As I Climb These Walls To Clear My Head

Leaving China after three days of no exercise and too much MSG, the van driver lays aggressively on the horn, seemingly unprovoked, for much of the two-hour ride. It drove me nuts at first, but then gave way to the source of serious satisfaction. I feel the same way. Like I might snap. Like it’s a good idea to lay hard on something that will make a lot of noise.

I hear the phrase ‘on edge’ all the time. To work on a string for motorola is how you get there. It’s letting urgent engineers convince you that the width of a phone, angle of its flip, dimensions of the keypad are things that invoke passion, things to feel anxious about; more important than what people have to say about never seeing a mobile phone before getting to ‘the city’ of Mianyang. About what they’ve heard: radiation from the antenna causes cancer. A pregnant woman should never use one. That they can’t get one because their parents, migrant workers, don’t understand what they are, don’t understand how they work.

And this is what being on edge means:

You’re so afraid of making a mistake that you wake up in the middle of the night to check your email, make sure you saved the document you’re working on, make a list so your brain can take a break from all the things it’s afraid to forget. You check—again—that your alarm is set.

You think about the travel you still need to book for January and the bills you need to pay and the balance on your credit card and your stomach flips so hard you have to close your eyes and count.

When you can’t get online at the hotel, your throat burns and you want to scream because nobody in this stupid farmtown speaks English. You are an asshole for thinking that.

When the guy next to you chews with his mouth open and makes noise eating baby tomatoes you are enraged. You look at him like you might kill him. When he moves on to nasal sounds and smacking rice, dropping it out of his mouth, you say it out loud: “you are disgusting”

Driving to the airport, when the gas gauge looks low, you conjure a vivid image of cashing out on the side of the road, missing your flight. You panic too much and almost yelp. You make yourself sick wondering if using the horn so much could be wasting gas. You pretend it’s a joke when others in the car tell you to stop worrying about everything.

You’ve never been to New Delhi. On the way there, you’re thinking about how to make your layover efficient. You aren’t thinking about taking a walk or stretching your legs. You are wondering how much of the report you can write before tomorrow. If you can get by with just a few hours of airplane sleep. Thinking about locking yourself in a western-looking hotel room instead of thinking about how soon you can get outside and what you should see first.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Next post, tales of our adventures outside of the hotel walls.



Still a…Feeling At My Fingertips, Pulling At My Skin


“Where are you? Are you in hong kong? What are you eating there? I was stupid for never traveling with you.”

Seems he’s collecting information through some leaky, faulty filter. Someone I was in touch with from the Hong Kong airport. It’s where’s waldo and he’s decided I’m in Hong Kong. Probably telling colleagues “jess is in hong kong right now. Yep, she’s there for work”

He doesn’t know I was only there for noodles and showers, candy and a transfer.

You were stupid for never traveling with me?

No asshole. You were stupid for cheating on me. you were stupid for not knowing me well enough to not want anyone else. You were stupid for thinking it was okay because you knew it would just “play itself out” and you are stupid for thinking you get to engage in casual banter with me about where I am and what I’m eating. That you can lightly toss out a wistful, half-assed regret about never traveling with me. The same way you would say ‘I was stupid for forgetting to Tivo Saturday Night Live”

For not traveling with me, you weren’t stupid. Just a pussy. I would have been stupid to waste the frequent flier miles on you.

A rhythm-breaker to see your name in my inbox. An ache like the bruise on my tailbone from rubbing against this backpack: always there, but only really hurts when you touch it.