At home being an expat

I’ve been an expatriate now for exactly 10 years.

Catching the Eurostar at London’s Waterloo Station back in the Winter of 2001, with nothing more than a bag of wishful thinking, I could hardly have imagined the story that was about to unfold.  I was, after all, a most unlikely adventurer, who’d rarely travelled away from the comforts of my very British ‘home’.  In fact, I was seventeen before I ever travelled abroad and thirty before my first trip to France or Belgium.

A decade and five hundred crossings of La Manche later, I’m left thinking how the story has changed me and my view on what’s important, what’s not, and what it means to be truly at home.

So let’s start on the outside and work towards the centre.

At home with my neighbours
I used to say that expatriates were people running away from something, but now I’m not so sure.  In fact, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that the act of living ‘away from home’ is a positive embrace or running towards a different way of life, enriched by the contrasting beliefs, stories and traditions of new neighbours. 

In ten years, I’ve been fortunate enough to have had some great neighbours, some of whom have graduated into friends, celebrated with us and stayed alongside us in times of trouble.  To be sure, I’ve left the relative comfort of a place where everyone speaks the same language, everyone eats at the same restaurant, and everyone furnishes their home in the same way.  Sameness can certainly make us feel secure for a time; but I’d swap my old life for this every single time I hear my children talking about diwali, asking to go to a sushi restaurant, or proudly demonstrating their knowledge of Swahili.

At home with my family
If expatriate life is about embracing diversity and celebrating difference, I’ve also discovered that it forces a daily ‘letting go’ – beginning with the realization that I'm always going to be somewhat at sea, even in the most ordinary of situations; never quite fluent enough in the languages or nuances of this complex state; never quite enough ‘one of them’ to feel that my voice really counts. 

It’s not just that, though.  It’s also the fact that, with kids of my own on both sides of the Channel, I am always torn.  I’ve said it before, but I’ve become the Eurostar Dad, always travelling, always somehow in-between – with a hello and a goodbye at both ends of the journey.

They say that we are only truly at home when we are with our family.  For me, though, the story of being an expatriate has been full of tension - being at home, but only ever in part: family life in fragments.

At home with myself
It’s a cliché, I know.  But sometimes a cliché actually captures what we’re trying to say.  A decade ago, I embarked upon an adventure and could hardly have imagined where it was to take me, the people I was going to meet, and the life I was to build for myself away from what I once considered home. 

Of course, the experience has changed me and my view on the way things are.  I have begun to understand that I am never quite in control of any situation; that I will perhaps always be an in-betweener, journeying both physically and emotionally between two worlds; and that there’s a certain messiness, chaos, or risk attached to being an expatriate these days, where various aspects of our lives never quite fit as neatly together as we would hope.

That said, even if it is more messy, more challenging, and more fragmented, I’ve come to feel at home with all this stuff and probably wouldn’t have it any other way.

And I strongly suspect that most of you would say the same.

This article was written for publication in (A)WAY Magazine (March/April 2011).  Click here to download in PDF format.

Come sit with me on my mourning bench

Grief will touch us all sooner or later.

For one half of our life (if we are lucky), our parents will offer us some protection from this deep and dark pain. For the other half, we will surely mourn their passing. So when that time comes, pull out your ‘bench’, surround yourself with friends, be kind to yourself, talk, talk and talk some more and, most of all, do not be afraid of the tears.

Modern parenting is an all-consuming business. No sooner have we finished with the ‘dummy and diaper’ thing, than it seems we are magically transformed into general manager of a complex transport service, ferrying our children here, there and everywhere.

We do it because we love our children. Our children need us and we are there for them. It is what we do, just as our parents were there for us.

In another room

And there’s the thing – it happened almost without us noticing, when our attention was taken up with getting the children up, dressed and off to school. Our parents slowed down, grew old and, in some cases, even died.

