Live From Mongolia

by Patricia Sexton

  On the other hand, what could be worse than sitting in the passenger seat of my own life? If I took any more time deliberating about how to follow my dream, I knew I wouldn’t pursue it at all.

  One night not long after, a blizzard hit Manhattan. There’s something kind of romantic about a heavy snowfall; it seems to create the very atmosphere where dreams become reality. As the storm painted the city streets in incandescent tones, I sipped tequila in a cozy Mexican bar with my best friend, Meghan. A pocket-size writer with an infectious giggle, she was out of place in Manhattan, but she was completely in her element giving heady advice to a rapt, if not confused, audience of one. Something of a modern-day philosopher, Meghan had survived a half-hearted suicide attempt brought on by a bad marriage and a worse divorce. Then, rising from her own ashes, she’d embarked upon three careers, written two books, and gotten married again, this time to the man of her dreams.

  In other words, my best friend had good, solid perspective. Of course, you can seek advice from anyone you want and orchestrate for yourself whatever outcome you hoped to achieve. All you have to do is choose certain easygoing friends to advise you on certain difficult matters. Meghan, however, is not that kind of friend. Wise in her simplicity, she tells it like it is, whether you want to hear it or not.

  After our fourth round of tequila, I was ready to seek the fruits of her wisdom. One after another, I detailed my concerns with every worrying scenario I could think of. Finally, Meghan stopped me.

  “If you stay in banking, one thing can happen,” she said, and paused, letting logic sink in. After some thought, she went on. “But if you go, anything can happen.”

  I stared at Meghan in that unblinking way you do when you’ve been served the truth or too much tequila or both. Numb with intoxication, I signaled to the waiter to bring our bill. Outside, the snow had left Manhattan completely silent, our crunching footfalls interrupting the echoing hush. Cars were tucked in for the night in blankets of soft white powder. Leaning onto a hood, I traced “I quit” in capital letters on a windshield. The next morning, head heavy with a hangover and body leaden with the realization that it was time to end a career, I walked to work just after dawn in the freshly trodden snow. I was nervous, but I was ready. Almost.

  On the trading floor, nervously perched on the edge of my seat, I stood up and sat down, then stood up again. I tapped my foot and twirled my pen, dropping it repeatedly. I drank a third cup of coffee when the first had all but shredded my fraying nerves, and though I reminded myself that I could back out, I knew I wouldn’t, not anymore. It was time to resign, time to take the leap of faith that I’d been putting off for so many years.

  In a last-ditch effort to create a stay of execution for sensibility’s sake, I called one of my favorite clients, shaking as I punched the numbers on the keypad in front of me. A hedge fund trader who swore by his family and the suburbs, Frank had looked after me from the day he’d stomped on my slice of cherry pie, nearly ten years earlier.

  “It’s Lent; you have to give up sweets!” he had chided me that spring afternoon when I’d just begun my banking career. New to the trading floor hierarchy, I’d laughed at him, ignoring the experience gap between us. Frank was a senior trader and I was a junior nobody. In other words, I was supposed to obey him. At the very least, I wasn’t supposed to question him.

  “Pie doesn’t count as a sweet; only candy does!” I’d insisted.

  Giving me a look that suggested he was about to teach me a lesson, Frank removed the plastic pie takeaway container from my desk. Fresh from the cafeteria’s oven, it was still warm and left behind a mark of steam. Nonchalantly, he placed the container on the floor in front of him, lifted his leg, glared at me, and stomped on my pie. Cherries burst out of the container’s cracked sides and landed on desk drawers and the floor, leaving behind the edge of a footprint in the smashed piecrust.

  Everyone around us was still; no one said a word. And it wasn’t because everyone was shocked at Frank’s behavior; it was because nobody was paying any attention. I was just one more junior kid being taught a lesson by a senior trader. But with Frank, the lesson didn’t stop at the pie. From that moment on, he took me under his wing, teaching me the basics of trading and selling. Without Frank, I’d have been just another new kid on the block. With Frank, I’d been chosen to succeed.

