Still, I need to find a job, and I'm getting worried that it's not happening. I don't understand why it's not happening but it absolutely needs to happen. After paying rent, I was alarmed to find my UK bank balance will soon plummet down to three digits. A truly embarrassing record.

I recall now something Matt had said at our last dinner in Greece, "If you can make it in London on your own, that would be something." He didn't understand why I couldn't just travel Europe and go back to Vancouver. Why torture myself with the risky task of job-hunting in a foreign country and an expensive city, when I could just, well, be home? To him, if I succeed in landing a job that covered my expenses, that "would really be something." I cringe now to think that I rolled my eyes at his comment as "totally missing the point." Because now it seems the height of arrogance to write off basic survival as a total non-issue four months ago – especially when looking at my dismal bank account on the screen.

This is no time to be picky. I need a job. So I widened the search. I applied to temporary jobs that have nothing to do with writing: promo gigs, movie extras, Christmas help. Anything to tide me over for a little while. They won't mind that my visa is expiring, nor that I don't have writing experience.

Henry introduced me to a guy looking for a management consultant, I dusted off my old resume and applied. A job in advertising came up, I applied to that also. My flatmate hooked me up with his supervisor at the hotel who's looking for a telephone switchboard operator. I went.

When the hotel supervisor asked me about my visa, I told her I had four months left. She quickly wrapped up our conversation without asking any more questions. Feeling bummed after the interview, I hopped on the double-decker bus back to Marylebone, and climbed into the front seat on the second floor. The open road stretched out in front of me, showing off London in all its splendor. I simultaneously marveled at the view, and resisted the fear that I won't get to ride a bus like this for much longer.

With a heavy sigh, I switched my cell phone out of silent mode. A new voicemail blinked hopefully on the screen. It was from Browns, the fashion boutique in Mayfair, inviting me in for an interview. A few days ago, among the countless applications I had spewed off into the universe, was the Web Dispatch Assistant role at Browns. I'd lost track of what jobs I had applied to. But if I want a job before my visa expires, I need to get to the interview stage as soon as possible. And Browns was the only one that called back.

I met the HR manager at Browns the very next day. She's a beautiful blonde in her twenties, with watery blue eyes and golden hair that gently curls at the shoulders. The interview felt more like a friendly conversation rather than a probing interrogation where I'm pressed to prove my worth. She explained that the Web Dispatcher role entails packaging Browns' online orders. As they approach the Christmas season, it will get especially busy. Which is why they are seeking extra, temporary help right now. Seeing that I was there on the Working Holiday visa, she asked out of curiosity, "Where have you traveled to in England?"

"Umm, actually I haven't been to a lot of places here."

It is late October. By this, my fourth month in London, I still haven't visited many major landmarks like the Tower Bridge or the London Eye, nor have I wanted to. I didn't even want to look at that much art. I am a bit ashamed to admit this, but I omitted a lot of important sights, (including the Harry Potter museum, which is a crime against normality) during my entire four months in London. I found that all I really wanted to do was to meet interesting writers and get paid to write.

But how can I explain this to her, when I'm applying to pack boxes in their store.

"Bath is really nice," She offered kindly, "With this job, you can make a bit of money while holidaying in London. Browns has big employee discounts, so at the end of your stay, perhaps you can get yourself something nice to take back to Canada."

I took a moment to think about what she just said. Charmed really. I had been worried that she would ask why a consultant like me would take on a menial job in a warehouse? But it seems like she has already formulated her own assumptions. Even though she didn't know the true purpose of my trip, but if I framed my thinking her way, London isn't a failure at all. London is -- only, and merely – a Working Holiday. Which is how most normal people would interpret why a management consultant would take on a packing job at Browns anyway.

Following her train of thought, I asked, "How much is the employee discount?"

"30%. Things at Browns can get very expensive. You can't buy a whole lot of stuff. But you can definitely buy something nice." She smiled.

I've never owned things like this. Why not now? The way she talked about the job made it alluring. More importantly, it would allow me to justify to myself, my family and my friends, that my time in London was worthwhile. If I have done nothing else here, then at least I would leave with a bag from Prada.

"Why don't you start tomorrow?"

***

Unlike the casual conversation I had with HR, the Web Dispatch team were all business. Right away they gave me a two-hour test to pull and pack a list of clothes from online orders. Navigating the maze-like stock room was no easy feat. But excited by the new beginning, I did it with the attitude of an eager beaver on the first day of school. In the end, I thought I did great. But they weren't completely sold. The Web Dispatch team lead, Rachel, the granddaughter of Mrs. B (who founded Browns in 1970), offered me a 7-day paid trial.

I had no idea getting a temporary packing job would be this hard! But at least I'm getting paid for the next seven days. That's good news! I was determined be careful not to repeat the same mistake I had made at the PR job.

