I can remember the exact moment it hit me. I was sitting on the rubbery play surface at
our local outdoor playground on an unusually warm and sunny British
afternoon. My young children were
playing some sort of imaginative game that required them to gather pebbles,
dandelions, and blades of grass which they spun furiously in the gravity
bowl while they chattered back and forth in high pitched voices with elfin British
accents. The sky was blue and a jolly
red post box stood in my line of sight as I gazed across Llantrisant Road. On the opposite side of the street, there
were vibrant, verdant hills dotted with sheep and sluggish, grazing cattle.
Right then the notion hit me like a stepped upon pitch fork
hits a stooge between the eyes. We would
eventually move back to the USA, and, when we did, I would feel homesickness
for Great Britain in the same way that I yearned for my American home while
living abroad. I would forever be torn
between two places. Maybe I even said
aloud, “Oh, crap!”
If I did, I was undoubtedly chastised by one of my children:
“Mummy, that is not a nice word to say.”
“I’m sorry, Poppet,” I probably replied, “You’re right. How about: ‘Oh, what a spot of bother!’?”
I had adapted to life in Great Britain. I had learned to drive on the opposite side
of the road, learned how to order all sorts of essential nonsense from the
Argos catalog, and had completely learned how to navigate around my local Tesco,
white knuckling the trolley at Christmastime as I tore through the crowded
aisles grabbing cold bottles of “champers”,
a box of Celebrations chocolates, and a dozen mince pies. I had become a tea drinker, a biscuit eater,
and a wash pegger. My children had
enrolled in nursery school and had become endeared to their lovely British
“aunties” at school who exposed them to playing Conkers, baking jam tarts, and
stomping fearlessly through puddles whilst wearing Wellington boots.
I had figured it out.
I no longer struggled with culture shock, but I still yearned for many
of the comforts of home like nice peanut butter and proper tumble dryers. I frequently grouched about things that I
missed like the ease of car travel and parking, the (possibly insincere)
friendliness of strangers in public, and, did I mention good quality peanut
butter?
But right there, in that moment, something changed. It was almost as though I had glimpsed my
future self, the self who would miss the hell out of Great Britain. And I started living in the moment and
appreciating the quirky British-ness of everyday life. Of course I still grouched about the weather (a
favorite British pastime), the traffic, and the substandard customer service
provided by British Telecom, but something had changed. Suddenly I was one of “them.” I allowed myself to melt more deeply into the
culture that surrounded me. British
vocabulary became part of my vernacular.
I got hooked on British television shows and became hopelessly attached
to BBC Radio1 DJs and celebrity chefs. (Nigella Lawson, please take me on
holiday with you!) I started to bristle
even more than usual anytime I heard other Americans bad mouthing British
people or customs or cuisine.
I took a walk on the pavement in my Mid-Michigan
neighborhood this past weekend. As I walked I was alone and not, of course, with my best British
gal pal Sonia. I walked past fancy brick
houses instead of the Taff River, and my wonderfully eccentric friend Joanna
was not tromping along next to me, pointing out the brilliant blue kingfisher
bird that she seemed to spot every time she joined us on our morning walks
along the Taff Trail. I felt like my seemingly-flawless,
small town community was closing in on me, like I was gasping for bigger
breaths with every step I took. And then
I realized it.
It has been three
years since I left the UK! I left
with eyes full of tears and a lump in my throat. Our family, our cat, and our multitudinous suitcases
were piled into a giant, people-carrier taxi; our friends Michael and Sonia,
and our neighbors Kelly and Geraint stood in our bricked cul-de-sac and waved
goodbye. I didn’t really allow myself to
take in just how awful it all was that we were leaving that once foreign place
that had become so very familiar. We had
a hell of a long journey ahead of us, and I chose to focus on that instead. Then I focused on unpacking and acclimating
to our new community.
It only took three years for me to figure out that I want to
go back. I really want to go back. Three years has been more than enough time
for me to forget about all of the everyday annoyances and to completely romanticize
everything else. I want to re-visit
castle ruins and to have tea and cake in an impossibly old building while it
pisses down with rain outside. I want to
go down the pub for a curry and a pint.
I want to see the newest pornographic food advert that Marks and Spencer
is showing on the telly. (Please tell me it involves gravy splashing obscenely
over a Yorkshire pudding!) I want to
breathe in the British air and look out across the rolling green hills and
simply take it all in again.
I came home from my walk all fired up. I was ready to lay out a very organized and
persuasive argument to my husband detailing why we should purchase five round
trip tickets to London this summer and spend a nice bit of time reintroducing
our children to the Welsh countryside, dry British humour, and public railways. I was all ready to have a proper strop
related to this topic, but it was completely unnecessary. George immediately agreed and seemed shocked
that it had taken me so long to feel such a strong pull back to the Old Country. (Honestly I do believe that the thought of an
overseas flight and the resulting jet lag with my little pistol of a three year
old has been the only thing holding me back for so long.)
So… fair warning to my old mates: I really hope to be headed
your way sometime soon. I am fully
expecting someone to hire out the village hall and hold a twmpath in my honour. It’s Brains I want, you know. Alright, Loves?
See you soon, silly sausages!
