Dec 27
Noon. Coming into the city after flying across two thousand miles and three time zones, I think about leaving winter behind in all that landscape that has passed below me. 23-F wasn't a particularly comfortable window seat and I had to go to the loo three times during the flight, which might have irritated the big white men who were in my row (though they ended up taking my toilet going as opportunities to go themselves).
This was definitely the
MLA flight. No one was ready "Home and Living" or "Vogue," and there was a big party of academics who were obviously from the same school (U of M?). Already getting nervous about the interviews because there are also some really smart (and confident) looking people who are obviously grad students on the job search as well.
Noon plus. The
BART is fantastic. It's clear, clean, carpeted and quick. My phone rings and it's the chair of one of the departments I'm interviewing with. It's noisy on the train but I scramble for a pen and paper because I don't want to have to call her back. The interview location has changed to another hotel.
25 minutes later. Getting off a Powell street and emerging I feel as if I've been here before. This is the touristy heart of the city and I guess the deja vu might be connected to how I used to come out on 34th street and Broadway and get caught in a web of tourists. I wish I were on holiday.
15 minutes later. I'm puffing up Mason street with two bags. This is one steep hill. I later learn that it's THE steep hill of the city. This is probably why the hotel I'm staying at is the cheapest of the conference hotels even though it's really swanky. And this probably explains why one of the interview locations got changed—the committee members probably didn't want to have to make this climb.
5 minutes more. I
check in and the guy runs through the motions of telling me about the award winning dining facilities and making reservations for Sunday Brunch because the hotel's full up. I just nod and perspire. I get up into the room and become the ultimate suaku. Four years of staying in cheap hotels has primed me to be shocked by the opulence of the room. The minibar (and food drawer) are stocked with really interesting snacks and a walk-in closet that's larger than the one at home. I get a great view, being perched on Nob Hill, of the Bay. I immediately recognize the fact that I'm also overlooking Chinatown. But it's really expensive to be here. Internet service is 13.95 a day and even local calls are charged on the phone. I determine to hunt for free Internet in the city.
2 plus. I call Steve who has just checked into the city and has kindly agreed to meet with me to talk about tomorrow's interviews. I take a quick shower (the long luxurious bath will have to wait) and head back down Mason street and bump into Steven and Glenn at an intersection. Their hotel room isn't ready, so we sit in an alcove in the lobby. Steve is really great and reassuring about the interviews. He gives specific tips about what to expect and primes me to think of myself as competent and smart. Glenn chimes too, and I leave feeling a little less nervous and a little more hopeful.
3 plus. The New Shoes Bought for the Interview are beginning to take their toil on my feet. My right foot's got a bad abrasion and there's a blood stain on brown leather. Walgreens and bandages help. I walk back up the hill and decide that I should make a go at getting something to eat in
Chinatown. Not having Internet access is a bummer because I don't really know where to look for good eats. I walk down Stockton street looking for a non-dim sum place that doesn't have any ang mohs eating in it. From across the street I spot a BBQ noodle shop and head across. It doesn't look good but the shop next door is promising. It's pseudo vietnamese-chinese and I don't mind a nice beef pho. The shop has the ubiquitous "Singapore Noodles" (which I understand is an Australian invention) but it also has great stuff like a stir-fried bitter gourd dish. I end up with a big bowl of pho with tripe, beef balls, and meat, which is perfect. They have a flat screen monitor that runs pictures of the food on the menu and that keeps me company.
The rest of the day and night. I stay in the hotel room doing more prep, taking a long shower, and trying not to get too nervous. I'm tempted to explore the city a bit or attend a night session but decide not to; I consciously decide to avoid the mock interview demo that apparently draws huge crowds of jobseekers. I'm tired from the time zone changes and from getting to the airport at five so I decide to sleep early. Which of course doesn't work very well and I doze and wake up repeatedly and run through my notes for the interviews over and over, talking through my responses aloud. I note that I'm getting obsessive as I run though different versions of the answers as if I'm making a record and these are different takes from which I'll assemble a great track, so I stop. I don't try to go back to sleep and I work a little on the dissertation chapter, and hope that the adrenaline pumping through my system will keep me alert during the interviews.
Dec 28.
