By July 10, I still had not received confirmation of my participation in the project; instead, there came only a notification about a meeting scheduled for the following day.
On Friday, July 11, I had a call. On the line were two people from Human Resources — Lizeth Sanchez, Senior Manager, People Partner, and her colleague. They laid out the “options” without any hesitation: relocation to Serbia, Kazakhstan, or Turkey — or termination. For me, this did not sound like an offer but like a sentence to another exile. To live alone, without prospects, in yet another foreign country seemed like torture. I replied immediately: termination. That was not a gesture of defeat but a choice of freedom — a refusal to follow the imposed path. I said: Russia is my home. What would I do in those countries? In Russia, I would have more freedom, and if I joined a company, I would earn more.
From that moment, my countdown began. All the preceding days had been filled with tension, false hopes, and painful anxieties about the future. But now the situation had cleared: the fog was gone — it became unambiguously clear that I would have to leave America.
I decided to urgently change my surroundings, clear my head, and put an end to the evening beer sessions in order to preserve sober thinking. Serious, almost evacuation-like decisions were awaiting me. To regain my strength, I set out on a short journey.
On Sunday, July 13, at four o’clock in the afternoon, I packed into the car the branded “Tesla mattress,” a pillow, a blanket, my laptop, and a few personal items. Then I got behind the wheel and drove along Interstate 5 heading south, toward Los Angeles — my final journey across America that year, within the limits of that visa.
The road stretched through the plains of the Central Valley: fields, dry grass, endless rows of farms. By evening I made several stops, and when darkness fell, the highway grew almost empty. That evening I stopped at a Rest Area near Buttonwillow. There were plenty of open spots — the car parked easily, and I spread out the mattress right inside the Tesla, settling in for the night under the steady hum of the highway.
In the morning I continued my way to Los Angeles. I drove into the city, wandered around the streets for a bit, stopped at the library to browse some books, and then headed toward the ocean. By day I was at Venice Beach: I walked down to the water, dipped my feet in, gazed at the waves for a long time, and savored the roar of the surf. By evening I was looking for a place to stay the night. At first I circled along the coast, trying to find free campgrounds, but in the end I parked at a Vons supermarket and stayed overnight there.
The next morning I bought coffee at 7-Eleven and decided to go all the way down to San Diego. The trip was not long — only about two and a half hours. While driving, the Tesla’s autopilot gave me a serious scare: the car suddenly veered onto the toll FastTrak road, and I had absolutely no need to be there. I had to quickly take control and steer it back to the regular highway. But that turned out to be not so simple: I could not exit immediately — the road was fenced off with posts, and the stream of cars behind me left no room for maneuvering. I cursed aloud in frustration: getting in was easy, but getting out — good luck with that. Such a system only made me angry.
After noon on July 15, I was already in San Diego. My first stop was Embarcadero Marina Park North. There I took out the salads I had bought earlier and had lunch right at a seaside table overlooking the San Diego Bay. The air was filled with the fresh scent of the ocean mixed with the aroma of greenery, and yachts swayed gently on the water around me.
Then I went to Balboa Park — the cultural heart of San Diego. This huge park had been established in the late nineteenth century and was especially transformed for the international expositions of 1915 and 1935. Since then it has preserved picturesque Spanish Colonial buildings, ponds, gardens, and museums. Dozens of cultural and scientific institutions are gathered here, and the main jewel is the world-famous San Diego Zoo — one of the best in the world.
However, upon arriving there, I encountered a scene typical of San Diego: despite the enormous parking lot, there was not a single free spot. I circled for a long time until at last I noticed one inconspicuous space by a tree — the only salvation that day. Leaving the car, I went off to explore the park.
Reaching El Prado Street, I found myself among a bustling flow of people. Families with children, tourists with cameras, and students with backpacks walked all around. The air was filled with a blend of street food aromas and the fragrances of nature — flowers, fresh greenery, damp earth. Somewhere nearby music played, and a mime performed close by. I saw an entire gallery of museums and cultural centers spread out on both sides of the street.
The architecture recalled the expositions of the early twentieth century — graceful arches, carved facades, towers in the Spanish style. I especially liked the cool colonnaded corridors, where one could hide from the sun: the shade there was dense, and the drafts carried refreshing air. I even reached the Botanical Building, where the air was heavy with the fragrance of roses and moist tropical plants. There I wanted to linger longer, to enjoy that green silence.
In the middle of the day, while checking my email, I noticed a calendar event for July 16 at nine o’clock in the morning — an invitation from Human Resources. Panic gripped me instantly: I decided this was a forewarning of termination and that money would no longer be coming in.
By evening I drove to Aliso Creek Northbound — San Diego County Rest Area, about forty-five miles north of San Diego. This was the nearest free stop along the highway where one could spend the night in a car. When I arrived, it was not even ten o’clock yet, but almost all the spots were already taken. I was surprised — usually at such places in other parts of the state there were plenty of free spaces. I was fortunate, and I still managed to find one.
