Legally, your are born the very minute your umbilical cord is cut, and you have to breathe for the first time on your own. I was surprised enough when I had my first child in discovering that coming out of the womb is not enough for a person to exist. She has to function correctly on her own in order to be awarded a valid birth certificate.
We go through a similar process as expats. Living abroad is not sufficient, something has to happen in your brain (and your heart, probably) before you can consider all cords cut and nationality doesn’t shape your identity anymore. It doesn’t happen to everybody, though and that is why you can tell an expat only in the long run. If the cord doesn’t get cut, we tend to go back to our comfort zone, sooner or later.
I have dozens of Italian friends who moved to Brussels a decade ago but never cut the cord. They have their Italian circle of friends, their Italian doctor, Italian lawyer, Italian caterer, Italian realtor, Italian notary, Italian architect and even their Italian contractor should they need to renovate their place. They will see you for dinner dopo il telegiornale (after the TV news) and confess they don’t have the local cable TV because they brought from Italy their SKY decoder so they won’t miss any of the home shows, news and – most of all – football. They virtually never left the country.
I was like that at the beginning (well, more or less. But I did go to an Italian doctor for a couple of months) of the expatriation process: I still remember flushing while confessing to my friends after a few months in Paris that I was overexcited about coming back to Italy and couldn’t choose what my first breakfast should consist of. Cappuccino or Hot Chocolate? (the italian way, as introduced by the Spanish a few centuries ago, is thick and black. Melted chocolate, basically. In France and Belgium it’s just a glass of milk with a drop of Nesquik in it). It’s not that I hadn’t liked Paris. I was sincerely homesick and hadn’t opened up enough to appreciate life there. I would walk the city admiring the buildings, stop in Place Saint Sulpice in awe of the romantic atmosphere all around but end up eating macarons with my italian girlfriends, to whom I would complain about the weather or the horrid landlady. I was a tourist.
It took years to be different. Once in Brussels, my world was still very Italian: working for an half Italian company, eating everyday at an Italian trattoria which used to make the best homemade tagliatelle on earth, going out late at night with Italians and Spanish. My first look out of the box was to the Spanish world, of course. Easier to mingle with, without much surprises and even less cultural crashes. I was comfortable. Safe.
My expat Moment came only when I found myself sent to Germany, out of the blue and without a clue (I didn’t mean the rhyme). I didn’t speak a single word of German (well, apart from Danke and Auf Wiedersehen), had never been there before and didn’t know a soul. It was Sink or Swim. I had to swim: learnt the language (well, more or less), got a dozen fines for obscure felonies (as talking on the cellphone while driving a bike on the sidewalk or crossing while the pedestrian light was still red, bad example to “our children”, as the officer explained), made some friends and discovered the outer world. It was at that point that I started going out with The Husband and I admit the two things may not be disconnected.
Today I am always a little bit surprised when we are defined as a mixed marriage (i.e. a local who married a foreigner). I haven’t thought The Husband as a Belgian in many years now and I’ve stopped considering nationality a defining trait of personality. Sauf of course those few times when our divergent attitudes towards food, driving, clothes and cleanliness remind me of our geographically distant upbringing.
What was your expat defining Moment? When did you stop being a tourist and where?