  So it was with some trepidation that Frank was my first call that morning, nearly a decade later. Without question, I knew he’d deliver the sort of advice that I wanted to hear—and didn’t want to hear. Mostly, though, I wanted him to tell me I was crazy. In fact, he would do both.

  “Frank,” I whispered into the phone to him. “Do you really think I should do it?” I asked, not needing to explain any further. For years, I’d confided in him that my real passion did not lie in a career in banking. For years he’d listened, only stopping me to express his wonder over our differences—my passion for adventure, his for the suburbs and his wife and children. In turn, this had encouraged me, making me believe that there was a nugget of validity to my belief that I wanted, and maybe should try to have, something different out of life.

  “I think you’re fucking crazy,” Frank said after a pregnant pause. “But do it.”

  “I’ll call you back,” I said as I hung up, steeling myself for what was about to happen.

  I took a deep breath and rose from my seat. Putting one wooden foot in front of the other until I reached the glass wall of Jamie’s office, I tapped on the door. He motioned for me to come inside, and I did so, feeling like a traitor. Awkwardly, I sat down.

  “I think I’m resigning,” I said abruptly. “To go work for a TV station in Mongolia.”

  Gathering my unrehearsed thoughts, I reminded myself that, for better or worse, this was the risk I wanted to take. That’s not what I said to Jamie, though. Instead, I told him why I thought I was wrong to do what I’d been planning to do. Gripped by a sudden, overwhelming feeling of uncertainty, I was half hoping that he’d talk me out of it, that he’d tell me that dreams are only in your head. But Jamie just listened and I went on, telling myself that regret only makes an appearance when you’re saying your good-byes.

  “If I knew at your age what I know now,” Jamie said solemnly, “I’d have done exactly what you’re doing.” Correcting himself, he added, “But not in Mongolia.”

  Incredibly, Goldman Sach’s response was identical.

  “Go,” Bob, the head of sales, said to me when I called him to let him know I wouldn’t continue negotiations. He’d sounded almost wistful. “Call us when you’re back,” he added, and I promised I would, hoping I’d never have to follow through.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Fortune-teller

  Environmental laws are being breached repeatedly. Legal discussions are under way to update these outdated laws. The first of these discussions took place today; nongovernmental organizations as well as government officials took part in the discussions.

  —MM Today lead story

  Mongolia is one of those destinations that isn’t particularly easy to pack for. While the capital is full of trendy bars and nightclubs, the countryside is rugged adventure. You might find yourself dining on the top floor of a posh hotel during the week and roughing it on the back of a nomad’s horse come the weekend. I tried to prepare for all of this. In a single backpack, sturdy hiking boots joined a single pair of high heels, mascara and eye shadow were lumped together with heavy-duty sunscreen, and a sealed Ziploc bag contained both diarrhea medication and a bottle of perfume. For my internship at the TV station, I packed one notebook and one pen. Finally and for good measure, I tucked Cat—my worn-out and shabby thirty-year-old stuffed animal—into the mix.

  I was about to fling myself thousands of miles from the nearest designer juice bar or Starbucks, a time zone or so way away from a reliable salad. In fact, I’d be exactly 6,355 miles from my home, my friends, and my family. I’d be migrating from one of the most crowded cities in the world to one of the most remote ca
pitals in the world. It was so remote, in fact, that I’d been required to purchase emergency evacuation insurance before departing New York. What had seemed for years little more than a fantasy was about to become a reality.

  “Trishy,” Netta said to me late one evening a week or so before I left. “You’ll come back, won’t you?” We were sitting in Astor Place on a giant metallic cube sculpture spinning round and round, reminiscing. I’d met Netta only a year earlier when we’d reached for the same cupcake at a mutual friend’s thirtieth birthday party. From that point on, we’d been inseparable.

