Dear Unhappy Expat

Recently I was contacted by an expat website and they encouraged me to fill out a simple interview form – most likely so they could gauge how interesting I was and possibly feature me if I was deemed interesting enough. I haven’t filled in the form yet for many reasons (one reason being that I was forced to watch a minimum of three episodes of 24 each night so we could finish season 7. The things I set aside for Jack Bauer!)

One of the questions on the form is, “What is the best piece of expat advice you’d give?” Because I know many of you are, or were,  expats yourself (and I might not be interesting enough to be featured), I thought I wouldn’t wait until I submitted the form to tell you what I think.

We were in Yorkshire last weekend, visiting Scott’s family, and as we were driving through, I thought of an American woman that I know of who lives there. I don’t really know her but I know that she is unhappy there. I have suggested ways for her to get involved and ways for her to meet some expats. I’m not sure if she’s done either. I just know she’s still unhappy and my heart breaks for this woman who I don’t even know.

Because I remember that feeling. I was that woman.

I did not know how hard it would be to move abroad and I probably had a lot more experience with it than most expats. I’d lived abroad as a child. I’d also studied in England when I was in college and then returned for an extra six months after graduation. I had worked abroad. I knew people here. I thought I was set.

I was wrong. It wasn’t like I was moving here for a year or two and seeing where life would take me. It’s very different to move somewhere knowing that this is potentially forever. It’s very different to move somewhere for somebody.  It was suddenly very real. It was like ok, you’re married, here’s your husband, here’s your home, here’s a job, run with it. But what if I hate my job? What if I miss my friends? What if I made a mistake? What if it never gets any easier?

At first, I was filled with excitement and hope and I really wanted to embrace my new life. Everyone told me that a job would come, don’t worry, enjoy being newlyweds.

A job came up sooner rather than later and I took it. I would quickly realize this wasn’t the job for me but I was so conscious of being dependent on Scott – too dependent – that I really wanted to stick it out. It was important to me to feel like I was contributing and really jumping into life over here.

While I had made some friends, I was missing all my old friends. The ones that know me. The ones that I can just see for lunch and fall back into step with, no matter how long it’s been. I was tired of making new friends – making friends as an adult can sometimes be just as stressful as dating! I would come home and tell Scott that I had met someone, someone I could see myself being friends with. A potential friend target was in sight!

And Scott…well, he had a lot to deal with too. I know now that everything I said I didn’t like about living here was a direct blow to him. I thought I was just venting but for him, it was me picking apart a life he was trying so hard to build for us. I know that now. It’s certainly something I’ll have to think about if we ever move to the US. I’m not sure I could deal well with having someone’s happiness resting on me. I don’t know if I could do it.

Anyway, I thought about all these things last weekend. I wished I could stop by this woman’s house and ask her to go for a walk or go for a beer. And I could tell her what happened to me because I’ve been there. There was a time when I really doubted if this was the place for me and now? Now I think it really is.

So what happened?

Well, a lot happened. I got out of that shitty job. I made more friends. We moved somewhere with a bit more space. Those are the easy answers.

But honestly no job, no amount of square footage, no new friends, made me change so much as I made myself change. And what I would tell this woman is that it’s all up to her.

Only you can make yourself happy.

Not to go all Trainspotting on you, but only you can choose to be happy. It really is just a choice. If you’re unfulfilled in your job or if  you keep missing those potential friend targets, make a change. Widen your circle. Put yourself out there a little bit more. Give this new place everything you’ve got before giving up on it.

If that doesn’t work, call me. I’ve got room in my circle.

Stay where you are

I intended to write a lot more often when I was in the US. I figured I’d have the time since I’d probably be up early with jetlag and Scott wouldn’t be there and I was sure I’d have more downtime. But somehow, I didn’t.

Or I did but I chose to spend it watching TLC, reading on the deck, getting reflexology*, and spending way too much money at the outlets.

*(Who knew by squeezing your toes you could ease pain in your sinuses? I tried to do it myself but it didn’t work. I plan to show Scott how to do it tonight.)

Speaking of Scott, him not being there only added to my busy schedule. Suddenly I found myself in stores without him saying, “Do you really need that?” and “Where are you going to put those?” and “No more shoes!”

