My ideal job

When I left my job as a software engineer, I tried to figure out what I really wanted in a job. There were a few options that seemed ideal, but don’t exactly have websites with giant “APPLY NOW!” buttons. You know, things like getting paid $10,000-$50,000 to tweet, or getting paid to travel and write about it.

But since those jobs are hard to find, I started thinking about the components of those jobs that make them attractive. Here they are:

Rewards efficiency

At my old job, being efficient meant you got more work. Even if you had a set amount of tasks assigned at the beginning of the week, finishing them didn’t mean you could have the rest of the week as paid vacation. There was no incentive to work efficiently, besides that maybe after doing this for months or years, someone might notice and give you a raise. That process is opaque and subjective though, so it didn’t interest me. I want a job that explicitly rewards efficiency. Such as tweeting for money: if you think of what to say and tweet it in 1 minute, you’ve made $10k in a minute. If it takes you longer, your rate is lower.

Work as much or as little as you like

I used to have “unlimited paid time off*” — and you know what the asterisk means. It means “with the permission of your manager, so probably only about two or three weeks per year.” I don’t want that. I want the ability to decide each week, or even each day, whether I want to work. If not, the process should be as simple as emailing “Not coming today / this week / this month. Please find a replacement. Will return on [date].” And my job, when I return, will be right there waiting for me.

Does not require thinking (about anything I don’t want to think about)

If you’ve ever tried this, you’ll know it’s hard. Some people are lucky, and programming questions happen to fascinate them. But imagine if the world were turned inside out and the high paying jobs in the world involved dreaming up different ways of applying makeup. All day. That would get mind-numbingly dull pretty fast, right? I didn’t get paid enough to think about things I had no interest in. I can’t do it again.

Zero commute time

If I don’t get paid to commute, there’s no point in me doing it. I find that working in an office setting is distracting, and commuting takes up some of my best thinking time. I get zilch out of meetings I couldn’t have gotten through a quick instant message or email exchange with the relevant party.

High hourly salary

Clearer Thinking has a great quiz to get you started on evaluating how much your time is worth. I took the quiz and my time is worth about $100/hr to me. So it doesn’t make sense for me to take any jobs that pay less than that, as long as I’m managing to survive otherwise. Nb: I had to edit this section’s title from “high salary” because generally, high salary jobs reward presence rather than efficiency. (Think of investment bankers and lawyers who have to be at the office 80+ hours a week).

Does not benefit someone more for working less than you

What’s this about? Well, Think of the bulk of tech companies, where engineers make the product and the CEO earns several orders of magnitude more in salary/stock. What does a CEO do to justify this discrepancy? I haven’t heard any good explanations, but I’m all ears if you have one.

So, what exactly does that leave? 

These are the things that matter to me, personally, in a job. You may love the structure of working the same hours at the same place each day. Maybe your commute time is your sacred reading or thinking time. I’ve been trying to figure out for the past few years where this leaves me, and I have a few non-obvious ideas I’ll share with you next time.

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Palermo, part 1

Let me just whine briefly about the ferry between Sardinia and Sicily. First, it’s a 12 hour overnight trip. Second, they sell tickets that do not include accommodations. Even a seat costs extra. If you don’t pay for a seat — which is like an airplane seat, bolted to the floor and too close to all the other chairs — or a room (which has a narrow cot and barely enough room to turn around), then you have to sit at the “bar”. But they don’t let you get comfortable. We found a closed restaurant and slept for a few hours, but the boat police came around at 6am to wake us up. For no reason. Just to make our lives unpleasant enough that we’d consider spending $80 per person for a cot and freedom from molestation by the overeager boat staff. No thanks.

Did I mention that was my birthday? Well, at least when we got to Palermo, this was the beach

It was nap time! See how beautiful the world is with no other people around? It didn’t last. Within an hour there were too many rowdy others and hawkers of cheap inflatable balls and sunglasses, of ciambelle (donuts) and fruits, all of them hollering and hovering.

Palermo is home to hundreds of Baroque churches. These are just a few:

I might consider being religious just to go to services at this church

In the street, there was trash everywhere. Not just gum wrappers and cans, but enough clothes and trash bags to fill dozens of industrial sized dumpsters. Our host said it’s because the trash collectors are controlled by the mafia, and when the mafia’s unhappy, no one picks up the trash.