  “I think so,” I said, and we both got tears in our eyes. Over countless dinners, Netta and I had talked through the pros and cons of leaving behind a decent job. And Netta wasn’t just talking the talk; she was about to walk the walk herself, from COO to a start-up. Netta understood that it wasn’t a break I was taking; it was a break I was making. I was going from what I’d been told to want, to what I truly wanted, and from striving for more, to striving for something altogether different. Netta and I both knew that although I still could, it was too late to turn back the clock.

  The night before I left, already feeling nostalgic for what I was about to leave behind, I meandered through the streets of Manhattan, saying a private farewell to all the people who didn’t know they’d made my neighborhood feel like home: the matchstick woodworker in Washington Square Park; the crisply polite Englishman selling potato peelers in Union Square; and the resident black transvestite in Greenwich Village who flirted with passersby, flamboyantly flaunting his white plastic platform heels and matching white plastic suit.

  As I began falling out of step with people walking quickly and with purpose, I eventually found myself sitting at a French restaurant on the Lower East Side with a tarot card reader, of all people. He was only a sideshow to the restaurant’s cuisine, kind of a cabaret performer, and meeting him at all had been just an accident. But he was about to tell me something truly astonishing.

  “You are about to embark upon an adventure,” he began, and I rolled my eyes. Good guess, I thought. I don’t know anyone who’s paid a visit to a fortune-teller who hasn’t received this prediction, along with the part about meeting someone tall and dark and good-looking. After all, an “adventure” can occur in plenty of places, even the Upper East Side.

  “Draw another card,” the fortune-teller instructed, and I drew one more. A hooded, faceless shape holding a scythe stood beneath a white rose. It looked like the Grim Reaper. Turns out, it was.

  “Isn’t that the death card?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Yes, it is,” he said, frowning in concentration, not exactly the look you’re hoping for when someone is peering into your future. “You are going through a major change in life,” he finally said. “An adventure that will result in the death of your old self, that will…”

  Suddenly, he stopped short. Then, selecting a single card from the pyramid we’d created, the fortune-teller held it up.

  “The love card,” he said, and was silent a moment before speaking again.

  “His name will begin with an ‘E.’”

  Without question, now he had my attention.

  “‘E’?”

  “Yes, ‘E,’” he said, trailing off. “Ed, Eddie,” he went on quietly, talking more to himself than to me. “Earl?”

  For some reason, he wasn’t quite getting it, and he seemed to be growing increasingly frustrated about this, to the point of shouting right there in the restaurant, “Edwin? No, NO, that’s NOT it. Ewan?”

  “I can’t. I just can’t!” he finally said. “I can’t tell you his name, but I can tell you this: E is American, he is several years younger than you, he’s recently been a college student, and you will meet him on your adventure. Oh, and,” he added as if it were something of an afterthought, “you may end up marrying E.”

  Really, I couldn’t decide whether or not to take this man seriously. Staring at me intently while he stacked the cards back into the deck, the fortune-teller gave me the sort of look that makes you wonder if you’re the last person to be let in on an inside joke.

  “People who get extra time usually tip me generously,” he said, tapping the face of his wristwatch and holding out his hand. I peeled off an extra five and left, walking home in the brisk chill of the late spring evening.

  The next morning, I boarded a flight bound for Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia.

  “Hey, where are you going?” a man’s voice called out to me in an American accent. On a layover in Tokyo’s Narita Airport, I was as oblivious to someone talking to me as anyone is in an airport. Preoccupied with finding a cup of coffee, I ignored him, assuming he’d mistaken me for someone he knew.

  “I said. Where. Are. You. Going?” the man repeated, this time standing right in front of me. He’d surprised me, and I didn’t know what else to do but to answer him. Besides, he was blocking my path.

  “Mongolia,” I said. “I’m going to Mongolia.” Even as I said it out loud, I could hardly believe it myself. Mongolia?

  “Here,” he said, offering me a piece of paper with a name and e-mail address written on it. “An American college friend of mine is working there right now. Tell him I said hello.”

