On Thursday, I was working at my job as a bartender at a small chain of upscale steakhouses. Shortly after my shift started, a sweet, older gentleman named Juan sat down across from the well I do most of my work in. My manager introduced him to me, told me he was the father of a bartender at a location my manager had previously worked in, and offered him a Coke on the house. Our introduction included a slight, sad pout as he told Juan, “She’s leaving us!” I had briefly forgotten that after this weekend, my days left working at the restaurant I’ve been employed at for the last year and 7 months will be in the single digits.
Juan was wearing a very polished but casual suit, which isn’t uncommon; the hotel next door brings an interesting clientele of tourists, business people, and travelers from all over the world. I assumed he was here on business, and he smiled as he shook his head and replied, “I’m retired, but I used to live in Philadelphia when I worked for the state, and I’ve never been to Pittsburgh.” His love of baseball led him to the Great American Ball Park in Cincinnati for a game against the Pittsburgh Pirates, a stadium he’d never visited before. He’d been there just days before deciding to visit Pittsburgh. He told me he’d wished the Pirates were playing at home one more time before they closed their season, and I remarked on how gorgeous our stadium is.
We had an extensive conversation while I worked and he drank his Coke. Given my educational background in political science, I was interested in his work in the state government. We talked about his home country, Venezuela, the life he’s made for himself in America, and his travels since retirement.
When he asked me about my decision to move to Vietnam to become an English teacher, I was relieved to talk to such a wise, well-traveled stranger about the impending adventure that awaits me in less than two months. Although it’s been a decision nearly ten months in the making, sometimes it only feels like real life when I’m talking about it out loud.
I love my job as a bartender because I get to talk life on all levels with people from many different backgrounds and experiences. I haven’t had one person yet tell me I’m doing the wrong thing. Either they traveled young and loved every moment, or they never got the chance and wish they had. It makes me feel so incredibly grateful that I have the opportunity to make this move and do something different with my life.
But some days I find myself in crisis mode, trapped in my thoughts and wondering why I’m giving up the comfort of the city that raised me, my well-paying job, and the close proximity of my family and friends. The doubts and insecurities race in my mind on a never-ending loop… will I like it in a new country, a new culture? Will I be a good teacher? Will I make friends? Will I find some comfort in my decision?
Everyone tells me I’m making the best decision of my life, and most days I believe them, but some days I feel so overwhelmed that curling into a ball seems more appealing.
As the dinner rush began to pick up, Juan and I neared the end of our conversation. One of the last bits of wisdom he imparted on me was a Spanish saying he used before he left Venezuela for college in the States; he called it “un delicioso nerviosismo” – a delicious nervousness. It’s a phrase that has put words to a feeling that I’ve been intensely struggling with since I accepted my offer into the ILA CELTA program and bought my one-way plane ticket to Saigon.
When you are about to jump into some scary but promising unknown, your heart tells you to dive right in, but your instinct tells you to curl up, protect yourself, and brace for impact. So you cannonball instead. In the end, you still jump. You even make a bigger splash, and now the Universe knows you’ve conquered that delicious nervousness. Maybe there’s nothing at the bottom. Or maybe it’s a whole wide ocean off the tropical coast of country 8,000 miles from home…
But you’ll never know until you jump.
The Unpolished Gemini 
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