Everyday I'm the first one on the job. I pay close attention to what my colleagues train me to do, everything from where to tie the tags to how to tape the box. My colleagues, I'm fairly certain, are all in their early twenties. Fresh out of fashion school, or in the midst of it. Some of them have traveled great distances, from Brazil, America, or rural England to work at Browns. I didn't know it at the time, but Mrs. B, the founder of Browns, was known for discovering amazing talents such as John Galliano, Alexander McQueen and Christopher Kane. Even the Queen of England has bestowed a CBE (Commander of the Order of the British Empire, a rank just below Knighthood) upon Mrs. B for her contributions in fashion. So for my colleagues, working at Browns it isn't just about packing boxes, it's a step up in their careers.

As for me, what am I doing here? I hadn't come to London to get into fashion. I certainly hadn't come here to be packing clothes in a basement that looked like the tube's underground tunnel. If it's just to pay the bills, I may as well return to being a management consultant for a bigger paycheck. In an office with a window too.

I remind myself it's all temporary. If I have done nothing else in London, at least I have made it on my own.

Soon, my time settled into a nice rhythm. I spend my days at Browns pulling and packing clothes. I spend my evenings with my meetup buddies, writing and talking about books. I spend my weekends with my friends, either watching a concert, or attending a book launch party. I love the swing of my days between easeful earning activities, dear friends and meaningful pursuit.

The task in London was to find a writing job, but since I couldn't get that, I'm happy to have a job that allows me to be here. I began to look for ways to rationalize/justify working at Browns, like being close to other writers, seeing famous authors in the flesh, or attending the Man Booker Prize readings and hearing how great literature sounds out loud. (It really helps if the author has a great reading voice.)

As if to prove me right, Elizabeth Gilbert is coming to town. She's making a couple of stops in London to promote her new novel, The Signature of All Things. I signed up. Seeing now that I even get to meet and converse with my long-time idol is only further evidence of the rightness of my choice to be in London. It's not like she ever comes to Vancouver.

At an intimate setting in Bloomsbury, Liz was doing a cocktail reception followed by an interview. I had been thinking for days of what to ask her. But when I saw her at last, on the patio with a golden ring of Christmas lights behind her, I got all choked up I couldn't speak at all. How can I describe what I felt in that instant? I had so much to say yet so little time. Her book had inspired my journey, and my life is so completely different from what it was two years ago. My path may seem clumsy and messy, but it is resembling me now, thoroughly.

Without saying a word, Liz hugged me.

Later on, we all gathered in the living room for the interview. Liz talked about her writing process, her four shoeboxes of index cards used for research, and her brushes with creativity. I sat in the back row in the crowded room (all the front row seats were taken), straining my neck to get a better view, scribbling down notes, hanging on to her every word. I was so insanely psyched to be there, I felt heat rising off my pores in the middle of winter.

She said inspiration is like a stroke of luck. If she had relied on inspiration alone, she would have produced one book in her entire writing career. Her only brush with inspiration came when she was riding a commuter train in New York. The story came to her perfect and whole. But that was the only time it happened, and she rides a lot of commuter trains. For the rest of the time, she just works like a mule.

She talked about how she was a diner waitress and then a bartender before she got her break in writing. I was so relieved to hear this. The job at Browns feels like a big step back, but perhaps this is just part of being an artist.

After the event, I stepped out into the evening air, and saw Liz drive off in a black Adison Lee. I watched her leave with a sickness in my heart, but it was a pleasing kind of sickness. Because when you experience an evening so exciting, you are sad to see it end, but still grateful that it happened. Prior to this, writers and artists seemed to me like "a different kind of people". People who possess extraordinary abilities and exist only on TED talks or the glossy pages of magazines far away from the narrow confines of my Vancouver environs. I couldn't believe how close I had come with the great Elizabeth Gilbert. It didn't matter that I spend a few hours a day doing something that wasn't very prestigious. As long as I get to be here, it is all worth it.

***

Having come to terms with my new employment, I start to like my time at Browns. I began to develop an interest in the clothes I pulled. Which are sometimes beautiful, sometimes bizarre, but always expensive. I found their creative details clever and amusing, like Charlotte Olympia's Pandora Box clutches, or Alexander Wang's mesh cut-out dresses. Thoughtful additions like having a polaroid photo of the shoe attached to the shoebox, so you know what's inside when they are in storage; or cute care instructions inside the shoe box, as if the shoes themselves were saying, "treat me kindly," really piqued my curiosity. I wonder if these unique touches are the things that separate designer shoes from ordinary shoes.

Still, I'm starting to enjoy this fairy land of pretty things. And digging for clothes in the warehouse has become good vocabulary practice for big brands I knew very little about.

One the seventh day of my trial, my boss, Rachel, pulled me to the side. We have a good rapport and she likes to read. The HR lady has already asked me to fill out the paperwork: address, social security number, the works.

"Michelle," Rachel began, "You have great work ethic and I would love to have you."

I smiled. Unsurprised.

"But I have to listen to my team. And my team doesn't feel like you're fast enough pulling the clothes. You made some mistakes too. Christmas is crazy busy for us. So unfortunately, I can't keep you."

WHAT?!

My mind raced. Recalling every possible detail from the past few days, mistakes? What mistakes?

The decision seemed terribly confusing and unfair. How could I possibly fuck up a simple packing job?!!!

"What is your dream job?" Rachel asked.