6 in the morning. I'm hungry despite yesterday's huge bowl of pho so I head for the Pinewood Diner, a place that I noticed on my walk up the hill yesterday. There are three other MLA types (ie, white balding caucasian men in tweed jackets) already there, reading the newspapers and lingering over breakfast. I get some corned beef hash, over medium eggs, rye toast, and I eat hungrily. I think to myself that I should have brought my note-cards but decide that forgetting was a sign that I've had enough. Heading back up to the hotel I'm passed by runners who obviously make running up this impossible steepness part of their masochistic routine.
8ish. I get ready for interview one. It's at nine in the morning at a hotel down the street. I'm a little relieved that the two schools I'm interviewing with are conducting the session in hotel rooms rather than the huge job areas in the hotels where you speak with the search committee separated from other interviews by flimsy curtains. I reach the interview hotel early, head up, and notice that my hand is trembling while I knock on the door.
9.45. I step out of my first MLA interview. It went really smoothly. I'm surprised at how well it went and how relaxed and enthusiastic the search committee was. There was no grilling and they seemed genuinely interested in what I would bring to the department. It ended up being a great conversation, mainly about teaching and courses I'd be able to develop. I start thinking that I might have a shot at this.
11ish. I attend a session that on marriage in the Canterbury Tales that Glenn is presiding over. There are some heavy hitters presenting papers in this one. I talk to Steve a little about how well the interview went and he shows me his new iphone. I see the room populated with medievalist faces that I recognize from other conferences, which is a nice thing even if I don't know them personally, in a big conference like the MLA.
Two. My second and final interview. At first, I was a little deflated about not making the interview round for more schools, but I know that there are a lot of really accomplished people out there and all I need is one offer. Both the schools that I'm interviewing at will be excellent 'fits' for me anyway, I think, as they serve a diverse student population who haven't had the most academically privileged preparation. I make it to the hotel on time and head up to the room, except that room 644 doesn't appear to be accessible from the elevator I took. I quickly figure out that I need to find a connecting bridge on a lower level—shades of the maze leading to the Scriptorium in the Name of the Rose, which I take as a good sign—and make it to the room on time. Three quick knocks and the head of the search committee answers the door and apologizing, asks me to wait outside for a while. Have I walked in on someone else's interview? At least I'll get to see the competition. I get invited into the room but no one comes out. Hmmm. Maybe they flush you down the toilet if they don't like you. Ah no they were trying to adjust the temperature in the room.
2.45. I'm done with the interview. It was another pleasant one, if not as spontaneous as the first. There was more discussion of my research (a nice thing) after which they placed at list of courses in front of me—a list of about 10—and asked me how I might teach some of them. Good thing I came prepared with a good stack of sample syllabi, which I promptly hand out and start talking about. They ask me about teaching Old English and since I've practiced my responses, I manage to give what appears to be a convincing (at least to me) reply. There are a few strange questions that follow my discussion of teaching, which I feel are probably questions that the university rather than the department wants responses to. (Is anyone going to say "NO!" to a question on being involved in study abroad programs? Am I supposed to make the groundless offer of becoming a liaison for exchange programs to Singapore universities ...?) I blather a little while buying some time on one of them but I manage to draw on some personal experiences to cobble together what I think is (from the nodding head and encouraging smiles) a coherent a response.
3 plus. I head to the Grad Center Suite that is conveniently located one floor above my room at the Fairmont. I talk to Steve about how well the interview went and we discuss next steps. He also tells me about his own MLA interviewing experiences, twenty years ago ("to the day") as well as how the job market has changed drastically ("in 1988 there were probably more jobs than people applying ... "). More people come to the Suite (inauspiciously named "Dresden") and the wine is broken out. I see lots of familiar faces but no one that I really know very well. I end up talking to a few fellow jobseekers and realize that I've actually come out very well on my applied to / interview granted ratio (Apparently 1 out of 20 is much more common than my 1 out of 6). I figure this: it's a discontinuous distribution. Most of us will get low ratios and a very small, select number of future academic superstars have 1:1 application to interview offers. I don't think I'll be the first choice on anyone's list but my best bet would to be a finalist and have the top candidates reject the offer for a job in a more high-powered department.
