I got married on the 12th of September and knew it’d be a while before I got to rejoin my husband in the UK.  And even though we’ve done it before and I knew how miserable it’d be, I wasn’t really prepared for HOW miserable.  Look, it sucks.  Everyone keeps asking you what married life is like and you’re sitting there thinking that if you don’t see your spouse sometime soon, your insides might fall out.

Some days, none of it feels real.  You wake up and wonder if you actually got married and if you husband is an actual person and not some Max Headroom character who lives in your laptop.  You sort of hover in limbo;  scared to make future plans with anyone and yet unable to pack things in case things don’t work out as they should.  (Life is unfair, after all.)

Anyway, the day has finally come to ACTUALLY submit a REAL application for my visa.  Initially, the hold-up was that I had to change my name, and then there were documents to gather up, and then we realized that some had to go to the lawyer first.  Then I got laid off and we had to re-do a whole lot of evidence paperwork.  Then he forgot to mail a couple of things and then the Royal Mail took their sweet f’n time to get me the final envelope.  It contains his letter of sponsorship (ie, the most important document of all) and a recommendation (commendation?) from his boss, and it arrived this afternoon.

So, by this time tomorrow, I could be out a grand and on my way to a biometrics appointment.  Suddenly, I can’t imagine why I didn’t get the second moving quote yet, because I could conceivably be out the door in just a couple of weeks.

For what it’s worth, by the way, the quote I DID get for moving (with Stevens Intl.) came in at $2495 to ship roughly 30 boxes in a small container, including my guitar, my violin, gramma’s sewing table and everything else.   A small fortune, but not much more than shipping half of it UPS would cost me, plus it goes door-to-door (not port-to-port) and they pack the glass.

I am suddenly very nervous.

I forget sometimes that when I started this blog, I wanted it to be a way to extoll the life and times of an expat american to people who never even considered that lifestyle as an option.  But over time, as I have met more and more people in my shoes, I think I’ve forgotten to do that, and assume that everyone reading must know what it’s like.  But this is hardly true, is it?

So let me tell you what life is like when you decide to move to another country, in case it ever becomes a choice you are considering to make.   Moving to another country means:

* Saying goodbye to family and friends who swear they will keep in touch, but really only manage a phone call once in a blue moon and only come to visit you once ever, on their big euro-experience trip, because they wanted a couch to crash.

* Entering a job market where you might have a hard time proving your qualifications and experience, and often working at entry level jobs until you’re up to speed, even if you come over as a 40 year old executive.

* Going out for drinks and not catching half the cultural jokes made at the table, being the last one to laugh always and feeling a step behind.

* Going out for drinks and having everyone take you to task for the actions and endeavors of one Mister George W. Bush, as well as anyone else from your country, despite your protests that you didn’t even vote for the guy.

* Meeting people who cannot even place Chicago on a map, yet who still seem to think that Americans are much dumber than the locals.

* The very real inevitability that one day, something bad will happen to someone you love and you will not be there to help or sit with them.   Nobody likes to think about this one, but it’s a fact.  If your parent has a heart attack, they can be dead before you get to the airport, let alone across the ocean.

* Your children growing up without half of their extended family around.  No cousins, no aunties, no grandma.  At least, not regularly, and not on your side.

* Half of your conversations start with, “nice accent - where are you from?”

* The other half start with, “I’m sorry, what?”

* Facing a mountain of government issued paperwork and requirements, from your home government as well as your government abroad, both for entering the country and for maintaining that status for years to come.

* An equivalent bill to the paperwork.  Do not underestimate what it costs to become a citizen of another country.   It isn’t cheap.

* A constant cadeuceus of excitement and sadness over what lies ahead and what you’ve left behind.

I’m sure there is more.  I’ve been blogging it for a year, after all.  But lately, with my paperwork getting started and my plans for moving well underway, I feel like most people around me cannot understand at all how I am feeling or what it’s like to tear away the things you once loved before moving on to new adventures.  I am not going to tell you not to do it.   I think having adventures is one of the most human things someone can do and I highly recommend it.  It’s just that nobody really ever expects to do it alone, I think, and the fact is that you will have to.

I woke up having a hard time breathing, thanks to my cold, so I decided to take some medicine and hang out… watch a movie.  I’m a textbook insomniac anyway, so this isn’t out of the ordinary for me, and I frequently torrent whatever happens to be torrentable, just so I have things on hand to distract me when I can’t sleep.  I never know what they’re going to be about, because I don’t especially care.

Anyway, I put on one called The Brave One.  Stars Jodie Foster and well, it was very good and I don’t want to spoil it for you.  However, let’s just say that future movies will be screened to make sure they aren’t crying movies or death-of-spouse movies, because holy god, do I feel like shit now.  It’s hard enough to be far apart without also doing the What If thing.

