Off the plane in San Diego, and it’s warm and sunny. Who knew?
After two and a half years in Boston, I’ve quit my jobs and moved down here. I did this for a lot of reasons, the main one being that there are things I want to do with my life, experiences I want to experience, and now’s the time. I am unbound like I’ll never be again. I’m 26. I have no car, no wife, no kids, mortgage, loans, pets, not even a religion that would preclude me from leaving. If I don’t do crazy and random things while I have the chance, I suspect I’ll always regret it.
So here I am, and it’s time to start looking for bartending jobs. My friend Sam is graciously lending me the use of his couch, so expenses are low. I don’t think it’ll be too hard, but this whole job search is something of a “good news, bad news” situation.
The good news is that I’ve got about $1500 put away, a solid résumé, and unlike the last time I tried to get a bartending job, I can say ”I’m good at this” without it being a lie. The bad news is that I am a fairly plain-looking boy in a city where it is notoriously difficult to get a bar job, and we’re still in the throes of what is referred to on the news as a “catastrophic global recession.”
So we’ll see.
Good Christ. I went to an open interview today for a chain fondue restaurant called the Melting Pot, and I waited for three hours. Apparently, I’m not the only one looking for a job right now. My mind had atrophied by the time my name was called, and when the exhausted, uninterested manager asked me what my five strongest attributes were, I said that I was “serious.”
First, no I’m not, and second, what the fuck does that even mean?
“I’m no fun whatsoever!”
I had forgotten about stock questions. “Since you asked, my biggest weakness seems to be answering dumb questions.”
I need to build some canned answers. It’s funny — you know immediately when you butcher a question. It’s like a test, and it’s occurring to me that I need to study.
I am all things to all people. Fun? Why, that’s me! Professional? Of course! Charming, enthusiastic, gay-friendly, whatever. All of it. I swear to God, I’d try to convince someone I was black if that’s what they were after.
I had a great interview today for a tequila bar downtown called El Vitral. I spoke with the bar manager, and I found that for the first time in nine days, I didn’t have to lie. As it happens, he has been to my old bar in Cambridge, so he knows what kind of work I’ve done, and I am all enthusiasm. He’s in his mid-30s and seems very pleasant, despite the fact that he’s a sommelier. Sommeliers, on the whole, are professional tools. They’re like investment bankers, except that they have talent.
That being said, I can learn a lot from this man, and I really want the job. As they share a wall with Petco Park, their business is tied to baseball season, which starts pretty soon. Fingers crossed.
I’m starting to suspect that employers take their job postings from an all-purpose mold. Every single one of the 50 or so listings I’ve read in the last week uses at least four, and often all five, of these words: professional, flexible, team-player, fun, fast-paced. These are written in sentences laced with gravity, as if to insist that the Linda Vista Applebee’s doesn’t want just anyone; no, the Linda Vista Applebee’s is looking for that one special someone who’s driven to excel. And every single job posting, from beginning to end, without exception, emphasizes that they want experience.
They often call for this more than once and in all-capital letters. “We’re looking for a fun, hard-working, professional, and EXPERIENCED bartender to work in a dusty shack under the 163 Freeway. Talented, flexible applicants only. EXPERIENCE A MUST!!!!!”
Intelligence, drive, and passion take a back seat to the requirement that you’ve done this before somewhere else. This yields some interesting conclusions. For one, every single person who’s ever waited on you must’ve, at some point, lied to get in the door, and then lied again to get to the next level, fine-dining or high-volume or whatever it is.
I know I lied when I started, and so did everyone I know. Which isn’t that terrible, I guess, because not one of these job postings asks for integrity.
My sister advised me to go to the nice places first, and she’s absolutely right. I might as well try for what I actually want before I go slumming though the dark alleys of craigslist. My searches for mixology or craft-cocktails in this town have had disappointingly limited results — there are about seven places — but at least I was able to knock them all off in two days.
No one is hiring, of course, but they’ll keep my application “on file.” This is an undisguised euphemism for “no.”
While I believe I’m good at tending bar, I have shown an incredible proficiency for making hostesses laugh. Sadly, I fear they lack hiring and firing power.
I’ve been cruising around my new neighborhood, Ocean Beach, for the last few days, filling out applications at every bar I can find. This, I am beginning to realize, is a waste of time. There are a couple of dozen bars in O.B., but a man looking for bar work here is like a man looking for a date at a lesbian nightclub. You feel surrounded by possibilities until the realization slowly sinks in that actually no, no you’re not.