To be continued…

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Cagliari and the Feast of Saint Efisio

We almost didn’t make it to the Feast of Saint Efisio. But while we were in Sardinia, one ferry line actually failed, so we had to stay an extra day. That extra day was St. Efisio’s day. Now, I know this might not seem like any kind of a big deal to someone who grew up celebrating Catholic saint days in a big way, but to me, this was completely extraordinary.

To begin with, people from all over Sardinia come to Cagliari and march through the streets in traditional dress.

Some carry flags, some carried banners with the name of their town

Some had flowered and ribboned flags

And all the outfits were distinct and interesting

Some were a little nun-like

There were even a few little ones

Then there were parades of horses. They weren’t show ponies though. Some were badly behaved — crashing into each other or wandering off. At the end of the parade, they tossed baskets of rose petals so thick you could barely see the ground. Crowds were gathered as if for a huge celebrity.

There he is! St. Efisio!

Okay, I didn’t get the best picture hanging on to the back of a scaffolding. I tried. I think he starts out at the church he lives in, gets dressed in his ceremonial garb, participates in this parade around town, then goes to a different church to change into traveling clothes before continuing on along the coast for a week or so. There was a moment when one of his guards opened the carriage and let an old woman touch his robes. She was more moved than I think I have ever been.

Religion is an interesting thing. I’m glad to have witnessed this feast day, even if I don’t understand it. I could see how much it meant to others. This horse seems pleased with the day.

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Cagliari, Sardinia

We stayed at a b&b in Cagliari that was run by and old woman who, according to the website, speaks English. She spoke almost no English. She recommended restaurants that advertise “tourist menus” — here are three courses for one price and you don’t have to think at all, tourist! We were offered breakfast for a fee, but “breakfast” was knockoff twinkies you could buy at the supermarket, a dozen for a Euro. It was 20 minutes from town on foot. But town had gems like this polka-dotted mini.

Here’s the cathedral

In the crypt there’s a naked angel

(Forgive. I have a thing for intricate ceilings)

Cagliari has a beach called “Poetto” and it’s empty during the weekdays and supercrowded during the weekend. I had a nap and N went for a run.

After a day or so of Cagliari, we went further, to a different beach, where the fuzzy sea buddies were with us again.

Here, we found ourselves a mission: there was a pond of stagnant runoff water blocking the path.

We dug a canal. Using only sticks and other trash found on the beach

(Our public works project from another angle)

But most of the day looked like this. I think I managed to get sunburned for the first time in ten years.

Okay, I’m leaving you here for today with this picture of fries wrapped in pizza dough. It was probably called the “Americana”. I eventually asked a local about this obsession with putting fries in things and blaming it on America (I had seen it several times throughout Sardinia: in sandwiches, on pizzas, even inside kebabs!) Did they think Americans put fries everywhere? She said “No, no. We LOVE fries. It’s a Sardinian thing to put them everywhere.” Good to know.

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Sassari and Alghero, Sardinia

Obviously, there has to be a beach stop along the way.

We stayed at a b&b that was in an old building on the main square. This was the ceiling in our room

And the entry hall

View from the room, before (or maybe during) a rainstorm

This is one of the largest cities on the island, but there isn’t much of anything there. There’s evidence that this was once a wealthy city, but things have been left to ruin. Not entire neighborhoods — just a random building here and there, between well-maintained others. Who owns them? What happened?

But there were also interesting modern touches. Like an overgrown planter, a Buddhist fountain, a door perch for cats, various important men…

There was a dramatic cathedral. This is when we started seeing poor people (usually women) begging at the church door, often using a baby or young child as a prop to get more sympathy.

We took a day trip to Alghero, which has a long history of different rulers (Arab, Spanish, etc) reflected in its architecture.

This may have been the famous rice sand beach. It’s covered with tiny, rubbed-smooth pebbles of quartz.

Or maybe this is the rice sand beach. In retrospect, I should’ve taken a closeup of the sand. Maybe next time…

Next, on to Cagliari!

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Porto Pollo and La Maddelena, Sardinia

The ferry from Corsica was quick and painless. We arrived at our residence with enough sunlight left to visit their private beach. It was protected by gates and signs warning of security cameras, but no actual cameras. The receptionist told us, apologetically, that there would have been lounge chairs and umbrellas and lots of people during the season but we were early. We found the completely empty beach quite all right.

