Do NOT Quit Your Job. DO Your Job.

A retraction of every “live your dreams” screed I ever wrote

Confession time! I used to write some of those “Quit your job! Follow your dreams!” articles. You won’t find any of them in my Medium history now, though, because I deleted them all months ago.

Looking back on my smugness now feels like looking back on my goth phase in high school: I’m not exactly ashamed of it, because I can understand the motivation behind it; the need to craft a public identity that would validate my perspective on the world— but it still makes me cringe a little,

Because I wasn’t nearly as cool as I thought I was.

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No One Hears You Shouting From the Slums of Mombasa

The story of a man, a city, and a piece of truth.

The estate where we live is not in the slums. It’s a nice middle-class neighborhood — about ten acres with a big stone wall around them, and a whole community of small shops and apartments and houses and cow-grazing patches inside, all connected by winding dirt trails that run through the scrub.

The long low buildings are communal houses where Swahili people live. The little shacks with signs outside are stores — butcher shops, beauty salons, convenience stores, phone top-up stands. Everything you want, you can find within the estate, sold by your neighbors.

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Go to the Fun Countries

Some countries let you sleep. Others wake you up.

For the traveler, there are three kinds of countries.

There are the clockwork countries like England and Germany, where everything is so organized that nothing can go seriously wrong; where you can go as a tourist and do most of the same things you do at home, except you can take photos of things your friends haven’t seen, and collect stories about “foreign” customs and language mix-ups.

Then at the opposite extreme you have countries like Syria and Somalia, where you only go if you have a specific mission, because what’s mostly happening there is that things are getting blown up and people are trying to leave. Those aren’t adventure countries. Those are end-of-the-road countries.

And then, in the middle, are the fun countries.

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Alone in Nairobi

Night can make you feel like a stranger, even when you’re home

Last night, when the power had been out for twelve hours and the sun finally set and left me in the dark, and someone knocked on my door to hand me candles, and I lit the candles and sat on the bed and listened to the shouting outside — that was when I realized how alone I was.

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Missing: One Gray Canvas Trenchcoat

Brand is Zara; size medium. Lost at a nightclub called Red Garter, in Florence, late last Friday night. Possibly stolen.

Contents of pockets: one pair of black artificial-leather gloves, felt-lined; one pair of tortoiseshell Ray-Ban sunglasses (knock-off); one gray-and-black striped scarf; several lightly used tissues.

I don’t care much about the sunglasses or the scarf. It’d be nice to have the gloves back, since they were a Christmas gift from my mom. But I’ll take the coat back even with empty pockets.

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Cabin Fever in Cotton Country

I’m snowed in, deep in the heart of Texas.

Snowpocalypse Now. Snowmageddon. Eldritch snowclopean architecture, turning Lubbock Texas into a silent white field.

This probably looks like nothing to those of you from snowy places. You are probably laughing at me right now. You have every right to. Just know that in Lubbock, the Last Days have come.

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So… What’s Next?

Life has thrown me a curveball.

Over the past two weeks, I’ve been trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do next.

My plan had been to live in Florence, my favorite city in the world. I rented a very charming, rustically decorated flat there. The flat is right in the center of Santa Croce, in an old stone building that the Medici family probably built, where the roof beams in the bathroom still have their original decorative paint from the 1600s. I was there until midway through December, writing all day and going out for aperitivo and wine every night.

Then I found out something I probably should have looked into before.

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