This neighborhood is the most insular in San Diego, and I’m told that aside from random flashes of luck, getting a job here works by (1) lust, (2) nepotism, or (3) both. It’s like Hollywood without the money. The ones who aren’t gorgeous young women are soggy, middle-aged townies who’ve held the same jobs since the Reagan era. Where’s liver disease when you need it?
I was regrouping at a Starbucks downtown when three girls sat down at the table next to me, girls who, by the substance and quality of their ceaseless complaining, betrayed themselves as waitresses. I was trying to tune them out and decide my next move when the leader of the group, a compact and unfriendly teenager, said, “Yeah, but we’re desperate for bartenders right now…”
I am a dog who just heard the soft jingle of car keys. I bounce out of my chair, sorry to interrupt, I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but where do you work?
“Fridays,” she says. “Around the corner.”
Four hours later I’m holding a glass of scotch, standing in a semicircle with friends and neighbors around a fire pit, watching my unmarked T.G.I. Friday’s application bend and catch in a brightening flame. I may be unemployed, but I see no reason to conspire actively for my own misery.
I’ve had what I thought were a number of good leads, but I haven’t heard from any of them.
I was once in a long-distance relationship. I’ve made promises to every God I can imagine never to do that again, mostly to avoid feeling the way I feel right now. I get excited when the phone rings and I perk up, only to be let down when it’s not a job. It’s pathetic.
I’ve sent out at least four dozen résumés in response to ads on craigslist. Here’s the routine: wake up, check craigslist, send résumés to whoever asks. But craigslist is a wasteland. I haven’t heard a thing back from any of them, not even a “no thank you.” When I close my eyes, I see craigslist as this enormous funnel, a funnel spanning 570 cities in 50 countries, into which people send their best selves, jobs, wares, things desired and desirable…and it all empties out of a rusty pipe behind the shed.
craigslist has helped me exactly as much as if I’d spent all that time reading, or sleeping, or doing whippets on a fucking playground. craigslist is the worst.
I’m starting to internalize this process, which is definitely not a good sign. I’m on the bus headed downtown, and I find myself staring at the guy across from me. He’s licking chicken grease off his fingers voraciously, with the manic passion of a zealot, and even though he only has one sleeve, I think, I’ll bet he has a job.
The one thing craigslist is good for is the open interviews. Employers need a new bartender, so they send out a call and specify a date and time. You show up ready to talk to someone and find yourself in a room: just you, the employers, and somewhere between 80 and 300 of the most attractive people you’ve ever run across in real life.
Today’s “open interview” was for a brand-new high-fashion bar called Quality Social. Instead of talking to applicants in their own building, the owners rented a small conference room in the US Grant, a gorgeous and blisteringly expensive hotel in the heart of downtown. The choice of venue is troubling. So brazen is this waste of money, so asinine their commitment to being seen as trendy and high-class, that I’m not sure I even want to work for these people. One step in the door, though, and I realize I won’t need to make that decision.
I put “open interview” in quotes up there because they’re actually not interviews. They have nothing to do with interviews. Instead, two guys dressed like GAP dancers watch us fill out applications. Aside from them, I am the only man in the room — blondes everywhere, a sea of sun-colored hair bouncing slightly as they scribble in their loopy handwriting. I’m way outmatched and having trouble fighting the bitterness — I imagine that when these women aren’t snorting coke off the toilet-paper racks in nightclub bathrooms, they’re competing with me for jobs.
I turn in my application and wait for instructions, still expecting the open interview to include an interview. The two guys tell me they’re collecting applications, and if I’m the right fit, I’ll hear from them within a week. Smile. Handshake. We seem to understand each other.
“Thanks for coming in.” You’re not going to get this job.
“It was my pleasure.” I know.
There are a lot of wonderful things about San Diego, but the public transportation in this city is unspeakably bad. Of everywhere I’ve lived — Chicago, Boston, even L.A. — this is both the most expensive and the least efficient. I’ve never paid so much for so little. It’s like an airport bar.
Ocean Beach is an hour from everywhere. I can hit Mission Beach with a fucking rock, but it still takes an hour to get there. I’ve spent well over $200 on the bus. It’s a pack-a-day habit. And not content to be merely bad, they’ve shot the moon for awful, having rolled back service on March 1. Of course.
