HOW I LEFT HERE
"When I grow up, I'll go to America." Not that I thought about it all the time since childhood. But one friend left, then another, and at some point it seemed that Kyiv was empty. Actually, it wasn't quite like that, but the feeling that I was the only one left on a ship abandoned by the crew never left me. I had a good job – a joint project with Canada, designed for an academic year. But at some point the money ran out. The project manager, a Canadian, helped me arrange a summer internship that matched my then job profile: something about exchanging either people or experience, organized by the Association of Canadian Colleges. I went to Canada. Before that, there was a whole disaster with documents: at the cost of three chocolate bars, I managed to avoid problems with exchanging my old passport (that was the first bribe in my life), closing my employment record book, and so on. The plane ticket "turned up" on the last day before departure.
I was flying to the West for the first time. It wasn't exactly terrifying, but... Mom didn't sob, but she wasn't cheerful. I reassured her that I was leaving for three months. We had just submitted an application for the next academic year, and if it were approved, I would need to start work in September.
CANADIAN HOMESICKNESS
I flew to Canada, to Ottawa. A small university town, nothing interesting. The first thing that amazed me was the local library, computerized and with an open-access system; I almost cried with delight. I was surprised for the first time when I heard the local English: in Canada they speak a bit differently than in Britain or the States. I realized that my language skills were poor – I was understood only barely. The scholarship they gave me was barely enough for anything: half had to be spent immediately on a dorm room. Acquaintances advised me to apply for a loan, but with my status it was difficult. All plans to travel and see the country seemed very shaky. I only visited Montreal. A wonderful place, they brew excellent coffee.
There was a problem with the "exchange of experience." The professor I came to was actually working on a completely different topic; we had nothing much to talk about. And I had absolutely nothing to do at the university. I got bored. I realized that in this country I knew only one person, and I wasn't even that close with him. Almost all the time I called friends or sat in my room: I had brought a computer from Kyiv, connected it to the Internet, and spent almost all my time in some kind of virtual communication.
Time passed, and I decided I should visit friends in America before my money and visa ran out completely. I called, they sent me several letters, which here are called invitations. At the US embassy in Canada, I got a business visa in one day, paid $50 for it, significantly reducing my budget.
MISFIRE
I decided to go to my friend in Minneapolis by bus, through Detroit. At the US border, everyone was let through except me. They gave me a paper listing the things I was missing: proof that I had money, a return ticket, some nonsense like "last utility bills."
I grieved and decided to fly by plane. I bought a wallet. Probably, there it is a more necessary item than pants or a shirt. They saw the wallet, asked nothing, and let me through.
I didn't like America right away. It was hot in Minneapolis; I got lost in the airport and they barely found me. My friends looked like caricatured short fat guys; I looked at them with horror and firmly decided then: I would not live in America.
In the evenings we played badminton on the lawn in front of their suburban house. That was the best thing that happened to me in Minnesota. I wanted to move on. Some friends lived in California. California seemed worthy of a pilgrimage. I had been involved with the Internet since its "invasion" began in Ukraine, and all the people who invented the Internet lived in Silicon Valley. A friend from San Francisco bought me a plane ticket.
SEEMS WE'VE ARRIVED...
The weather was terrible. We were shaking all the time; flight attendants comforted us and asked us to fasten our seatbelts. In San Francisco, it seemed the plane landed with its last strength. I got out, saw a familiar face, and was so flustered that I forgot my address book at the payphone. My friend looked older and somehow tormented. He said a room was already prepared for me.
Somehow abruptly and immediately I felt at home. We went to a restaurant and drank either a "Tequila Sunset" or a "Tequila Sunrise." It felt like a celebration. In the city, it's either eternal autumn or eternal spring. A motley crowd. The contrast between California and the Midwest is striking.
WORK
I met several of my friends; they looked more successful and less overweight than those living in Minnesota. They smiled and vied with each other to tell me about their lives. One of them took me to the company where almost all these people worked: a feeling of construction chaos, cramped cubicles where people sat. I was skeptical. My friend painted rosy prospects, said the company was on the rise and there would be a lot of money. Here I need to explain. The American economy is based on the fact that stupid or overconfident shareholders buy company shares if they think well of it. Shares rise in price, and the founders/co-owners get rich. All big Internet companies, like Yahoo or Amazon, are rich only because of this; they have practically no fixed or working capital (I think that's what it was called in our textbooks?).
So, I listened to my friend and decided that an extra bird in the hand wouldn't hurt. Within ten minutes I had an interview with the company manager – my friend's direct boss – got a job offer, and signed a paper. It stated that I would work 40 hours a week and get about the same number of thousands – that's the minimum they could pay there. The reasons I was interested in this rather modest offer were simple: my acquaintances worked at the company, the job was in the city, and I wouldn't need to buy a car. I signed the contract and went back to Canada.
There, unpleasant news awaited me. In my Ukrainian project, the entire budget was approved except for the part that included my colleague's and my salary. Consequently, Kyiv awaited me with no money and unemployment. I thought I would have time to return, called San Francisco, and asked them to buy me a ticket. My visa was still valid, and I was let through without problems. I returned to California.
SAN FRANCISCO
San Francisco is called the most European city in America. It seems Americans have a peculiar idea of Europe, but living in San Francisco is good. You can walk around the city or use public transport, which is diverse. At first, I lived in the Russian district. Besides programmers, people who emigrated with the first and other "waves" had dug in there. A sharply negative attitude quickly formed towards refugees and those who live off the American economy without contributing anything to it. Once they complained about Soviet power, now they complain about American power. Funny and disgusting.
I worked from morning to evening, about 10 hours a day. Actually, the contract didn't force me to do that. For most programmers, staying at work until 9-10 PM is normal. The company was growing fast, and the workload was increasing. On the other hand, I was pleased that I had a flexible schedule. I wasn't strictly controlled; I was doing what I loved. There was little free time. I got into it. Along the way, I learned the truth about popular myths about Russian programmers in America.
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