You show up twenty minutes early because you’re so excited and hang out on the wrong side of the glass looking half anxious, half eager, like a dog whose owners have tied her to a bike rack while they buy coffee.
The first thing my boss ever said to me was, “You haven’t killed anyone have you?” This was at the soccer camp where I worked for two summers in college.
I was alone in the now ominously silent Betty Boop Coffee Shop and Internet Café with Helga the Viking to answer to, mobsters waiting in the wings, and no way to pay my tab.
Daniel was older than I was—beyond the half-your-age-plus-seven rule. He had a home and career in Seattle. I was still hustling for jobs to establish savings.
“You should know,” one of the men says. “This is happening in your country right now, too, isn’t it?”
I knew the journey was out of reach for the typical Chinese citizen, but I didn’t know how indulgent it was until I found myself checking into a five-star hotel in the city of Guilin.
The 30-meter yacht was a beauty in the crystal clear water. With a full crew, chef, and a luxurious Mediterranean itinerary, the yacht trip cost us $660 a person, minus flights.
I decided to give up my great Brooklyn apartment to go live in the suburbs rent-free with my (amazing) aunt while I get my financial sh*t together.
I was a student on a fellowship, most of which had gone towards a plane ticket. I was used to thinking of myself, in America, as lower-income. But I had never experienced real material deprivation in the way of many of the people who fed and housed me.
Few things will remind you of your station in life more quickly than a $100 gift card for a store where things begin at $300.
The notion that the perfect book/sculpture/performance equals the perfect life stems from a deep-seated belief that if “you can be the ideal artist and be so in touch with your creativity, everything else will just fall into place,” says Clayman.
The place has a way of sucking you in with its material comforts and opportunities for travel. It has a way of making you forget the bad stuff or, worse, becoming inured to it.
Flying down south for a week per year to an all-inclusive resort is the Canadian dream in a nutshell.
I longed to trade my two hour commute for a fifteen minute bike ride. I imagined the adobe cabin we could live in, surrounded by desert emptiness.