Torn Between Two Loves

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!