Oh come on, I know what I'm doing here, thank you very much. This job may not be my dream but it is supporting my dream. Whose dream is it to work in a fashion warehouse anyway? Jeezus.

Still, I told her, "I want to be a writer."

"Then what are you doing here?"

To pay the bills. Duh! Have you never heard of starving artists? Do you think everybody is born wearing $2000 parkas?

"I thought maybe I can be a copywriter for Browns, at least I'll have a foot in the door..." My voice trailed off.

"Oh, I only hire copywriters with lots of experience." As if that's unfathomably out of my reach.

"If there's anything, anything I can help with, please don't hesitate to ask. You have my email." She paused.

"I really mean that."

Hearing her say this, I suddenly wanted to cry. I don't know if she's being Britishly polite, or if she really meant it. But this much I do know, I will never ask her for help.

***

I never told my parents that I got fired from the PR job. I never told them I worked in a fashion warehouse packing clothes. The moment I got fired (for the first time), I almost ceased all phone communication with them. The night before the firing, Dad had asked me to call grandma to wish her happy mid-autumn festival. I was going to do it that weekend, but I got fired on Friday, and couldn't bring myself to call her and lie to her about my job.

For the past couple of months, I only replied to Mom and Dad's emails, giving mostly one-line responses (just so they know that I'm still alive), explaining that I was busy and had no time to Skype with them.

When I first announced to my family that I'm going to Europe, Dad didn't understand why I had to stay for a whole year. "Just travel for three months and come back. Heck, travel for six months, travel a year and come back. Why do you have to find a job there? Why can't you find a job here? It'll be hard to find a job in London. The European economy is crashing. Unemployment rate is high. Everyone is flocking to London to find work. What kind of job are you going to find in London? Minimum wage ones?"

What I couldn't articulate or explain to him then, was this: that somewhere along the line, it's not about traveling anymore. I didn't care for the places I was visiting. What I wanted was to work and grow in a new direction, and London is a fine place for literary growth. Traveling was the side dish, the coffee break, the excuse to come out here. What's really meaningful for me, is to be a real writer. Someone who gets paid to write. A professional. I wanted to be acknowledged and validated by the market. As a writer.

The opinions in our household are divided. I've got a staunch supporter that is my mother, and a veiled skeptic that is my father. Veiled because my father would never openly object to my decision, except in passing remarks during dinner about how much I would be earning if I'd been working in consulting still. He was the prouder parent when I got the consulting job offer. The subdued pride that comes out when he would explain to our relatives the nature of my job better than I could. "They are like doctors for corporations," he would say. He'd already gone online and researched the company inside out.

My Mom on the other hand, lives in a different world. She knows very little of the company or of the world outside of her garden walls. Preferring to plant beds of tulips and reading up on healthy eating than the news. She lives in a bubble inside of which front and center is her daughter. My daughter got a good job at a good company? Of course she did. She wants to change careers? Of course she can. She wants to find a good job in London? She definitely will. Mom is my number one fan.

And of course, the person with the biggest objection to my departure was Matt. He pressed me for explanations that I couldn't really defend with conviction. When I was torn over the decision of to go or not to go, I asked myself countless times why can't I just grow the willpower to write by myself in Vancouver? Why do I have to be near other writers? Writing is a solitary activity. Why am I so weak?

And here I am, fired from yet another job for the second time in two months. A minimum wage job just as Dad had predicted.

I couldn't believe it. I did my best. I really did my best. I couldn't understand how I'd managed to fail the trial. We got our shipments done. I was polite and respectful. Sure I made some small mistakes, but so did the other girls. Did they not like me?

I dragged my heavy steps out of the basement at Browns, and walked out into the bright sunlight. It was early afternoon, the first time I'd seen daylight in a while. The bustling pedestrians resting their feet in the pretty cafe that I had promised myself to visit after work one day, seem hazy and distant. I looked at this manicured street in Mayfair that denotes class and prestige in every brushstroke. The city that I had hoped to conquer, the lifestyle that I had hoped to lead seem ten billion light years away. I feel like a tiny raindrop, sliding off the rooftop, without leaving a single trace in the path it has traveled. Just like my visa stated, I am only a tourist, who doesn't belong here.

I pulled out my phone and called Henry. I informed him that I'd been fired again, for the second time in two months.

"Congratulations! That's great news!" His voice boomed across the earpiece, laughing, "You were wasting your time anyway."

I was wasting my time? I thought I was making money and being independent. I thought I had put aside whatever sliver of pride left in me when I took the job at Browns.

"I know you don't want to ask your parents for money. But it's all just pride. Spending eight hours a day in a basement stockroom doesn't do anything for your writing career. If you need money, I'll lend you money, but find something that'll actually let you write!"

Pride.

Ah... As soon as he said that word, it's like a lightbulb went on in my head. How come it had never occurred to me before? Pride is holding me back? In an effort to prove my independence to a guy who already dumped me, I had lost track of my goal. I was afraid that if I spent every day up to the last day of my visa looking for a writing job and wound up with nothing, then I would really have to admit to failure. I would return to Vancouver with absolutely nothing to show for it. Browns was a way to save my pride. But in doing that, I was cheating myself out of this precious time to do what really mattered.