Will report for visa: An unemployed writer's quest

Ten decisions shape your life, you’ll be aware of five about...” Julian Casablancas crooned in my ears at top volume, as I listened to my playlist for the sixth time in a row, aptly titled Think About Your Life.

Of course, if that were the time to have second thoughts about life-altering decisions, I was a one-way ticket and several time zones too late. I was on a 747 ready to touch down in Manila and put an end to my life in Los Angeles.

At the risk of making this sound like a post-break up emo-fest, I was seriously bummed about leaving L.A. After two years of grad school, I realized I had fallen madly in love with the city and all the friends I had made there. Nonetheless, after our graduation and all the debauched festivities that followed, it was time for a major reality (and credit) check. I had a master’s degree from a fancy school, a passport filled with stamps and a closet full of shoes. This of course meant that my checking account was laden with overdraft fees, my savings were nothing but farts and dreams, and my credit cards were maxed out. Not a great start.

I started to panic. The job market was a joke and my dumb ass just had to go and get a master’s degree qualifying me to work in an industry with absolutely no room for rookies. I pictured my life turning into a version of the movie Reality Bites, but worse. I didn’t have nearly enough one-liners in my arsenal to make light of my situation, my father’s prepaid gas card to cover my groceries, nor a sexy, goateed Ethan Hawke to make out with at the end of the day. So what were my options? Could I work in retail (“I’m not going to work at the Gap, for Chrissakes!”)? Was I going to be the clumsiest waitress in Los Angeles and go up against the hottest people in town (struggling model-actors) for tips? Could I pimp myself out to a wealthy immigrant desperate for a green card? Or would I choke on my last shred of dignity and fly home to my parents so I could live in their house, work for the family business and cry myself to sleep every night as I embraced my master’s degree? I may as well have just gotten myself knocked up at 19 and crapped all over their dreams years before they signed the checks to pay my grad school tuition.

The heights of reality bites: Small apartment, no income, but independent in Hong Kong.

Then I remembered the summer I spent interning in Hong Kong.

For school credit, a group of us spent three months interning for different publications and companies in Hong Kong. I worked hard, partied harder, made lots of new friends, but more importantly… I had been published. Fortunate enough to have written several feature pieces that the news wire service I worked for deemed fit enough to print, I figured Hong Kong was it. That city would be my 8 Mile, my one shot to say I did everything I could to make my degree (and dreams) still worth something. I was pumped!

That is, until I started to have second thoughts, which happened after I had closed the lease on my East Hollywood apartment, boxed up and shipped away my life. How utterly effing convenient for me to get cold feet about 30 minutes before my plane was about to touch down in Manila. Thankfully, however, this mini-panic attack lasted exactly as long as that Strokes’ B-side I was listening to. Maybe I can chalk that up to being bipolar. Maybe it’s because I still think it is truly inspiring to hear the lyrics, “Why not try it all, if you’ll only remember it once.” Either way, I’m glad it took me just three minutes and 24 seconds to nut up again. I mean, if I didn’t do it now, I would regret it forever. That would be way worse than not trying.

So after the New Year, I hopped a plane to Hong Kong. It’s now been over a week since I moved here. I live in a 190 sq. ft. apartment in Causeway Bay. My entire flat here is the same size as my bedroom in Los Angeles and way more expensive. The upside is that I live in a really nice area, where I could easily take five steps out my door to find food, go to the bank, shop, or take public transportation. I spend the majority of my time at home, taking advantage of the WiFi that comes bundled with my astronomical rent and applying to jobs online. It’s a bit difficult trying to sell myself to all these publications like I want to put the “ho” in Hong Kong, especially since I will need them to vouch for me when I apply for a work visa. That said, I have three months to hustle before it’ll be time to move on. And moving on, I’ve noticed, is something I’ve always been able to do.

So, dear Hong Kong, please hire me and let me stay. I am a bilingual, multitalented third-culture kid and I think you’d really dig me. I really want this to work, but if it doesn’t, I hope we can still be friends.

Love,

Francesca

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E-mail the author at Francesca.ayala@gmail.com. Especially if you’d like to hire her.