"Snowbirds, eh?" the sunburned truck driver inquired, while glancing at our Illinois license plates.
"Not really," I was tempted to reply, but the parking lot of the Arizona motel did not seem the proper place to explain the revival of radical nationalism in Europe, our recent immigration to North America, or the complexities of the academic job market. Instead, I nodded and mumbled something about Chicago blizzards.
Also, the truck driver was not entirely wrong. Even if we were not fleeing the snows and winds of the Midwestern plains, we were migratory birds looking for a place to nest.
The road trip to California ended a season of writing application packets for tenure-track jobs in history. For months, I had imagined working at campuses I have never visited or even heard about before. As my wife and I drove west, the abandoned villages, vast fields, and endless highways of the American heartland seemed almost homey in comparison to the ones I had visited in my imagination. On the road, I at least did not have to imagine the smell of gasoline.
I would not mind settling down at any of the places in America where we have lived so far. I felt quite at home among the gargoyles and Gothic buildings at the University of Chicago, where I was a visiting scholar last fall. When the university was built in the late 19th century, its planners actually tried to replicate the natural habitat of European scholars. (It should be noted that similar preservation projects have been attempted in the old cities of Europe. The most medieval-looking piece of architecture in my hometown of Copenhagen is a university building constructed around 1880.)
San Diego, where I will be teaching in the winter and spring, has other charms, especially for my now 4-month-old daughter. She has had no problems adjusting to her new life in the sunshine, laughing at the hummingbirds and watching the wind blow through the leaves of the eucalyptus trees in the canyon outside our window.
The problem with being in the midst of the hiring process is that I cannot allow myself to settle down, no matter how much I like my surroundings, but constantly have to consider all the alternatives. I cannot commit myself to the place where I am, and, simultaneously, have to commit to dozens of places where I have never been.
Before writing an application, I first discuss with my wife whether the institution is in a place we would like to live. I read the department's Web page, contemplate its teaching philosophies, and consider if I would feel intellectually at home there. I even study the satellite photos and local tourist information available on the Internet. Each position, even when I decide not to apply, demands a considerable investment of time and energy.
The process creates an emotional fatigue. The repeated re-evaluations of one's qualifications and dreams easily result in self-doubt. I am far from the only one affected. One fall morning -- in a Woody-Allenesque moment at my local Chicago coffee shop -- I even overheard a barrista complain to another customer that only candidates from Stanford or the Ivy League could get jobs as college professors. (Don't panic, dear reader. Subsequently the barrista undermined his status as an expert witness when he complained that one needed a Ph.D. for a faculty job.)
Self-doubt is maybe also why many young academics don't discuss their job hunt with strangers or in public (notice that the vast majority of job diarists on this site write under a pseudonym). Admitting that you are on the market is almost like admitting that you have already failed.
One way of limiting the emotional fatigue is, of course, limiting the number of applications you send out. During the fall, that number was the topic of repeated discussions among my fellow job candidates. Over wine and canapés at one reception, a fellow hunter pointed across the room at another Ph.D. and whispered, "He just sent out 12 letters the other day!" No more needed to be said for both of us to acknowledge that heroic feat. The highest number I have heard is 40, which must be the result of either superhuman powers or emotional numbness or both.
Imagining yourself in strange locations also has its charms. I don't think cowboy boots and a hat would look very good on me, but it is certainly amusing to picture myself riding through the New Mexico desert on my faithful horse, Cicero. Also, I now know more about American geography and demographics than I thought I ever would. However, the flights of fantasy become tiring after some time. Even migratory birds have to rest.
In the San Diego Wild Animal Park, covering 1,800 acres of dusty and dry land, I discovered another dislocated creature with which I now prefer to identify. I cared little for California's native condors or cacti, but I was wildly impressed by a flock of rhinos roaming across the rolling hills of the park.
To the best of my knowledge (and my knowledge of rhinos is admittedly limited) few places could be less like the rhinos' natural habitat. The flat prairie land of Kansas or Nebraska would have reminded them more of the grassy African savanna or the marshy Indian lowland. However, the rhinos seemed happy and content in their hilly and dusty exile.
The happiness of the California rhinos, I guess, was derived from their oblivion. They did not reflect upon where they belonged and, therefore, belonged where they were. For rhinos, the answer to alienation and anxiety is food. We humans are less fortunate, especially those of us who are on the academic job market.
However, all my letters of application have been mailed and, for the moment, I can concentrate upon my teaching and research. I hope I can soon report where my travels will end.