The taxi drops us at the hospital. My grandmother, now 97 lies unrecognisable, more like a small child, in an oversized bed. I am aware of how uncomfortable my own children feel, sitting beside me.  Recognition comes in her voice. Distinct and distinctly belonging to the person I call ‘Nanny’. One word from her and I am immediately recalling Sunday dinners and silly games around the house. I take the hand of my eldest son. For him, this is an important, albeit sombre, lesson in what happens at the limits of the human tale.

The protective layer above our heads

Life may be complicated, but most of us apply a simple logic to the important bits. Take dying, for example. In our minds, it is like waiting at a bus stop. Those who are first in line – who have been around the longest – get on the bus first. Normally that is how it works.

And this logic brings security. If I still have both grandparents and parents, then somehow I feel that there is still ‘money in the bank’. If, on the other hand, my parents and grandparents have died, that protective layer is gone and there can be a terrifying feeling of I’m next.

But, of course, life is not always logical. People, for no apparent reason, will jump the queue. The death of a child is perhaps the most devastating disruption of the rule and can quickly lead us to the conclusion that there never was a queue.

A year ago, it was my wife’s mum, aged only 49. Then, it was her ‘second mum’ and grandma. As I took her hand and desperately sought the right words to say, I saw the fear in her eyes. ‘Who is going to look after me know?’ ‘Who will be there for me when I fall?’ It was all too much, too soon. The rules of the game had been broken and the once strong protective layer had vanished.

On being there

There are several things that define an expatriate family, like the inevitable distance between us and our extended family. True, we enjoy the many benefits of life as members of the ‘global village’, but when the phone call comes, the sense of ‘not being there’ can fill us with overwhelming guilt.

But what is ‘being there’ all about? Do we believe that somehow we might be able to rescue our loved one from the inevitable? Is it about words left unspoken, which can only be said as life finally slips away? Or is it simply a need to witness the event for ourselves? How often do we hear our friends describe the same story: “I landed, turned on my phone and there was a message saying I had not made it on time”.

I will always feel guilt over the fact that her mother died during my brother’s wedding. We had an impossible choice: celebrate with one family or mourn with another. I thought we might have the chance to do both. I was wrong. And from that day something happened inside my head. I know I won’t be there when my grandmother leaves this earth. Perhaps, not for my parents, either. But one thing I can do is to make sure that every time we speak, every moment we spend together is good enough to be the last.

Room for one more on my bench

There is perhaps a lesson that is hard for us all, as a wise man once said: “If you have something to say, say it today. If you have the opportunity to share a moment of love, never leave it for tomorrow.”

The son of Nicholas Wolterstorff died in a climbing accident, aged 25. Following this tragic episode, Wolterstorff wrote about his grief and terrible sense of loss, even addressing the subject of how other people should approach his grief. Don’t try and explain it, he suggests. Don’t tell me it will be okay. Don’t avoid me. Don’t act as if it never happened. Just “come and sit beside me on my mourning bench”.

This article was first published in (A)WAY magazine in 2008.

The article was then republished, with permission, on Expatica.com in 2009.  Click here to read comments from readers left on this site.

Click here to view in PDF format.

Building home with a plastic bag

Let me tell you a secret.

I am probably one of the only people in the world with a framed plastic carrier bag hanging on the wall of my study. Strange as that might seem, this piece of ‘art’ – entitled ‘Bag of Life’ – reminds me of a particular period in the story of my life

I had just arrived in Brussels – new country, new language, new people, and no job. Everything I owned – a passport, a few other official papers, bills and a couple of photos – could be fitted into a single plastic carrier bag. It was not a particularly elegant or memorable bag, but it was a memorable time in my life.

So when the handle finally gave way under the weight of ‘too much stuff’, I decided to keep the bag as a memento. Framed and hanging in my study, it is a reminder of simpler days, where there was less to distract me from the important things in life like love and family.

Who’s to blame?

Seven years later, as I look at the stack of cardboard boxes that still need to be packed into what I now realise is an impossibly small white van, I wonder how I could have acquired so much ‘stuff’ in such a short time. So, I comfort myself by blaming it on the kids, and get back to the job in hand.

