DOWN AND OUT IN THE EASTERN SIERRA
Down and Out in Paris and London
George Orwell
Harcourt, Brace and Co.
213 p.
A few weeks ago, Lunch tasked me with reading George Orwell’s “Down and Out in Paris and London.” He told me it was a response to my tendency to drift into “Ulla land” when I write.
Meaning, I often float away from a central thesis, and into my own little dreamscape. Something my college advisor would call “portal hopping.” It’s helpful for creative writing, but less so for local journalism. Orwell, Lunch claimed, is the master of the drift.
“Down and Out in Paris and London” is semi-autobiographical, and centers on Orwell’s experience with poverty in both cities. In Paris, he writes about his experience as a dishwasher, and in London, he chronicles his time as a tramp. In both places, Orwell immerses himself deeply in the people he meets. Two characters in particular leave lasting impressions on him.
Boris, his right-hand man in Paris, with whom he finds dishwashing gigs, and Bozo, a tramp he meets in London, who introduces Orwell to the world of begging while grappling with notions of consciousness.
This novel traces the origins of Orwell’s political philosophy. It’s through his experiences with poverty in Paris and London that Orwell developed his nuanced understanding of class and power. In both cities, he finds poor people taking advantage of other poor people. He finds poor people who believe they should be rich people, and rich people who become poor people. All the while, he reports with unabashed honesty.
I loved this book. I loved it for Orwell’s descriptions of the experiences he has and who he meets along the way: desperate, starving, and yearning for a good time. I loved it for the gristly living conditions he inhabited, and his analysis of the social hierarchies that exist in his jobs. I loved it because in 213 pages, he opened the door of empathy to his readers.
Secretly, I loved this book because I see myself in a young Orwell.
I am not a dishwasher. I am not a tramp. I don’t live on the streets of Mammoth and pander for money.
But for the first time in my life, I am entirely on my own. In the eight months I’ve lived on the Eastside, I’ve lived in three different housing arrangements. For two of those months, I couch surfed between an assortment of friends and shared a twin sized bed in employee housing with my boyfriend. I’ve done laundry three times since the end of January. I picked up a third job. I have one day off per week.
As I’ve traversed through this new reality, I find that seemingly everyone around me is in a similar situation. Many hold at least two jobs. Waitress and barista. Inyo National Forest biologist and bartender. Radiology technician and high-end server. Blame it on inflation, or capitalism, or the ski bum culture. It’s what it takes to survive on the Eastside.
Through my time in the Sierra, I’ve found people to follow. Like Orwell’s Boris or Bozo, I’ve found my beacons in youth and hardship.
Take my dear friend who works both at Vulcania and Black Velvet. She often opens the coffee shop at 5 a.m., then clocks into Vulcania for the evening, tirelessly toiling to make lattes and bus tables. This month, she worked for 20 days straight.
She lives for when she’s not on the clock. A few weeks ago, when it was unseasonably warm, we banded together with two other friends to hike Reversed Peak in June. Afterwards, we picked through some items at the thrift store and then sat by the beach on June Lake and sipped homemade Shirley Temples. Pure bliss.
It’s moments like these that make me think of Orwell’s glimpses of luxury, when he and a fellow denizen scored and gorged themselves on an exquisite meal of bread, cheese, and fine wine. It’s times like these that make me wonder how my youth in Mammoth Lakes will change me.
If you are a drifter, or a dreamer, or crave to reminisce, then Orwell’s “Down and Out in Paris and London” is the book for you.
