About a month ago, I was asked to join a book club with a group of 12 other expat women. How unbelievably and charmingly American! I first thought to myself. This quickly turned into “how on earth am I going to find time to read a book each month when I barely have time to read the newspaper?”. I’ve always been an avid reader and it saddens me to even admit that, of late, it takes me a good month or so to get through a novel. Initially, I blamed my iphone. Shortly after getting the phone, which Mr. Cheeseland warned would be dangerous given my dependence on email/social media/news, the majority of my reading was done hand-held and scrolling.
Maybe I was just waiting for the novelty of a sleek piece of technology to wane or perhaps I was waiting to cross paths with the right book. Either way, the prospect of joining a club to discuss character development, intrigue, surprise plot twists and psychology over a glass (or 3) of wine and home-baked finger foods sounded like just the activity I needed to shake up my weeknights and get me off the computer.
What resulted was not only an evening of intelligent literary dialogue but one of bonding over the common thread between us all – expat life. In other contexts, we may not all have been so willing or interested to get together with women of entirely different backgrounds, unsure if there would be a proper match. But we were there, gathered around a lovely spread of food and wine and we each shared our stories. Most of the other women were in Paris accompanying their husbands who were brought over to work. Legally, these women are not allowed to work (at least for 2 years) and so the transition from a time-consuming but fulfilling career and steady social life to one of absolute freedom from responsibility and financial dependence on their spouses can be isolating and unnerving.
There were only two of us that came to Paris as result of a longstanding Francophilia and ended up with French spouses. Our experiences were considerably different from the others but I was nonetheless moved by the comments of one of the newest members to the expat community. She arrived last February with her husband who was offered a temporary position in Paris with his company and was therefore forced to leave a high-paced career in advertising. Her days no longer consisted of deadlines and meetings but coffee dates and museum outings. Initially, her quest was to reach out to other expats and make friends so she joined the American Women’s Group in Paris which brought her back to (some form of) a social life.
As a die-hard New Yorker, she told herself she’d never live anywhere else and couldn’t fathom feeling settled anywhere east of Manhattan. With friends and family left behind and a considerable language barrier, Paris has slowly grown on her but not without subsequently provoking feelings of betrayal. “Do any of you feel guilty about liking Paris?”, she asked nervously. Truly the loaded question of the evening, implying that in liking Paris she is betraying her family and homeland, getting accustomed to a life she never intended to make permanent.
As a die-hard New Yorker, she told herself she’d never live anywhere else and couldn’t fathom feeling settled anywhere east of Manhattan. With friends and family left behind and a considerable language barrier, Paris has slowly grown on her but not without subsequently provoking feelings of betrayal. “Do any of you feel guilty about liking Paris?”, she asked nervously. Truly the loaded question of the evening, implying that in liking Paris she is betraying her family and homeland, getting accustomed to a life she never intended to make permanent.
So much has changed for me in the last year. If you look at some of what I was writing about last Fall, I was in what you might call an existential funk, feeling the guilt this woman was suffering. I made the sacrifice to uproot my life in the U.S., complained about the bureaucratic obstacles and personal struggles then bounced back with a renewed sense of appreciation for expat life yet still feel guilty that I can’t tell friends and family with any certainty that I’ll one day return “home” permanently. I’ve since come to terms with this struggle but can still identify with the sense of betrayal in wanting to live a different life.
But that evening, after she uttered those words of guilt and seeing some heads nod in reluctant agreement, I asked myself if I still feel the guilt. I could honestly say that I didn’t – no longer felt guilty for loving Paris and the life I’ve built here. At this point, it is as deeply embedded in my identity and sense of self as my roots in Philadelphia. The nostalgia and homesickness fluctuates but I know I am where I belong.
But that evening, after she uttered those words of guilt and seeing some heads nod in reluctant agreement, I asked myself if I still feel the guilt. I could honestly say that I didn’t – no longer felt guilty for loving Paris and the life I’ve built here. At this point, it is as deeply embedded in my identity and sense of self as my roots in Philadelphia. The nostalgia and homesickness fluctuates but I know I am where I belong.
For those of you who have lived or are currently living away from home, whether by choice or obligation, how have you reconciled this lingering guilt?
{For those curious, we most recently read “Olive Kitteridge” and “South of Broad“, both of which I adored}.