On Wednesday, July 16, I woke up early in my Tesla, went through my morning routine, and once again drove toward San Diego. That day I wanted to reach the very border of the United States and Mexico — to see the wall that stretched directly into the ocean.
When I arrived at Border Field State Park, where the road to the wall began, I checked the time — I had about forty minutes left. The call was scheduled for nine o’clock in the morning, and I hesitated for a while: should I go straight to the border and connect from there, or should I stay in the car, take the call, and only then set off? In the end, I chose the second option.
At exactly nine o’clock the call began. The same two people as on July 11 were on the line. The conversation started pleasantly and in good spirits. I said that I was in San Diego and wanted to visit the last few places in California. The man brightened up: “Oh yes, I think San Diego is the best city in California.” Lizeth remarked with a touch of envy: “I have never been there.” It all sounded almost friendly, as if we were talking not about work, but about life.
And then, after this short warm-up, without the slightest change of tone, came the main point: the man, in that same friendly voice, said — “Today is your last day.” I protested in outrage: how could that be — I still needed to pay for the apartment, how was I supposed to live? Then Lizeth spoke up. In that same soft, kind voice she explained that I would receive six weeks of severance pay — as if to calm me down. And then she added, almost casually: I was required to sign the documents that very day; only then would I be able to receive that money.
At the same time, I kept another critical detail in mind: my I-94 was expiring on August 19. Lizeth herself reminded me that I had an extra ten days beyond that, but even this did not feel like real insurance. I understood that I had almost no time left, and that every decision in that moment had become critically important.
Back then, I did not yet know that the actual agreement stated: the employee had seven days to review the document and the right to consult an attorney. Seven days to calmly re-read, seek advice, and think it over. But I was not given that time: “now or never.” On paper — one thing, in reality — another. My right was a fiction, crossed out in an instant.
Then followed the demand that I provide my personal email address, because by tomorrow my work email and all access would be shut down. This was how the cold corporate machine operated: step by step, according to protocol, without the right to pause. For them it was a standard algorithm — check off boxes, close the process, delete from the system. For me, it was a living blow, experienced in real time. I still remained a person with a future, with a fate, but for them I had already become just a row in an Excel sheet, slated for deletion. At that moment, I felt something inside me break.
When the meeting ended, I set off toward the border of Mexico and the United States, right on the coast. The road was not close: I had to leave the car two and a half kilometers away. But I made it there — and was overtaken by delight at the seashore itself. Seagulls circled in the air, flocks of them sat on the sand, small waves rolled in the ocean, and the sun poured everything with golden light. I pulled out my phone and began filming. A helicopter flew overhead, and I thought it was probably a border patrol.
I walked up to the wall itself — it was made of rows of metal poles with gaps between them. On the other side, Mexicans were playing soccer. It was surprisingly pleasant to watch and record this moment. At one point the ball rolled right up to the wall, and I could have easily pushed it back through the bars. Then the guys noticed me and ran up. We greeted each other, and they asked: “YouTube?” I smiled: “Yes.” They took down the names of my channels, I recorded a few more videos. After a while, tourists came to the beach, and soon I headed back to the car.
After that I went again to Balboa Park. There I visited the San Diego Model Railroad Museum — an entire pavilion transformed into a miniature world of stations, bridges, and railways. Toy trains rolled slowly along the tracks, and it all looked so vivid that it seemed as if I was looking at a real-life copy, just assembled in a reduced scale. Then I went into the San Diego History Center — a museum that focuses primarily on the city’s own past. In its exhibitions the history of San Diego came alive: photographs, archival materials, and everyday objects showed how it grew from a small settlement into a major center, step by step forming its character.
But time was relentlessly moving toward evening. I needed to get to the library, where I could quietly settle with my laptop and the internet in order to sign all the documents. That was how I ended up at the San Diego Central Library.
When I opened my email, I saw a message from Lizeth — inside was a whole package of files. Among them were a notice about unemployment benefits in California, brochures with support programs, the termination agreement, instructions on COBRA, and even the final pay stub. And separately in the letter she emphasized the NDA: the non-disclosure agreement continues to apply even after termination. That sounded especially cold, like the final reminder — “do not you dare say too much.” It was clear how the corporation trembled over every word, as if the very thought of truth frightened them.
I tried to get everything completed before the end of the business day. There was hardly enough time even to glance through the papers — I could not really study them in detail. I signed and immediately sent them back.
After that I once again drove to Aliso Creek Northbound — San Diego County Rest Area. This time I decided to leave a little earlier in order to secure a better chance of finding a free spot for the night.
The next day my email was closed, and I was disconnected from everything else.