So, that’s why you haven’t seen me on here more often. I was buying shoes and replenishing my supply of Bath & Body Works hand soap and paying extortionate rates for someone to squeeze my little toe while Enya plays in the background.

Oh, and I was spending time with my friends and family. Every minute I could. You see it’s not so easy anymore. Turns out my friends and family have their own lives and they aren’t just waiting for me to come home. The nerve!

This was the first visit home where I stayed with my parents without at least one of my sisters living there. It was so much easier when they lived at home. They may have still worked during the day but at least we got to hang out at night. Now it’s all about scheduling their free nights and working around HOV lane openings and battling DC traffic.

A lot of my friends from high school have moved away and I am lucky whenever I can see any of them. I actually do get to see some of them more than I ever thought I would. I should really be grateful.

I can’t help but be selfish. My sisters are talking about moving away and I find myself thinking up reasons for them to stay. The unspoken truth is that as my friends and relatives get new jobs, settle down, break up, move away, have babies, just simply live, it makes this harder. When I’m the one coming and going, it’s easier. I want them all to stay just as they are. I’ll always come back. Don’t go. Don’t change.

I never come right out and say it though. I know how unfair that would be. Why should I be the one allowed to move away? Why should they stay?

So I keep my mouth shut and wait to guilt them with a blog post.

But he has to be into you!

Let me make something clear. This is not going to be one of those posts where at the end, I say how happy I am to be married and not doing the dating thing.  Not because that isn’t how I feel but because I find it obnoxious. Single friends reading this – don’t worry, I won’t go all smug-married-person on you.  I hate when people do that.

Maybe it’s because I like listening to other people’s problems. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had my fill of bad dates. But I actually enjoy hearing about my friends’ dating escapades. I like helping them* by going out and having a good time with them. Sometimes they meet people, sometimes they don’t. I would hate to miss out on all the laughs just because I’m married.

*Ok, ok. I just like going out – helpful or not.

I’ve lamented before about the lack of good-quality, single men out there.  A Male Friend once told me that all the 20-something guys are dating 18 year olds because the 20-something girls are all dating 30- something guys. Then when the 20-something girls, now close to being 30, find themselves single again , there are no guys around their age because they are all dating those 18-25 year old girls.  The Male Friend is right.  Damn those 18 year old girls.

All hope cannot be lost though. A quick look at my friends’ match.com and mysinglefriend.com’s accounts prove that there are single men out there looking for single women like my friends. They’re exchanging winks and favorite-ing each other. Once they send a message, the game begins.

And as much as they don’t want to refer to their dating lives as a game, they have to because that is exactly what it is.  It’s a game that takes constant attention and effort. My friend – we’ll call her Katie – is on match.com and has had a few successes in the past but nothing panned out in the end.

She took a break from the site because it took too much effort to keep up with the correspondence and she was busy with friends and it was the holidays blah blah blah.

Truth is, she was just tired of it. The roller coaster effect of finding someone, exchanging messages, going on a date, being slightly disappointed by the date, exchanging more messages, feeling positive about a second date, having a good second date, kiss on the cheek, obsessing over what that means,  decide it’s sweet and respectful, ignore the fact that you really wanted a big fat kiss on the lips, send text, don’t receive a text back until two days later, decide not to send him a text until three days later, then get really annoyed when you haven’t heard from him in a week.

See, it’s a game.

The thing I first noticed about online dating is that – in general – it seems women put in more effort with their profiles.

First, you’ve got the photos. Maybe it’s because men don’t take cameras with them everywhere they go, but you should see some of the photos up there.  It’s like they had two from their office Christmas party, one of them drunk at a music festival last summer, and one post-coital pic their ex took. Sometimes they don’t have enough photos of themselves and upload photos of their cars, motorbikes or a sunset from a recent vacation.

Women, on the other hand, have a billion photos to choose from and selecting five or six takes up a whole afternoon. You want to look good but you also want to look realistic. You need at least one that shows below the shoulders.