My own story actually began several years ago, with a theory: All expatriates are running away from something, hence they are expatriates. I am not sure that this theory has any grounding, but I have to admit that I have met many expatriates who prove it to be correct.

The point is, though, that I too became an expatriate seven years ago and joined the ranks of a group of people who, running away from something or not, do tend to resist putting down roots. Let’s face it, we are the kind of people that IKEA directors love. And we love them. We don’t care if it doesn’t last, it just saves us the painful task of dismantling the damn thing and packing it into an impossibly small white van three years after we bought it.

Obsessed with my ‘theory’, I never wanted to buy a house again. Too much commitment ... But even putting any theory aside for a moment, the practice was absolutely a bridge too far.

Breaking down

Walking into Brico to purchase a simple screw had always been a challenge for me. Any confidence I had in my DIY ability was invariably knocked out of me as I tried to explain what I wanted in a language that was not my own. Actually buying a house in another language, therefore, seemed totally out of the question.

But then, as stories often go, I did exactly what I said I would never do. I bought one. And not only that, but I bought a house that would have had the local manager of Brico jumping for joy. Heating, walls, electricity, floors, plumbing... it was strange to be spending more money than at any other moment in my life, only to have this precious object pulled down, thrown into a skip and carted off to the local rubbish dump. But then that’s what they say: “sometimes you have to break a story to tell a truer story”.

And I guess that’s just what we did.

The house had been a family home for close on 50 years and hadn’t really changed much over time. You could still find stickers on doors and nick-nacks around the place dating back to the now grown-up children who had always known the place as ‘home’.

And so it was our turn to ‘inherit’ a plot of land and make our mark. One day we will leave this place, whether in three or 30 years, and another family will move in and build their own story of love, family, possessions, ‘stuff’, and endless trips to Brico. But for now we have decided to stop running, put down some roots and pass our own ‘happy memories’ to our children.

So, back to the boxes ...

This articles was first published in (A)WAY magazine in 2008.

Click here to view in PDF format.

A week in the life of an unfortunate au pair

Au pairs normally have a shelf life of about a year, someone once told me.

I am proud to say that we bucked this trend and kept our first child minder for a whopping 15 months until she declared that she could not cope any more – not with the children but with us, the parents.

However, there was not much time for psychological reflection. I had three working days to find a solution and no idea where to start. So I began to ‘Google’.

After a couple of days of endless e-mailing of family descriptions, enduring awkward interview calls with young girls who spoke little English and could not have been less interested in my precious baby girls, I was beginning to give up hope.

Then we stumbled across Amy (not her real name). She gave the appearance of being extremely focused on the children, carrying a strong sense of morality, had previous experience of young children in various family and professional settings and came with outstanding references from two schools. Whilst shy, she seemed very sweet on the phone and was available immediately. I even spoke with her mother who was also delightful! I offered Amy the job and prepared to bring her back to Brussels.

First impressions

Usually, for me, first impressions are everything. But this time I did not listen to the little voice inside my head. I should have taken more notice of the body language, the subtle look away as I shook her hand, the awkward gestures and the overprotective mother’s explanations of why she had packed 15 packets of green tea.

I was expecting the first few minutes of our journey to be tough. I was picking up someone I had never met before and was going to be ‘trapped’ in the car with her for the next five hours. I had to take the lead in the conversation. But it was harder than I thought. Despite my best efforts, Amy sat motionless, sipping neat lemon juice throughout the journey.

Settling in

I felt obliged to give Amy the benefit of the doubt. So I put the journey down to a mixture of homesickness, my pathetic attempts to engage her in conversation, and a minor dose of travel-sickness. A good night’s sleep would do the trick, and in the morning, Amy would meet the babies and all would be well.

Day one was set aside for getting to know the babies, establishing what has to happen and when, followed by a quick trip to the supermarket to buy whatever food Amy wanted to eat for the week.

