What Do You Do?

“What did you do?” is a common response when I tell people I backpacked Europe for three months this summer.

A whole lot of nothing, by some standards.

If you wanted to break it down, I could tell you I walked nearly everywhere. A good portion of my time I tread foreign paths that became familiar, observing and dwelling upon details of my landscape, like the “Look up” graffitied on the brick passage from my Berlin flat to the Sonnenallee station.

I did. I looked up. And around. And at myself. And society and the other travelers and locals I met. I imagined what it would be like if I could just remove my Sarah pair of lenses. If I could swap with another and another and another, what it would look like to not see everything through my speck in time and place and existence.

What did I do?

I listened to the perspectives of others. I heard their stories and experiences, and caught myself when the urge to judge bubbled up.

I fully immersed my senses.

I assessed my values, how I live, and came to terms with the decision that security, comfort, and convenience aren’t necessarily my top priorities. However, without consciously choosing, those were the things I had been pursuing at the expense of other values that I actually deem more important.

I stood in the woods of Tirol, Austria, clanging bells of free-range cows the soundtrack to the life-changing commitment I made to sell my car upon returning home.

I learned, after stepping aboard the underground headed in the wrong direction, how to navigate the routes alongside an equally confused 30-year local who recently started riding public transit after a cycling accident.

I learned that when you ask a fellow traveler to teach you a phrase from their language, a good chunk of them will first teach you to swear, laughing as you mimic an expression that they shortly thereafter inform you is a foul word.

I learned that German and Russian share variations of the idiom “to kill two birds with one stone.”

I reckoned with my perceptions of time, my pattern of failed punctuality, regardless of the occasion or country. I missed a bus to Munich and frantically set off an airport alarm in Milan.

I learned how to show up on time. Well ahead of time––time enough to be at ease and crack jokes with TSA staff instead of being the stressed out nut case on the verge of vomiting as she runs to her gate––to offer the girl with a furrowed brow in the airport security line, “Would you like to cut ahead? I’m not in a rush.”

Time: I experienced a lot of it thinking about it: why we use the expression “spent” when referring to it; the way in which we place monetary value on it. How valuable is my time, my attention? In the sense that we view the world, it is a limited resource. We will not be here, conscious forever. So, why have I not been more intentional and caring with how and where I exist within time?

I built a mental dictionary of Australian slang.

I laughed as a Hungarian man shouted and tossed my flip-flops after me through the closing bus door when they’d fallen from my bag.

I developed crushes.

I developed friendships.

I learned how to be at peace amidst chaos. How to not panic until absolutely necessary, and even then to rationalize and act logically.

I learned how to not take offense.

I asked for help.

I offered help.

I painstakingly translated ingredients on the back of packages in grocery stores.

I did some fucking-up. I did a lot of wandering. A lot of back-tracking. A lot of walking up and down escalators.

I learned that even when I look like an absolute idiot or immensely embarrass myself, no one really cares anyway.

I learned how to see the world around me and rely less on technology.

I realized how much I appreciate technology.

I drank with friends on the streets and in parks and along canals after cracking our bottle caps off inside German kiosks.

I reveled in the joy of food connecting strangers: a box of baklava passed amongst café tables; tent neighbors sharing their coffee at a music festival; three groups awkwardly beginning conversation at a table shared out of necessity, only to discover uncanny commonalities.

I learned street smarts.

I found methods to increase efficiency and cost-effectiveness of my travels.

I said yes.

I reached out.

I pushed through discomfort.

I experienced the kindness and generosity of strangers time and time again.

I learned confidence.

I was 100% engaged in my tasks at hand.

I observed.

I forced myself from bed in the dark to watch the sunrise above foreign cities.

I stayed out all night and walked home well past sunrise.

I learned very little German.

With every inkling of curiosity, I pursued information. I grew more knowledgeable about geography and history and random bits of science––more importantly, about people and connections and how sometimes it’s more enjoyable to just sit around a table talking than to explore a new city.

I grew.

As summer days passed, my subjectivity shifted like the blocks of morning sun that poured through my Berlin flat’s hip-to-ceiling windows––strips of light inching their way across my blue sheets, their heat just uncomfortable enough to displace me from my dormancy.

Not to say I wasn’t “woke” prior to this trip, but these days in which my mental resources weren’t directed towards a job and comfortable routine––it jolted me in the way clarity pulses through the brain after a first sip of coffee.

It’s been nearly three months since I returned to the US; six months since I left for Europe.