To complement the photos, you can also pick from a list of  preset adjectives to describe your interests, drinking style, job/income, and body type. We saw a guy who said he was “heavyset” and we’re pretty sure he doesn’t know what that word means unless he’s one of those guys who actually has a slew of very flattering photos.  Or as my friend, Maria, pointed out, “Sounds like he has body issues. This could be a good thing!”

Then you’ve got the profile they have to write about themselves which is no small feat. To write Katie’s profile, three of us spent a Saturday emailing drafts back and forth. To write Maria’s mysinglefriend.com profile, we did our nails and went through three bottles of wine trying to come up with 150 words. And the whole point of mysinglefriend.com is that your friend writes the recommendation, you don’t even have to write it yourself.

I don’t know about you but I can’t see a group of guys sitting around, drinking beer, and writing match profiles for each other. Which is why, in most cases, they leave a bit to be desired. It is not uncommon to hear the girls dismiss guys over lack of information or bad grammar. I’m with them on the bad grammar and complete disregard for punctuation i mean how annoying is that could they not even be bothered to spell-check this is a representation of themselves they should be ashamed!

It makes it all the more wonderful then when you run across a profile where the guy is the next Nicholas Sparks (or has asked his sister to write it). One potential suitor wrote, “I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for but I have a picture in my mind of a morning spent lazing together on the sofa, newspapers strewn about, filling the time between a full English breakfast and a late afternoon Sunday roast.”

Suddenly I’m imagining myself reading a newspaper with this man!

So you exchange messages. You ask each other about different things mentioned in your profile – you ask about his trip to New Zealand, he asks what red velvet cake is. You spend your evenings trying to craft witty and interesting responses. You count the days until you receive a message back. You try not to freak out when he suggests talking about his trip in person.

You arrange to meet for drinks on a Thursday. You make your friends come over and drink white wine, give you pointers on things to talk about and assure you are showing just enough cleavage.

You have your date. It may or may not be wonderful. It’s always weird meeting someone in person after having an image of them in your head. You wonder if he’s happy with who you turned out to be. You text your friends on the way home and begin the next part of the game.

The thing about online dating is that everyone is on there, trying to meet someone. It’s not like when you go to a bar and casually meet someone. If it doesn’t work out, you can both make some excuse about not really wanting to meet someone anyway but with online dating, we all know what’s happening here.

You’re all looking for someone and while he’s out with you, he might have two witty and interesting messages waiting in his inbox from someone else.

The competition – this is is the hardest part.

If match.com has to put commercials on the TV announcing that they’ve just had a huge batch of men join, you can pretty much guess that there are more amazing single women on there than men. You’ve got stiff competition.

As the friend, as the one not dating, this is the hardest part for me too. I love my friends. I think they are amazing women. I don’t understand how someone wouldn’t like them.

When a guy Maria was seeing seemed to be messing her around, canceling at the last minute, giving mixed signals, I couldn’t tell her to cut him loose. I knew she liked him, or at least wanted him to like her, and I couldn’t bring myself to suggest that maybe he just wasn’t that into her. Look at those photos we chose! Read how cool you sound on your profile! You’re so fun and pretty – he has to like you!

When she told her story to The Male Friend, he listened. The Male Friend stayed quiet as Maria explained how the guy seemed interested – he told her this and that, he was the one who asked her out  in the first place, but going two weeks without a date, what did it all mean?!

Katie and I stood nearby, listening to the story for the fifteenth time, nodding sympathetically.  Just as I was about to say something like, “Maybe he’s really into you but he doesn’t know how you feel and he’s scared,” The Male Friend spoke up.

‘Dump him and move on.”

It was that easy to him. The facts were on the table and it didn’t matter what The Male Friend thought about Maria. It was clear as day to him. The guy was not interested and Maria should not waste any more time thinking about it.

But that would be too easy. Instead when the guy canceled their date again, we all sat on Maria’s bed, thinking of something she could say in response. We knew it would be the last time she would be in contact with him. She wanted to play it cool but also let him know that she wouldn’t be hanging around for him again.

“Can I add an exclamation mark?” Maria asks.

Katie and I both say no.

“But I like them and I usually include them.”

Katie says it will sound like she’s yelling at him. We thought she wanted to play it cool.  She says she is and this will show she doesn’t really care…it’s more of a happy exclamation mark.

