behind the mirage

My school likes to make us believe that we are special and privileged and should be happy to be there, because unlike university graduates we won’t be looking for work but will start working. Today, then they organised one of the many careers fairs, which again attracted a mass flow of enthusiastic final year students looking for a career and some odd youngsters hoping to find a summer job.

Yet, the fair was a slap on our elitist faces. The best any organisation or company could offer was an internship for six months. And only for a very limited number of students. Internships are generally an amazing and educative experience and due to their limited duration they offer an excellent way to try out the industry. However, when paid, that IF paid an intern in France will on average make 400€ per month and half of Carte Orange (the Parisian metro pass). This, when a 8square meter studio costs anything from 500 to 1000€ each month in terms of rent is obviously not the most attractive option for someone who has just spent five years, at least, studying.

One does not have to be a rocket scientist or even an economist to understand that when prices are skyrocketing and a greenback with two zeros is not enough for a barrel of oil, companies might just be more inclined to fire than hire. And hence the new leaders of the universe, holding a shining degree in their hand might instead of a warm welcome find themselves standing behind a closely shut door.

Ironically, had we all decided to be plumbers or electricians there would be more than 2500 open posts just in this city to choose from.  Instead of looking for someone to hire us we would be running away from the mounting workload ahead of us.

Luckily, unlike the plumber we always have the option of further study and this is often chosen, especially by those who have daddy’s credit card in their back pocket, as the second best or first best alternative to early mornings and time bound lunch breaks.  So maybe I should follow their lead and return to my books for another few years and hope that maybe by next time my employability has miraculously increased and I will, at the age of thirty or over, finally be able to get my first job.

Or maybe I should just put my feet up, spin the globe, choose a spot and see how far I can run – my second best option to waiting for a paycheque to fly me there.