A Year to infinity

On living in the UK for a year (and a bit). WARNING contains me, gross generalizations about whole countries of people, mistakes, love, exaggeration, humor, humour, and a bit of sad. 

I've been living in England a year as of the end of January. I have been having a hard time deciding what to write about it; in part I think because I've gotten the idea in my head that I am supposed write about how well adjusted I am or how England has started to feel like home. No one has asked me this, so where I got that idea I can't say.

Here's what people do ask me and ask me often when they learn I've relocated here with my family:
You must miss your family? (yes, that is technically a statement, but if you've met a Brit, you know they can turn any collection of words into a question with their end-of-sentence upward tones). And each time they ask, I say yes because it is true. Then I wonder why on earth they ask questions like these. I feel they'd ask me if I was sad at a funeral, hungry at a feast, or tired at midnight. I've also wondered if I'm meant to say, "Oh, no. England is so delightful, I hardly think about my friends and family in America." I don't really think they expect that answer. Perhaps they hope for it a little though.

As for whether I am adjusted or feel at home, those are two different questions. Let me first address adjustment.

Having lived abroad before in three different countries, I can tell you from experience that there are three types of ex-pats. Ok, there's probably more, but these are the major flavors. One, the finite-here-to-do-a-job types who don't even try to look like they're integrating. They surround themselves with nothing but people from their home country if they can, rarely try local customs/food/culture, and insist on making every day life as much like _insert country_ as they can.

Then there are the temporary-but-game folks who know they are someone where for a finite period of time because of a contract or just experience with their employer. They know that they won't be around in a handful of years but they're interested and curious. They might try to learn the language a bit and strive to "do all the things" that one is supposed to do in that country given they're only there for _some time_ , e.g. go to The Great Wall, have high-tea in a fancy hotel, eat a sheep's eyeball, drink vodka made by a friend of a friend in a bathtub from some unknown fruit or vegetable (ok, that last one is probably just me).

Now we come to the kind of ex-pat I am. I am the I-have-bought-a-house-and-put-my-kids-in-school type who shrugs when asked how long I think I'll be here. I have the added enticement towards assimilation of a spouse whose is from the country in which I now live. But I am also aware that my partner and I talked about this move for eight years before we did it. I am conscious of the fact that eventually circumstances, perhaps work or family related, may pull us more strongly elsewhere. So I am not that go-native ex-pat either because I've moved over fifteen times in my life and no where has ever felt permanent to me (except my grandmother's house).

Given that I am game and interested and here for awhile, I am not so much working to assimilate myself as trying not to embarrass my husband or children too much and not make enemies if I can help it. I would not say that living here has changed me greatly, but there are a few things I have learned almost by osmosis and a few things I cannot seem to shed (perhaps because I do not wish to).

I have developed what I call British Road Rash. This is the phenomenon of becoming irrationally irritated when having let someone pass, go, turn, etc. they do not wave or flash their lights to thank me. The British have trained me to expect overt gratitude and I huff when it is not offered.

The BBC has become essential to my life. I love it. I don't even watch that much TV. If I could watch more, I would. I long for a cold that means I'd have to sit and watch the BBC all day. And damn it if BBC Radio isn't just as good. The local Surrey BBC station is not only informative but they appear to actually get things done. When people call up and complain about little along two highways in the area, they radio DJs call the councils responsible ON AIR and tell them. That's mind blowing.

But I have not gone Madonna, as many friends predicted. I think my written English has been affected more than my speech. This isn't necessarily deliberate, I think it does just seep in. I do adjust my accent depending on with whom I am speaking, but that's something I've always done. Funnily, I have to speak to my children in a British accent occasionally in order to help my oldest with reading/phonics or so that my youngest will understand me.

Lastly, I'll briefly answer "do you feel at home, now?" No. England isn't my home and it can't be. I'm not English. Nor was America "home" for my husband even after he'd lived there more than eleven years. That's not how home works, even for a fifteen-plus-moving-hobo like me. Home is a Georgia sunset, an enormous oak tree in North Carolina, grits and bacon in my Grandmother's kitchen, Brazilian food on Christmas Eve, an overly commercial but cute totally cute Valentine's party at school, March Madness, the spiritual choir at church, deviled eggs, fireflies, the cool of a summer night after the thunderstorms come through, and the hugs and laughter of the family and friends that I miss every day.