unemployment: my unexpected vacation

I’ve been unemployed for over a month now. How I came to this status is not really important, except to say that the only thing unpleasant about the ending of my employment as a private DUI attorney was the timing. I had been drifting along, convincing myself to endure with the tantalizing prospect of a different someday, when Someday rudely and prematurely arrived, stripped of its rosy vagueness, hard and fresh with an unblinking undeniable stare. So I did the things that a rational person does: I cried, and called my mom; applied for all the jobs I could find, and for the first time in my life filed an unemployment claim. And then very quickly, I realized that time unmarred by commutes and schedules and 8 to 5 was a precious gift, something to be treasured, valued, lived. That was when my post-employment life became not a holding of breath, but a deep exhale.

First, I went to Mexico. Twice. Two days after my emancipation, not two miles south of the border on the way to the coast, I was greeted by a police officer with a radar gun, who earnestly insisted that I pay $20 for recklessly endangering the lives of school children. The children, of course, were nowhere to be seen, but rather than question his motives, I launched into a spontaneous, impassioned and grammatically questionable defense argument. I would hate to have a bad experience on my first visit to your lovely country, especially when I didn’t see any signs, and as you can see, my speedometer registers in miles– not kilometers– per hour; please, give me another chance; if you catch me speeding again, I’ll gladly pay the ticket and thank you for it. Whether he was surprised to find a gringa speaking Spanish or just exhausted by my persistence, the officer released me fifteen minutes later. Exhilarated by the success of my audacity– there is nothing more thrilling to an attorney than winning a lost cause– I pulled back into traffic, the Mexican-plated cars racing past (apparently only foreigners are a danger to the invisible schoolchildren). No matter-- I’m Mexican beach-bound, my $20 intact.
In all, I spent 10 days in Mexico, feeding my untamed nomad side, reveling in the alternate universe that lies just across the border from Phoenix’s strip-malled and sprawling civilization. I slept on the beach, and, awakened at 3am by a song which loudly, systematically and thoroughly described each and every body part the singer intended to shake, I confronted the drunken owner of the music with empty threats to call the police (and it worked!). I ate countless tacos at linoleum-topped tables along the street, embellishing the richly flavored meat and handmade tortillas with the contents of ever-present condiment trays: pickled carrots, three kinds of salsa, cucumbers, onions, pico de gallo, guacamole. I logged countless hours on buses, watching the landscape change from desert to green mountains as an eclectic assortment of Spanish-dubbed movies rolled on the overhead monitors. I wandered through Alamo’s colonial cemetery, the gravestones blinding white tribute to forgotten generations against a limitless blue sky. I took a train along the Barranca del Cobre, the wind in my face as I stood in the corridor between train cars, flashes of blazing verdant canyon and murky fume-filled tunnels racing by in breath-taking succession. At the bottom of the canyon, I explored the glorious ruins of an abandoned hacienda, golden afternoon light pressing through tall windows in the crumbling adobe and stone walls, horses and rusting cars grazing in the overgrown rooms. In the plaza of a tiny forgotten pueblo along the river’s edge, I dodged children– so many!– who ran and ran to the tuba-driven polka rhythm of a tireless band of hefty middle-aged men in boots and white hats. Even after the last shout of "Viva Mexico!" on El Grito night, that distinctly Mexican beat narrated my dreams.

In Mexico I experienced the generosity of strangers, my initial guarded hesitancy turning to slightly embarrassed gratefulness. In a tiny colonial city of brightly painted stucco mansions, the hotel owner and his friends invited me to join them as they discussed Tecate-influenced philosophy and played guitar on a lamp-lit balcony, while banda music blasted from trucks full of young men circling the plaza below. A stranger in Los Mochis gave me a ride to the train station at 5am. Backpackers from Spain, Columbia, and Germany became traveling partners and friends. A chance encounter with a young store owner in Cuahtemoc turned into three hours of conversation with his family. I left amazed by the irrationalities of global commerce (twice a year, he drives to Atlanta to buy Mexican-made clothing to re-sell in his store) and enriched by the warmth of these strangers, my homesickness assuaged. Ten days flies by in Phoenix, but across the border it’s plenty of time to remind yourself of how big and wonderful and chaotic the world is.

Of course, all spontaneous backpacker trips come to an end, and then real life has to be confronted– but what does that look like when you don’t have a job? I had an interview, but then– well, I’m not just going to sit around waiting when there’s life to be lived. A group of us walked ten miles through a canyon, burdened like mules, the red pink white rocks becoming more spectacular at every turn, past the jarringly trash-strewn village of the Havasupai tribe, to see the falls. All forgotten when we plunged into the pool at the bottom of impossibly high Mooney falls, pressed towards the thundering torrent, spray so fierce and hurricane-wild you literally cannot take another step forward. I stood and shouted in the presence of this raw and incomprehensible power, a taste of the Divine in liquid form. In Prescott I hiked with friends to the top of a fragrant pine-scented mountain and surveyed the forested horizon from a fire tower. Back in Phoenix, weeks of record-breaking summer heat finally relented into breezy mornings and cool nights.

Although part of me wishes unemployment was a constant itinerary of Mexico road trips and spectacular scenery, my normal routine in Phoenix offers so many small beautiful chances to savor life. I make, and dutifully check off, absurd to-do lists: Form a corporation. Sew cloth napkins. Plant a garden. Go to a No More Deaths meeting. Write to Barbara Kingsolver. Call Grandpa. Find that New Times article on dumpster diving. Make a Christmas card list. Inspired by a book of Barbara Kingsolver’s essays, I’ve rediscovered my love of writing. I paint and clean and make phone calls for my church. I went to an art museum (because it was free) and made a valiant and unsuccessful effort to understand modern art. I’m enriched by long lunches with friends, and I pass hours– formerly unjustifiably luxurious amounts of time- immersed in books and introspection. I’ve even taken a few pro bono consumer law cases, which so far has meant writing threatening letters to the nasty woman who took a car from her developmentally disabled son-in-law. I go for long runs through Indian School Park in the cool glorious mornings, and mad dashes up Camelback to watch sunsets. In short, I am loving life.

I know that this unintentional vacation will end. That I will at some time in the not-too-distant future again be a productive, employed member of society, a person who wears suits and arrives early to an office. But for now, I have learned to enjoy the incredible gift of time– time to breathe deep, re-evaluate, and dive deep into life.