  Dumbfounded because things like this just don’t happen, and especially not in the anonymity of airports, I thanked him. What else could I do? Before I had a chance to come up with a reasonable response, like asking the man why he’d sought me out, he dashed off to catch his next flight.

  “Good luck!” he called out as he ran. “Don’t forget to e-mail Evan!”

  Had he said Evan? With an ‘E’? And American? And college friend?

  Sure enough, on the slip of paper he’d given me was the e-mail address for a man named Evan. Fresh out of college, several years my junior, this man whose name began with an ‘E’ just happened to be living in Mongolia. Could this all just be a coincidence?

  CHAPTER 4

  The Arrival

  It’s impossible for the city to constantly administer to the needs of remote districts using domestic resources; that’s why we try to involve foreign investment in this undertaking. For this purpose, we attempt to intensify our foreign relations and cooperation with organizations and persons in foreign countries who display sympathy of their soul for Mongolia.

  —Interview with Ulaanbaatar mayor Mr. Batbayar, MM Today broadcast

  The MIAT Mongolian Airlines plane thumped onto the runway of Genghis Khan International Airport, and we landed in a shroud of serene midnight darkness. Cupping my hands against the plane’s window, I pressed my face up close as we taxied in, letting my eyes dart around to search for light that just wasn’t there. Here, nightfall seemed to be absolute, and I’d have to wait a little longer to glean a first impression of my new home.

  At Immigration, I waited in line for a very long time. It was two o’clock in the morning, and the plane had been delayed by twelve hours. Both its passengers and immigration officials yawned and wiped their eyes. Once it was my turn, I stepped up to the counter and handed over my passport. Waiting, I held my breath in anticipation. Grunting at me, the officer licked his forefinger and paged through my documents. Then, with a thud, he stamped me into Mongolia.

  I stared at the Cyrillic inscription on my passport, the ink still wet, and I could hardly believe it. Finally, I was here. I’d actually done it; I’d left certainty behind to pursue a dream. Now, after all those years of asking, “What if?” I was about to discover the answer.

  I collected my luggage and turned to scan the crowd for Urna, my local contact. Urna worked as a kind of ambassador for the British company that had arranged my internship with the Mongolian TV station. Responsible for everything from introducing me to my host family and explaining their customs, to showing me to my new job, she would be my first personal ally in the country.

  But more important than anything else at just that moment, Urna was supposed to provide me with a ride. In a country without much of an official taxi fleet, it’s importa
nt to know you’re getting into town safely with someone who actually knows how to get you there. Especially when you’re on your own—in the middle of the night.

  An hour later, it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. The airport’s crowd had thinned out, but Urna still hadn’t arrived. Fearing she wouldn’t come for me at all, I weighed my few options. Without any taxis or buses available so late at night, I could either hitch a ride with a local or sleep in the airport until morning.

  “Urna?” I called out one last time into the quiet arrivals lounge. It had been two hours since my flight had landed, and I gave up imagining she was hiding behind a luggage rack, waiting to surprise me. As I rummaged through a sheaf of papers containing details of my host family’s address, an old man approached. Dressed in a knit cap and soiled trousers knotted at the waist, he was grinning fiercely through a sparsely populated rack of teeth.

  “I am Urna!” he declared with a giddy smile. “Ger?” he said, using the Mongolian word for “yurt.” He wasn’t Urna, but I was getting desperate. Obviously, the old man had been watching me, and surely he was only trying to help, but as a woman, you can never be too careful.

  Before I’d left New York, I’d packed everything I thought I’d need in an emergency. So far, my emergency had been the delayed flight. And for that, I was well prepared: my teeth were freshly brushed; my face was scrubbed; I was wearing a clean pair of socks; and I was carrying a wad of cash, in bills both small and large. But no, I had not expected my ride not to show up, and no amount of toothpaste or dollar bills was going to get me safely into the capital at three o’clock in the pitch-black of a Mongolian morning.