I showed up 20 minutes early to today’s open interview, this time for some fratty beer-and-Rohypnol place in Pacific Beach called Bub’s Dive Bar, but am still beaten by two dozen people. The girl behind me is named Brittney, which fits. She looks 21 and is pretty in a molded-plastic kind of way, her voice a hollow bubble as she explains to her friend that she already has two jobs, but what can she say, she just loves applying to jobs!!!
“My boyfriend is, like, ’Don’t you already have a job?’ and I’m, like, ‘Yeah!’ and then I’m, like, ‘I apply to jobs all the time!’ and he’s, like, ’There’s something wrong with you!’ and I’m, like, ‘I know, I just love to apply for jobs!’ ”
I’m near the front of the line and trying to focus on what to say, but I have to stop what I’m doing for a moment so I can hate this woman with my whole body.
This process turns everyone into a 14-year-old girl. I walk away from an interview and obsess over what was said. I measure facial tics and draw wild conclusions. I start to get angry with my phone’s stubborn refusal to ring. Why hasn’t he called!?
I wonder if Seventeen magazine has any suggestions on how to cope.
Today I got a ride to the Old Town bus depot from a friend of Sam’s, an extremely chatty pothead named Aaron. “What are you all dressed up for?” he asks. I tell him I’m looking for bartending jobs, which he takes as an invitation for an endless, morale-crushing speech on how it’s impossible for boys to get behind the bar in this town, even before the recession. Apparently, he tried for three years, and even he couldn’t do it.
“You might as well walk into a hospital and ask if they need a brain surgeon,” he says, more than once, inexplicably pleased with this metaphor.
I’ve run into this attitude a few times here, not just that it’s hard, but from people utterly unable to see beyond their own experience. “My God, if I couldn’t do it, you certainly can’t.”
This guy is an ass, but all the same, I’m widening the scope of my inquiries. I hated being a server, but I’ll do it again. I may have to.
My résumé keeps getting better, despite the fact that I haven’t worked for 11 weeks. It’s like magic.
The bar I used to work at was crazy busy on the weekends, so it’s become “18 months of high-volume experience.” The Italian restaurant before that was a neighborhood hole with pink paper placemats and enormous portions, the decor stunningly classless in the way that only Italians can really be, but in the last week it has morphed, on paper, into a fine-dining restaurant. I, too, have morphed from a server-bartender to the head bartender, the restaurant’s contact for the wine supplier, and creator of the cocktail list. I’m quite something.
My favorite item is my tequila bar-back gig up in Venice, California. I was a bar-back there from late ’05 to May ’06, three days a week for about seven months before Angelica Houston got us closed down (that bitch). I wanted to be a bartender but was never promoted — at least, not in reality. On my applications, however, I worked full time and was either a bartender or a server, depending on what job I’m applying for at the moment.
God bless that tequila bar. It becomes whatever I need it to be. It’s the stem cells of my professional experience.
I tried a new approach today by composing a long, pleading email to the GM of Cowboy Star, a steakhouse downtown, the substance of which is that I want to work there very, very, very much. This is not a lie. He responds quickly and kindly, graciously commending my enthusiasm, but he’s not hiring. He says he’ll keep my résumé on file.
I hate that file. My information is lurking in the files of about 50 places all over San Diego, sitting in the dark with other people’s information, waiting for someone to recognize its inherent worth.
I need to invent a résumé that beeps, like a dying smoke detector, until you call the number on top. I’ll be rich.
I’m still emailing people off craigslist, even though it’s an embarrassing waste of time. There’s only one type of place I won’t respond to, and those are the ones looking for a résumé paired with a “current photograph.”
I’m reaching the point where I’d take a job embalming the dead, but I don’t know what to say about a restaurant that requests a head shot. I’m not sure what they’re looking for, but I know it isn’t me.
Today, we broke through the ceiling of absurdity. There was another open interview, this time for the San Diego branch of a chain of enormous dive bars called Dick’s Last Resort. Their logo is an angry cartoon drunkard, and they’ve carved out a niche for themselves by being very rude to their customers. That’s their gimmick. Come, order wings, be abused.
I arrive to find every employee dressed as if they’re going to a fraternity costume party. The girl with the bullhorn has balloons in her shirt to look like the gargantuan breasts of an anime character and underwear over her pants that read, across the ass, “I Love Dick.” One server is dressed to look like a tennis player in the ’70s, and another has a two-foot-tall Mohawk wig.
