Around half a million people leave the UK to live abroad each year. A survey by the British Council showed 72 per cent of 18- to 30-year-olds would consider living and working overseas, with cold weather, the high cost of living, extortionate childcare, a lack of work-life balance and even poor romantic prospects among their motivations for leaving the country. The i Paper’s Expat Files follows Britons who have taken the leap and settled elsewhere, detailing the ups and downs of their journeys.
Earlier this summer, my family and I travelled home to England for a short visit. Home because England is where we are from; for a visit because we are temporary expats, living in Washington, DC, where we moved just over a year ago.
It has become fashionable, in certain circles, to denigrate this country. I had braced myself accordingly: we were all excited to come home, but I was anticipating shockingly high prices, chaotic politics, a general sense of malaise and of course, an unbearable heatwave making life practically not worth living.
And sure, it was warm. Normally, a trip back to the UK necessitates the immediate addition of a jumper after exiting Heathrow; this time as we travelled north on the train we sweated in our t-shirts as we whizzed past stubble-cropped fields where the harvest had already long been gathered in, even though it was only mid-July. As we journeyed, we ate ready-made noodles from the buffet car that cost us £8.50 a pop.
So no, not particularly cheap and definitely not cool. But DC, when we left and when we returned, was a sweaty 36°C, with a humidity level that felt like being in a permanent jungle. England’s heat by contrast was dry and enveloping – terrible for the garden but balmy for the soul.
As for the prices – well, the joy of paying the advertised cost of something, without being stung for the tax and a tip on top at the till far outweighed the financial burden. Which really wasn’t that high anyway: when I bought a pancake – a pancake! – for breakfast at an American airport recently it cost me $16.50.
Call them rose-tinted spectacles, but in fact, living away from the UK has made me come to love it even more, in all its messy, contradictory glory.
Some of these glories never even crossed my mind when I lived there myself. Access to the countryside, for example. Sure, it’s arid and barren at the moment. But the joy of just being able to go for a walk! On miles of public footpaths! Through woods and fields and beauty! That simply doesn’t exist in America. There’s no right to roam; yes, there are stunning national parks and other state public lands, but no wandering into the countryside in general.
Taking the dog for a walk is, to my mind, one of the biggest small pleasures there is. Here, you can’t hop into the nearest field, or seek out a river to walk along. (Also, even if someone is just walking around the block to let their dog do its business, they call it a “hike”. The first time I heard someone talking about their recent hike I was impressed – until I realised they’d literally just gone for a Sunday afternoon stroll). You can’t even let your dog off the lead; in DC it’s illegal to do so.
After your walk (not hike) in England, you can then go and find a friendly pub (which will probably let your dog in too, and give it a bowl of water). Beats a sports bar every time. The beer’s better, for a start. Can anything beat an English pub garden at the height of summer? That lazy buzz of conversation; slightly sticky tabletop home to a couple of pints and several torn-apart packets of crisps? You can’t get good crisps in America. Oh how I miss crisps. Honestly, if you’re reading this now, just head to your local Tesco Extra and check out the crisp aisle. A thing of beauty.
As are groceries in general. When we were back, I took a quick trip to the local Co-op to stock up on goods for a few days. Milk, bread, eggs, cheese, pate, crisps (of course), wine, cereal, some cold meat, salad. Fine, it wasn’t quite farmer’s market fare. But everything I bought would – bar the wine, crisps and cereal – have gone off in a few days if we hadn’t eaten them.
When we got back to America after two weeks away, the milk I’d left in the fridge still tasted absolutely fine. There are many things that American supermarkets do well – massive bunches of herbs; excellent condiments; great ice cream – but food that hasn’t been preserved to within an inch of its life is hard to come by. They also still haven’t quite got their heads around sandwiches.
I could go on – about Britain’s understated humour, genuine friendliness (obviously it depends where you are in America, but DC is RUDE), comparatively good driving, general cosiness. People here stop for a chat at the drop of a hat; they appreciate a lazy lie-in followed by a fry-up; they’re not always exhaustingly trying to achieve the next thing (I often feel a bit behind the curve Stateside).
Even the politics are – crazy though it might seem – less mad, despite the fact that Nigel Farage is about to face off a bin in a by-election. Also, we have tabloid newspapers to cock a bit of side-eye and make you laugh – Americans take themselves very seriously.
That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy living here, or that I’m not immune to the many joys of American life – air conditioning as standard for one; margaritas on tap in my local sports bar for another. But, dear England, though you may be a bit fraying round the edges, my heart still belongs to you. And wherever I go, you’ll still be home.
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