The Ex-Pat Life

There’s this fence that you sit upon when you are an ex-pat living abroad. On one side of this fence is this desire to be apart of the life that you’ve elected—adopting the mores of the new culture via new friends with strange accents, discovering that blood sausage isn’t as bad as it sounds, even trying to snag a foreign beau. All of these things symbolizing permanence, and cementing the belief that you made the right decision to sell off any tangible artifacts from your previous life and make the reverse journey in six and half hours that took your forefathers almost a month.

It’s easy to believe in your lame attempt at assimilating; I mean, your friends are all new, you haven’t heard from your old ones, and you’ve made out with enough boys that you’ve practically broken up with your boyfriend back home—even if you conveniently forget to tell him. But then one day, you look around and see that you really didn’t hop over that fence. Hell, your in the exact place as you were when you landed the first day—an American in a foreign country. It’s easy to be lulled into a false sense of immersion when you hang out with other Americans, still drink your fav extra-dirty Grey Goose martinis—even if it is at the studenty college-bar, and revert back to your old antics from under grad of getting so wasted that you spend the entire weekend recovering from a ‘civilized’ wine tasting.

I realized this past weekend just how I’m really stuck on that fence, especially when navigating the highly politicized Christmas break visit.

Just to give you some background: I am a homebody. Now I know some of my new friends at Oxford who are reading this must think, “Yea fucking right, that girl is always out and drunk or at least acting like she is drunk!” Uhm, yea…get to know me for a while, or live with me in my flat and you too will realize that when I come home, the last thing I want to do is talk to anyone. Give me my room, my fav pair of sweatpants and my computer, and I am incredibly happy. Even happier when I can just be by myself, with myself. Every single time in my life, I’ve always gotten wicked homesick if I’ve been away from my fam/friends/bed for anything more than a few days. College was a nightmare—I was home every weekend the first few years. My stint in Berlin was a nightmare as I flew home after three months for a ‘surprise’ visit, aka I needed to see mommy or else I would have drunk myself into a coma-like stupor. Even my move into Greenwich Village was hell, as I still spoke to mommy like 2-3 times a day, and took the half an hour train ride home monthly just because I had to see my fam.

Suffice to say, I was expecting the worst here. Hence, I thought that I would be spending my six weeks off between terms back in NYC, hanging out with my old friends, doing the same stupid shit that I did back home—drinking, eating out, shopping, and pretending to write my novel. And so the promises were made, “Dude, Christmas break will be off the fucking hook!” “I can’t wait to see you, baby!” “My birthday is going to rival Paris Hilton’s: NYC, Idaho, London, Oxford, FUCK YEA!”

Uhh, huh. Oh what a wonderful fantasy world we can build for ourselves when there is money in the bank.

Those of you who remember my ability to hop on planes, shop with impunity, buy bottles of champagne at SoHo House (actually $75 isn’t really that bad when split amongst three friends), should be laughing with that “I told you fucking so” smugness that is reserved for when the beautiful and famous’ marriages break up, or MC Hammer loses his fortune. When I say the following words: I AM BROKE, I don’t mean it in the “Oh my God, I can’t afford Manolos” or “I can’t afford to take the trip out west to Sun Valley this year”. I mean, if I knew where the soup kitchen was located in Oxford, my ass would be eating soup there.

I HAVE NO INCOME.

None. Zip. Zero. I am fully reliant upon my student loans. And as the pounds’ power increases, and you smart foreign currency arbitragers are making a quick buck, know that I have to economize by downgrading from Knorr instant soup mix for £1.39 for a package of five to the Sainsbury brand at £1.09 for a package of eight—even though it kinda gives me gas.

And as I am learning the ways of the poverty stricken, which includes planning far in advance for plane tickets and buying them out of NYC in order to make the dollar stretch further, my Christmas plans have to become more realistic. So to my friends who I promised to see in December—I lied. And you have George Bush and his foreign policy to thank. But seriously, I can’t afford the trip. Especially since it will inevitably include an appointment with my hair dresser, my esthetician, my Korean nail gal, and of course post-Christmas sales at NYC’s shopping meccas: Saks, Bergdorff, Barneys, and Bloomies. Plus, I know when I am there I will want to go out to dinner with each and every one of you, and drink champagne—just because it is so much cheaper home, and then we have the DC crowd who I would need to see, and the Boston buddies, and well, let’s just throw in my friends in fucking Toronto…honestly, a few weeks in NYC, and I’ve blown my entire budget for about two months.

Hence, a more realistic option: spend Christmas, my bday, and New Years with old and new friends, and pop on over sometime in January for a quick long weekend—especially since I need to get my dress fitted for my brother’s wedding.

But, that’s the thing. It’s like I thought I was fine embracing my status as a resident in a foreign country, I mean, I am even trying to spend my holidays abroad, when I thought it was just an option and not out of necessity. But then I read what Corinne wrote about NYC, and see pics of my friends back home, and I’m reminded of my status on the fence. Not quite home here, and definitely not apart of what is happening over there, especially as you see everyone continuing with the life you were once apart of.

It’s weekends like this where I am a bit homesick. Wishing that the distance I have to straddle just wasn’t so great. And wishing I had American tv to distract me from my numerous thoughts—one of which, just how trashed I was on Thursday night. But that comes with territory of life on the fence, it’s home but it’s not.

If my sister wasn’t coming in the next ten days, my ass would so be on a plane home—even if I had to eat frozen veggies for three weeks straight.