Sailor Moon is barking orders at a poor girl onstage named Emily, an applicant unlucky enough to have drawn attention to herself, her face the color of a cherry tomato as she tries awkwardly to be a good sport.
She dances goofily, with no music. The lawnmower. The sprinkler.
“ACT LIKE A TREE!”
She mimes growing, her arms trying to figure out how to make more branches.
“NO, ACT LIKE A FIR TREE!”
She pauses, and tries, fails, to somehow grow differently.
“SWIM! SWIM THROUGH THE OCEAN!”
Relieved for an obvious movement, she swims through the air for about 30 seconds before letting her arms fall to her sides, hoping this horrible exercise is finished.
“I DIDN’T SAY YOU WERE DONE SWIMMING!”
The employees must wait for this shit all year. There are a few customers out on the patio, but for the most part, the entire cavernous restaurant is their torture chamber.
I grab my bag, intending to leave, because fuck this, seriously, but am interrupted by some sudden semblance of order. We’re given instructions by a woman named Betsy, whose khaki shorts and Hawaiian shirt are doing no favors to her rather equatorial figure. She hands out applications, saying that the interviews will come after, and when we’re done, we should find her and turn in the completed paperwork. “I won’t be hard to find,” she says. “I’m the one with this bright shirt.” I wonder how mean we’re expected to be and decide to let it go.
We turn in applications, and while waiting for the other half of the room to finish the applications, the employees get listless and order the girl next to me onstage. Dance, they say. So she dances, poorly, in a failed attempt to be sexy. Grab someone else, they tell her. She grabs someone else and they dance together, and then they’re ordered to grab a third. Then they came for the douchebags, and I didn’t speak up, for I was not a douchebag. They grab me. I go up and we dance, like idiots, to no music, all three of us trying to reconcile our human pride with wanting to appear as though we love doing stuff like this, can’t get enough, life of the party, whoooo!
In 20 seconds, we’re joined by a fourth, then a fifth, and within a minute there are 30 people onstage, dancing in place, laughing as though they want nothing more in the world than to be humiliated for the enjoyment of others. Most of my fellow applicants, it seems, have interpreted “personality a must!” as “be as obnoxious as possible,” loud, screaming, desperately trying to appear fun. We’re commanded to do a conga line around the restaurant and patio, and we do it, we fall in, passing the row of grinning managers, the annoyed businessmen, the amused tourists. It takes about five minutes, more than enough time to reflect upon my life, where I’ve been, where I’m going. This is a mistake.
I didn’t realize it was possible to conga against your will. It’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever done.
We’re then called for interviews, four or five applicants to each employee. I’m taken by a bar-back named Mitch. Mitch is 30 years old, wearing a cowboy hat and a large, round, stupid-looking belt buckle that, as it happens, shares those three qualities with his face. “Why do you want to work here?” he asks. “What did you hate about your last job?” This is more my territory and I answer well, but I get the feeling Mitch’s job is only to weed out the obvious fools. Mitch isn’t qualified to interview a hamster.
While I was being raped by the conga line, I decided that I would stop this nonsense. I’ve got personality and I can be a sarcastic bastard, but obnoxious I’m not. I can’t imagine getting this job, taking a breath before walking in the door, and being expected to act, day in and day out, like some Chaucerian jester. I decide to do my best to act like me, and if that’s what they want, that’s what they’ll get.
Shortly after my interview, the managers compile their information and read aloud the names of people who made it to round two, like the first cut of JV football. Marco Roberts…Justin Langdon…Elisa Weiss…and with every name, the person shouts “YES!” and stands up, fist pumping in the sky. “BOOM! WHOOOOO!” Oh, how outgoing. How lively. I hate these people. My name is called, and again I consider leaving, but a glance at my watch tells me it’s been 90 minutes. I can’t deal with the idea of just walking away after all this bullshit. Beggars and choosers and all that.
Betsy reappears and gives us all numbers, 1–35, on Post-it notes that we attach to our shirts. The employees and managers form a judge’s table in front of the stage, and we are called five at a time onstage and given prompts. Pretend you’re an expert on something. Sing us a song. I’m Number 23, and when called, my prompt is a dance-off. Of course. I rock the Apache as if I’m channeling the Fresh Prince himself, and then we’re all ordered to tell a joke, one after another. I rattle off a dead-baby joke. It seems to work. We’re dismissed. I leave.