I hate the What If thing.  I think probably one of my worst fears ever is that something bad will happen to someone I love while I am in another country.  Sadly, it’s probably sure to happen one day, too.  I just hope it’s a very long time from now.

In an effort to be prepared and economical for my upcoming overseas move, I am trying to take an honest look at my bookshelves and get rid of things I don’t need.   It’s kind of like that thing where if you haven’t worn a clothing item for a year, you must get rid of it when the Amvets lady calls to seek donations.

The trouble is, in my case, that I am a lifelong bookworm and library nerd and this is turning out to be the most painful parting of ways so far in this paring down of worldly goods.  As a child, you would generally find me in a corner, reading.  I mean, always.  I got books for every birthday and holiday.   I wore out my library card.   I literally read every single book in my elementary school library.  When I grew up, I went to work in a bookstore and always loved it.   I used to date librarians almost exclusively.  I mean, I have a serious thing about books, people.

But realistically, even if I could afford to ship all of them (I probably can’t) I have to be reasonable and consider that there is a very tiny house waiting on the other side of the ocean and there simply isn’t room.  But what stays and what goes?  I mean, obviously I am not using my ophthalmology textbooks anymore, so they can go (and will fetch a nice price on half.com or something.)  Take all the lousy horror novels people got me for Christmas grab bags, and anything I read that I thought, “Eh, it was ok,” and subsequently forgot the plot.

But what about things like my autographed copy of Interview With the Vampire?   My leather bound first edition of the first Harry Potter book?  The Michael Moore autographs?   I mean, throw out my nice Quality Paperback of Eleanor Roosevelt’s biography but what do we do about the hardback Sesame Street books my mom used to read to me?  High School year books?  The book of John Donne poems given to me by a friend who has died since?  The Buckminster Fuller I looked all over for, as it was out of print?   The stack of books I got at Christmas last year that I haven’t even had time to crack open yet because I have been busy doing this meet-someone-get-married-move-to-another-country thing?  I guess we can toss both copies of Catch 22 (they are really worn) and maybe even the Motorcycle Diaries, but man, I read that copy of Matilda about 900 times, and that copy of the Martian Chronicles is actually one I swiped from that english teacher I hated in eighth grade.

Urgh.  Maybe I should just pray for fire.

There’s a weird cycle that happens whenever I land in Chicago.   It starts off with happiness at seeing my family, followed shortly by being annoyed at how spoiled america is and moves directly into wanting to throw away everything that’s been sitting around my house without me for months.  Why do I have those things if I can get by without them?

Those first few days, I don’t miss my boyfriend so much as I am just kind of annoyed at the break in my routine.  Then, about six days later, we start fighting about stupid things via Skype.  It always happens.  We manage to have one good blow out where we’re both like “Hey, why do we do this?  Is this really worth it?  I mean, why not just stay in our own countries and live the good life, instead of this drama!”    This still happens to us all the time, but at least now it’s routine and doesn’t freak me out so much.   I think it’s normal for a human being to reflect sometimes.

I will secretly admit I kind of like the argument phase.  It’s not that I like to argue (though, I do) but more that once we’re past that, and have said our apologies, we go right into the part that I hate the most:   being lonely for the other one.

I just hate this part so much.  The sooner we can arrange it so we never have to have this part ever again, the better.

It’s hard to be homesick.  It’s especially hard to be homesick when you are surrounded by people who feel threatened or guilty that you’d rather be elsewhere.  It’s very hard to say to my boyfriend that I am horribly homesick sometimes, because it just makes him feel like he’s splitting up my family and probably scares him that I might back out of this whole plan before we ever figure it all out.  When I’m home, people can’t understand really why I might be “homesick,” since I’ve lived here my whole life and have only spent about four months in England in the last year.  I think it makes them feel like I’m not happy to see them.  Other times, I think they feel like I’m abandoning them, or clearly stating with my actions that what is good enough for them is not good enough for me.

And, because life is horribly unfair, you can’t reverse this for a solution.   That is, calling my boyfriend from Chicago to say, “God, I miss you so much,” or Skyping my sister on Thanksgiving to hear what they are eating for dinner doesn’t make anyone feel better, either.  It just kind of reminds you of what you’re missing.

I’ve basically decided that this feeling of being constantly pulled in opposite directions is probably never going to go away, so I do my best to live with it.  The trick is a stiff upper lip and a blog, obviously.

That’s what the woman at the American Airlines counter said to me as she filled in the form about my lost suitcase.  It seems from now on, the “what I am putting in my suitcase” photo will be a regular travel preparation step.   Urgh.

Let me tell you about my trip back.

