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The First 48 hours
Part 1
March 17, 2002
I vividly remember arriving in 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 and being collected from the airport by my childhood best friend and quasi-cartoon character Good Old Oz. He had been living there for three years and was up to speed on the inner workings of 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 interpersonal relations, a complicated subject as I would learn. I was dazed and confused with jet lag as we headed into the city.
Shortly after boarding the bus Good Old Oz began his crash course on navigating 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 culture and what to expect: ‘You aren’t in Canada anymore… Don’t trust anyone… And don’t sign your employment contract!” he scowled, followed by “can I borrow $500?” My excitement faded and I wondered if I made a mistake coming to 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫… I found Oz’s feedback disheartening, after all I was at the beginning of an epic adventure, full of optimism and here was Oz, a bitter bumblebee. I hoped he was exaggerating, but over the course of the next few days I would understand his misgivings.
Having flown 18 hours into the future, I didn’t get much sleep that first night. I awoke early and wanted to investigate the city, so I dragged Good Old Oz out and we chatted, making our way down the narrow lanes. Our walk intensified as the streets were filled with people, so many people, and then we encountered the floating overhead highways, the first I had ever seen. It was traffic stacked on traffic with more traffic. There were motorcycles on the sidewalks spewing heaps of smoke; bumper-to-bumper cars on the streets; and people literally everywhere, selling food, lining up at bus stops, jumping on motorcycle taxis, and racing along bicycles – so many bicycles. It was morning rush hour and I had total sensory overload. So much traffic, so much noise, and so much smog – the whole city looked as if it was engulfed in a cloud of smoke. When I got back inside I could smell petrol in my hair and was terrified to find soot lining my nose.
Later that day I visited my new employer, the design school. The nice gentlemen from human resources greeted us and quickly whisked me away. He seated me in an isolated room to review and sign my contract. Just two days earlier I was living a comfortable existence and now, on the other side of the world, I found myself face-to-face with my first employment contract, half asleep with the words of my pessimistic childhood best friend in my head: ‘don’t trust anyone and don’t sign your contract!’ I signed and quickly learned what Good Old Oz was talking about. When I tried to get reimbursed for my airfare from Canada to 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫, the school declined to reimburse these fees immediately, which was concerning as I needed the cash-money to rent an apartment. In response to my dismay, my manager, an Australian gentleman, took me aside and said ‘let me tell you something about your new employer. I applied for a position in 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫; I wanted to be in 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. My wife and I gave up our fantastic house in the best neighborhood in Sydney, put our stuff in storage and sold our car to move to 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. But the school had other plans. First they flew us to Singapore for “training,” he said using air quotes. ‘When I arrived in Singapore, the school informed us they gave my position in 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 to someone else.’ He asked me, ‘Do you know anything about Singapore?’ I shook my head. ‘Singapore is outlandishly expensive, we burned through our life savings in six months. While I finally got to 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫, the school isn’t overly concerned about our well-being.’ “Are you saying that the school is collecting interest on my airfare money before they give it back?” I asked. ‘Exactly,’ he retorted.
And that was how it began…
Design School Colleagues, 2002