In the fall of 2010, I was hired to be a waitress in a tiny but impossibly busy restaurant in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado where I was then living. Working out of a historic building where not a single splintery wall could be touched–much less refurbished or expanded–every spare inch of real estate was used in at least three ways. For example, the industrial toaster covered in wet rags became an improvised drying rack. We snuggled mugs into its corners to warm them up on cold mornings before serving our favorite customers coffee.

There were also certain corners of the restaurant where the wind would howl when a storm approached. A whistle from the north corner meant a cold, windy blizzard. When the southern corner piped up, it was usually late spring, or a sign of an impending wet, heavy snowfall. The restaurant’s floor also contained certain mysterious humps and lumps. Near the entrance, a cup on its side would roll clear out into the parking lot if someone held the doors open. Vacuming it at shift’s end was a gladiator event, between avoiding the humps, managing the self-knotting cord and trying to suck up all the shattered crackers and broken crayons left behind by boatloads of screaming children before the vacuum inexplicably died like it almost always did.

The hallway running from the host’s stand to the kitchen and dish pit was a slippery runway with more blind corners than a windy mountain road. It was therefore necessary to call out “Corner!” to avoid collisions. To the endless chorus of “Corner!” was the ceaseless hum of the industrial dishwasher and the clanking of plates, the incessant ringing of the bell above the front door signaling new clients, the clanking and cutting and stomping from tight, hot kitchen and, over the din, the bellows of our boss. Let’s call him Bob.

Clients and locals loved Bob, because he was generous with his portions, creative with his specials and could be a real charmer when the mood hit him. As nearly all restaurant owners, Bob was a massive character. He would bust around the corner and scare the skirt off of you to bombard you with trivia questions (What’s the most common food in Wisconsin? In what year was the Monte Cristo invented? Where did the word “currant” come from?) and then disappear before you had time to answer him. He also had a long list of pet peeves that had to be avoided like the plague: Improperly broken-down boxes, customers left standing by the front door for more than 2 seconds, hot food in the kitchen window for more than 1.5 seconds and unfilled water glasses on tables.

Bob also had his favorite servers and bartenders–the ones he would talk to more and get to know, who he’d ask to sample his specials and who got the better, more lucrative weekend shifts. Then there was the “other” group to whom he didn’t say much, but he also didn’t antagonize much. And then, there was me.

From the start, Bob made two things clear: I wasn’t a favorite, and he had little faith that I’d be there for long. He yelled at me so many times–usually in the midst of the lunch rush when there was already enough stress to drown in–that I would retreat almost daily to the only “quiet” place in the restaurant (the tiny bathroom). I’d have a good cry before running back out with a convincing-enough smile.

Yelling bosses aside, the restaurant wasn’t an easy place to learn how to be a waitress. In the winter, we only had to worry about the upstairs. There was a bar downstairs which was lively by night, and which by was unattended by day. No bartender meant we had to make whatever drinks were ordered ourselves. In the summer, a large patio was added and the capacity doubled. Thus, I often found myself downstairs making six margaritas with food ready in the window, a new table inside and two outside, a stack of bills to deliver–and a boss screaming at me from the most unexpected corner.

One last thing about Bob that I didn’t mention before: He had a little alcohol problem. He and his wife always threw the staff a Christmas party at their house, which I dreaded and looked forward to in equal measure. There was the Secret Santa exchange. The buffet dinner with incredible food Bob prepared. The shots in the kitchen. And at some point, drunken Bob doling out the only compliments I ever heard, somehow loosened up by a) the merriest day of the year; b) hosting us in his natural habitat; c) the perfect level of intoxication; d) all of the above.

The clock was teetering towards midnight at the eighth of such yearly Christmas parties when Bob lurched over and snaked an arm around my shoulders. I froze like one of the icicles twinkling outside the window.

“I didn’t think you were gonna make it at the restaurant,” he slurred loud enough for the whole room to hear. “But you made it! You really made it.” He slapped me on my back and disappeared as I stared into my vodka soda, half full of rage and half full of pride. For the last couple of years, I had had all the weekend shifts and was working a second job at a Fondue restaurant on top of a ski resort. They had taken one look at me–by then chiseled into an extremely good server by sheer pressure and stress–and hired me as their lead.

Looking back, I marvel at my own pluck and determination. Surviving in that environment was not easy, and yet I managed to. Sticking it out somewhere I was not wanted. The current version of Sylva, at almost 43 years old, would never imagine alighting anywhere she wasn’t wanted–and yet, I had to experience that feeling, I suppose, so that I would know what to steer clear of in the future.

That version of me was someone who had to survive. To get through the harsh winters at 9,150 feet/2700 meters. To make ends meet in an expensive ski town with pricy groceries and rising rent and seasonal jobs. Someone who was skating through an unhappy marriage hidden behind the beautiful stained glass of exotic travels and adventures by bike and on back country skis. Someone who allowed herself to get yelled at by a terrible boss for eight years. Someone who was desperately in need of a reinvention.

Change was welcome. Then, it was necessary. For a long time, I hovered between indecision and justification and “what if” until it all came crashing down around me anyway. My marriage ended (in flames). I quit my job. I had no idea what was next. I only knew two things: Whatever it was, it was finally happening, and I was ready to let it.

When I did, I naturally stopped going where I wasn’t wanted or desired, and instead went where I wanted, when I desired. What I desired then–and strangely the only thing that made sense–was to cycle across the United States of America on my own. And so I did.

But that’s a whole other story–and I’ve turned it into a book that I just started sending to agents. So, stay tuned…

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