Naturally, I burst into tears at the airport.   I joked that when I get my next passport, I should have a good cry first, so security agents will recognize the girl who always comes through with a wet face and red eyes.   I can’t help it.  I hate knowing I am not going to see my boyfriend for six weeks, especially after our last “short” visit away from each other turned into five months apart due to unexpected complications.   I don’t think I will ever get used to leaving my loved ones behind at the airport, in either direction.  I hope I never do.

I had three flights yesterday.   Manchester to London to Newark to Chicago.   This makes for a long day even in the best of situations.  It means going through security three times, along with the added hassle of locating your bags on the east US coast and bringing them through customs, only to check them right back in.  I have the added bonus of having suspicious travel habits.  I usually fly alone, stay for months, visit a bazillion places while I am gone, and come back with nothing to declare.    This means I am often “randomly” singled out for extra bag searches.  (I was singled out twice yesterday, “randomly”, and once on my way there in June, too.)  Maybe it’s because I look like I won’t loudly bitch about it happening, like a businessman might, or like I will be totally inconvenienced by it, like a single mom with two kids might be.  I have no idea.

When I got to London, I spent some time trying to get my final boarding pass printed early.  The ticket agent looked tired and the man ahead of me had been fairly abusive.   I made sure I was double extra sweet to her.  I worked in retail forever and customer service is a very hard job.   When I boarded my transatlantic flight, I was told they were sorry, but they had to change my seat assignment…   to almost-first-class.  I don’t know if it was her, but I like to think it was.

Usually, I buy the cheapest tickets available.  Until recently, I have been mostly unemployed for the last ten months, and tickets to England are not cheap.  So, being upgraded to BA’s Club World section, where everyone has their own little private booth with a fully reclining bed, television and laptop power port is just like winning the lotto.  They presented me with a menu from which I chose my delicious three course meal, along with a complimentary full bar, hot towels, and a toiletry kit.  It was like flying in a mini-hotel room with many butlers.  It was absolutely the most restful and relaxing 7 hour flight I have ever had, and I will very seriously consider upgrading all of my future tickets to that cabin.  I don’t care what it costs, if it means never ever again trying to sleep slumped over onto my tray table.  Also, every single attendant on my flight was incredibly sweet and helpful, which means a lot to me.   They even helped the spanish man next to me fill out his landing card, because he didn’t speak english.  Great work, BA!

So, imagine my disdain upon getting to my last flight.   American Airlines from Newark to Chicago.   American Airlines, who is never on time, charges you three bucks for potato chips and glares at you while doing it.   Even worse, my flight from Newark to (sweet home) Chicago was full of Americans.  (What?  You thought I only make fun of England in this blog?  Psh.)  Self-important business people who wear too much fragrance.  The ones who refuse to stop making “one last call” on their crackberries, even though the announcement to turn them off has been made three times.  People who will charge a seven dollar bottle of shitty beer to their company credit card, on a jam packed 90 minute flight, regardless of the fact that it makes the drink service take a bazillion years (since everyone is doing it.)  The ones who have to immediately upon landing, before we’ve even hit the gate, start calling everyone they know to loudly announce that they have wifi again, hated their flight and are watching the baseball game.  PS:  They are Very Important.

Hostility.   That’s always the first thing I really notice when I’m back in America.  Everyone is upset about something.   Everyone feels cheated and angry.   Everyone thinks they are entitled to more.  I saw five people screaming into their cell phones about basically nothing between my gate and the baggage claim.   I’m not saying English people don’t get angry, but mostly, they do it inside their heads.  If you cut in front of an English person in line, they apologize to YOU.  Honest.

And of course, American Airlines managed not to send my luggage from Newark, which is how I got to the part about explaining what was IN my bag, while listening to the swinging dick in a three-piece next to me make un-funny jokes about what he had in HIS lost bag was his vibrator and a bunch of lube.   (Yeah, I am sure the girl at the counter loves making eight bucks an hour to deal with your sleaze, dude.  Rock on.

Anyway, per usual, it’s odd to be home.  It’s great to see my family, and my dog has not stopped wagging his little dog butt since I walked in the door.  My mom and sisters redecorated my office while I was away, filling the walls with photos of my boyfriend and a clock for each time zone.  They are sweet and I love them.  Still, the more time I spend away, the less I feel like I belong here.   My bed isn’t my bed anymore, and I know the clothes in the closet are mine, but they don’t feel like mine.  All this stuff that I have been doing without for months has turned into stuff, not MY stuff.

It’s almost like being homesick for everywhere at once, sometimes.  That’s the best I can explain it.

i’ve been engaged for seven months, but it’s been five months since i’ve seen my boyfriend. i don’t know how people do things like this all the time. i don’t think i have it in me to ever do it again. it was miserable and probably most people who know me can attest that i’ve been kind of a boring and crabby lump this past winter/spring.

anyway, in less than one week i will be merrily fighting over the armrest with some stranger, on my way to see my favorite person in the world.

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