As an exchange student, I was granted 15 hours a week in which to make up for the 2.1 exchange rate burning a whole in my carefully cultivated savings. Glaswegian accents are thicker than tar at times, but I was up to the challenge. From bearing witness to the liver torture inflicted on notorious “1 Quid per Drink” nights, to faithfully Febrezing the smoky stench out of my clothes every night, working in a Glasgow bar was definitely an experience. While some nights left me one ass-grab away from snapping, for the most part it was an experience I do not regret. Student programs often cluster you with other internationals, but this was a way to escape the organisation and simply exist among the locals. My original awkwardness faded, and eventually I could understand even the most inebriated of orders. And the smoke? It disappeared around March with the installation of a fantastic little no-smoking-in-public-buildings law, so any potential servers/bartenders can happily pull pints and rake in the Pounds without sacrificing their shiny pink lungs.

We sat around the table nursing beers and hangovers. Partying on La Ramblas to bad Spanish Punk Rock will do that to you. Heads hung low, we whispered a plan for cash. The details were fuzzy and the reasoning complicated but the resulting action was solid: we would call home.
Just as we were fishing into our sacks for the international calling cards Simon drags himself-all 300 dreadlocked British pounds of him-over to our table. As I’m getting up to make the call he begins to complain: his family has a plot of land about an hour and a half south that needs some work done. Work? Did he say work?
As in Paid Work?
Sliding back to my stool, we hear Simon’s plight and nod sympathetically. Construction? I see. Yard work? Hmm, I understand. Well maybe we can help… After some negotiations and planning, it was agreed that me and my compadre would spend a few weeks helping Simon fix up the property. In return we’d get free room and board and enough cash to get us back up to Paris. Boom Bam Bing. Problem solved and “parent get out of debt free” phone call sparred. The moral: regardless of your preparation, a lot of gigs on the road come from just keeping an ear open, reacting in the moment and not being afraid to get your hands dirty. That’s one of the best thing’s about travel: Resume’s aren’t required.

Sounds glamorous, right? Maybe even romantic.

The landscape and travel most certainly were. Gunma houses Nikko, a heavily touristed, but worthy destination for travelers of Japan. This seasonal tourist trap is spotted with shrines, waterfalls, surreal viewings of changing leaves, some notable ancient temples, as well as some “onsen”, or hot springs, which Gunma is notorious for.

Unfortunately, the work, teaching English, was much less desirable. I taught for a large English language school (not the biggest) which was advertised as light work load and long vacations. Realistically, I was at the school around 50 hours a week, usually staying until around 10pm. My boss almost never said thank you and my breaks were frequently taken by extra work or assignments. I was typically exhausted and my weekends were often spent sleeping in, grocery shopping, doing laundry, and cleaning, all of which the work week caused me to be lagging behind in.

The select times I was able to see the country, it was magnificent. A view of the red and yellow leaves of late October near Kusaki Lake in Eastern Gunma literally took my breath away. I certainly learned how to appreciate these moments, but they were so uncommon that I wonder if there isn’t a better way.

If you want to see a country (or countries), I recommend saving your pennies in a profitable American enteprise and then setting off on a proper vacation.