Here’s a view of the sunset from our porch

The next day we took a little ferry to the island of La Maddelena. I think it’s a tourist island, but mostly for Italian or Sardinian tourists.

We spent the first part of the day exploring the island. It has tiny beaches everywhere — so many that chances are great you’ll find a private one. We did.

One of the first Italian words we learned on the trip was spiaggio (beach).

This white-sand beach was just for us

But eventually, we felt obligated to see other things, so we drove around more

The island has a bridge to an even smaller island, on which there was a botanical garden or archeology museum. But it was closed. As we would soon learn, everything in these Italian islands is closed during the hours of 1pm-5pm. Everything except maybe a cafe or tourist trinket shop. Even the gelaterias!

So obviously, there was nothing left to do but find another beach to lounge on. One without other people, of course.

We stayed until dinnertime. Yes, hours of beaching. Dinner was pizza, of course. The Italians make perfect crusts — thin and crispy. But the sauce is plain tomato paste with no seasonings. No garlic, no basil or other herbs, not even salt or pepper. And they skimp on cheese. Oh well, not every pizzeria can be Delfina.

Out the window, we watched the owner of the “ethnic store” scrub the flagstones in front of his store while his little daughter danced around. If only everyone were so civic minded.

Sardinia wants to be the next big tourist destination. Our free guides (provided by the residence) included a book written in flowery language about the beauty and cultural richness of Sardinia. It was over the top and sort of cute. I think it will be hard to maintain much character when everything is driven by tourism. They don’t know what they’re wishing for.

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Road to Bonifacio

Did I mention this was a road trip? Corsica has some of the most beautiful landscapes I’ve seen. And hardly anyone visits in the off season — that is, anytime other than August, when the French have the entire month off and flock to Corsica.

Well, there may have been a beach stop along the way…

This was across from the town of Bonifacio, which is, itself, perched on a big cliff.

The sea is so calm

And these are views from the ferry, departing. Yeah, we didn’t spend much time actually in town — there is almost nowhere to stay! We did learn something useful though — don’t settle for the first gelato stand you see. In Bonifacio, if you park near the docks, you’ll have to go up about 100 steps to get to the town and you’ll see vendors selling supermarket ice cream out of tubs. Turn left and go up the street a bit — you’ll find artisan gelato made from local fruit. It’s worth the 30 extra steps, I promise.

Goodbye, Bonifacio

And the ferry took us onward to… Sardinia!

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Ajaccio

On the road between Calvi and Ajaccio I kept exclaiming “are those the Alps?” Obviously, these were not the Alps, but when I saw the real Alps, I still thought these looked more Alp-sy.

We intended to stop in Corte for lunch, but had no luck with parking. Instead, we set up a picnic in the wooded area on the outskirts of town, right in the middle of a river. We did have to trespass just a little (skirting around a dilapidated toolshed and behind a house).

More views along the road to Ajaccio

Just outside Ajaccio is the Iles Sanguinaires “the bloody islands” — named for their color, not for any actual blood spilled. It was nearing sunset, so not that popular. There was no way up to the tower, sadly.

In Ajaccio proper, we stayed around the corner from Napoleon’s birthplace. There was a woman seated at exit to the building, minding her stand of tourist goods. Here’s the beach that was about two blocks away and never had people. I guess the tourists come for Napoleon and the locals have better beaches.

Our host left us a table full of Corsican food, including specialties like blood sausage, a hard goat cheese and a lemon. True hospitality. (I was going to show you some pictures taken from a restaurant meal but they’re not beautiful. The lamb tagine was amazing, but looked like brown goop.)

We had a few days to wander, and found that even the cats ride scooters.

The library housed not only ancient texts, but also current students. I didn’t get a picture of the latter, but I like the idea that historic libraries can still be used today and not just for tourism.

We went to the Musée Fesch, which was the right size for a museum. I was impressed by their Leda and the Swan painting.

I am a little obsessed with beaches. Always chasing the ideal, which is probably Lanikai on Oahu, minus the people. This beach came close. At least the “minus the people” part!