I’m desperate and would work here if called. My God, though. That’s probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever participated in.
Another interview today at a place called Rockin’ Baja, yet another corporatized profit machine masquerading as a dive bar. These are huge in San Diego. It goes pretty well, and walking away, I get a call from a 619 number, my first. It’s Dick’s Last Resort. They want me to come back tomorrow for a final interview with the general manager, to be a server.
I think I would hate everything about this job, but now is not the time for pride. Pride is a luxury, like steak, that accompanies income.
Job-hunting subjects you to an almost limitless variety of indignities.
I had a 4:30 appointment today to go to a nice place in Little Italy called Indigo Grill and talk to Nick, the floor manager. It’s Saturday, so I spend most of the morning writing and reading. I shower and shave at about 2:30, iron a nice pair of pants and button-up shirt, get dressed, spend $5 for the bus, and spend the hour on transportation — take the 35 bus to the Old Town Transit Center, take the Blue Line to Little Italy — and show up at 4:25, ready to talk. I wait by the host stand for about ten minutes before Nick appears, all apologies, he can’t talk to me today, could I come back on Monday?
“Sure!” I say. “No worries! Thanks for your time!”
God. Damn. It.
I haven’t heard back from Dick’s, which means I didn’t get the job. This one may be my fault. The interview with the general manager went well on the whole but may have faltered when I referred to the open call as “obnoxious.”
Why did I do that? I regretted it the moment I said it. Though, now that employment there is no longer a possibility, I have to admit I’m relieved. Yes, even though I’m running out of money. Yes, even though job-searching ranks somewhere between oral surgery and an enema on the list of things that I despise.
I think my mouth was trying to protect the rest of me. It’s nice to know that when called upon, an individual body part will rise for the good of the whole. I’m just glad my arm didn’t decide to slap him. That would’ve been awkward.
I went back today to that place in Little Italy, but even though Nick told me the day and time, he’s not here. It’s his day off. I talk to the general manager, who is also very friendly, but he says no, they’re not hiring.
“But hey,” he says, “I’d be happy to keep your information on file.”
I snapped yesterday. I’m tired of subsisting on bananas and peanut butter Balance bars, tired of the $5 bus passes and counting every single dime. So after Little Italy, I went alone to a bar in the Gaslamp, got a few drinks, and saw a bad movie, $8 popcorn and all.
It was satisfying on every possible level. But while the whole evening only cost me $35, it troubles me to think that that’s about 19 percent of the money I have left in the world. We’re getting down to it now. Something’s going to have to happen. If this were a movie, we’d be approaching the climax.
I’m still hoping for that tequila bar I visited my first week. Every time I drop in, the manager seems excited. He keeps telling me he’ll call, but nothing, nothing, nothing. Baseball has started, everything is in high gear, but still, he encourages me to wait.
How idiotic would it be if, after two months of ceaseless trying, I was hired by the place I visited the first week?
I am becoming a professional liar.
Today’s open interview was for Pizza Port in Ocean Beach, the fourth in an expanding chain of local breweries. I sent an email to the general manager about 24 hours after the ad was posted on craigslist and received back the email equivalent of overwhelmed mania.
Employers seem to have no idea just how many people are looking for work right now. Every manager I’ve talked to, at every open interview, always says the same thing, some form of “JESUSFUCKINGCHRIST I’VE TALKED TO 300 PEOPLE ALREADY.” By this point, they’re not even listening. Unless you get down on your knees and blow them, they’re not going to remember you. And even then, only if you’re really good.
This is why I come early.
This is a brewery, and they take beer very seriously. I’m more of a whiskey guy, so after an hour, when my time comes, I give the speech I’ve been writing in my head, different points of varying percentages of truth:
It’s all about how I love beer (10 percent), how beer is important to me (0 percent), how I’m really excited about the prospect of learning about beer (60 percent), how I’ve always wanted to be a part of a brewery (3 percent), and how much I want the job (100 percent).
I’m enthusiastic, and the manager seems pleased. But I won’t hear from them, because when my name comes up in their discussion, someone will raise the point that if I really loved beer, I would’ve educated myself by now. There’s really no answer to that.
My sister Kelly’s been here for a few days, in from Chicago, and I’ve been thrilled to have an excuse to take some time off. I did go to an open call this morning, though, which went incredibly well.