That was when things began to get complicated. Apparently the dairy allergy she had mentioned was just one of several eating restrictions that included no sugar, no meat, no fat and nothing after 4pm. Given a trolley, a bank card and all the time in the world, Amy came back with a packet of quick-boil rice.

Maybe it was the tea, but even on the first day I noticed that every time I walked into the room Amy asked to be excused in order to use the toilet. Call me nosey, but I never once heard the toilet flush. Why was Amy washing her hands so much, I wondered?

Taking responsibility

On Wednesday evening I arrived home to what looked like a war zone. The babies were screaming in the living room. The morning’s bottles of milk were still untouched in the kitchen. There were biscuit crumbs all

over the floor. There was no power in the house and the central heating had been off all day. I felt myself becoming angry and wanted an explanation.

Amy explained how the electricity had gone off five minutes after I left the house at 7.50am, as she had more rice to cook. She had not worked out how to trip the switch. She did not know how to turn on the mobile

phone I had given her. So she had decided to spend the day singing songs, reading bible stories and eating biscuits. And no, the children had not had their afternoon fruit, as requested, as (remarkably) the fruit shop down the street had apparently completely run out of fruit!

The talk

Thankfully, Thursday was less eventful. But when I came home on Friday to find Amy changing nappies wearing huge, thick rubber gloves, I knew that she would have to leave.

I decided first to write to her mother to explain the situation. When I told Amy on

the Saturday morning, she said nothing – absolutely nothing. I half expected her to shout, ask questions, demand an explanation, justify herself ... Instead, she went quietly up to her room and closed the door.

After that, Amy never acknowledged the existence of our children in any way. It was as if they simply were not there.

Journey home

The journey home was planned for 8am on Sunday morning, so we opted for an early

night. However, sleep was broken by the noise of someone washing their hands. I looked at the alarm clock. It was precisely two minutes past midnight.

We found Amy talking to herself, standing next to all her bags, with her coat on, by the front door. “Is everything okay, Amy?” we enquired, still half asleep. “Okay? Okay?”

Amy replied, clearly startled by our request.

“What on earth could possibly be wrong?”

As we fell back to sleep, I could not help but laugh out loud. Never could I have imagined a more fitting, more surreal scene for this extraordinary week. After all, what could possibly be wrong.

Last goodbyes

The trip back to the UK was even quieter than the journey exactly one week before. Amy sat in the back of the car pretending to be asleep. We met up with mum at Maidstone services – Amy could not remember what kind of car her mum had, but thought it was red.

We never saw them again. Three days later, though, I did receive an e-mail accusing us of being abusive parents, placing hidden cameras all over the house, stealing her possessions, failing to inform her that we all had a number of ‘highly infectious diseases’, not feeding her, and standing in need of God’s judgement. After a week in her care, Amy declared that the bruises on our children had gone, their hair had grown (because they were happy), and that she had lost weight because we had refused to feed her.

Shutting down my PC, I felt for the first time that I knew Amy, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

New beginnings

A few days later, I was sitting in my car in Brussels waiting to meet another au pair, this time from Iceland.

I called her on her mobile. “I am walking towards you now,” she explained cheerfully.

And there she was, wearing a pink wig, yellow and red-hooped tights and carrying a Teletubby rucksack on her back. Stepping into the car, she told us how excited she was because she had managed to find an octopus watch and some plastic angel wings.

Inside, I simply smiled. Life is never dull. And I drove home to begin a new adventure.

This article was first published in (A)WAY Magazine in 2006.

Click here to view in PDF format.

Eurostar Dad

When it comes to parenting, I am not a traditional dad.

I am not saying that I am particularly good or, for that matter, noticeably bad. That’s for the kids to answer when they are grown up. I just don’t see my role in a traditional way. I am rather what I like to call a ‘Eurostar dad’ who, for the past six years, has committed himself to making a fortnightly journey across the Channel and being the link between two sets of fabulous kids.

London to Brussels

Sitting back in my seat as the train pulls away from London’s Waterloo station, I close my eyes and wonder where the time has gone and whether I did a good enough job. Did I tell them how much I love them?

