Expat fatigue

Living abroad is exhilarating but often exhausting. There are points when I am plum tired of factoring cultural differences into every conversation while simultaneously decoding accents, colloquial expressions and different usages of English. To be a healthy expat I must exercise patience and introspection on a daily basis, not allowing myself to conclude that the frustrating aspects of my day are the result of the incompetence of those who are not like me. It takes energy to avoid this trap, especially when you come from a country with a superiority complex. I don’t want to become “the Ugly American,” but I see how easily it happens. Yet expats who fall into this mindset only make life harder on themselves. They never adjust, and they develop an arrogance that makes them hard to be around.

The workplace is a particularly challenging environment for me, because for the first time in my professional life I am in an absolute minority. I am the only American woman in my entire building. There are a few other women, and a few other Americans, but I am the lone combination of the two. And as such I am used to reaping the rewards of the feminist movement, which makes my current reality all the more draining. At times I feel I’ve stepped several decades back in time, (think Peggy Olson on Mad Men) and find myself trying to prove that I’m not a glorified secretary or a piece of eye candy but have real knowledge and expertise in my field. There has been some progress in this regard since I started my job last year, but it's often two steps forward, one step back.

The other part of expat life that wears on me is the challenge of conducting my most important relationships by email and Facebook. There is so much that I miss, and so much room for misunderstanding. Tone is hard to convey in print, and if I’m worried that something I’ve written might be misconstrued (as happened just yesterday) I often have to wait for the time difference to resolve itself before I find out if it was (as is happening today).

Usually, I start to feel this fatigue in the days leading up to a trip, and this time is no exception. Our next excursion is scheduled for mid-November and not a moment too soon. Travel and adventure seem to be excellent antidotes for this weary expatriate.

Death of a monarch; life in a monarchy

Yesterday heading out to my favorite lunch spot, I noticed this --

It's hard not to notice when one of the tallest flagpoles in the world has its flag at half-mast. And when I returned to work I quickly learned the reason was that Sheikh Saqr al-Qasimi had died (he was 90 so it seems of natural causes). He was the ruler of Ras al Khaimah, one of the seven emirates, which we recently drove through for the first time on our way to the Musandam Peninsula. The UAE is now in a seven-day mourning period.

I began reading a bit about Sheikh Saqr and found his life to be pretty inspiring. He was one of the longest-reigning monarchs in the world and saw the UAE through its entire transformation from barren nomadic territories to bustling metropolises.

Reading about his legacy I was struck by the use of words such as “bloodless coup”, “dynasty”, and “line of succession.” These are concepts that don’t affect my daily life in any noticeable way, so it’s somewhat jarring to think about them describing not some far off place once upon a time, but the here and now. It suddenly hit home that I live in a monarchy.

What's more, apparently there has been a bit of royal family drama surrounding the Sheik Saqr’s succession. I won't go into the details here, but it's the kind of stuff you read about in history books or fairy tales (before the happy ending), and include words like "depose" and "exile." With all that is circulating online, and the UAE government's disinclination for divulging its dirty laundry, it's difficult to know the hard facts. Whatever the case, Saqr's fourth son and Crown Prince, Sheikh Saud, has been appointed as the new ruler of Ras-al-Khaimah. Next week the flags will be raised and life in this monarchy will go on.

Home is...

I was recently introduced to the music of an up-and-coming ensemble called The Head and the Heart. They have a folksy, quirky sound rich in instruments and vocal harmonies (which I love), and I’ve found I particularly connect with their music because the lyrics include themes about being on the road, missing home and not missing home, and feeling generally uprooted or out of place. Apparently the band is based in Seattle but none of them is actually from there, and as you would imagine they are constantly on the move trying to make it as musicians.

For a few weeks now, the refrain from "Cats and Dogs," a song on their debut album, has been looping periodically on the soundtrack in my mind (at any moment in time I always have a song playing in my head – is that just me?). Fortunately, this one is a tune I like, and the words are “My roots have grown but I don’t know where they are.”

I think it encapsulates how I feel about my current state in the world. Living as an expat I’m often asked two questions: 1) Where is home for you? And 2) Will you move home when you’re done here? I always feel a bit shady and evasive when facing these questions because I still haven’t quite worked out how to respond. People think it's cute but are never satisfied if I say that home is wherever Sam is. They smile and say, "but really, where are you from?"

My turn to ask questions. What does “home” mean? Is it where the heart is? Is it where you hang your hat? Can you ever go home again? What if you don’t know where that is?

In 31 years of life I’ve resided in approximately 15 houses or apartments in 8 cities, 4 states and 2 countries (and no, I’m not military), and about one-fourth of the last 14 months saw me living out of luggage. I’ve never stared at the same four walls for more than four years. I don’t own any property, not even a car. When people meet me they can never place my accent; usually they guess Canada or Ohio. I lived in San Antonio for the longest consecutive period of my life, but I wasn't born there, and my parents have moved four times since I graduated high school (huh, wonder where I get it?). Their current home, while nice to visit, has for me lost the trail of childhood nostalgia. I rent a storage unit in a random suburb of Boston for the odds and ends that didn't make the cut during our move to the UAE. I have a couple of boxes stored in my sister’s closet in San Antonio that may contain some photo albums and old stuffed animals...actually I have no idea what's in them. Most of my family lives in Texas, but I also have "people" in Chicago, Seattle, Denver, parts of Virginia ...and Italy. As far as lifestyle goes so far I’ve felt most comfortable on the East Coast. In view of this disjointed history, where would you have me call home?

It occurs to me that I have something in common with the semi-nomadic Bedouin culture on which the UAE was built. In the words of Kerouac, I am “always travelling, never arriving,” at each stop leaving something or someone behind, but also amassing experiences and friendships and memories to make the next destinations richer. I am certain that my thoughts on this subject will evolve over time, but my conclusion for now is that I may be homeless but I’m not rootless. In fact, my roots are growing. It’s just that I don’t know quite where they are.