This is not a political blog

I actually hate discussing politics. Please understand it, I come from a Mediterranean country and for a very long time, politics around me have been a joke. No one taking the job seriously and citizens playing it like football hooligans: showing team-support and lots of confrontation with the opposition, yet forgetting to follow up their elected government and the un-fulfilled promises.

Nowadays, it feels like this is going around almost everywhere. Some of the Prime Ministers and Presidents elected kept  me wondering why someone will pick such morons, buy their crap and be satisfied about it? The reality is that no one really is, and most of the time, we just settle in the “least-worse” scenario. Ancient Greece would be soooo disappointed of what this century has made with Democracy.

Coming back to the blog, I call it Brexit diaries, because, as many other non-English-Londoners, I was deeply hit by Brexit’s stroke. I felt the pain the next morning after the Referendum. I was seriously shocked with the result. I still am. 

Further, Brexit has impacted London severely. Lots of families leaving the city: economy isn’t growing, Sterling is down, companies are not taking risks and, there is an overall uncertainty that makes you feel like it would be better if you are not the last one leaving the wrecked ship.

In this way, Brexit has created a lot of Expatish.  Most of them will walk or, are actually going now through the painful road of forgetting such an amazing place and resettling at home, or somewhere else. 

As you may imagine, it was making pressure in our pros and cons list, when we discussed about leaving the city. I must say that list is still accurate, but it has taken many months to digest. I kept saying we did a very reasonable job, looking at every aspect and taking a properly balanced decision, but my heart was not following this process. No. My heart was cornered by reason, but still beating as strong as ever, filling my body with an acute, incisive sadness. 

At least, I learned never to underestimate again my powerful heart, when taking important decisions. :)

School run

Yesterday, first day of school.

Madrid, not London. Immense joy to see again all those familiar faces, warm welcome back kisses and hugs. Feeling of community. Enjoying September greatly.

Nothing went as expected, unforeseen traffic jam and no parking spaces got me more than half an hour in the car, for a ride that must last only five minutes. I have to quick out my older kids with the engine on, no kisses, no pictures and no proud rewarding moment of being the wonderful mummy.

I arrived to school 15 minutes late with my little one, but still, it felt so good. Being back and feeling home, at home. Feeling the belonging and not the misplacement, not missing any more other friends and other streets.

I must admit, my kids attend a British school in Spain. Hence, half/half: a bit like us. So, this helps a lot. Spanglish in every corner, many foreign families and plenty of Expatish.

My husband’s clan was probably a bit disappointed that our kids did not join daddy’s old school. Great reputation and all second generation in the family attending it. My kids could have been with the cousins, either in the class or at least at the recess. In a way, I could feel the downside as well. Old teachers welcoming my children and kind of invading the junior school with nine new kids (in between all of us), proudly carrying family’s name again through corridors and classrooms.

Anyway, it didn’t feel right for us. My kids are half British, have strong accent when talking Spanish, and would struggle with the culture and the language. On the other hand, I wanted to keep them in the British culture, reinforcing English or at least, making sure they don’t lose fluency.

You never know when you choose the school. You kind of bet for the place, but only get to know it later.  Nevertheless, I knew for me it was really important that they could breathe a bit London’s atmosphere: diversity, different confessions, people coming and going, because I deeply appreciate the values all that brings and because, in this global world, I think they are going to be very useful.

This is a good example of what coming back means:  knowing who you were, learning who you are and taking the decisions that actually suit you. To this day, I haven’t regret a second my choice and, it has actually helped me greatly (not only my kids) to settle back home.

Craziness, desperation or actually normal, expected behaviour?

Writing all this entries makes me feel crazy, desperate, weird and nuts. I have been feeling like this for a while now and it was such a relief to discover this (Go! Hit the link!):

https://2009-2017.state.gov/m/fsi/tc/c56075.htm

It's the document the American government had put together for its expats coming back home. It has all the research you may expect and it’s so professionally written.

OMG! I read it and felt soooooo relieved! I was not crazy after all. I was not a spoiled person not being able to enjoy and appreciate all of the good things my new life had. My little heart was working properly and my brain too! I was just following the expected path I was supposed to advance.

I wanted to shout it to the world, and that’s why I am writing this blog. How come I hadn’t ever heard about Reverse Culture Shock? All I have read was the clichéd articles in magazines about obstacles and challenges you would find if you come back home after an adventure abroad. But that did not apply me! It was not an adventure abroad, in my case it was a life abroad!! I hated the articles, because they minimised the experience and the situation and I could not see myself there, connect there.

And then my friend C, gave me what I needed. I went to see her this summer, in my last visit to London, because I had to make up with her. Last time I saw her, in Madrid back in October, we enjoyed a morning together. At least I did, not sure about them! One of the best things when you move back is having visits from the friends you left behind. Really it’s not the same going yourself back to meet them; having them in your new home is the absolute treat.

As I was saying, they found the usually highly-spirited Julia, deep down the hole. Sad, lost and although not regretting having come back, really explaining how damned hard it was. BOOM! Because later that morning they told me they were actually leaving London and coming back to their country.

