The neighborly thing

Last week a phone call came through my boss’ line but the woman on the other end was looking for me. When I answered, she had a slight panic in her voice and she said, “Please bear with me. I am looking for someone. I’m not sure if I have found the right person.” She said my name and I told her that was me.

She went on to ask if I lived in Stevenage and if I lived in a certain development. My heart picked up the pace and I wondered if something had happened to Scott.

The woman explained that she had tracked me down on my office number because she had been Googling me and saw my name mentioned on a work-related website. She had been looking for me for months.

She asked if I was married to Scott. I told her I was. She told me she had tried contacting him through Friends Reunited.

If I didn’t look so much like my mom, I might have thought this was one of those calls where the person on the other end says, “I’m your biological mother.”

But I don’t live in a Lifetime movie and this woman was looking for me because she had a piece of mail for me. It had been delivered to her son who lives in my complex and the address on the envelope was clearly wrong. Her son doesn’t live here year-round and she had been holding on to the letter, determined to get it to me.

I was stunned and intrigued by what the letter might be. She read out the return address and I knew immediately what it was. It was a thank you card from a family friend who had been married this past summer.

The woman told me she would write the correct address on the letter and get it to me. I thanked her over and over again for taking the time to find me.

She said, “I saw that it was from America. I thought it might be a personal letter and I just wanted to make sure you received it.”

I thanked her again and hung up the phone. I was so touched she tried so hard to find me. She could have easily returned it to sender or just had her son prop it up on top of the mailboxes for any of the residents to claim. But she wanted to make sure I got the letter from America, from home. And she didn’t even know me. She didn’t know I live for letters from home.

I checked the mailbox today and found the card tucked in amongst bills and pizza delivery flyers. The postmark read early November.

And even though the piece of mail was not overly personal or important, the fact that someone went that little bit further to make sure I received it absolutely made my day.

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.

Mexican food in London

In an attempt to write about something that’s not as heavy as babies and marriage and my love of vampires (oh, to be that taxi!), I thought I’d write about something equally important but not involving so many feeeeelings. Because this time I’m writing about eating your feelings.

And no better way to do that than with some Mexican food. Who doesn’t feel better after some chips and salsa?

When I was studying here five years ago, it was difficult to find decent Mexican food. The Brits tried. They really did. But it was always a bit off. Even the Old El Paso taco seasoning packets at the supermarket seemed weird. (Curry powder finds its way into so many dishes in this country.)

But I’ve seen the supermarkets’ selection expand over the last few years. Now you can find lowfat sour cream and wholewheat tortillas and guacamole in a jar (which I would never buy but I’m just showing you how much more is on offer these days.)

Sure, they still have the ready-made nachos that they call Authentic Tex-Mex and Crispy Chicken Fajitas that look like something from KFC. And a weird nacho cheese dip from Tesco that is almost entirely mayonnaise. Like I said, they are trying.

We have to keep in mind that a messy kebab after a night out is the British equivalent to a late night run to Taco Bell or the Burrito Buggy (OU students – I’m looking at you). There are great Indian restaurants here – they didn’t know they needed Mexican food.

But I’m happy to report that really good Mexican food does exist in London and you actually have quite a few choices.

Lucky for me and my feelings, I work near a few of these fine establishments where you can get burritos practically the size of your head.

Daddy Donkey

They describe themselves as a “Kick-ass Mexican Grill” and do the “daddy” of burritos, as well as bowls and tacos. I hear they really are kick-ass.

Location:  Leather Lane Market, London,  EC1N 7TE

Freebird

The owner, Carlos, trained at the same culinary institute as the guy who started Chipotle. These burritos are seriously good and taste just like home.

(I couldn’t find a working website for them but follow them on Twitter if you’re one of those people.)

Location: Exmouth Market, Camden, Goodge Street

Beach Burrito (now EatMexicali)

I can’t vouch for this place but I’ve heard good things – they even do breakfast burritos. I’m in.

Location: Notting Hill, Chelsea and Soho.

