Glimmer of interest

Work. International. Compound or campus. I keep calling it "the base" because my mind is so geared to military structure I can't conceive of any fenced in place with security guards at the gate and flags as anything other than a military base. If I'd had my way last year I would be on a military base in Afghanistan or Iraq, and not bicycling to work as I do now, listening to audiobooks and watching the summer burst out around me.

Groups of Ex-pats cluster together as though shielding themselves from the culture. Today I had lunch with the Italians, feeling strangely at-home with their gestures and expressions and the quality of their jokes. Afterwards, we had coffee together. Of course we did.  What is lunch to an Italian if it isn't chased down by espresso afterwards?

Fabio, with his usually exuberant bush of curly hair looking more streamlined and tamed, said, "My wife set a trap for me. She left a piece of cake on the table and, like any fat person, I sat down to eat it. When I reached for it, she cut a hole in my hair. So then I had to let her cut all of my hair."

Of course, in addition to being Italian, they're all scientists and engineers - so we talked about recent Sci-fi/fantasy television, and about recent science news: the second successful penis transplant, and the upcoming head transplant. All these men had a surprising amount of knowledge on this bizarre topic.

This hasn't really been the job for me. Long hours and more tasks than I can reasonably manage - but nothing that requires I use my brain. I'm occupied, but not engaged. I've held out - returned to the tedious, relentless tasks, hoping for some improvement. I gave up my work because I thought I had this job in October - but didn't actually get to start work until February and spent more than five months without pay or expectation of work. I make 20% less than I did at my last position - and that job required only 26 hours per week. This one takes at least double that - often 55 hours or more. When I worked in Italy, my salary was 2.4 times this. Sometimes I get sick to my stomach thinking about what I lost.

Then I remind myself: this was my choice - and I never choose the obvious path. I didn't come here for money. Sometimes I forget why I came, or I remember and try not to feel hopeful since my reasons are so unreasonable. Instead, I focus on the beautiful apartment, the gorgeous commute, the long bicycle rides and the creative efforts I'm doing again in the evenings. I paint and write and bought new strings for my guitar. At work I'm glad to be doing something completely different.

Yesterday, I made a new friend at work: the director of an adjacent division. She and I chatted for two hours about processes and objectives and I began to feel a glimmer of interest. I think I may be able to redefine this work. I may be able to turn it into something I can get excited about. This brings a sense of relief, even as I get back to gun-decking. Maybe there will be something else in my future.