Nostalgia

Finding beer on our journey... of course.

Cool fall mornings have made me feel nostalgic for a time when I once felt so turbulent: moving overseas and establishing a home in the United Kingdom. A year ago, Chris and I were living in a Transitional Living Facility (TLF) with our dog and cat, praying that our lease would start before we would have to board the animals. We were lucky. The days matched up perfectly. So we moved from a place with furniture and internet to a lovely row house with nothing in it.

 Our house was sparse because we moved to England in camping backpacks. It took us almost five days and three countries (four if you count the U.S.) to tote our beloved furry critters alongside us. In our minds, the animals were the essentials—and it was a hell of a lot cheaper to move them this way. You can imagine how very little ultimately fits in a hiking pack. Despite mailing a few boxes of household items to ourselves, we were without quite a few basic comforts. Especially when our luggage arrived after our household goods.  

Our trip to Dover.

 Most days, it wasn’t bad. We traveled, we took in the country- side. We made good use of our class six cards, and found a new date night tradition: Wednesday trivia at the bar on base. I remember Chris coming home from work one evening to find me sitting on the stairs crying. I told him, “I hate it here.” Even though I didn’t really mean it. I was bogged down that day in all the things we didn’t have. I lost sight of the adventure for a moment. But I had Chris, and I knew everything was going to be ok. 

Chris and Schrodie playing in our empty house.

Thinking back to all the little memories of our autumn in England, I am overwhelmed with longing for even the most frustrating of moments. I miss my best friend so dearly. I miss walking our dog on the soccer pitches, letting him run loose and sniff the chickens that lived in the community garden behind our house. I miss ordering drinks for Chris at Starbucks in the BX—“Do you want a cold Chris or a hot Chris today?”

I miss our friends. There is always that weird moment when moving some place new. Are the new people going to like me? With a squadron it’s different—you get to reunite with “old” friends in the process of making new ones.  People like Sean and Rachel, or Kyle and Kristen … the ones who make you excited to move. You aren’t a complete stranger to everyone. And the people we met in England are amazing. I never thought I would say I miss crud, but I do! Mostly, I miss the lovely women I got to practice with every Tuesday. 

In the midst of all the newness and chaos of figuring a new culture (without pissing anyone off too royally), I had my partner in crime by my side. We made a great team. One of my favorite shared brain moments was when we both ordered hot pink seat covers from Amazon for our beat up 97 Gulf.  I promptly canceled my order. The pink seats were a source of pride—Chris loved having something a little unexpected, just to see how others would react. 

All that is to stay, we kept each other grounded when things were most difficult. Chris had a great way of doing that for me. Despite that day on the stairs, and a few other meltdowns, most days I was so entirely grateful for the chance to live out our dream of living and traveling overseas. And that I had the best travel companion ever. 

The following is from the blog I initially intended to start about our mishaps and travels overseas. In the blog I talk about wanting to regain a sense of normalcy. I have no idea what normal is anymore. It’s amazing how much I would trade to be standing in the galley kitchen of our home, swearing at a coffeemaker before angrily climbing back into bed with Chris so he could tell me it was alright.

The Coffee-Maker

“I kicked a coffee pot the other day. While I realize that kicking the coffee maker was not going to improve its ability to perform, kicking the damn thing seemed like the most satisfying option at the time. Our first Saturday in our new house I was looking forward to the basic creature comfort a cup of coffee can offer. Especially when we have no furniture, no internet, no shoes to protect my feet from the cold. What little we have in the house are the few items we managed to scrounge together at IKEA. Including one lonely coffee mug that I purchased with the foresight that I would soon buy an inexpensive coffeemaker—something that could serve my much needed morning coffee and could be easily parted with in a year or two, should I wear it out. 

What I did not expect was for the coffee maker to wear out so quickly. After a successful maiden brew the morning before, I was greatly anticipating my first cup of Saturday morning coffee. It’s a simple joy to sit with my coffee any day of the week; I especially look forward to a cup on lazy Saturday mornings when the dog has decided 8 a.m. is long enough to wait before waking me (never his father) up. Not to mention when the morning air feels so unusually crisp to my southern-thinned blood after getting up with the dog. 

I filled the coffee maker (still gently smelling like new plastic), and scooped ample amounts of decaf Dunkin Donuts into the filter. The deceptive power switch lit up orange as I turned the machine on. But nothing happened. No water, no heat, no coffee. And no patience from a caffeine freak. Swearing, I tried to persuade the coffee maker into doing something. That didn’t work. So, eventually, I kicked it.  That is, after I had begrudgingly returned the coffee grounds to the bag, and dumped the water out of the reservoir.

An angry morning run, and a few hours later, I eventually procured some coffee on base. The day was not completely lost. What I foolishly did not realize at the time was that the lovely 110 volt coffee maker I so smartly plugged into an adapter had burnt out the heating element after one use. In the UK, appliances are 220 volt. An adapter only converts the plug not, the voltage.

My over-reaction to the coffee maker is just one of many moments in which I have lost my cool over something rather benign in the last few weeks. I knew moving would require patience, I knew we would encounter challenges that would require time, energy, and a new sense of cultural competency. I paid enough attention in my intercultural communications class to know that culture shock is an inevitability, regardless of how excited we are to be here. What surprised me is that dealing with all the big things, like finding a house quickly so we didn’t have to board our animals, or establishing a pound account so we could do anything else, would take up so much energy that when it comes to the small stuff, I have already reached my limit.

While no coffee is often a bad sign for me, what the coffee-maker incident made me realize the most is that I am ready for the move to be over. We are still living in a period of transition. We have enough to get by for a while, which is something for which we can both be grateful. At the same time, we are going on three months of living without the things that make our life feel somewhat normal. Like a cup of coffee. Or the couch that seems to be the center of our home, where our dogs sits patiently and waits for us to come home. The couch, where I sit with our dog and drink my Saturday morning coffee, and appreciate the simple comfort that all three of those things can give an often anxious soul like mine. 

I know our things will get here eventually. Not every day will feel like some uphill journey to center ourselves and our home. In the mean time, I bought a new coffee maker-- a 220 volt 5-cup number. It’s enough to keep me moving without making myself a martyr to the French press that is being held ransom by British customs, along with all of our other household goods. “