Walk It Back Ep. 2: Goin' to California

Wherein you head west, but not without a few signs to turn back.

Welcome back to Walk It Back, a series where we rewind to the real choices that shaped my life — and this time, you decide what happens.

Last week, you stood at a crossroads: stay in Pennsylvania or take a chance on a Craigslist job in California.

81% of you chose to go. Now, let’s see where that path leads.

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You go to California.

You talk your way into the winery job by selling your farmwork experience in Ireland and Wales. Thankfully, video calls aren’t yet a thing, so the owner couldn’t prejudge you based on your smaller frame and question whether you could punch down 10,000 gallons of fermenting grapes.

You, on the other hand, have no doubts. You’re from Scranton, where hard work is a local point of pride. What you lack in muscle, you make up for in sheer determination. Grit is in your DNA. You can outwork anyone.

You install a hitch on the back of your red ‘94 Toyota Paseo and load up a small trailer with the little you own: records, books, clothes, art supplies, a guitar, and a baby blue mid-century lamp from your grandmother that you love.

Your brother, who is also moving to the West Coast to live with friends in Portland, agrees to take another cross-country road trip with you (despite nearly killing each other on the last one). This time, instead of weeks of national park detours, you plan a three-day beeline to your destination. No joyrides. No distractions. You’re getting straight down to business.

You have a life to start.

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But you don’t make it to California before your first major hurdle (or, if you were in a different mindset, an omen). You redline while arguing with your brother about music and trying to pass an 18-wheeler in a stick shift. And your car dies in the hellscape of the Arizona desert mid-summer.

A nice guy with a dog in a convertible stops to assess the damage. He opens the hood and peeks in, withdrawing solemnly.

“Looks like you might’ve thrown a rod in the engine,” he tells you, apologetically.

“What does that mean?” You ask, hopeful it’s a quick fix.

He shakes his head, hesitantly delivering the bad news, “It means your car… is totaled.” Which the tow truck guy will later confirm and seal with this information: You can either rebuild the engine or buy a new one, but both would cost more than the car is worth.

The car you just finished paying off will spend the rest of its days in a dusty lot behind a chain-link fence being stripped for parts.

The realization that you’re screwed setting in.

You walk half a mile to get cell reception and call the nearest tow truck, which also happens to be the only U-Haul facility within 50 miles. Which, of course, has exactly one rental available:

An extra-large moving van.

Now, instead of towing a little trailer behind your compact car, you’re piloting a gas-guzzling beast across the American West, your measly possessions rattling around in its cavernous cargo area.

But, you make it.

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You arrive a month before your winery job starts. You found a cheap sublet and planned to use the time to settle in, explore, and get your bearings. Instead, you’re stranded for weeks without a car, walking two miles to the nearest Trader Joe’s and making very bad grocery decisions (milk and watermelon? why??).

You spend the rest of your time trying to learn Bob Dylan songs on the guitar, feeling lonely, and scouring Craigslist for a used car in your price range. You burn through half of your savings to buy an old ‘90s Volvo from a kid in the parking lot of an Albertson’s. A car, you think, that will run forever.

It won’t.

A few months later, at the end of crush season, you’ll be stranded on another stretch of highway — this time, in California in the rain (which is preferable). Turns out, you shouldn’t ignore that genie lamp when it lights up on the dash. Another car lesson learned the hard way.

Meanwhile, the work at the winery is grueling: physical, 14-hour days, sometimes two weeks straight without a break. Your body aches. You come home to a tiny one-room cabin in the woods with pockets full of earwigs (a fun by-product of sorting grapes), and sometimes a scorpion in the bathroom. You have no time for anything but sleeping.

But the sunsets alone make it worth it.

Every night, on the 45-minute drive home, you say out loud to yourself:

"I can’t believe I live here."

You’re embraced by a tight-knit community of winemakers. You’re usually the youngest person at any event by at least a decade, but it doesn’t matter. You feel happy, capable, productive.

You’re out in the world, all on your own, living life on your terms. You’re making it work.

And then, the season ends and with it, your income.

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One of the winemakers pulls you aside. They have a four-year-old and a baby on the way. “We need a nanny. You need a job. And we like you.” (Plus, they’re very impressed that you — a 23-year-old — drive a Volvo, of all cars. Very safe. Very responsible. Very much nanny material, they think.)

With nothing else lined up, you take the job. But two months in, you’re burnt out. Somehow, a 16-hour day of physical labor was less exhausting than watching a four-year-old for a living.

It’s around this time that two things happen:

1.) Your Volvo dies. Determined to keep you on, the family you nanny for generously offers to buy a car for you to use as long as you work for them.

2.) Your aunt alerts you to a job lead at a San Francisco publishing house.

An office job? You have zero experience with that kind of work, no clothing that could pass for what you imagine is acceptable business attire, and you’ve seen Office Space.

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

But… it is San Francisco.

👆 👆 👆

Cast your vote, and we’ll step into that story next week.

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