Last week was hard. (New boss, new projects, which is technically a good sign, because these are good new projects.) And this week was showing signs of being harder. (It’s do-able, it’s just a lot.)
One of those days I had it up to my ears and went to met Jun for a late dinner to drown my sorrows in some wonton soup despite the ridiculously hot weather of the past fortnight.
She’s busy too, but the light at the end of her tunnel is that she’s hoping for an October holiday to London-Paris-Barcelona-Morocco for three weeks. Or Vienna-Budapest-Krakow-Prague. Or Spain-Morocco. She’s also trying to get me to join her.
I don’t want to go, partly because I’ve been to most of these places, except for Spain-Morocco, which I don’t want to rush through in three weeks. Of course, there’s the fact that I don’t have three weeks leave to spare. My leave is precious, and I’m saving it for I’m not sure what. But there we were, world map spread open on the coffeeshop table, looking at the proximities of coutries and the permutations of possible journeys. And all this talk has made my feet itchy again. (Imagine Turkey-Jordan-Egypt together with the Spain-Morocco. Sweeeet…)
Anyway, she has a colleague that had had enough of work. And quit his job, without another job. Then went on a cruise to the Caribbean with his family.
The secret of being able to do something like that was that he was the scion of some casino family in the region. Ah, so deceptively simple.
The two of us then went back to seeking comfort in our wonton, talking about her vacation plans. I told her I didn’t think she could cover London-Paris-Barcelona-Morocco in three weeks. I mean, I guess she could, if she really wanted to, but it’d be a just these places and none of the other towns along the way (and it still seems very touch-and-go). She said airfares are cheap, though I think there’ll be a lot of days wasted travelling. I suggested Amsterdam and Belgium (she wasn’t interested) or Scotland (maybe). Or even Switzerland (which she now really likes).
But in the middle of it all, we suddenly burst out: “How can anyone just quit his job and run off to a Caribbean cruise, just like that?! It’s… it’s- it’s rude!” And we expressed our disapproval at such inconsiderate behaviour.
I remember thinking: So, that’s what people who don’t have to work do for a living. They don’t become rare book collectors. They join advertising. Together with the rest of us who, all bright-eyed and idealistic, were dumb enough to think we could earn a good living and like our jobs. The realisation was enough to make one weep in her wonton soup.
