Reflections on toil as Labor Day approaches

In the U.S., Labor Day signals the end of summer. The swimming pools close down. White shoes go in the closet. The possibilities of taking a “summer Friday” are no more. As a child in America, my thoughts at that time of year turned to school clothes, Trapper Keepers and ring-bound notebooks. As an adult, Labor Day in the U.S. always depressed me somewhat as I mourned summer’s end, yet I always looked forward to the possibilities of a new season. In Europe on Labor Day (which is May 1 and not in September like in the U.S.), Communist youth smash up McDonald’s and banks and are beaten senseless in the streets by club-wielding riot police. How are any of these things connected? I have no idea.

Ah, yes, we were talking about labor. For many years here, I played the part of the industrious immigrant. I made myself available seven days a week and kept my rates reasonable (not so low as to look unprofessional but not ridiculously inflated either), which meant I got a lot of repeat business. I rarely said no to a project. A frantic call on Friday for a massive translation for Monday was met with "No problema!" A requested rush article in late-ish summer (a time when most here have their bags packed for the holidays and the car gassed up and ready to go) for the September issue on the best places to stomp grapes in Umbria had me scrambling for vineyard names and local tourist boards faster than you could say Sagrantino di Montefalco. When offered an English class on Sunday mornings at 8 a.m. on the opposite side of Milan, I wanted to sneer and say "Yeah right!" but I inevitably took it on, waking up at the crack of dawn to do the public-transportation shuffle, changing from the metro to a bus to a tram to get there on time. All of this was hectic - especially because I was also working full time Monday to Friday for a big international publishing company - but I really didn't mind it because I was convinced (naively so, it turns out) that hard work would eventually pay off.

Toward the end of 2006, I began seriously burning out. It became apparent after six years here that working like a maniac was not really getting me anywhere since nobody in my field was seeking hard workers as much as workers willing to work cheap. This led to several months of confusion and mild depression. I vowed that in 2007 I'd work smarter, cutting way back on weekends and weeding out the projects that were big time wasters for inadequate compensation. It all felt risky and I was really fearful of losing ALL of my work. I'm happy to say that so far it has all gone well. Those three hours I may have spent before on public transportation getting to and from a one-hour class - or worse, a ten-minute meeting that could easily be done over the phone - are now dedicated to projects that actually bring in money. Overall, I'm happier and much more relaxed. I mean, as much as someone who is as naturally neurotic as I am can be "relaxed"...

Best of all, I now have actual weekends. Cristiano has not necessarily come around to my way of thinking, but at least this weekend I've convinced him to put his laptop and (hopefully) his ringing phones away. We are going to Provence and the Camargue in southern France. It's only about four hours away by car (OK, four hours if you drive like an Italian). I've downloaded the Aix-en-Provence Podcast city tour, made a picnic lunch to be eaten in some French lavender field tomorrow and loaded up on sunscreen. Bon voyage!

P.S. Upon re-reading this entry, I don't even know if I want to publish it. I feel like such a cliché! The thirtysomething who, having awoken one day to the realization that "work isn't everything," struggles to give her life meaning. Though I'm actually not seeking meaning (I mean it's a weekend in Provence; we haven't adopted a baby from Cambodia or anything!) as much as wanting to travel more.