I grew up in Hungary during the Russian occupation which meant the foreign language we had to learn in school was Russian. I was already 23 when I had an English grammar book in my hand for the first time, in the summer of 1973, only a couple of months before I took a leap of faith by swimming to freedom in the Adriatic Sea.
After my escape, I asked for and received asylum in Italy but my dream was to move on to America. While staying in Italy, I learned mainly Italian. After applying for an American Immigrant Visa with the help of the Caritas, a Catholic relief organization, I was finally on an Alitalia flight from Rome to New York in January of 1974. During the first year of my new life in America I lived in the Hungarian community of New Brunswick, New Jersey, working for a bank founded by Hungarian emigrants, Magyar Savings and Loan Association. I did not really start learning and using English until I moved to Queens of New York in the summer of the following year. Real progress came a few years later when I ventured into sales working first for Southwestern Petroleum Corporation as an independent representative and then as a full time employee of Savin Corporation in Ventura, California, selling copier machines for a base salary plus commission.
Of course, a lot happened in my life between landing at JFK in 1974 and moving to Ventura in 1980. In my previous book, Escapes from Behind the Iron Curtain, one can read that in 1976 I actually returned to Hungary and I had to risk my life again to escape a second time in 1977.
I had no relatives outside of Hungary so my life in America was quite a struggle, especially during the first ten years. I made some new friends – mainly newly arrived Hungarians like myself - but I had no one to rely on for good advice and since communism did not prepare my generation to be self-reliant and self-confident, it was tough learning the American way of life.
Succumbing to homesickness and returning to Hungary in 1976 was not my only mistake.
We are supposed to learn from our mistakes. Yes, we do learn from some and not repeat them but how do you overcome your gambling habit when loneliness is burning a hole into your soul? Is leaving hard earned money on the Black Jack tables of Atlantic City and Las Vegas actually a mistake? Perhaps but I call it payment for relief.
Well, gambling was only a side-show in my life. The main events were my 'escapes'. Where ever I happened to be during the first twenty or so years after 1973, I felt like I was in exile on an uninhabited island and I had a constant urge to move. Was I looking for myself? I probably was.
I often made bold moves without having the slightest idea of the outcome. Today, I wonder how this compares to the life of people whose every move is carefully planned ahead and insured one way or another. For many years, I envied those who had family members to lean on in hard times. Now I envy no one. My experiences have taught me that as long as I try to live on the right side of life, a 'guardian angel' will always be there to rescue me when needed.
After what I had to go through during the ten months I was forced to stay in Hungary in 1977, I was certain, homesickness would not be a problem for me ever again. Escaping through the Hungarian-Yugoslav border with 100 German Marks in my pocket, getting caught, jailed and interrogated by the Yugoslavs near the Italian border, staying with members of the Italian Red Brigade in Trieste for about ten days as an emergency solution arranged by Life, and then finally being able to obtain a ticket for a flight from Rome to New York - leaving Italy without a passport - was a three week adventure I could never forget.
I remember, while in Hungary, my co-workers telling me in the summer of 1977 how naive I was when I believed that the amnesty the communist government issued after the 1975 Helsinki Conference was credible. “Here you are, back in the cage, and you can forget about leaving Hungary again” they kept telling me after I told them I’d rather be back in America. They knew I had already asked for permission to leave and that my request was denied. My belief in miracles was not all that strong yet at that time. Nevertheless, my response to them was something like “if I really want to be back in America, I will be back in America”. And so it happened. When I woke up on the morning of September the 19th, I knew the day I had been waiting for arrived. That was the thought I was waking up with. My mind was clearly and unmistakably telling me it was time for me to leave. I did not hesitate. I drove down to the Yugoslav border, parked my car in a small village about five miles from the crossing station at Roszke, and after dark I started walking to America. You can imagine the great feeling I had when three weeks later, on October the 11th, I stepped off the airplane in New York. I still had money in my pocket, so I took the train to Manhattan. I got on a bus at the Port Authority Terminal on 42nd Street and arrived in New Brunswick, New Jersey, late in the evening. A former girlfriend of mine who lived there at the corner of French and Louis Streets, opened the door after I rang her bell. She introduced me to her new boyfriend, Dezso, another Hungarian, who said: “Welcome home stranger. You arrived just on time for dinner.” After we ate, he gave me the key to his studio apartment. “You can stay there until you find work and rent a room for yourself “, he said.
