At this moment, many of my expat peers are finding themselves at a time of transition. Many are leaving their current cities, desperately searching for direction. Others are getting married or breaking up, quitting jobs and going to grad school. What unites these individuals is their nomadic lifestyle. Always ready to change and move. They are infinitely more educated and sophisticated than any of their friends back home who earn more money and have mortgages.  But they have far fewer possessions, as everything they own is in their suitcases. They have refined aesthetics, and ironically, only IKEA furnishes their rented flats. They are, in essence, still living like students.

In ways they are the Generation Y poster children. Highly-educated, highly idealistic, and so living out a Peter Pan sort of existence, and never hitting that milestone of buying a house. Unable to quench their thirst for learning they continue to move, country to country, collecting addresses and languages as they go. More money would be great but corporate hell is too high a price to pay to get it.  Many friends have left their high-paying corporate jobs to pursue something more creative for a fraction of their original salaries and though they are now eking out frugal existences they will not revert. Work to live, just enough to maintain their lifestyles.

It is daunting to observe what everyone else is doing, the normal people who decided to pursue normal lives. They are homeowners, they have a garage, cars, kids. The bohemian crew stand on the sidelines looking in watching the big ring, the big act. But whereas that show is played consistently every night, we are in the audience and we can move to any tent we want, anytime. The homeowners are the real adults, living adult lives, behaving like adults. Their real lives have already started. And many of us are internally battling the nagging fear that we are delaying our real lives by continuing to chase our idealistic dreams. When will we realize that eating pasta every night actually counts as starvation? Will we have to settle down with a mortgage for our real lives to begin? Or has it already begun? We convince ourselves that our real lives have not yet begun because we are living in temporary places, and by only committing to disposable furniture, we can move again.

The other day I was speaking to an expat friend living in Paris. He had made a move from the corporate world, gotten an MBA and was trying something new. And he was telling me, with the most soulful eyes I had ever seen, how all he wanted was a full-sized fridge. In his flat share with a view of the river and the mobility to pick up and move again, he bemoaned the tiny fridge he had that only came to his waist. He was losing the battle to postpone his real life. 

Domingos and my British visas expire in June next year and this upcoming date has sent us into a frenzy of life analysis. Stacking up the pros and cons of residing in London and measuring up our satisfaction levels in the areas of work, city, social and culture, we are hoping our next step will be crystal clear after mapping it all out. Essentially, it’s been three years. Well? What did we get?

Firstly, the living standards. Currently we are living in a flat that is smaller than my parents’ ensuite bathroom. To be fair, my parents live in the suburbs and their bathroom is exceptionally large, but the whole idea of living in a flat the size of a space that my parents use for their personal ablutions certainly puts a perspective on things. Possibly more upsetting than the size issue is that my parents’ bathroom has nicer finishing and more light than our flat. In addition to this we find ourselves in the sorry domestic plights that are de rigeur in this city: separate hot and cold water taps, limescale, slanted floors and single-glazed windows that do not block out sound nor cold. In the words of our Brazilian friend Marcos, “the standard of your living conditions here is subhuman.” YIKES, Marcos.  Such words from a man who is living in a developing country where around twenty percent of the population is living in favelas, is a real eye-opener. Makes those favelas sound pretty good right about now. At least they have better weather and a great view! And they wouldn’t have a fraction of the rent we pay.

Secondly, the jobs. We’re both working at well-known companies. We are employed. Ok, so that’s a pro. But that’s about it. Not earning a lot of money, and no room to grow. That would be a con. So those cancel each other out.

Thirdly, the city. Seeing as we are constantly passing through any of the five airports here to fly away from London, this one is clearly a con.

Fourth, the social aspect. This used to be a pro. But as we have seen our expat community dwindle away over the past three years, I would have to say this is slowly becoming a con.

Fifth, the culture. I’d have to say a con. Judging by the absence of any Brits in our circle of friends, I think it is safe to say we don’t like British culture.

Hmmm. Doesn’t look like we will be renewing those visas.

1. Agree. Agreeing is paramount to being British. Agree even if you don’t actually agree. No one wants to know.

2. Be non-confrontational. Very similar to rule no. 1. To confront is to highlight a problem which reflects a lack of common ground. This is the same as disagreeing.

