so scare in the US and each position receives an extraordinary quantity of applicants so I hope this detail will make me distinctive. Still biking seemed to be one component to this adventure. Job-hunting seemed to be another.

At Larrabee State Park in Washington I met Dan, a guy from Bend, Oregon who lost his Meineke shop and with 800 dollars to his name, decided to go to Alaska to look for work. And Nancy, a woman whose house was foreclosed upon in Colorado, bought a motorcycle and decided to live off credit cards for a while since she really has nothing more to loose, she says. Perhaps one thing that commonly results from unemployment and slipping into that economic toilet is a need to get out in the world, physically move through it and hope that the journey will provide some direction that the job market hasn’t. I’ve refound a connection, although it’s not exactly how I envisioned it.

Dan found me on the road a couple miles later. He was on his way to catch the boat in Bellingham to Alaska. He pulled an orange reflective vest from his truck.

"You should wear this", he said.
"Thanks - my mom would be grateful to you". I've worn it since. I can also hold STOP signs at road closure, if need be.

Day 3:
Small town Arlington, Washington did not have a single coffee shop – well, at least one that you didn’t have to drive through. When I asked about this, I was directed to the Starbucks in the Safeway or the McDonalds up the street. All roads lead to these two shops, it’s amazing. I ordered a coffee at the McDonalds and set up my computer. Might as well profit from the wi-fi while I’m at it. The man next to me, sharing my outlet was glued to his screen. He looked up despondently.

“Following the US economy as it crashes”, he said. “We’re down 300 points”. In front of him was the business section of the newspaper and he was making marks next to individual stocks.

“Sure feel sorry for those with 401ks”. In front of his newspaper was a Bible, laid open with dog eared pages. He was either double tasking Bible school homework or hoping that God may have something more hopeful to say than the business page and the stock market page on his screen. It seems the economy seeps into interactions on this trip whether I ask about it or not. They ride up next to me on coastal highways or invite conversation at McDonalds.

It’s Obama’s 50th birthday today. Although it seems our economy is sliding down a slippery slope, I hope he does something fun today. He deserves it.

Driving a 2 wheeled big-rig

Day 1:
Morning one, I decided my bike was too heavy. I packed an old liquor box with more clothes and my book (I’ll be too tired to read, right?). Still, as I pulled the bike propped off the wall, I wasn’t so sure. I wobbled like a big rig until I gained speed. I cursed every stop sign that made me stop (and start again). The Vancouver neighborhoods sat quaintly upon rolling hills. I wasn’t impressed at its cuteness at the time. Once out of the city I could maintain some speed, stay along the well planned bike paths and head up and down coastal mountain roads with less trouble. Two bridges later I was well into the interior of British Columbia, riding through gridded farmland, past numbered streets filled with blueberry farms, Christmas tree farms and raspberry patches. The numbers both helped me chart my progress and play the ‘are we there’ game with myself. With one aggravating closed road just before the border I zigzagged my way into the country, crossed the border with minimal trouble and realized that all the anticipation to get into the US still meant that I had another 30 miles to ride until my planned 1st night stop at Larrabee State Park, south of Bellingham.

Luckily there was ice cream within minutes of the border.

The agriculture changed to cows, corn and wheat and Edaleen Dairy was doing steady business. Edaleen figured out that Canadians like their cheap milk and have set up a virtual dairy cartel along the border. With Canadian border agents looking on, and probably stopping in for their 79 cent cone, “Beautiful British Columbia” license plates flow over the border to Edaleen’s. Americans may go to Tijajuana for plastic surgery, cheap narcotics and saltillo tile. Canadians go to Edaleen’s for milk, cheese and ice cream. They don’t kid around either. Grocery carts lined the store, filled to the hilt with gallons of milk and tubs of ice cream that could double as kiddie pools. Signs along the windows tell patrons that Edaleen’s isn’t responsible if they try to smuggle more than their legal limit. Read: “you can buy it. Just hide it well”. Kids swarm outside with ice cream dribbling down their faces while their parents load their trunks with cheap dairy products. I wonder how far a Canadian will drive to get cheap milk. And if a single family can drink 20 gallons of milk before it goes bad or if they become the middle men in a cheap milk smuggling industry in southern Canada. It’s all hidden by the wind mills and dancing cow sculptures nestled in the grass. No one would suspect.

I got some ice cream, promised to have been made locally behind the shop. I vowed to eat only local food and bought BC cherries and peaches for the road. By the time I made it to Bellingham, the sun was going down and locals told me that Larrabee was still another 15 miles south along the coast. I rode by a vibrant main street and wished I could have stayed and checked it out. I worried if I stopped my legs wouldn’t start again. Without a small local food shop to stop at, I bought a can of chile from the gas station (Amy’s Organic, mind you. However made in Petaluma) and continued along winding Chuckanut Road towards Larrabee. I made it at 7:57pm. The park office closes at 8. There were a number of small walk-in sites along a ridge and after eating a cold can of chile and some malt balls, I went to bed.