I felt horrible for having exposed so crudely my miseries. So, next time I was in London, I had to see her to tell her that, after all, everything seemed perfectly nice and I was enjoying being back in Spain. Hooray! That I had overcome whatever I was going through and I guessed it was just a matter of time.

-“I was sure, you will end up sorting it out, Julia- she replied. Of course it looked to me like a phase you were going through”. And then, she gave me the best present she could. My super wise friend C. kept saying:

-“Actually, I have read about Reverse Culture Shock to know how to prepare myself for the change”.

-“Wait, what?”- Startled big eyes on my face.

-“Reverse Culture Shock. You know, it has even a name to describe what a person goes through when going back home after experiencing enough time abroad”.

Bless her!  One really must to have a friend like C in one’s life: reflective, wise and so cultivated. Happy and easy to jump in deep conversation, even if there’s been months since last time you saw her and you know you just have an hour or so together. So, we move on to discuss again deeply other subject that doesn’t come into this blog, but may need its own: women in the forties and related issues. Poor C! 

She still wants to see me again, she says. 

Mens sana in corpore sano.

It all started by a brilliant suggestion. I was fruitlessly looking for a job, sending my CV to every open position in any legal department, and figuring out, with hope and fear, how much my life would change in case I’d be successful. I had spent the last two years, either in maternity leave or transition year for our move overseas, and now it was time to come back to work.

I was close sometimes, others not even replied. I wanted to believe it was the weight of the gap in my cv, but not the fact that my professional life could not be interesting, or worse, that, after all those years of quite an impressive professional ascension, someone may think that I was not skilled enough. I tried to comfort myself thinking that maybe the reason was that, in Spain, you don’t looked committed enough when you have left your work aside for a couple of years. This country is still quite behind regarding conciliation, women at work and maternity leave -as most of them, let's be frank here. Whatever the reason was, for the first time in my life, I wasn’t called back. And, although it buys you extra time with your kids –be always optimistic-, it hurts.

So, Mr. Right asked me, why don’t you start doing some exercise? You will soon find a job (what a sweetheart!) and you will regret not using all the free time you have now to get fit. Fair enough. That was how I started and, I must say the exercise helped me greatly healing all my homesickness.

So I started in a little gym, cosy and so well staffed. I took my exercise routine seriously. I was running, I was working out, I was giving it the most of myself, sweating my pains away. For the first time in my life, I was actually looking forward to going to the gym, putting my trainers on and going for it. And so, I did.

It’s been eighteen months now.

It has its perks, you know. Let’s allow vanity intrude here. I look at myself in the mirror and I like what I see. I am over forty, being pregnant three times, and I wish I had this body back in my twenties. Defined, toned and damn hard! I feel super proud because I never thought it would be me the one with the nice body. I’ve been always more the kind of girl with a pretty face and a nice smile.

But it’s not just that, it’s not only that you look good and that helps feeling good. What it’s really important is that I feel immensely proud because after decades of wasting monthly the cost of my gym’s fee, I finally committed to it and conquered it. And that makes me feel powerful and at the same time satisfied that, at least all the time I’ve been adjusting, was not a totally waste of time and energy.

I can not take all the credit, though. This time I did not do this alone. Once a week I had a personal trainer by my side. I never thought I would need one and it felt really spoiled but this was the key to success. They were pushing my limits higher, and constantly repeating me that I could do it, and –whatever is more important- probing themselves right!!

Really, if you are low, put a PT in your life, all this positive feedback works wonders in everyone; I will take them home, so they coach me for the rest of my day. Furthermore, and this is a real treat, they LISTEN to you! Poor people, there is not much choice for them, I must say. They are stuck with you for an hour with no escape line. Only way to keep your mouth shut is increasing the weight and reps till you’re breathless. In my case, they must almost torment me to agony!!

But even if they do, it is FUN pain! It's not torture like all those lessons with my old style P.E. teacher, whose technics were more mocking us and calling us names. I have enjoyed and still do, every session and as well, leaving the gym, noticing that my head works better, with much more clarity and calmness.

Can you get a better deal?

The cookbooks and other food related obsessions

I am an emotional eater. I know it sounds very freaky, but I perfectly remember the moment when I discovered most of my favourite flavours, where I was and who was with me. I greatly appreciate when someone cook for me with some care and enthusiasm. I can feel the love there and I greatly fall from it.

Of course I need to mention my grandmas here. Both amazing cooks. To be fair with the past, maybe one was better than the other, but I must say, to me all their meals tasted amazingly well. Further than their fragrant dishes, I could taste the dedication and love involved, either for their sophisticated feasts to their daily kitchen.

I find men in the kitchen really attractive. They don’t cook in the same way of grandmas, certainly, but I liked the fact that there is a lot of concentration going on, accuracy, technic and an occasional sip of wine. Absorption but in a relaxed, exhilarated way. At least my husband cooks this way. He enjoys to lock himself in the kitchen, where no one else is allowed. Please don’t try to help, there! No distractions or interruptions. Just he and his pans. I mean, if you are ready to follow orders, you are welcome. But don’t try to help in this kind of feminine way that involves suggestions or tips. No. No. You’ll be kick out in no time.