It was astonishingly easy to fall back into routine. I knew I was at risk of this, but the significance of the insights I had through those months of experience––I wanted to grasp onto them, carry them with me into my existence back home. So, I pinpointed where I could apply intentional habits, thoughts, and decisions shaped by my time abroad.

Three months without driving a car eased me into the notion of living in an urban area without owning one. It wasn’t terribly difficult to begin riding a bike instead of driving most places.

But this notion of time, of doing… how would I exist back home?

In a recent conversation, someone suggested that I’m in a “transitional period.” If “Socially Desirable Life Traits” was the theme of a color palette, I can’t imagine you’d find “Transitional” on its spectrum. Perhaps it would fall among other shades like “Millennial Bullshit,” “Not Contributing to GDP,” and “Get a Job.” That palette would likely be titled: “Failing America’s Societal Expectations.”

I provided myself with a few months of financial cushion to find a new job after returning home. With all of this dwelling on intentionality with time and reflection on values, I promised myself a few things about my next employment choice:

Awareness of my limited and valuable time was a significant factor in the decision to leave my last job. Hours of my life ticked away in traffic commuting to and from work. I invested another eight to nine hours in an office where I wasn’t necessarily unhappy, and I didn’t dislike any of my colleagues…. but was that it? Was that how I would experience my one and precious life… off in the suburbs, eating lunch alone in my car on rainy Oregon afternoons, questioning why I had to drive all this way and contribute a number of hours per day at the office, when I could complete the exact same work in an environment I enjoyed and without the commute? By the time I escaped the monotonous flow of traffic, I was often too depleted of mental and emotional energy to make plans with friends or nourish myself in life-giving ways.

Realistically, I stuck around because I needed an income. I’d found something comfortable and secure enough. It was a nonprofit, in some ways aligned with my values. My coworkers were nice, respectful, thoughtful, genuine, funny. They were a good bunch. But I also felt like a fish-out-of-water and can’t say I had a meaningful relationship with a single one of them.

When I juxtapose that with my travels, thinking back to all the strangers I met and felt deep connections with after just a few hours together…. How did two years pass subsisting on such shallowness for the majority of my waking hours?

I owe my humanity more than that.

Sure, I recognize that how I allocate my time each day without an income can’t sustain me financially much longer. A girl’s gotta pay rent. In that sense, I understand where my friend was coming from with the “transitional” statement. But it got me thinking about how much of our lives we thoughtlessly define by capitalist culture.

Was––is––my life and whether or not I’m complete and happy dependent solely upon my employment status and participation in consumer culture? Would that friend have suggested I was in a transition period prior to when I left my job? Am I only done transitioning once I am again making a consistent income?

Am I not always in a transitional period? I value change and growth and constantly work towards it. Was I not transitory before as I developed relationships with friends, picked up new hobbies, learned, and matured?

Capitalist culture tells us our value comes from what we accomplish, achieve, and accumulate––how much we can consume.

When we see someone who isn’t working, do we value them less? Is a person who stays home to care for a family member or child less valuable because they’re not making an income? Is a student’s education only valued for its potential to contribute to their future financial success, or is learning inherently valuable?

The question “What do you do?” is all too common. I’ve never been a fan of it. It’s lazy. It’s presumptuous. I get why we ask it of one another, but we can do better. I don’t want to create a preconceived notion of someone based on their job title, which is often the expected response to this inquiry. We don’t intend to box someone up and form an initial perception of their abilities, education, status, income, power, and worth when we ask this, but that’s often what we do. Yes, it can sometimes give insight into their interests and give you a better understanding of how they spend many hours of their day, but jobs are also transitory. Titles are transitory. A job doesn’t really help you get to know a person for who they are or how they exist.

What do I do these days, now that I’m home and not pouring thoughts and energy into basic necessities like finding my next meal and chasing after buses?

I pursue how I want to be. I want to be healthy––physically, mentally, and emotionally. I want to be in positive, meaningful relationships. I want to be an active member of my community. I want to be a source of nourishment for others with my presence, care, and love. I want to be educated and informed, humble and wise. I want to be a source of positive change in the world. I want to be more sustainable. I want to be grateful and joyful, generous and intentional. I want to be curious. I want to be content.

How I presently experience time contributes to fostering how I continuously want to be. It’s dynamic. It’s transitional.

After much searching for a company whose values and mission I support in their endeavors to bring about a more sustainable tomorrow, I recently committed to a part-time job. I’m proud to say it’s a job where I won’t compromise the pursuit of all I want to be for the sake of doing.

What Do You Do?

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