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Calvi, Corsica

We ferried over from the French mainland (Nice), and N drove hours in the dark to get us to Calvi. Terrifying windy roads with no lighting. The ferries forbid passengers from staying in their cars. For safety reasons, so they say. But they also don’t just give you accommodations. No. Renting a single bed in a room that’s barely large enough to move in will cost more than the average AirBnB in Paris. So we slept on the floor, amongst barking dogs (yes, everyone and their mother had a dog on the Corsica ferry) and inconsolable babies under florescent lights. My personal hell.

Calvi appeals to the type of person whose country is too young to have seen much history, and whose cities are full of buildings that are blank and modern. This is the cathedral in the citadelle. It looks abandoned — like something from a ghost town.

This is a still-occupied building, also inside the citadelle. See the greenish door on the second floor that just opens into thin air?

We had lunch on this patch of grass near the fortification wall. This cat was friendly, but had ulterior motives. He kept us company until we finished eating and there were no more scraps for him.

View from the wall

We wandered the town a little, but there wasn’t much there.

Following a delicious smell, we found a tiny bakeshop selling cookies — canistrelli, a Corsican specialty. Think, a crunchy rather than sandy shortbread with flavors like lemon zest and salted caramel.

The cashier pictured here chatted with us on her smoking break. She said she felt like a failure, working at a cookie shop at the age of thirtysomething. But people work and work hard every day so that they can go to a place like Corsica for two weeks out of the year. She gets to spend every day there. It’s too bad that everyone has the same basic image of success: the person who has a well-respected career, makes tons of money, owns lots of stuff.

The beach was covered in brown fur balls. We never figured out what they were, exactly, but we saw a woman collecting a plastic bag full of them. We asked her, and she shrugged. “I just like using them to decorate.”

We stayed at a “residence” — basically a wooded area full of self-sufficient cabins with fully equipped kitchens, bathrooms, showers, etc. This is a view along the walk home.

Our place was also close to the sea, so we went for a sunset. On the way we saw this shell pink house that looked like something you would find in California. There were also half-built structures with no evidence that work was continuing. Maybe illegal coastline development is a problem.

Some backstory — at the supermarket I insisted we get a can of tartiflette for dinner. A large can. I had such nice memories of it that I sort of forgot how crappy canned versions of things usually are. This was sour and not at all like real tartiflette. Yes, I’ve learned my lesson. We were eating it outside our cabin and this dog came sniffing around, looking hopeful. So we wiped down the tartiflette can with all of our remaining bread and gave it to her. She was so happy that she followed us down to the sea for our evening walk. We pretty much thought we had a dog. Permanently.

Alas, it wasn’t to be. On the path home, a fluffed-up, aggressive pomeranian barked at her, blocking her way. She turned back to the sea and we never saw her again. I hope she didn’t starve to death out there.

This was the sunset from our little sea cove.

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Don’t be a fool: designer labels

I’ve decided to do a series on the ways we’re being taken advantage of by business. Today’s post is on designer clothing and accessories, and was motivated by this article which claims that stars get paid up to $250,000 to wear a designer’s clothes on the red carpet. Note that if you get paid that much, two red carpet events is about all it takes to put you in the 1%. Yes, just for wearing a specific designer’s dress to an event a couple of times. I want that job.

Of course, it must make sense for major fashion houses to spend this kind of money — it’s a tiny part of their advertising budget and it reaches a wide audience. But what doesn’t make sense is for normal people (like most of us) to ever bother buying anything designer. I’ve heard arguments that we’re paying for quality, and while that’s partially true, I think the bigger part of the inflated price tags is advertising. Basically, when we average people buy designer, we’re using our small income (the median US income was $51,939 in 2013) to pay people who are in the top 0.001% or so. Pay them to do what? Pay them to fool more middle class/poor people like us into buying more of the designer’s overpriced goods.

Instead of being influenced by the hottest celebrity wearing a particular designer, try looking around your own town for people with accessories (most commonly, shoes, scarves, watches, handbags) from that designer. You’re not going to become a glamorous starlet like Chloe Moretz because you have a Coach bag.

More likely, you’ll still be the tired, overweight nurse in her scrubs riding the bus. Or the old Asian woman in her too-short jeans and garishly bright fleece from Old Navy. There are ways to achieve the timeless style in designer ads, but it isn’t by buying what they’re selling. Doing so would only be playing their fool.

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