11 years in the UK

Yesterday there was this article in the Daily Telegraph with the flashy headline, “If you’re under 50, it’s time to jump ship – get out of Britain while you can”; it was written by some guy with a posh, double-barrelled surname*. Despite the crass title, he did give lots of data on how badly Britain was doing here and there (mortgage, rents, the growing cost of its ageing population, to name a few), and fair enough: the numbers are here, and to make better life choices you, as a middle-aged reader, should think twice before joining the community of old folks in this place. Or should you? See, I made a similar decision to move out twice in my life before, and my own experience varied.

First time I was young, fairly naïve (let’s brush out the word “stupid,” shall we), and life overall was merciful to me as I managed to persevere, completing my PhD, keeping up with my job, which I loved, and meeting fantastic people, who were kind to me and became my best friends. Also, my Dad and grandparents were alive, which, as I understand now, was exactly what made even the most bitter setbacks less painful (as a young idiot, I was oblivious to many things and took them for granted).

My second move happened exactly 11 years ago, when I was already old enough to understand that if I failed in that particular direction, that would be that—the end of my life as I knew it. I didn’t, although everything in my life did indeed change completely, starting with the language, and ending with the work I am doing now. I moved to bookish England to make it my home with a man who is an angel: I ended up living with my husband in the real country, which is much better than any of its literary imaginings can ever be, with all its flaws and imperfections. This country has accepted me as one of its own, and I am forever grateful for that. I won’t leave because life is getting difficult here: I want to live and try to make it somewhat better not only for myself, but also for my very close milieu, as they also love and cherish this place. This is my Stepmotherland, and I can’t break up with it: my love is unconditional.

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*Unlike mine: I put a hyphen in there to connect my badly and clunkily transliterated and unpronounceable first part to the Western one, which looks definitively standard hence simple. I do sometimes regret this decision as I see people constantly struggling to figure this all out when meeting me, but ah well. It feels now like a necessary part of the whole “transferring abroad” experience.