Rachel

I hate doing these things...they always sound so self-important and cheesy.Here goes nothing.After graduating from Guilford College in Greensboro, NC, I decided that the beaten path was dreary and refused to slog through life as a drone any longer. I sold all my worldly possessions--save for a back pack, a well-worn hoodie and a pair of walking boots--and used that money to get as far away from everything as possible.Although the police gave chase (at the request of my father), I successfully escaped and found myself wandering the western reservations with little clue as to what to do next. I eventually became friends with a pack of Native American drifters. There was a shaman among them, schooled in the old ways but with no interest in following the road of tradition, he sought the gods of the land by means of alcohol he and his fellows brewed in dirty plastic jugs. He taught me the art of traditional shamanic chanting, which for the first few weeks seemed to bring me closer to the Earth Mother, but soon grated on my nerves as drunken warbling, so I moved on.I briefly squatted in L.A., finding work in the adult movie industry as a costumes designer. This isn't a very lucrative field, but it was work and kept me entertained for almost a month. My job was to find cheap clothing, add glitter and sequins and well-concealed velcro or snaps that allowed for easy removal. My creations were truly works of shimmering, piece-meal art, but those brutes on camera were often too vigorous in their melodramatic tearing-of-clothing-to-reveal-bulging skin. I couldn't stand watching my works, into which I had infused my soul as well as sparkles, emerge destroyed by clumsy, fluid-sticky fingers any longer. Again, I packed my few possessions and continued my journey.The freight ship was my doorway to a new world. I worked my way across the Pacific Ocean, bluffing my way into a foreman position. I had never been a foreman before, but I enjoyed yelling at the crew and learning vulgarities I'd never before imagined existed.My oceanic adventure landed on a shore in Bangkok, Thailand. I had no money, but it was relatively easy to hijack a tuktuk and follow the packs of other tuktuks toting foreigners, all of whom looked a bit nauseated from the drivers' maniacal swerving and near-misses. This led me to Khao San Road, the center of activity for visiting foreigners. I was immediately drawn to the crash and bang of light and sound. Even the slight but pervasive odor of raw sewage gave the city more character. I was in love. My first night I spent on the street, nestled in the doorway to a Buddhist Temple that had closed its doors for the evening. Upon waking, however, I found a bowl of rice and boiled vegetables next to me. I left the tuktuk outside with a note saying, "Thank You," and began to explore.It was surprisingly easy to lift a wallet as I walked down Khao San Road. A fat, sunburned German man in baggy trousers examined a touristy knick-knack, scarcely noticing when I bumped into him. The Thai woman who manned the stall gave me a stern look, as if she were deciding whether to alert the man to my theft that would subsequently deprive her of a sale. I quickly handed her a fistfull of baht (the man's wallet was amply stocked with large bills) and escaped.I landed a job as a tattoo artist for a full week before it was discovered that I had no experience whatsoever. I still say that the work I did was exquisite and just because I decided to render a striking lily instead of a childish tweety bird is no reason for a customer to complain.And now, I find myself in Japan with the perfect job. They are paying me to speak my native language to high school students in a small prefecture called Toyama, or "Fortune Mountain." Certainly I am enjoying myself and my ample income, but who is to say that I won't find myself bored and moving on tomorrow?