Dezso’s place was very comfortable. I used his phone the next day and called Richie, a second generation Hungarian, who had a painting business. I had worked with him on and off during my first year in America, in 1974. Richie was glad to hear from me. “Plenty of work”, he said, “and you know how difficult it is to find good helpers”.
Richie picked me up every morning and drove me home after work in the evening. We painted houses outside until the bad weather arrived. By then I had saved enough money.
I took the bus to New York City and visited Charlie, the superintendent of the luxury apartment building at the corner of 3rd Avenue and 53rd Street where I had worked as a doorman in 1975. “You couldn’t have come at a better time”, Charlie said. “I had to get rid of one of my doormen a couple of days ago.”
So, I had my old job back.
I immediately looked up the phone number of the Hagopians, an Armenian family in Jackson Heights. They had a three bedroom apartment on the top floor of their house. That is where I had lived from the summer of 1975 until I moved back to Hungary in December of 1976 renting the smallest of the three bedrooms. The other two rooms were rented by an older Irish man and a young Bulgarian fellow. The three of us shared the kitchen and the bathroom.
The older Hagopian brother answered the phone. He was quite surprised when I told him I was back from Hungary. He was even more surprised when I said I was looking for a place to stay. “How did you know the room is vacant?” he asked. “The ad is not in the paper yet.” “I did not,” I replied. “I just thought I’d ask.” “Well, it is. Do you want it?” Of course, I wanted it.
The Irish and the Bulgarian seemed genuinely happy to see me moving back.
The room was clean, the walls freshly painted, and the mattress in the bed looked new. Other than the bed, a night table and a small round table with two chairs made up the furnishing. I was happy to see the old lamp on the night table. When I moved to New York the first time, in 1975, expressions like 'Follow your dreams' and 'Live free or die' made big impressions on me, so I wrote them on the shade of that lamp.
Freedom meant so much for me, even though I was far from being free in my mind. One thing I was sure of: I definitely did not want to experience the lack of freedom again. I was like a hungry man enjoying the taste of the first bite after a long starvation. And I knew my appetite would just continue growing.
I enjoyed riding the number 7 train, walking the couple blocks from the subway station to my workplace or reading the newspaper while sipping a cup of hot chocolate in the coffee shop at the Citibank building. Basically, just about anything I did, I did with a smile. After all, I lived and worked in America, in the land of the free, something millions in Hungary did not even dare dreaming about. It did not bother me the least that I had to work as a doorman. I knew it was a temporary solution. My English was already good enough, with my degree in Chemistry I could have probably found a job somewhere in a laboratory but I had no desire to continue working in that field.
In January of 1978, I found a part time job as a taxi driver. For a couple months, I worked sixty hours a week and was able to save some money. When spring arrived, I decided it was time for me to buy a car.
Before moving back to Hungary in 1976, I had two used cars. The first one was a red Opel, pretty good looking but with a very old engine that needed a quart of oil after every one hundred miles. True, I only paid six hundred dollars for it and sold it for five hundred. The second one was a 1968 Chevy Camaro.
Now I was dreaming of a new car. What put this idea into my mind was a newspaper ad about a Datsun B210 for $99 down, and $99 a month for 36 months. Of course, I had no established credit so I needed a co-signer. I called my friend, Dezso, in New Brunswick who agreed to co-sign for me.
I did not like driving my new car in crowded New York City so I started playing with the idea of moving back to New Brunswick, especially after John, a Hungarian friend of mine, offered me a furnished room for only twenty dollars a week. John was older than me. He arrived in America with his wife years before I did. His two kids were born there in New Brunswick and he made the down-payment on a fairly large house. However, his wife decided to take the kids and move back to Hungary.
I ended up renting a Colonial Made ice cream truck from Bound Brook and sold my goods in the city of Cranford. I drove my B210 from John’s house every day to Bound Brook where I picked up my truck and then I drove to Cranford where I did the exact same route day after day. At the end of the day, I drove the truck back to the Colonial Maid branch and plugged it in so the refrigerator could run all night to keep the Vanilla Bars, the Popsicles, the Strawberry Shortcakes and the rest frozen. I usually arrived back at John’s house after dark and then I spent another hour counting and rolling the bag of pennies, nickels and dimes which I would then take to the bank in the morning. I had to pay the rent for the truck seven days a week so I was forced to work every day. John, who had a degree in Electronics – and had a good job –, could not understand why I was selling ice cream. “You should be working somewhere in a research lab”, he used to tell me when we met in the kitchen in the evenings. “You should not let your education in Chemistry go to waste.” One evening he told me the company he worked for had an opening for a Quality Controller. “You more than qualify,” he said, “come and fill out an application!” I smiled and continued counting the coins without saying anything. “All right,” he gave up on me, “have it your way.”