Tortilla

A small restaurant across from Angel tube station that’s big on taste and value. They seem to understand exactly what “fresh, delicious California-Mexican cuisine” is. More importantly, they use Monterey Jack cheese. I can’t tell you how rare that is.

Location: 13 Islington High Street, London, N1 9LQ

Chilango (used to be Mucho Mas)

I haven’t been here but it looks cute and funky – not a prerequisite for amazing Mexican food but I just thought I’d add that in. They boast “fresh, fabulously tasty Mexican cuisine” and are also near to Angel tube station.

Location: 27 Upper Street, Islington,  N1 0PN

Mestizo

If you’re looking for a truly authentic Mexican menu, try this restaurant. It’s not the type of place you pop in for a take away burrito but it can be a fun night out with friends who appreciate that Tex-Mex is not proper Mexican food.

Location: 103 Hampstead Road, London, NW1 3EL

Wahaca

There was so much hype around this place when it came to London. I admit to being really excited about it too but this was before I knew of all these other places. Wahaca specializes in Mexican street food and I do always enjoy what I order…well, except for the time I ordered a burrito and was put off by all the cabbage stuffed in there. So, I go there for the taquitos and churros instead.

Locations: 66 Chandos Place, Covent Garden, WC2N 4HG and Westfield Shopping Centre, Ariel Way, W12 7GB

Cafe Pacifico

This Mexican cantina does the job as far as enchiladas and chimichangas are concerned. If you’re in Covent Garden, a perfect evening of Mexican goodness would be lite bites at Wahaca followed by margaritas and mains at Cafe Pacifico.

Location: 5 Langley Street, Covent Garden, WC2H 9JA

Taqueria

This “authentic Mexican taco cafe” in West London has a large range of tacos from prawns to chorizo to beer battered fish (I’m not so sure about that one but we’ll go with it). The restaurant is from the same people behind the Cool Chile Co.

Location: 139-143 Westbourne Grove, London, W11 2RS

Cool Chile Co.

For those who would rather make their own Mexican food, Cool Chile Co. has what the supermarkets lack. After a quick scan of their site, I’ll be ordering some fresh corn tortillas and tomatilla salsa. You can order online or visit their stall at Borough Market.

I think this is a fantastic indication of what Mexican food in the UK will be in the future. And if none of these do it for you, have no fear, Chipotle is coming here! They are due to open their first restaurant in London later this year.

(Now, if only I could find some really good queso. Nobody does it like you Austin Grill. I’ll love you forever but please don’t ever redesign your menu again. I almost had a heart attack when I couldn’t find queso under the appetizer section. But you’re right, you know best. It really is a side. It goes with everything.)

I feel like I’m cheating on America

I often get asked if it’s still hard for me to come back to England after being in the US. And the short, and easy, answer is yes.

The long answer is this:

When you go back for a visit, it is so hard to know that you only have a set amount of time to get everything in. It doesn’t seem right to be so strict about scheduling time with your friends and sisters. It is difficult to make sure you’re spending enough time with everyone.

It is tiring trying to fit a vacation into it at all.

It is heartbreaking to realize that everyone else is moving on and when you come back, it can’t always be the homecoming you wish it was. It is bittersweet to have a family dinner so reminiscent of family dinners in the past that you almost believe nothing has changed.

You meet your girlfriends for drinks and you listen to them talk about their careers and their houses and their husbands and you have to pinch yourself. You have to remember you have those things now too.

You still care what pictures your mom hangs in your room even though there is hardly anything of yours left in it. You hate telling your parents you’re not sure when you can see them again. It’s upsetting to think of all the big events and all the small moments you’re going to continue to miss.

But the hardest part is realizing and admitting that you are actually happy where you are. And that is ok. That is good. That is what your family and friends want for you even if that means you might be wherever you are longer than they thought.

And you should be ok with that. You should stop fighting it. You should stop panicking when you feel yourself getting happier, more settled. You should just be.

This past trip was the first time when I really felt like I was ready to come back here. I didn’t get to do everything I wanted and I didn’t get to see everyone for as long as I would have liked. But I was ready. And I desperately wanted to be ok with that.

I’m still working on that part.

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.