The Return of Dottie

"I left my job. I have $9,000 in my suitcase. And by the way, I think I have the chicken pox."

Sure, my family can laugh about it now, but when they heard that from me via phone from Japan,  it apparently left them in quite a kerfuffle. My sister later reported that my dad completely freaked out when he hung up the phone.

Was he worried about my health? Apparently not. No sympathy there. He was worried about the cold, hard cash.

"It's fine," I assured him, "it's very safe here!"

My first "real" job after college graduation was as an English teacher in Japan. At ¥150,000 a month, I thought I had it made - at the time, that was about US$1,100 a month. I contributed a minimal amount of money each month to pay for the utilities consumed in my two-room, Japanese house, but because the house was located on my boss' property, I wasn't charged any rent.

My boss was a very business-minded man. He took me to the bank, opened up an account for me, and handed over the passbook. Each month, he gave me an envelope containing a stack of 10,000 yen bills (ichiman). Fifteen of them, to be exact. Unsure that I would be able to navigate the bank on my own, I never returned. The envelope of ichimans resided in my sock drawer, and each month, I added to the stack. Sure, I pulled out a bill here and there when I needed to buy groceries, or train tickets, but I managed to sock away about US$9,000 over the term of my contract. In my twenty-four-year-old brain, I was rich.

When it was time to leave the country, I made travel plans. First, a visit to Hiroshima to see friends. While there, I planned to buy a plane ticket out of the country, and then wire the rest of that cash home. Certainly my father could understand that, right?

And then, in Hiroshima, along came the chicken pox. And that fateful call home.

As a foreigner in Japan, I was under constant scrutiny at all times. On the subway, on the street, and certainly while driving to and from work. But nothing prepared me for the scrutiny bestowed upon me when my face was covered with black, chicken-pox scabs. Fortunately, it was winter, so the rest of me was well-covered.

I wasn't lying, spots galore in Hiroshima

Kind of like today. It is chilly here, almost Thanksgiving, and I am well-covered in jeans and long sleeves. But underneath, I am suffering from an allergic drug reaction so fierce that there is nary a clear patch on my skin. Today, my friends are not taunting me (as they did in Japan) with, "Hey, Dottie, how's it going today?" And I don't have the fever that accompanied the chicken pox.

Covered in spots and feeling itchy sucks no matter what the cause, and it is certainly no way to kick off the holiday season. But you know what I did yesterday? I called home and talked to my mom, fishing for a little sympathy. And this time? I got it.

Newbie

As a consultant, the beginning of every new project is like the first day of a new job. I always have to spend some time getting to know the client, their industry, and the people I will rely on to help me complete my work.

This week, I kicked off a new project for a repeat client, a university, so I already know a little bit about the department, but I am meeting most of the people I will be working with for the first time.

Remember the first day of a new job? Those early days/weeks/months kinda suck. Not sure of exactly what you are supposed to be doing, you feel awkward and helpless. You need to ask for help. You feel the need to look busy even if you're not. If only you can fast forward to the day when you know what to do and are finally confident that you can do it.

When I graduated from college in 1990, the economy was much the same as it is today. Jobs were few and far between, so I had to get creative, and landed my first "real job" as an English teacher in Japan. If you know anything about Japan, you might remember that the land mass is spare, the population is dense, and the terrain consists of crowded cities and towns connected by very, very narrow roads wedged between and up the sides of mountain ranges.

Week one of the new job consisted of accompanying the departing teachers to every class in order to build navigation skills for the minimum two-hour round-trip drive to each class. I took copious notes and wrote things like, "turn left at the McDonald's, and then turn right at the yellow vegetable stand." Road signs in English were sparse.

During my free time that first week, I was tossed two sets of car keys and instructed to learn how to drive on the left side of the road.

Car choice #1 looked like this:

As if sucking in my breath to squeeze through narrow alleys studded with telephone poles wasn't stressful enough, trying to navigate the rear-view mirrors without shaving those babies right off the front of the car nearly sucked the wind right out of me. What kind of maniac would design such a car in a country with no room to spare?

Car choice #2 was a stick shift. Of course. So, Emily, please learn how to drive on the left, sitting on the right, while shifting with your left hand and trying not to turn the wrong way. Excellent.

Week two, it was time to man up because the old teachers jetted back to America, leaving me to get myself to class without getting lost or crashing the car, all the while figuring out how to teach English to my eager new students in the noodle factory, chemical company, and barber shop.

Somehow I lived to tell the tale.

This week, week one of my new project? It was a piece of cake.