Did I listen to their worries and make sure they were doing okay at school? Did I comb their hair and make them clean their teeth? I pull out of my pocket a card given to me by my eldest boy. He is nearly 11 years old now.

To the best Dad in the world, reads the envelope.

Seeing it again brings tears to my eyes. If only he knew how much better I might have been.

To daddy

I love you so much I can’t say.

Lodes of love,

Jack xxx

My beautiful boy.

We had some good times together this weekend. We laughed, went to the park and practised our free kicks, shared news about school, got wet, shouted at one another, ate together, watched Match of the Day together, bought some European Stars Top Trumps, kissed and told each other that we were loved. It is almost always the same. But, then again, we like our routine and it works for us. The reason it works is because we manage to cram two weeks-worth of normal life into each 36-hour visit. But make no mistake, it is never easy being a father away from home: walking through busy streets avoiding the rain, encouraging tired legs to keep going just a little while longer, staying over at a friend’s house or in a small hotel. Some families have the privilege of ‘down time’. We don’t. We are living out family life in the fast lane. We do not leave each other alone for a moment. We talk and hug and kiss constantly. We hungrily grasp at every moment in the knowledge that time is hurtling towards another goodbye. But I guess that this is the deal and, for what it is, this is my commitment.

As the train reaches my final destination, I am still going over the weekend in my mind. I imagine the children curled up in their beds and, as I step off the train, I whisper one last ‘goodnight’ and head off home.

Brussels to London

What price for a hug? I can tell you the answer. It is a 947km-round trip. Whether by train, plan, or car, I could make the journey with my eyes closed. To some it might appear a ridiculous way of living. But for us, it is what we call ‘life’ and this is one time I am happy to be considered a fool.

Once, I did end up going to London for literally a single hug, on the weekend our twin babies were born. I recall it as if it were yesterday: the telephone ringing, telling me that I was needed back ‘home’ immediately; tearful explanations to confused children; making the long journey back to Brussels, caught on a train between two worlds – feeling somehow absent to both. Never before had I felt so stretched or so confronted by my limitations.

I recall an angry woman at the Eurostar desk telling me how I should have planned my journey better and that I needed to have bought a flexible ticket. With children now on both sides of the Channel, being flexible has become a way of life. With each journey that I make, these days, there is always a ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ at both ends. My embrace of one child is always felt as absence for another. I am the ‘Eurostar dad’ always journeying, always somewhere in-between.

Perhaps that is why the tunnel between France and England is so important for me. In six years, I think I have now passed through it over 200 times and every time the feeling is the same. I close my eyes and find myself in a state of letting go of the place I am leaving in order to grasp hold of those I am travelling towards. The tunnel is 20 minutes of time to myself. No phones. No demands. No one but me. This is my time. My ritual.

The collision

Of course, the tunnel is not just a symbol of separation. It is also a means of bringing the whole, rather non-conformist, family together. New Years Eve is perhaps the most sacred of our family rituals, where the significance lies in the detail. Six children, aged two to ten, and two adults preparing their favourite food (whoever said chicken nuggets don’t go with tomatoes and shrimps?), drinking pretend champagne, dressed up in all manner of old clothes and long-forgotten costumes.

It is a time of silliness and indulgence in each other’s company, with not a care for what time we go to bed, having to say goodbye, or the fact that some of our children don’t speak English, whilst others don’t speak French. This is an evening that is understood by everyone at a much deeper level. It is a celebration and acknowledgement

of the life we have ‘together’.

Sitting exhausted on the sofa, I look into the faces of each of my children, lost in the excitement of being with one another. They hardly notice I am there. But in that moment, I find myself more alive than at any other time. These are precious moments, I think to myself, borne out of the complexity of all the journeys, all the hellos and goodbyes.

And they won’t last forever. So I simply smile to myself and enjoy being a dad – even if I am somewhat untraditional.

This article was first published by (A)WAY magazine in 2007.

Click here to download in PDF version.