“So you’re happy that he canceled? You’re happy that he’s not interested?”  I ask, knowing the answer already.

The tone of exclamation marks does not come across well via text but we still debate it. In the end, she sent it exclamation mark-less.

However, my thoughts on this are not exclamation mark-less.  Throughout this process, I have continuously pointed out that we sound as though we could be in the movie “He’s Just Not That Into You.” We laugh and all agree but we don’t change because honestly, how can they not be into them?!

There is no moral to this story. Or at least not one that I’m willing to accept.  I have three other friends asking me to help with their online dating profiles and I have yet to be able to say that my help has led to a success story.

But, friends, I swear I will never say, “God, I’m so lucky to have found someone!” and wax lyrical about how nice it is not to be dating anymore.  Instead, I will promise to help, to listen, to drink wine, to edit your text messages and to tell you your rack looks amazing in that shirt.

(Not) desperate (but still) seeking

Scott was away for a bachelor weekend in Poland so I decided to host a slumber party. I lured my friends all the way out to Hertfordshire on Friday with the promise of good food and a possible Chuck Bass sighting.

Considering we didn’t leave my flat until 1pm the next day, we did not see Chuck Bass. Sadly he does not live in my closet. (If he did, I would not be inviting girls over on the weekend my husband was away. I’m just sayin’…)

A sleepover at 26 is not that different from a sleepover at 16. We swapped Mountain Dew for pink champagne and prank calling boys for writing dating profiles for each other. We painted our nails and listened to music. We laughed until it hurt. We went to bed when we felt like it.

On Saturday morning, my friend dropped a bottle of top coat nail polish down the toilet. It broke and the nail polish coated the toilet bowl. We had to fish the broken glass out with a slotted spoon.

I wasn’t sure what the best course of action was to remove as much of the nail polish as possible. We decided on a combination of bleach, toilet cleaner, and nail polish remover. Then we closed the lid and the door and slowly backed away, praying there wouldn’t be a horrific explosion of any sort.

It could have been worse. It could have been dark purple nail polish. Plus it’s not a slumber party if there isn’t at least one mishap like this. And a nude pillow fight. Right after we compared breast sizes.

One thing that doesn’t ever change about slumber parties is the amount of time spent talking about guys. Or should I say, the lack of them.

I have quite  a few single friends and I love to listen to the stories of their dating triumphs and woes. Because I have been with Scott since I was 16, I missed that part of life. I find it exciting to think about my friends meeting someone for the first time – the emotions, the what ifs, the analysis after every phone call, email, date, kiss.

My friends are not so excited about this. It’s not that they necessarily want to be married, or even in a serious relationship. They just want to find someone to have fun with, someone to feel comfortable with. To stop worrying about finding someone, to stop agonizing over whether he will or won’t call. They want to be pursued but if they can’t be pursued, they want to know who they pursue won’t reject them. They want their Plus One. It’s their turn.

All the single women I know are attractive, intelligent, successful and funny. And I am not just saying that because they are my friends/relatives/coworkers. I am saying it because it is absolutely, without a doubt, the truth.

All the single men I know are also these things. Really, they are. The problem is I just don’t know that many single men.

Where are they?

My mom is convinced they are all holed up in their houses, playing video games. My friend believes every single man is gay, until proven otherwise. It doesn’t help that I recently read an article about single men dying earlier in life than married men.

When I think about what it would be like if I were single, I don’t even get to the part about worrying about finding a guy. I worry about the competition I’d be up against. My friends/relatives/coworkers are that good.

On Saturday,  we had a girls’ night out and danced the night away in North London. We had a great time and we didn’t need to meet men to have fun, though I know that if my friends all had, it would have been just that little bit more fun.

One of my friends did meet a  guy towards the end of the night. Turns out he was a plumber/songwriter and just visiting London for the weekend. She took his number but the next day, she decided she wouldn’t use it. Instead, we said we’d do another girls’ night out soon.

In the meantime, is it wrong to want my friend to text the plumber/songwriter for advice on removing nail polish from the toilet pipes?

