I Hate It Here! (The Part I Didn't Post About)
First, an acknowledgment:
I don't know if I'm an expat or an immigrant, and that's not a confession of ignorance, it's an admission of privilege. Expats go abroad with a plan to come home. Immigrants go abroad to build permanent roots. I'm sitting in the space between those two words because Devante and I haven't decided yet. We're trying this on, weighing dual citizenship, keeping our options open. That flexibility, the ability to not decide, is itself the privileged part. Most people who leave one country for another don't get to leave the door open behind them. We are.
I am very aware that the terms “expat” and “immigrant” carry a history of stigma, privilege, assumption and preconceived ideas. The official terminology is as follows:
An expat (short for expatriate) is usually a person living outside their home country temporarily, often for a work assignment, corporate relocation, or retirement, with the plan to eventually return home.
An immigrant is a person who moves to a new country to settle down and live permanently, often working toward long-term residency, citizenship, or building multi-generational roots.
Here's the uncomfortable truth about these two words: "immigrant" tends to get attached to people leaving the Global South: Latin America, Africa, South Asia, the Middle East – often with an assumption of necessity or even illegality baked in, regardless of what their actual paperwork says. "Expat" tends to go to people assumed to be white, Western, and moving by choice. I don't fit neatly into either assumption: Mexican, Cuban, and Spanish heritage, moving because I chose to, which is exactly why I'm not going to pretend either label fits clean.
This blog isn't really about untangling all of that, it's about what this move has actually felt like, from where I'm standing. I care too much about being respectful to immigrants everywhere to casually toss around a phrase like "expat adjustment syndrome" when I'm still not sure that label is even mine to claim. So instead, this blog is simply called: "Culture Shock." Here’s what it actually felt like. Now let's go!
As many of you know and have witnessed firsthand, Devante and I have been discussing the possibility of our move for months, even years. We built this up in our minds as the ultimate goal, what a life it would be to live on the coast somewhere in Europe! So, when the plans became a reality, we were over the moon with excitement! Then one Tuesday afternoon, September 1st to be exact, we arrived in Calpe and unpacked our bags for the long haul. The future was bright, and nothing was going to rain on this parade of happiness.
Except, I would say that it was on day 3 that I started to feel the first pricks of an unpleasant feeling arise. As I moved about the kitchen and the apartment space, there were little things that, unnoticed in the first days, became very loud on the 3rd. They weren’t things that were bad or good, but different. When you're in a new place with a few differences, you can get used to them almost immediately. When you’re in a new place with the differences being just about “everything,” well, that isn’t so easy to roll with. When we talked about moving, I imagined it would be different but that it would be relatively easy, with Devante knowing the language and my easy disposition. I was wrong, I underestimated the way I would feel.
I found myself pressing my lips together when doing tasks that came easy and devoid of any real thought process normally, but here became a “how to” crash course in basic living. The microwave, the washing machine, the oven – all “easy enough” but not so much when even the symbols on the machine aren’t familiar. The sink with its odd way of turning on full blast into the small, shallow bin, just enough to spray your torso as you navigated the touchy handle provoked plenty of expletives in my mind. Everything being so tiny, as is the norm here in Europe, demanded adjustment in some form or fashion.
Going to the grocery store alone was an adventure. Not only could I not always read the ingredients in a product, but the Spanish here is at times different to the Spanish I’m used to. Pulling out my phone to use Google Translate works in certain parts of the grocery store, but not all, I found out. Usually I have 5G service, but in some parts of grocery stores, and in some grocery stores as a whole I get 3G, (I didn’t even know my phone could register a 3G service) at which point Google Translate isn’t even doable. If I don’t have service, this also means I can’t Google Translate asking a question to someone as well. A few times now, I’ve guessed and ended up bringing home a product I didn’t actually want.
Everywhere I go, people will rattle off to me in – guess what – Spanish. Fast Spanish. Spanish with words that are shortened to accommodate informal tense. I’m acutely aware that I cannot understand, nor am I understood. This brings forward a feeling of vulnerability and loneliness. Yes, I knew when I moved here that I would not know that language, and to expect people here to know English isn’t even an appropriate expectation, but I didn’t realize the day to day impact this would have on me.
Everything is uphill here, almost every errand involves a cobblestone sidewalk. And although this translates well to photos, my body and my feet were taking a beating. My life in Minnesota and even Texas was not this active, and I regretted that one thousand and five times in the first few weeks I was here.
I won’t go on and on about all the things that are different (there’s a million more) and added to life being wholly different than it used to be. What you just read was for context as to what I am feeling and why.
Some days I sat on the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, hills with villas jutting out from it like in a storybook to my right, the majestic Peñon de Ifach to my left, and I felt tears rolling down my face. Tears of homesickness, tears of questioning my choices, tears of self-pity, tears of shame for even feeling sorry for myself in this environment. Somehow, I had told myself that I wasn’t allowed to feel anything but grateful in this space. Right? Like, you move to another country and automatically it means you can’t feel the results of your choice in a way that isn’t anything other than privileged, thankful and humbly grateful.