It’s for a new place opening in Point Loma. I get lost off the bus and show up 20 minutes after it’s started, and already, I’m going to have to wait 90 minutes.
While I’m waiting, I decide to research this place on my phone, and I find that I actually really want to work here. They’ll be doing craft-cocktails and good, natural meats, an upscale/casual atmosphere, affordable but nice. I want this. And now I’m nervous. Fantastic.
Kelly’s being here reminds me of what it was like to apply for colleges. She was a junior at George Washington University when I was writing my college applications, and in May of ’01, I went to D.C. so she could help with the essays. I remember I had my personal statement pretty much done, 400 words or so about me, I go here, I go there, I do this, I do that. And I’ll never forget how she finished reading it, laughed for about ten seconds, mentioned something about how I sounded, in the essay, like the picture of banality, and threw it away.
“We’re starting over.”
The worst thing you can do, she said, is be forgettable, and this was what was in my head when my name was called to be interviewed. I talked the manager’s ear off. I answered questions that weren’t even asked. The brewery interview went well because I took control of the conversation and preemptively answered the question, “Why should I hire you and not the 200 other people I’m going to see today?” That question is the point of this whole terrible process. If you speak directly to it, if you communicate enthusiasm, as opposed to just listing it as an attribute, better things happen.
I talk to the bar manager, a friendly guy named Daniel, and he ends the conversation by asking me if I can name seven types of gins. I can and I do and make no attempt to cover my excitement at being asked the question. I’m kind of a cocktail nerd, and I want to work somewhere that asks these questions.
Seven hours later, I get the call for a second interview on Wednesday. I can’t be counting chickens, not this soon, but I admit: I’m excited.
Second outing, this time with the general manager, a seasoned, fast-talking guy named Kurt. I lay it on, the passion, the knowledge, the enthusiasm.
“You want to be a bartender?” he asks. Then comes a series of questions.
“What’s the difference between scotch and Irish whiskey?”
“Do you know what Chopin vodka is distilled from?”
“What’s in an Old Fashioned? How about a Negroni?”
I know all these things and explain them well. He nods with approval. I live for these nods. I am pleased.
He tells me that I have a great combination of experience, knowledge, and enthusiasm, and he’s recommending that they hire me. I think I shook his hand twice, like a cartoon baseball player who’s been told he’ll start the big game. “Yes, sir! I won’t let you down, sir!”
A couple of hours later, I got a call from Daniel, telling me to come in for a “meet and greet” on Friday. I’m too excited to ask what that means — meet and greet whom exactly? — and if I have the job. We’ll see, I guess.
Let’s start with a couple of things that I am not.
I am not a server at Dick’s Last Resort.
I am not an on-call barista.
I am not waiting for a call from El Vitral.
I am not waiting for a call from anybody.
I am a newly hired bartender. Yes.
This place is perfect, exactly what I set out to look for, and an ideal fit for my particular skill-set. I am not happy, I am happiness. I am relief. I can barely believe it.
I have been looking for jobs, ceaselessly, for more than two months. I’ve submitted, either online or in person, at least 140 applications. I’ve had more than two dozen interviews. It’s over. I have a job.
I’ve learned quite a bit along the way — how to be interviewed, what to wear, canned answers to canned questions — but I’ll admit, I lucked out. If I were to pay my credit cards right now, I would have exactly $22 to my name. Jesus. Too close.
I remember that, before I left Boston, I would often speak romantically about exploration and adventure. I was tired of hearing older people talk about how they wish they’d realized how free they really were when they were younger. The decision to up and move to San Diego has been a preemptive answer to that.
I had a good speech about it, but nowhere in there is any sense of prudence. I very nearly ran out of money, and I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done.
I hate job-hunting, because unlike hunting for other things, like apartments or quail, hunting for jobs involves persistent, festering questions of self-worth. You can get denied 300 times, and you only need to get hired once, but while true, it didn’t stop me from staring at sign-twirlers on the street with a mixture of envy and resentment.
While I still very much support the idea of trying new things and new cities in the name of a better life, I have to recommend having a job set up beforehand. Either that or a whole lot of money. Unless, of course, you’re a stunningly attractive human being, and in that case, do whatever you like.
So if you find yourself at my place, sipping a (hopefully) delicious cocktail, look for me. I’ll be the one behind the bar, working.