Crack the code

I always laugh when I see products at the supermarket that are branded “American.” Tesco has a line of condiments named after a few US states.  I didn’t know Kentucky was known for tomato relish.

And then on one Sunday morning trip to Waitrose, I saw this:

And I had to get it because I was intrigued. American coating? Do we have a special coating? After tasting it, it was neither particularly tasty nor American.

I was telling my English friend about this find and the conversation went something like this:

“They were called American coated chips.”

She replied, “Coded?”

“I know, American coated! What’s American about it?”

“Coded? What are American coded chips?”

“Exactly,” I exclaimed.  “What do they mean?”

“Some sort of special code?”

Lots of confused looks. And then the lightbulb goes on.

“No, coating. C-O-A-T-I-N-G.”

“Ooooooh, coating.”

And to think we speak the same language.

Being thankful was so last week

I am having one of those no good, very bad days. I really don’t have them often but when I do….whew.

Everything that could go wrong this morning did. The alarm clock on my T-Mobile G1 is finally working for me so when it went off, I was actually glad to hear it. And then it just kept going and going. I couldn’t stop it. Then the screen went dark and I couldn’t get it to turn back on. I tried the old “shut down and reboot” method but the phone wouldn’t shut down. I stuffed it under the pillows in an attempt to muffle the alarm and got on with getting ready.

I finally got the phone to turn off as I was walking out the door. I went down the lift and out the door and realized I forgot my umbrella. Back up the lift, grab my umbrella, go back down the lift. On the first floor it stops. A guy gets on and presses second floor. I tell him the lift is going down. He presses the second floor again and the lift stops. We’re between floors. The guy starts hitting all the buttons. This is what all humans seem programmed to do and this is something I would have done but I know this lift. And it’s absolute crap and pushing too many buttons totally confuses it.

I thought my luck was turning around when I heard someone else call for the lift. It jerked the lift back into service and I only had to go up to the fourth floor before I could get off at the ground level.

Normally when it’s raining, Scott gives me a ride to the station but since he was away with work, I had to walk. My umbrella flipped inside out (even though it said “non-flip-outable” or something like that on the packaging) no less than ten times before I just gave up and walked the rest of the way without it.

I missed my train and had to get the slow one but thought, hey, this means I can watch a whole episode of Gossip Girl before work. As I settled into my seat, I turned on my ipod, selected my episode, and then watched as Serena’s face froze on my ipod. Then it went black. I was thisclose to smashing my ipod against the window and crying, Noooo…not Gossip Girl. Don’t take this away from me today!

Somehow I made it to Kings Cross after nearly 45 minutes of nothing but watching the woman across from me paint her nails.

I stood outside the station, waiting for my bus. Every bus that came by was packed. Typical. Finally I saw a bus with space pulling over to the station and just as I was walking towards it, another bus sped past and sprayed a huge puddle all over my legs. Of course everyone was looking at me, thinking, ooooh, she didn’t want to stand that close to the street, did she? So I just pretended like I didn’t even feel the cold water seeping through my socks and I didn’t care that my jeans were now splattered with mud.

It’s a miracle I wasn’t hit by a bus. There’s still time, I suppose.

In the meantime, I’ll share some photos from our Thanksgiving on Saturday. I was very thankful that day.

I was thankful that the extra oven rack I ordered arrived in time and we were able to fit the turkey in there.

I was thankful that we managed to cook all of this without setting off the smoke and heat alarms (but that was because we put pieces of tape over the censors. And yes, we took them off when we were done baking.)

I was thankful for friends who helped me celebrate (and didn’t mind wearing paper hats.)

I was thankful for our new flat. We could actually play Wii games without having to straddle the coffee table.

I was most thankful no one spilled anything on my new chair even if it meant Neil, the most accident-prone man on earth, had to drink out of a sippy cup.

Oh, look, the sun has come out.

That means my chances of getting shat on by a bird have just gone up.

Stupidity Tax: 100 euros

We were in Barcelona this past weekend celebrating a friend’s 30th birthday. We had been to Barcelona before so it was nice to just chill out this time – drinking sangria, eating tapas, browsing the markets, and hanging out with friends.