That was probably it; I just wanted to have freedom my own way so even when people gave me advice, I just would not listen.
The rainy days in the middle of summer ruined my ice cream business. Paying the rent for the truck but not selling enough forced me to quit. All that rolled change I took to the bank in the mornings did not actually amount to a whole lot. I only had about a thousand dollars left.
“And what are you going to do now?!” John asked me curiously a few days after I left Colonial Made. It was Saturday, the day when I always paid him the rent for the following week. We were in the kitchen, eating breakfast.
I glanced at my watch. It was still fairly early in the morning.
“I think I’ll move to California,” I answered.
He thought I was joking. Even when I started packing my belongings into my luggage, he said: “You don’t really mean it, do you?”
Well, I did mean it. California had been in the back of my mind all along. I could not just continue dreaming about it any longer. It was time for me to go.
“Do you know anyone on the West Coast?” John asked me when I was getting into my car.
“Not really”, I replied.
“Do you have enough money?” he asked.
“I have about a thousand dollars. Is that enough?”
“Only a thousand?!” he said startled. “And you are driving to the West Coast? Are you out of your mind?!”
“Perhaps I am”, I said.
“Oh, you’ll be back soon. Anyway, your room will be there in case you need it again. Good luck to you.” There was grudge in his voice but I could not tell whether he was mad at me or mad at himself.
I drove out on Easton Avenue and once I crossed the border into Pennsylvania, I began to feel a little more freedom in the fresh air blowing in through my window.
My Datsun B210 was still new so I thought I would not have to worry about any kind of malfunction. I figured driving at 55 mph, doing about 10 hours a day, I would reach the Pacific Ocean in 5 days. I was in no hurry to complete my trip, although, I must admit I got somewhat excited every time I visualized myself driving into the city of Angels. And I did a lot of such visualization. Of course, every time I felt the excitement, I became a little impatient as well, tempted to step on the gas and go over the speed limit.
California! If I can not get warmth from people, at least I should live where the sun is always shining, I used to think.
Well, there was another thing that made my heart beat faster: thinking of Las Vegas. Once I am settled in Los Angeles, I thought, I would take the first weekend to visit those glitzy casinos… and win a lot of money at the Black Jack tables.
I spent 4 nights in Motels along the way. Since I drove relatively slowly, I could marvel at the scenery. I crossed the Mississippi at Memphis and continued through Oklahoma City on Highway 40. In Amarillo, Texas, I stopped at a real good steakhouse and my jaw dropped when I saw those North Texans wearing booths with their suits, white shirts and ties, plus their huge hats.
The sun was already going down on the fifth day when I was finally approaching the California border. The descent from the higher elevations of Arizona to the Colorado River gave me a good scare as the temperature was rising so rapidly I thought my car engine was on fire. My B210 had no air conditioning so I had to roll down all my windows. I pulled over a couple of times and looked under the hood but I saw nothing wrong with the engine. Finally, I was in Needles where I stopped at the first gas station and asked the attendant why it was so hot.
“Hot?” the attendant smiled. “It’s only 108 now. You should have been here at noon.”
“But why is it so hot?” I insisted.
“Because you’re pretty close to Death Valley my friend. Where are you headed?”
“Los Angeles.”
“It’ll be cooler for you in the California desert.”
Back on the road, I turned on the radio. The first station I caught just started playing Hotel California from the Eagles. What a high feeling I had as I crossed the bridge over the Colorado and saw the giant sign: Welcome to California, the Golden State.
I reached Los Angeles in the middle of the night. Coming in from Victorville on I-15, down the grade, the air began to smell different. It was not a very good smell I might add. Of course, I was so excited I could not care less about how the air smelled.
After driving for a long time on I-10, I changed Freeways when I saw the sign Pasadena. Off the Freeway, I was in a fancy looking neighborhood with huge mansions on both sides of the street. I found a parking spot between a Cadillac and a Jaguar, rolled up my windows, locked the doors and reclined my seat. It was after midnight, I did not want to go looking for a room in a Motel. The neighborhood appeared very safe. I leaned back and fell asleep.