3. Get on with it. What one does even if one does not agree and is trying not to be confrontational.

4. Do not question. Where questioning and thinking outside the box are admired traits in the USA as the sign of a free and inquisitive mind, in the UK this is interpreted as trouble. Do not be a trouble-maker. Be harmonious and agree. Most Brits will be paralyzed with shock of being challenged and will revert to repeating the same point again and again. Game over.

5. Keep the flame of tradition alive. The UK has been doing things the same way since the beginning of time, and though has been whittled down to a tiny island of its original empire, it is still here. Don’t try to change it, or do things differently.  This explains the continued presence of separate hot and cold water taps, carpeting in pubs and bad food.

6. Drink excessively. As one is constantly having to repress how one really feels, and feeling quite trapped, get to the pub. Drinking with strangers is solidarity and how you really feel is only allowed to be shared if outrageously drunk so that it can be dismissed and forgotten immediately. See rule no. 3.

7. Dress questionably. If one is unable to get to a pub to get blasted into an oblivion, dressing inappropriately is a perfectly acceptable outlet for self-expression. You may not verbally express yourself through questioning nor confronting but putting your boobs, stomach or butt on clear display will certainly send out your message of disconnect.

8. Be happy with the staus quo and do not ask for more, aka do not strive for better. This suggests things could be better and that you know the way which is very presumptuous as the UK runs on tradition.  

9. Be vague. Ambiguity is a key technique in British conversation. As no one will be sure if one correctly understands you, you are effectively confusing them so that it is easier to blindly agree.

10. Say one thing but mean another. If you are the audience, read between the lines.  Example: defend the UK’s dreary weather by proclaiming loudly from every rooftop that you love it, but vacation in sunny Spain or Dubai every chance you get.  

Dear God why must the pub be the center of the universe in the London? Try as I might to fight it, all roads lead back to this tragic English establishment. My repulsion of this place, cherished in the hearts of all Brits, is met with utter bewilderment. There is a satisfaction, a sort of English pride, about one’s “local.”

One’s “local” is a proper English pub where no tourists have ever set foot, only authentic working-class alcoholics. If you’re really good, there will be a mangy dog that lives in there as well, and the name of the place will be something cute and senseless, like “The Cock and the Shovel.” From around eleven in the morning until eleven at night you can drink lukewarm beer and eat crisps. Proper pubs don’t have anything you could eat aside from crisps; gastro-pubs are not authentic. No sir, only a proper pub will cut it— bring on the crisps and the pork rinds.

Delightfully damp and crusty carpet lines the floors, in the bathrooms as well, and there is no music. Music would distract one from soaking in the true pub experience. NOTHING can get between you and the pub. The full experience is truly intoxicating; from the gorgeous olfactory mélange of wet dog and stale ale to the visual delights of your regulars: tea-stained teeth, greasy hair and heaving mammary glands.

Despite its innumerable charms I find myself retreating to the comforts of my flat most evenings, and regrettably, this is when the pub is at its most active. Want to know what your coworkers REALLY think of you? You will only ever learn the truth at THE PUB. Want to get ahead at your job? Forget late hours crunching numbers at the office; get your arse to THE PUB and catch up on those Carlsbergs. Want to make a move on your colleague? All pervy attacks are largely granted HR immunity if they take place at THE PUB, similar to horny exchanges at the CHRISTMAS PARTY. But, alas, this is a topic for another day.

Vienna has its coffee shops, Paris, its cafes, the US its diners, and the UK its pubs.

God save the Queen!

Turin is highly underrated. Despite some fleeting fame as a hosting city for the Olympics, most people never think about it, let alone visit. Truth be told, it was a toss-up between Bologna and Turin last weekend, but as the tickets were slightly cheaper to go to Turin, this is where I happily ended up.

Arcades, arcades, arcades. Arcades that snake along the perimeter of nearly every city block in the historic center, allowing pedestrians to amble along for miles sheltered from the elements. A backdrop of the Alps and the rushing river Po complete this city, crystallizing my childhood image of what it means to be “Continental.” A little bit of Vienna, a little bit of Paris, and the soul of Northern Italy, Turin embodies it all. Churches, relics, elegant cafes, hazelnut chocolates, shoes. And not a tourist in sight. Cheese, pasta, wine, museums, castle, gelati, coffee, aperitivo.

Fresh mountain air, Tuscan sunshine.