The chilling out stopped abruptly at 9:04pm on Sunday evening when we realized we were not on a train to the airport. Instead, we were on a train heading down the coast of Spain.

There were several red flags – like the fact that we were on a cushy, high speed train and that maps of  the whole of Spain were where maps of Barcelona would be – but you know what they say about hindsight.

When the ticket collector asked for our tickets, you could see the irritation in his face when he said we were not on the right train and not only were we going entirely the wrong direction, we also wouldn’t be stopping for another 45 minutes.

We couldn’t do anything except sit there and watch as Barcelona, and the airport, got further and further away. When the train finally stopped, we ran out of the station to find a taxi. We had just under an hour to get to the airport before our flight left and even then we probably would not make the flight.

Luckily Scott speaks Spanish so he was able to explain that we had taken the wrong train and needed to get to the airport as soon as possible. The taxi driver wouldn’t make any promises but we decided it was our only option. We waved goodbye to our friends who would be waiting for the next train back into the city as they did not have a flight to catch.

My stomach was in knots at the thought of missing the last flight of the night, having to sleep in the airport and paying for new flights on Easyjet. When I’m in these situations (and this sort of thing has happened before) I like to just sit there, in silence, praying and hoping and wishing that it all turns out ok.

Scott likes to talk. It’s probably the only time he likes to talk. He likes to give me a running commentary on what time it is, how long we have to go, how expensive the taxi will be, where we’ll go if we don’t make the flight, etc. Every two minutes he would tell me the time and say, “We’re never going to make it.”

Needless to say, it was a long drive where I had to hold myself back from strangling Scott in the backseat. After all, I needed him to communicate with the driver.

Of course, when we arrived at the airport, we didn’t have any cash and Scott went sprinting all over the airport looking for a cash machine. I watched him go back and forth behind the glass windows. The taxi driver made judgmental clicking noises with his tongue and asked, “London?”

I replied, “Yeah, if we make the flight!” But the taxi driver had exhausted his English with just the one word and could only give me confusing looks.

Scott returned, paid the taxi driver, and we ran to departures. Only to look up at the departures screen and see that our flight had been delayed for over two hours. We stood there, panting and laughing and then cursing our luck. If only we had known before risking our lives in a crazy taxi ride and forking over 100 euros!

We agreed that it could have been much worse and settled for paying the stupidity tax and vowing to always allow extra time to get to the airport. Oh, and to double-check what train we’re on.

We finally got to sleep around 4am and I was up for work at 6am. It was rough but worth it.

We stayed in Barcelo Raval hotel – it was awesome and it’s only been open for a month. I definitely recommend it.

I loved all the window coverings in Barcelona.

We had beautiful, warm, sunny weather in Barcelona. Now we’re back to London where tonight it will be colder than Iceland and Moscow. It even snowed.

Like rush hour, but fun

It is not uncommon for me to sit across from an impeccably dressed businessman on the train and as I’m opening my magazine, he’s opening a can of beer. Some would say it is the perfect way to wind down after a rough day at the office.

As of June 1, no one is allowed to crack open a brewski on the London underground. This won’t change what I see on my commute since drinking booze is still allowed onboard the overland trains but it has outraged people. Especially since this is the first piece of legislation the new mayor of London has pushed through. Talk about priorities!

About a month ago, we started to see promotional material about the upcoming ban on drinking and carrying open containers of alcohol on the Tube. Soon after, groups started forming on facebook and suddenly everyone was talking about “Last Orders” – a party on the Circle Line the night before the alcohol ban.

We didn’t intend on being part of the celebrations but if you were in London on Saturday night and you were using public transport, you could not have missed the party. And we actually had alcohol on us since we had just come from a BYOB restaurant and we overestimated the amount of alcohol we’d actually drink with our Indian meal. So we passed around our bottles and joined in.

We stood on the platform at Aldgate East and waited and waited for our train. Several trains past, filled with people. And this was the District Line, not even where the party was. Six stations closed due to overcrowding.

What we saw on Saturday night was a true testament to the powers of social networking sites. Sadly as the BBC reported, some party-goers got out of hand and several people were hurt. But for many, it was, as one party-goer said, “Like rush hour, but fun.”