The next morning I found a coffee shop nearby. I washed my face in the restroom and then I had a 3-egg omelet. I bought the Los Angeles Times and searched the real estate section. There appeared to be plenty of apartments for rent. I asked the cashier to give me dimes for 2 dollars. The public phone was right there between the restroom doors. The first place I called was a furnished studio on North Sycamore Avenue, about a half a block north of Hollywood Blvd. The manager, an elderly woman, was very friendly.
“Come and see the apartment if you are interested,” she said. “I’ll be here until noon.”
I found the address without any difficulty.
The apartment was simply but nicely furnished and it was very clean. There was a swimming pool under the Mediterranean style building and the flat roof was a sun bathing terrace with artificial lawn and a few folding deck chairs.
“Just look at this gorgeous view!” the manager said when she took me up to the roof.
“Nice. Very nice, indeed,” I said looking at the crowns of the palm trees that lined both sides of the street.
“So, do you want it?”
That was it. I signed a simple contract, paid first and last month, the manager gave me the keys and showed me my lot in the garage. What a difference compared to how things are done today when one has to fill out dozens of forms, pay an application fee and then wait – sometimes for days – for a decision.
The rent was $195 a month, probably a tenth of what it is today.
“Here is the number for the phone company,” the manager said. “Make sure you call them right away and give them your name. The phone is on that small night table next to the window.”
After I moved in, I drove to a supermarket to buy food and a few items for the kitchen. In the afternoon, I picked up the LA Times again and read the Help Wanted ads. There were a lot of teller positions advertised so I called a couple of banks.
Next day, I had an appointment at a downtown Savings and Loan Association across from Pershing Square. I was hired immediately with a salary of $800 a month.
The morning commute to work on the 101 Freeway was not bad but driving home in the late afternoon rush hour was often slow. The summer heat was bearable even without air conditioning in my car. What bothered me though was the smog. Of course, I was already used to the smell of the air. However, my eyes were burning most of the time. Fortunately, when I arrived home from the bank, the swimming pool was always unused. After swimming for twenty minutes or so, I usually felt refreshed ready to have dinner. By the time the lights of the city came on, I was often outside watching the nightlife on Hollywood and Sunset Boulevards.
One day in September, I met a nice girl at a downtown McDonald’s where I often went to have lunch. She was about my age, tall, very nicely dressed, very attractive. She worked as a sales lady in a Department Store. Her name was Camila. She was a daughter of a European man and a Mexican woman, a Chicano as such breed was referred to at that time.
After having lunch together a few times at McDonald’s, I asked her out. She agreed so I took her to a fine Japanese restaurant in the Hollywood hills where we had dinner. Next time out, we went to see a play of her choice, Zoot Suit. However, when I wanted to take her for a drive along the coast on Sunday, she declined.
“I don’t have time on weekends,” she said with her usual charming smile.
I wanted to ask her why but then I thought it was too early to ask such a question. So, on the weekend, I drove out of LA alone. Going north on 101, I did not stop until I reached Santa Barbara where I had a relatively nice day.
It is amazing how many strange ways friendships can begin. Here is one.
The sun was already setting when I drove through Ventura on my way home. I was in the wrong lane when I got to the Santa Paula Freeway, I had to exit. Trying to find my way back to 101, I found myself on Telephone Road. After crossing Victoria Avenue, I saw a woman in front of a townhouse so I pulled over.
“I need some help” I shouted out my window.
“What kind of help?” she asked walking toward my car.
“I am trying to get back to the 101 Freeway going south,” I said. At the same time, I got out my car and stepped over to her on the sidewalk.
“Oh, that should be easy.”
As she started giving me directions, a tall man came out of the house and hurried our way. He had some kind of gun in one of his hands.
“What do you want from my woman?” he asked in a very serious voice.
It was already dusk but I could see the mean look on his face.
“Come on, Brian!” the woman waved him down. “He is just asking for direction.”
In a few minutes I learned that Brian was actually a very friendly person. He took over from his wife explaining the best way to find the freeway.
“Where is your accent from?” he asked as I was getting back into my car.
This led to additional questions and we ended up having a lot of conversation. In fact, after Brian invited me in, I had dinner with them. His wife, Sofia, who was from a Mexican family, cooked the best enchilada I have ever had.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Brian asked me when I was finally leaving.