6 plus. I leave the reception and head out for dinner. I intend a reward myself for the day's modest but momentous accomplishments. Even if I don't make a job this year, I'm definitely more prepared for next year's job search, and I know what I'll have to do to make myself a more viable candidate: the job search is the final initiation rite into the profession. I go to
Straits, a swanky Singaporean-fusion restaurant. I glance over the menu at the door and decide that fourteen bucks for Char Kway Teow is an indulgence that I'm willing to pay for today. It's a hip up scale joint, with very classy interiors and furniture. It's noisy too as there's a bar area. There's an obviously Singaporean couple with their young child sitting near to me, and I spend the rest of the meal eavesdropping. I figure that the husband works (or studies) in California or some part of the U.S.—probably works and rakes in big bucks or they wouldn't be ordering what they do—and that they're visiting San Francisco. He has trouble conveying to the waiter that he doesn't want white meat in his Chicken Rice, his request—"without chili"—is flagrantly ignored, and the chicken comes drenched in chili sauce (which is a strange way to serve chicken rice, but then again, what kind of Singporean eats chicken rice without chili sauce... ). He ends up dipping the pieces of chicken in his glass of water: The indignities we are willing to put up with in response to the white man's incomprehension are innumerable. I feel like suggesting that he should just send it back; after all, he's paying 15 bucks for a plate of chicken rice and he should get it any way he wants. His wife makes the same suggestion but he says "Never mind," (exactly what I would do ... thankfully I love my chili ...), continues dipping the chicken in his glass of water, and ends up ordering another plate of overpriced, over-chilied (but this time he gets his order through someone higher up on the wait-staff hierarchy after a confused Latino busboy conveys his request ... ) chicken rice. I finish my own plate of over priced Char Kway Teow (I do a better job even without a Prima pack ... there was too much garlic in this one, and not enough Kechup Manis) and leave before witnessing what comes of my fellow Singaporean's quest for "chicken rice with the drumstick only without chili." I should have stuck with the Chinatown shop.
Dec 29
8.30. I intend to be a good conference participant and attend lots of sessions today. I get into an early one on immigrant lit and I'm pleasantly surprised that one of the presenters is talking about Junot Diaz's
Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I loved Drown (and I put it on one of my sample syllabi) and I'd been intending to read Oscar Wao: perhaps I'll pick up an overpriced copy from the airport bookstore and have something less Lacanian for the flight back. The two papers ("One of our presenters can't be at the MLA because of departmental budget cuts ... ") are good but there's the typical member of the audience who makes a comment to show off their knowledge by pretending to ask a question.
More of the morning. I end up hanging around the hotel lobby, and finally get free internet access. This hotel allows 24 hours without charge, so I quickly log in, check my email (which consists of just deleting junk mail, so much for pretending that email matters ....) and quickly google a map of Berkeley. I've decided to head out across the bay and do my pilgrimage to the Mecca of English Lit after the afternoon sessions. I also want to check out
Amoeba Music and a local
microbrewery.
Rest of the day. I attend a few more sessions. One of them is a Chaucer session on beasts in Chaucer, which ends up being a panel made up solely of grad students writing theses (ie "The Competition"). They're really smart sounding, come from brand-name schools, and I could easily see them in a job ahead of me. In typical grad student fashion, the papers are extremely writerly and somewhat hard to follow, with long citations from other critics. A strange dynamic emerges in the question and answer because the leading critic in the field is present and she points out things about the papers that she liked and didn't like, but she's nice about it and gracious in her comments. I momentarily panic because I'll be doing a paper on Bevis's horse, Arundel, in May: hopefully she isn't in the room when that happens. Maybe it'll be an impetus to work hard at making sure I write a good paper. I pick up useful tips on how to answer questions when you don't know the answer without sounding too defensive or utterly incompetent (i.e. acknowledge how smart the question is and say "that's certainly something I'd like to look into"). The last session I attend is one where Steve gives a talk about surveillance in medieval accounts of Jewish conversions to Christianity, which is an elaboration ("I had underestimated the implications of surveillance in my earlier work ... ") of his work.
Evening. I head out to Berkeley, a trip that takes me longer than I expect because of train delays. I only end up having dinner and downing a couple of pints at the microbrewery that I later learn is the
oldest one still in operation in the U.S. Cool. I don't bother with going to Amoeba records since I'm sure that I won't be buying anything anyway and it'll be nice to have something to do the next time that I'm in San Francisco. I'm definitely not one of the those sorts who makes full use of a trip in a foreign city, though San Francisco has certainly been more inviting than other places where I've been stuck at for conferences.