Here are some photos from the night (taken from readers’ photos on thelondonpaper.com and bbc.com)

People dressed up as the new mayor, Boris Johnson:

And a video I took of some action at Aldgate East station before it was closed. What you’re seeing is a packed train and you’re hearing the shouting and screaming of the cocktail party.

Wishing you a lifetime full of happiness and chili cheese dogs

As a freshman at Ohio University, I was lucky to meet some of my very best friends in the first week of school. I have my first roommate to thank for that. She introduced me to her friends from high school and then they introduced us to their friends and their neighbors in the dorms and so on. Within the first week I already had a group of girls to sit with at the dining halls, to watch (and cry over) Felicity together, and cram for economics exams.

Just a month into our freshman year we went on a trip to the Circleville Pumpkin Show. I can’t remember why it only ended up being me, Alli and Carla who wanted to go. Maybe because it was a pumpkin show. But anyway, Carla’s high school boyfriend, Adam, was visiting and she brought him along too.

It was still early days in our friendship. We were still learning about each other and figuring out who liked what and when who dated who and how who met who when. We roamed the stalls at the festival. We ate funnel cakes and caramel apples. We posed in front of the winning pumpkins (and the world’s biggest pumpkin pie). We watched the Little Miss Pumpkin Parade. We somehow missed the hog-calling contest.

Adam was quiet and walked with us as we prattled away about celebrities, shoes, female issues, etc. Carla was talkative and loud and funny. Adam was patient and easy-going. He never seemed to get annoyed at all the aimless walking or the ridiculous conversation. He was quickly moving up in my books.

Several different kinds of fair food later, Carla spotted a hot dog stand. She shrieked with delight and ordered a large sausage with the works. Onions, cheese, mustard, ketchup, etc. She ate as she walked and talked.

We stopped to look at something – I can’t remember what- but Alli and I both stared at Carla instead. The onions were dropping out the bottom of the bun. Ketchup and cheese were squirting down the front of her top. We whispered, “There’s stuff all over your face, Car!”

Alli grabbed a stack of napkins and started wiping Carla’s face before Adam turned around.

Carla held up both hands, sausage in one hand and said, loudly, “Who cares? I don’t care! Adam doesn’t care!”

And then we looked at Adam. I will never forget the look on his face. He was looking at Carla like she was the most beautiful girl in the world, cheese sauce and all.

Carla and I lived together our sophomore year and those are some great memories. But I am most grateful for the memories I don’t have. She never booted me out when Adam came to visit. I did, of course, respect their alone time but I will forever be grateful for them respecting me as well. (Sadly I can’t say the same for my freshman roommate but that’s another blog entry.)

I’ll never forget the phonecall I got just weeks before we were due back to school that September. It was Carla and she was calling to tell me she was switching majors and transferring to Adam’s school. I had seen it coming but I didn’t want to think about it. I knew I’d have my other friends (and they are fabulous friends) but I was sorry to see her go, though I couldn’t blame her for wanting to be closer to Adam.

If you find a man who loves you with onion breath and liquid cheese stains, you don’t let him go.

You marry him.

And that’s what Carla did today.

These are the very times when I wish I could jump in my car and drive all night to be there. The times when I curse the fact that I have to have my passport to leave this island. The times that I am reminded of this huge ocean between us and that there will be many more things I won’t be around for. But most of all, these are the times when I feel like I’m missing out on the things I miss most – my friends.

I’m so happy for you guys. You made it.

Indefinitely

I’m getting used to it here. And I’m getting used to the idea that this is home now. Scott thinks I say “back home” too much. He wonders when or if I will ever consider this home. And in a way that maybe only other expats can understand, I do feel like I have a lot of homes, not just here or there.

While I consider our flat “home” I will always think of where my parents live and where I spent most of my years growing up as “home.” Even though my parents don’t even live in the house I grew up in. Even though I moved around a lot as a child. I still consider where they are as “home.”

A couple weeks ago, when I was taking my Life in Britain test…I sat in this test centre with eight other people all going through the same thing. As the proctor explained the test, I felt a lump rise in my throat and the tears stinging my eyes. I’m getting a new home. It hit me. It overwhelmed me. And it was a little bit of sadness mixed with contentment and a pinch of excitement.