“I do,” I answered.
“Well, bring her up here with you next time. Come and stay with us for the whole weekend. You’ll cook Hungarian goulash for us Saturday evening, and Sunday we’ll go to the beach. I’ll show you my kites.”
They gave me their phone number and made me promise we would visit.
In the middle of October, Camila surprised me by offering she would cook a delicious Mexican dinner for me.
“Your apartment or mine,” she said. “You decide.”
I did not even know yet where she lived so I asked.
“Alhambra,” she answered. “It’s the other way from downtown.”
“That’s kind of far away, isn’t it?”
“No problem, I like Hollywood. We’ll do it at your place.”
This is how our 'real' relationship started. She stayed with me all night and I’d be lying if I said I did not enjoy hugging her.
Now I thought I had a little more right to ask sensitive questions. When we met for lunch at the usual place, I told her about my encounter in Ventura.
“Brian is a lucky man,” Camila said. “Mexican women are great wives. Sofia sure sounds like one.”
“Guess what! You and I are invited to spend a full weekend with them at their house… At least we can breathe some fresh air for a change.”
Camila smiled and shook her head.
I reached for her hand.
“Look” I said, “I know you told me you have no time for me on weekends.” I looked deep into her eyes. “May I know why?”
She hesitated.
I waited.
“All right,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll tell you… I am seeing another man… I met him months before I met you. He is an older businessman and he is very busy during the week so I can be with him only on weekends.”
“Wow!” I said. I felt like I was hit by a truck.
I let go of her hand and bit my lower lip. First, I did not know how to react.
“Is that a problem?” she asked after some silence.
“Is that a problem?!” I repeated the question raising my voice a bit. “Yes, it’s a problem all right.”
We were silent again for a while. A couple of times she took deep breaths as if she was ready to say something.
Finally, I decided to give her a choice.
“I think you like me,” I started. “I don’t know how much that other man means to you… Of course, you are free to do as you wish… but if you want to be my girlfriend, I have to ask you to stop seeing him… Sorry, I just can’t have it any other way. It’s me or him… And I need you to decide right now.”
At this time, she reached for my hand. She leaned over and kissed me.
“I’m glad you feel this way,” she said. “Now I know I mean a lot to you and that makes me happy. Of course, you are my choice. I will not see him again. That’s a promise. I’ll call him and tell him I met you and… and that I love you.”
So, the obstacle was out of the way, I could start organizing our weekend outing.
The next day I received an interesting letter from my father. He wrote that the court in Hungary finally had a verdict against me for escaping through the Yugoslav border the previous year: twelve months in prison, enforceable for five years. So, my father wrote, I would not advise you to come for a visit until 1983. He attached the official document that also stated that in addition to the prison sentence, all my personal property, including the Volkswagen car I left behind near the border, was confiscated. Since I had absolutely no desire to go to Hungary, the prison sentence did not bother me at all. As for the confiscation, I expected that. Stealing people’s property was what the communists were very good at… After I managed to escape, I sent the key to my car back to my father from Italy in a letter. By the time that letter arrived, the police already had visited my parents, informing them of my car had been found and taken over by the state.
Hungary was pretty much out of my mind most of the time. I only thought of my homeland when I thought of my parents, and even that did not happen too often anymore. One of the reasons I tried to forget the past was a recurring nightmare. In that dream I was back in the labor camp where I served my military time at age 20, and the point of the dream was that I would never be allowed to leave that camp. I usually woke up in a cold sweat and it always took some time to adjust to reality, to believe that the hellish camp was actually of the past.
On days when these nightmares made me depressed, after work I usually drove out to the beach at Santa Monica and watched the beautiful sunsets over the ocean. There were days when I picked Camila up and we went to see the setting of the sun together.
We did spend a few very pleasant weekends in Ventura. Brian and Sofia had an adorable 3-year old son who made us laugh falling flat on his belly in the deep sand of the beach over and over again while trying to get his kite up into the air.
Sofia worked at the Government Center, just across the street from their house. Brian had it harder as he had to drive every day to Los Angeles where he worked as a store manager. They were a very nice couple and I was very glad they considered me a friend.
I did not forget about Las Vegas. In December, I asked Camila if she would like to spend Christmas there.
“I’d like to,” she said, “but I just had some repair done on my car so my savings account has an almost zero balance.”