I kept my mouth shut about how I was feeling for a bit, not wanting to upset Devante whose hard work and research brought us here to this place we had planned and hoped for together. This was our dream, but he had done most of the work: figuring out the paperwork we'd need, which appointments had to be booked when, how one deadline depended on another, and what Spain required for Paco's grand arrival. Oh sure, I had definitely arranged appointments once I knew what was needed and when, but he had done a lot of the research. How could I feel anything but happiness and gratefulness in that scenario?
Predictably, though I didn't see it coming at the time, the first few weeks we bickered more than we ever have. In one particular moment, I spat out, “I hate it here.” Completely untrue, but for a moment the mask slipped, and every feeling I'd been sitting on came out in those four words — all the emotions I'd foolishly chosen not to share with Devante. He looked hurt, and I immediately burst into tears, regretting my choice of words and hoping he would believe me when I explained. Which I did, over the next bit of time together sitting on the couch. Out tumbled all of the times I felt stupid for not understanding, the times I made myself smaller in a space because I didn’t want to be seen as an ignorant tourist coming here with assumptions, the times I had been quietly frustrated crammed in an elevator because the space was so incredibly small, which led to me feeling large in a place where everyone is fit from all the walking, the times I put on a happy face because I wanted to be strong for Bri so she wouldn’t second guess her choice of coming with us.
Devante listened as I cried, cried for the moments I felt like I had to grin and bear it as I navigated every single thing. I cried because I was missing my family and my friends. I missed the familiarity of our place in Northeast Minneapolis, the neighborhood where we were just starting to be recognized here and there, greeted in a way that said, 'Ah, it's the Vargases and Paco!” My tears fell as I relayed frustration with my efforts in speaking Spanish, feeling embarrassed for every blunder, every mispronounced word or misplaced phrase. Then, the biggest feeling was attached to the very fact that I dared to cry at all in the privileged position I was in.
He listened attentively, his head nodding and his silence welcoming my rant; and then he reached over and started to massage my tired feet. After I fell quiet, he told me it was ok, and that I had every right to feel these things. He had immigrated to the US from Australia as a young man, and although there wasn’t a language barrier, he was familiar with culture shock. He assured me that as cliché as it sounds, the knowledge that our move came from privilege can co-exist with the feelings of frustration and sadness I was experiencing. I was not required to be the humble, grateful person that I felt I had to be. It’s never the feelings, it’s what you do with those feelings that shape a person. This is advice I’d given my own children over the years, and now I was having to take myself at my own words.
Over the next days I did some research, and what I was feeling was quite common and had a name for it: Culture Shock. Just like grief, culture shock has stages:
· Honeymoon stage: Everything feels new and exciting — trying local foods, exploring neighborhoods, sending photos home. Pure adventure and optimism.
· Frustration stage: The novelty fades, and the daily friction sets in: communication barriers, homesickness, feeling constantly out of step. Irritation and self-doubt take over.
· Adjustment stage: Routines start to form, and the place starts to feel manageable. A favorite grocery store, a weekly call with family, small wins start to build confidence.
· Acceptance stage: The culture starts to feel familiar. The challenges haven't disappeared, but they're easier to carry, and there's real comfort in that.
It was good to know I wasn’t alone and that plenty of others – immigrants and expats alike – at one time or another, have felt the way I was feeling. I wasn’t being unthankful and ungrateful at all! Simply, it was just the process one goes through when relocating to a foreign place.
Prior to our move, I had re-joined Facebook so that I could be in groups here in Spain and specifically Calpe that might help me feel more connected. I haven’t been too vocal in those groups yet, but even just seeing posts and the same people who are posting over and over have begun to give me a feeling of familiarity. That helps. Going for walks on the same paths and seeing the same little shops has helped. Observing the schedule that is held here – helps. Hearing the same sounds at the same time of day and where and why they are happening helps. Saying the same phrases over and over — no matter how silly it feels — helps. (Like going in the elevator and saying out loud “Planta principal” along with the automated voice who says it first in Spanish, then repeats in English “Main floor”.)
Giving myself little moments that echo my life back in the States has helped keep me from feeling constantly uncertain. What does that look like? Well, just two days ago, homemade chicken noodle soup happened while a storm came through. The week prior involved my grandma’s version of Spanish rice, which Bri also seemed to really appreciate. Wearing the flannel pajama pants in the evening that I wore on cool nights in Minneapolis was cozy feeling and gave me joy. One evening, instead of feeling the pressure to go walking as a family like most families here do, I turned the TV on and watched a couple of episodes of Law and Order guilt-free, sipping my Tempranillo.
And so, after the moment I had with Devante, I asked myself, “Self, what will you do with these feelings?” And the answer is, “Aprenderé, poco a poco.”
I shall learn, little by little.
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