It’s printed in my memory, the first time that my date decided to cook for me, I found it so sweet and was greatly moved, mainly because the outcome was a real disaster. And how bad you need to be to mess up a tomato sauced spaghetti? Specially, when you are Italian!!! Bless him. My dear P.! Doesn’t matter, he was good at other stuff so, I totally forgive his terrible cooking. But, come on, let's not get distracted here...

Anyway, all this introduction is just to tell you that I was about to leave London and I knew I would be suffering badly, missing all my favourite recipes, scents, tastes and textures. From London’s top quality international cuisine to British comfort food. From savoury to sweet. From curries to pastries. From sushi to hummus. And I was right.

So, I prepared myself for that, and I bought just cook books, as my own farewell present. Seven in total. Over 2000 pages of mouth-watering pictures, through- out described technics and, unfortunately, impossible ingredients.  It kind of backfired, because thanks to them I started longing for my beloved Waitrose, the Chinese supermarkets and the popular farmers markets, so in these two years I barely have tried a recipe. But I still find a lot of comfort just going through the pages, looking at the pictures and using them as old family albums, reconnecting somehow with past gratification and friends long gone.

Never mind, I had other urges and greater dreams to heal my nostalgic needs. All I could think at the time was to bring The British pub to Spain. Best business idea ever. How come no one has thought about it yet?

But my British pub mania deserves another entry.

September

There are months in the calendar year that people tend to dislike. January, of course, is one of them. November, could be another. Ha.

Guys, if there is a hard month round the year, that one is September. Yes, I know. Still summer. And yes, bright enough and not that hot. 

No. September is a quite damned difficult month. Go back to obligations, work and alarms settled for the mornings. Just try to forget how well you were doing chilling by the sea. Or hiking a beautiful mountain. Say good bye to all your seasonal friendships. 

Get ready for a new school year.  Add up one thousand more tasks, errands and jobs for your personal to-do-list. Enjoy the adjustment of your kids, who are struggling to change their summer pace to the back-to-school hectic rythm. They may spend a couple of weeks in denial, and that would involve you dreaming about boarding schools, because they know how to get into your nerves. 

Face the bloody scale. You may try it a few times to see if the measurement is accurate, if there is any chance you can get a smaller number. You may even take your earrings off, but still, you won't like the figure showing there.

And a long etcetera. 

Now, there is only one good thing about the month. Actually, recovering your routine is hard, but a blessing. It gives you safety feeling, control, etc. 

But, what if there is nothing of that for you to pay off? What if September is the month when you are starting your new life somewhere else? What if there is no routine, home to come back, or friends (that over the years have become family) to welcome you? What if you can not share any more the stories, the gossip, and, let's admit it, a bit of the bitching too, with your bestie over a cup of tea?

I know, it sucks. It takes so much, that you must be entitled to the tantrum of your life. Don't worry if you go for it, ignite or explode. Don't feel guilty, you are in your perfect right!

But, let's be practical here. There is no way around it. Try to face the challenge. Prepare your superpowers. Take out your super hero costume, pick who would you like to be: Wonderwoman, Captain Marvel, Scarlett Witch or whoever is your favourite. You would need the strengh, the inspiration and the mental control. You may need the powerful can-do-actitude too. 

And on the bright side, think that September is a month with only 30 days. It could be worse, it may have 31. 

The place in the mountains

If you read my previous entry, you may be wondering where all my furniture went. Why my new place was empty?

Well, you know, shipping from overseas it’s quite expensive. No one was paying us the cost. So, most of my furniture was donated to charities and particulars needing them. Apart from the three things I took to Madrid, I just shipped to our place in the mountains my dining room's furniture, a coffee table and a carpet. 

It’s a beautiful house located, most of the times, just above the clouds, where you see sunsets you cannot even dream about. Close to one of the most beautiful cities of the country (and lively too!).

To reach there, you need to take a road heading south for almost 5 hours, if you consider the terrible traffic to cross Granada. But is an enjoyable trip with stunning views and open landscapes and, when that it’s not enough to entertain ourselves, we play an audio book and listen to it. Hence, except for the constant rhythm and pace of the story teller, it’s at it most a trip in silence, where I can enjoy the views and be alone with my thoughts. Dreaming away as I please.

Of course, there are interruptions, this is real life, remember. Every now and then, my 3 year old, may shout for his life:

-NO ‘TORY!!!! (as per story) and I WANT MUSIC!!!

But most of the time, he sleeps. Bless him! I must admit, we ignore him greatly when he doesn’t and he just travels peacefully without a screen (hate them with all my heart!) or fighting much his older siblings.

So the way is beautiful, the fact that is again the 5 of us is healing, and when I arrive there I really feel home, surrounded by the things that I couldn’t leave behind. 

That place help me so much dealing with the transition. There are many things to liase with when you go back to your original country. One of the most important is that the family concept changes. Well, that is if you are from a Mediterranean country, where family is expansive and involves so many interactions, commitments and big family meals, with three generations seating round the table. It could be a bit overwhelming.  That’s why finding a place –anywhere-to keep being the family you used to be,-a very tight, hard core- family was so important to me.