“Don’t worry about the expenses,” I said. “I have a couple hundred dollars put aside for this. It should cover gas, the motel and our food.”
“All right, let’s go then!” she said happily.
Well, she was not all that happy while we stayed in Las Vegas because I paid much more attention to the casinos than to her.
Camila was not interested in gambling. She even complained about how noisy the slot machines were.
For me, it was a different story. I was mesmerized. I had about fifty dollars to play with. Of course, I did not want to lose that money. I knew I had to try my luck, I just did not know where to start, what to play. Walking by the Keno station, I recognized the game as similar to Lotto which was played by just about everyone in Hungary.
“Let's sit down here,” I told Camila.
I read the instruction manual and I quickly learned how Keno worked.
“You just play. I have to go to the restroom,” Camila said.
“Before you go, give me five numbers between one and eighty.”
After I jotted down the numbers, she left. I went to the cashier and bought a $2 ticket with the numbers Camila gave me. I thought I would share the winnings with her in case the numbers were drawn.
Well, the numbers were drawn, all five of them, and I collected $400. By the time Camila returned, I was playing the same numbers in the next drawing. At that time, I did not win.
“Where did you get all that money?” she asked me later when I dragged her to a Black Jack table and bought chips for the $400.
“Just stand here behind me,” I told her. “I’ll double this money and then we’ll split it. You’ll have $400 and I’ll have $400.”
“Then we go and see a show?” she asked.
“Of course,” I replied.
Well, I did not double the $400. In fact, I lost it all rather quickly.
This experience would have probably sobered many other gamblers. Unfortunately, I did not belong to that group. Today, I do not hesitate to say that the world of casinos is dangerous territory where it is very easy to get lost. If the first attempts to brake free are unsuccessful, one can get trapped for good.
Driving back to LA, with Camila sleeping, I was thinking about my bad luck. I even thought that perhaps I was punished for not being ethical, for not sharing the $400 with Camila as I initially planned. I also thought that perhaps I lost at the Black Jack table because Camila was standing there behind me and I could not concentrate on playing. I concluded that one day I would have to go back to the casinos alone to enjoy the game and to recover the $400.
By the time we arrived back to Los Angeles, it was close to midnight. Camila suggested I spend the night at her place.
She lived in a nice 2-bedroom apartment in a two story building.
“Should I carry you upstairs?” she said laughing, seeing that I had a hard time keeping my eyes open.
While we were having breakfast in the morning, she surprised me with a proposal.
“Why don’t you move in here with me?” she said. “We could share the rent and both save a little.”
I did not dislike the idea. The apartment was nicely furnished and it was close to the Freeway.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll give notice to my apartment manager. I am paid for one more month so I can move on the first of February.”
“I’d be happier if you moved tomorrow,” she said with a big smile. “I’ll cover you for January.”
“You have a deal,” I replied.
She came around the kitchen table, hugged me and gave me a kiss.
“How about going back to Vegas for New Year’s Eve?” she said after returning to her seat. “I’ll get my year-end bonus in a couple of days. You don’t need to bring any money… unless you want to gamble.”
Before I had a chance to say anything, she added:
“But we are going to see a show this time, all right?”
“Of course,” I agreed.
So, I moved in with her.
Our second trip to Vegas was not much different from the first one. After I lost the fifty dollars I took with me to gamble with, Camila gave me another fifty, and I lost that, too.
January started out nice as I got a little pay-raise at work. Whenever I thought of New Jersey and New York with the snowstorms and the ice cold north winds, I was very happy I was in Southern California.
On the first weekend in January, Camila showed me a Help Wanted ad in the LA Times while we were having dinner.
“Look at this,” she said. “Great Western Savings and Loan Association is looking for an experienced teller for their Beverly Hills branch. They offer a thousand dollars a month salary. Why don’t you apply?! You could make some extra money. The branch is right on Wilshire Boulevard. Your commute would be a little longer; you would probably have to leave a few minutes earlier in the morning.”
Monday I called the branch, the manager interviewed me the next day, and I changed jobs the following week.
So, I thought everything was going very well for me… until Camila had another surprise for me in the second half of January.
“Can I talk to you about something?” she said one evening after we sat down to eat the burritos she made the previous night.
...
Click PART 2 in the Menu (upper left)
The Audio Book - with the title "Escapes from Myself " - is available from Audible:
AJÁNLOM AZ OLDALT
