The Evolution of an Expatriate
Did you ever feel that you were born in the wrong place? You often hear about people feeling that they were born in the wrong body or the wrong time period. (Well, I have that time period thing, too, but not the body part, thank G-d).
Seriously, though--how does it all start--the idea to leave your country and move to another? It was gradual for me.
A divorce seven years ago after 22 years of marriage. Getting laid off from one job, then another. Moving from one place to another in Massachusetts as each location became unaffordable. Then having to move to New Hampshire because Massachusetts became too expensive.
Along the way, getting involved with a man from Europe (we'll call him S), two daughters (R and B) growing up, graduating school and finding jobs and master degrees away from their mom.
Then the final blow: health insurance at $900/ month when I turned 55.
Meanwhile, S and I had been to Malta several times. In fact, for him--it's been about 20 times. For me, it's been four. But in the midst of everything that was becoming unappealing about America, Malta was becoming more alluring.
The endless winters in the Northeast, the lack of community, the appointments to make appointments to meet a friend, the rising cost of gas, food, health care... didn't look as good as what Malta had to offer--the hot, dry air, the seemingly easier way of making friends and the reasonable cost of health insurance. Plus, of course, the idea of sharing a life with someone that you cared about but lived too far away from for way too long a time.
I found myself setting a tentative date. I told myself when my younger daughter, B, graduated from college, I would make plans to move to Malta.
Now the tentative date is no longer tentative. It's here. As I write this, I'm just in the planning/denial stages. Some days, the idea of leaving the US and everything I ever loved, hated and known is terrifying. Other days, it's the exciting chance you'd never thought would come again--the chance to start all over.
These last couple of days have been the terrifying ones. I'm acutely aware of every time I say good-bye to one of my girls as she comes for a couple of days and then leaves. I was acutely aware of last Thanksgiving, traditionally spent with my brother and my daughters in a New Hampshire inn. Next year, they'll be spending Thanksgiving without me.
Oh, sure, I'll call when they're eating dinner. But it won't be the same; you know what I mean.
I have no idea how Malta is going to work out. But I do know one thing:
My longtime friend D once told me of a show she watched on people in their 90's, recounting the good and bad of their lives. I never saw the show, but hearing D's description of it stuck in my mind.
The old people didn't regret the mistakes they had made in their lives. What they regretted were the mistakes they never made...because of the things they never did--but could have: not marrying the person everyone disapproved of, staying in the marriage they hated because of what people would say if they didn't--and not moving somewhere they had always wanted to because of fear.
So in a way, that show--which I never watched--was the ember under all the thoughts about leaving which remained dormant for so many years.
And now that the time is here, I just don't know...we'll just have to see. Together, I guess.
One Year Later:
I never know when it will come; it catches me by surprise. It’s the smell of limestone dust which all of Malta is made of. I don’t know if it’s a good smell or a bad one, but I love it.
I don’t know if all expats feel this way, but I feel like I’m the equivalent of an infant who just had her first birthday. More happens in the first year of being an expat than at any other time. At least, that’s what I think now.
Since moving here one year ago this October, I’ve made it through one Maltese winter, moved in with Mr. S. fulltime in an old Maltese townhouse (would anyone like to start a support group for people living with a German partner?), lived through the CELTA training course, got a job teaching English, swam for the first time in 45 years, drank my first cup of coffee to stay awake while teaching afternoon classes, made it through one Maltese summer and met many people—some who I like and others who I ended up drifted apart from. And through everyone of these days, I’ve missed my kids back in the US. But I’ve been back to the US twice and they’ve each been out to Malta once. All this in one year.
And you’re been with me all the way. Thanks.
So after this one full year, what do I think of Malta?
The Maltese People—I like them. They’re friendly, helpful and affectionate and sincerely interested in you. I really like the teachers at my school. I really like my neighbors. I like the Maltese except when they’re behind the wheel. They are extremely dangerous drivers and experience terrible road rage. While some drivers do allow you—as a pedestrian—to cross the street, most drivers will run you over. I’ve had near misses everyday crossing the streets, and I’m constantly being sworn at by drivers who get mad if they almost kill you. I even got pushed by a car; the driver was backing up without looking and pushed me about two feet. Luckily he was backing up slowly.
But, yes, I like the Maltese people. And they smell good.
Here is an article I’ve written on another site called Associated Content that you may be interested in:
I hesitate when I tell some people who aren't familiar with the word that I'm an expatriate from the U.S. It sounds like I'm saying that I'm an ex-patriotic person. I'm not, and that's not what it means at all.
By Ilene Springer | Published 3/1/2010