I don’t ever think about forever. It’s too scary. But I think about the next ten years…though the next five are daunting enough. I wonder if I’ll be here or back in the US. Or maybe somewhere completely different. And it makes me feel a bit down because I know wherever we go, we’ll leave someone behind. Lately it’s been me doing the leaving.

This past week I was left. And it hurt.

I’ve been left before. Having had a long distance relationship for eight years allows for a great deal of emptiness. I’ve been the person standing at the airport, waving and crying on the other side of security control. I’ve been the person waiting to see the car turn the corner so that I could close the door.

I’ve had family visit. And I’ve been there when they’ve left. But everytime I knew when I’d see them again. I felt better about saying goodbye. I always had a plan. I like plans. I feel good about things when there is a plan.

Right now, there is no plan. It made last week very hard.

My friend, Christine, was visiting from New York. We met in 2004 when we studied in London. We also met Jane (who has been mentioned on here before) and we became great friends. Jane now lives in London and I get to see her often. (I’m not sure what I would do without her and fear the day she decides to move back to the US. Thankfully, she doesn’t have a plan either.) But Christine…I rarely see her and though Jane and I keep in contact with her on a regular basis, it just isn’t the same.

I never thought Christine would really come visit. All of my friends have told me they want to visit. Many have actually talked seriously about it. A few have even researched flights and asked when would be the best time. But I know how it is…between limited vacation time and limited funds, it’s hard for anyone to actually commit to coming.

In the past two years of living here “indefinitely,” none of my friends have made the trip. Christine was the first. Jane and I were thrilled when Christine announced she had booked her flight and we spent a lot of time planning her visit. When she got here, we literally never stopped. I have the undereye circles to prove it.

Moving far from home has shown me who my real friends are and don’t worry, they aren’t just the ones that manage to make it over here for a visit. But they are the ones who I can meet up with after not seeing for months, maybe years, and we fall right back into place. We just pick up where we left off. That’s how the past week has been.

Saying goodbye to Christine was difficult. I never got to say anything that I thought I would. When you’re there in the moment, the words get caught somewhere between your heart and your head. But I wanted to tell her I was so grateful she chose to spend her vacation time and money to see me, to see my life here. And to thank her for not forgetting about me and wanting to be a part of my life no matter where I end up spending it. Having a friend or relative from “back home” visit somehow makes me feel better about having a home here.

Which brings me to Lisa. It was also Lisa’s last week here. I wanted to make Christine’s visit, and Lisa’s last week in the UK, memorable. I wanted to spend enough time with both of them individually. I wanted to make sure I had time to say goodbye to each of them properly. It was in my plan.

So on Saturday night-their last night- we stayed up until the early hours of the morning. And when Christine and Jane went to bed to rest up for Christine’s afternoon flight, I stayed up with Lisa for the last hour until her taxi came to take her to the airport.

She got ready to leave as I dozed in and out of sleep. At 5:50 am, we struggled to get her suitcases out the door. We stood just inside, waiting. I suddenly got that lump in my throat. I didn’t know what to say. She’s my sister. We’re very close. I don’t know if that made it easier or harder.

Then the black cab pulled up. The lump grew bigger. It was dark and we stood on the patio, the only light coming from the television inside. She looked at me and tried to smile, but she burst into tears instead. And I felt it. The lump was choking me and the only thing I could do was let it go. So I did. I cried.

We hugged each other and then stepped back. We both tried to speak but nothing came out. So we hugged again, only this time tighter.

Why is it so hard to say the things that mean the most to you? Or to the people who mean the most to you?

She has been living with us for six months and I thought that was a long time. In that moment, I wanted to say, “When will I see you again? When will I ever spend this much time with you again?” Even though I know neither of us knows when we’ll see each other next. But we both know we’ll probably never spend this much time together again. And that…that is a long time.

I watched the cab turn the corner and I closed the door. I was home and she was going home. The lump in my throat didn’t go away for days.

And that’s the funny thing about life. Just when you think you’re getting somewhere, you’re reminded of where you came from. And sometimes, just sometimes, you wish you could go back.