Lost in transit

Julie Andrews, Thanks for Nothing

There's audio for this post here.

When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad

It does not matter how closely I embrace my adopted homeland. It does not matter how many festivals I attend or how much local food I eat or how many collective hours I spend basking in the grand nature that is central Austria. Shopping for well made shoes or eating baroque desserts or striding about the meadows is not enough to fend it off. It hits and there is nothing to do but wait it out.

Homesickness is impossible to avoid. It’s like the common cold. It goes away in seven days if you do something about it and in a week if you don’t. If you’re lucky, that is, and it doesn’t move into your heart and create complications.

There is a great deal of glamour and romance attached to the idea of living in foreign lands. Some of it is true. Learning languages, the charm of the market, a wacky neighbor who takes a liking to you just because you’re from Somewhere Else. Got all that. Check. But.

If you haven’t lived it, you get the idea it’s all Under the Tuscan Sun. That movie makes me want to kill myself. Plus, notice how at the end, she hooks up with the guy from her own country? And I didn’t read the book, but I couldn’t help but wonder where she got all the money from so she could sit in some picturesque town in the middle of Italian nowhere without a local job. Is she telecommuting? Have you used Italian internet service in a small town? Frances Mayes can kiss my ass. So can that guy who wrote A Year in Provence. Bite me, Peter Mayle.

It is very hard on our household when I get like this. I start making mental lists of all the things that are wrong with Austria. They’re not really about Austria, though, they’re about what’s wrong with me. All the items fall under one general heading that goes something like this: I am not a 20 something domestic with visions of raising offspring in a bucolic small town. Or, to simplify even further, square peg, meet round hole.

Things would be easier if I was a big fish in a small pond kind of person. I could get all self important about Being An Artist and work that angle. “Look, there goes that American artist!” That idea leaves me fairly frosty. Not that I’m some genius painter – it’s more that I was surrounded by genius painters once and I know what it looks like. This ain't it. Even with adjusting for geography.

Homesickness is an ugly, disfiguring disease that leaves me apologizing for its ravages on my appearance. And, it’s got all this underlying guilt with it – “Have you really TRIED to make friends?” “Have you really TRIED to find community?” “Have you really TRIED to find work?” “Have you really TRIED?!” The response to all those questions is none other than a hearty f*ck off. Because what else is there? “Join a club. Take a class. Volunteer.” “Excuse me, but f*ck off.”

I suppose I could eat enough to fill the places in the round hole. Or I could trim bits off myself to make myself round. Both of those are pretty bad ideas, plus, honestly, I don’t really want to change the things that make me a square peg. It’s tough. I feel unfriendly and closed and stuck up because what I have isn’t good enough for me. And even though I hurl myself full speed at everything that is life here, I don’t feel successful at becoming part of it. I feel like a failure.

I want my friends. I want a big spicy bowl of pho. I want my studio where I’m working on wax and oil paintings of - oh, it’s surprise. I want to drop in on people without a formal invitation and I want them to drop in on me. I want to look out the window at the rain and ask, “Okay, which slacker friend is going to the matinees with me today?” I want piles of green vegetables. I want a tattooed barista to make my coffee. I want Seattle.

Face it, sometimes, remembering your favorite things makes you feel like crap.

Posted by pam at October 5, 2006 10:32 AM