Coming to terms with not being a journalist

In the last 20 months I’ve filled in countless landing cards – one of the joys of being a non-European travelling in the EU zone, along with longer lines at customs. The cards ask the usual questions: name, nationality, journey length, scrunch or fold etc. I also have to list my occupation. I’ve always written journalist.

When I filled in the first few cards, I was technically unemployed, but my most recent job was at the newspaper so it wasn’t a stretch. Then I moved to Canada and started working as a server. Waiting tables wasn’t my last choice or a fall-back; it was the only job I applied for in Vancouver. While I was comfortable with my decision and never looked for work in the media industry, I still found I answered the question “what do you do?” with “I’m serving at the moment, but I’m really a journalist”.

When I moved to England I applied for media jobs, but with less than a year left on my working visa and not wanting to live in London, it was difficult. Then I landed a job in a youth hostel, something I’d always wanted to do. (I’d stayed in so many and working in one looked like fun). Again, I was completely comfortable with how things had turned out. Yet when I flew back to the UK from Berlin in November and filled in my landing card, I still wrote journalist.

A new lifestyle

There are many things I’ve willingly to let go of since I flew into this nomad life: my clothes, relationships, an array of spices to cook with (there’s so little point buying them when I’m only in a place for a few months). I’ve used a travel-size hairdryer for NEARLY TWO YEARS. But my profession? Being 27-year-old waitress or youth hostel worker wasn’t something I dreamed of.

I’ve watched my friends in the industry get some great promotions, and former colleagues get opportunities I would have loved. I was supposed to be working my way up the ladder too, thriving in new and challenging roles. Not cooking meals for 40 people and cleaning hostel rooms for minimum wage. Oh sure, the trade off is seeing the world. But sometimes it really is hard to focus on what I’ve gained, instead of what I’ve lost. This was not the way it was supposed to be.

Being a journalist was such a big part of my identity for a long time and I wasn’t ready to let it go. It was the only career I ever wanted. When I got my first reporting gig at the newspaper I grew up reading, it was a dream come true. It wasn’t just a job. It was a lifestyle. That last part became a bit of a problem, and I needed a serious breather when I left. But regardless of what I was doing to pay the bills (or in my case, airfares), I always considered myself a journalist.

I struggle to read newspapers without critiquing the layout, headline and story angle. I care about news and good reporting. I cringe when people abbreviate words in text messages and will judge if you confuse your and you’re and their, they’re and there. I still soak up information like a sponge. I love to know stuff. I love to share what I know. I love to write, but this blog lets me indulge that little passion. Being a journalist summed up a lot about who I am. 

Letting go

Last week, when returning to the UK, I filled in yet another landing card. But this time, when I came to the blank space marked “occupation”, I sucked it up and wrote “hostel worker”. Admittedly, this was largely because I’d listed the hostel as my residence and if I got quizzed, it was going to get confusing. “Oh yes Mr Customs Officer, I do work in a hostel but I’m really a journalist.”

As I wrote it I realised I was actually OK with it. Somehow seeing it (or rather, not seeing it) didn’t bother me anymore. Perhaps enough time has passed, perhaps I’ve realised that no one really gives a hoot how I earn my coin, but either way I’m no longer recounting my resume to every stranger who asks what I do.

What have you struggled to give up when travelling long-term?

Picture credit: NS Newsflash