Moving to a new country

Although I was born in the United States and lived there for over seventy years, recently I was forced by unforeseen circumstances to emigrate to a new country. The process has generally gone smoothly, but the experience has brought its share of problems, surprises, and disappointments.

The change has been difficult in part because I had not planned on leaving my old country, much less with relatively little notice. It was quite a surprise. As a result, I was not prepared for the challenges I have had to face. Further, I had assumed that because my destination was so similar to home, with similar language and customs, that I would have no problem navigating. I was wrong.

The experience has been similar to what I encountered when I made my first trip to Great Britain forty years ago, particularly the vague sense of dislocation I felt back then as I cleared customs and began exploring the country. Because Britain is similar to America in so many ways, I could generally understand the language, and most of the signage made sense. Yet, there were enough differences I knew I was in a foreign country, far from home.

I felt the same way when I arrived in this new place, the country of Old Age. I think back now to when I saw similar immigrants where I used to live. I recall hearing them complain about not knowing how to manage with all of the modern innovations of that time, like personal computers. I remember my parents talking about their own frustrations about such things. I did not imagine then that I would be in a similar position.

Entering this new country has been easy because I did not have to travel far and was granted automatic citizenship. Nevertheless, I still feel like an alien trying to fit in. Every day, I notice more and more differences between where I am now and my home country where I was raised and spent seven decades. Some of the differences are subtle, but many are obvious—and distressing. Despite being here for a couple of years, I feel like a stranger in a strange land, and my sense of alienation seems to be increasing.

For example, the language is just enough different that I often don’t understand some of the phrases I hear, particularly slang. Of course, there is the issue of my own hearing problems. I also don’t understand many memes, even after I recently learned what a meme even is. Likewise, much of the music is unfamiliar as are the performers. In fact, that goes for popular culture in general.

The pace of life here is much faster, as well, and almost everyone seems to be in a hurry. The swirling of humanity, all caught up in their own lives, reminds me of the wasp nests I used to see back home where the activity was especially frantic in the fall right before winter arrived and killed the colony. I wonder what is in store for my new country. Other drivers tailgate if they think I am driving too slow, and they honk if I don’t pull out immediately on a green light.

And then there is a ubiquitous form of rampant drug addiction. It is not addiction to the hard drugs I read about in the news, but rather to something more insidious, entertainment is all of its manifestations. The most common form is that delivered through the internet, particularly in videos and social media. I notice in conversations I overhear that people, instead of offering their own ideas, more often trade gossip about movie stars and professional athletes or show each other videos about things like animals, sports bloopers, or people doing stupid things.

It seems nearly impossible to avoid some form of commercial entertainment. For example, restaurants frequently have televisions on the walls, often so many that it is difficult to find a place to sit without having to be distracted by one. I wonder why diners need that sort of distraction instead of the simple pleasure of sharing food and conversation with others, the universal human tradition of conviviality.

As I have done for years, I still take public transportation in this new country. Nowadays, though, I usually am the only one not looking at a phone. Some people might be reading on their phone, but most seem to be texting or watching something. Further, I notice so many people using earphones—at the gym, shopping, and even out on a hike—as though they are trying to isolate themselves from the larger world. I have become hesitant to say hello to strangers, even to someone at the gym, because they often cannot hear me or choose to ignore my attempt to connect.

I also notice a general loss of intimacy, the connection between people as individuals rather than simply an interaction between faceless entities. I recall fondly the small shops in the old country. Before I had to emigrate, I knew Issa my barber, Len the proprietor of the neighborhood book store, Howard the owner of the local restaurant where I would get breakfast on Saturday morning, and so on. Back home, there was also still a locally-owned hardware store and even a lumberyard. Here, those sorts of businesses have largely been replaced by big box stores or, more and more, by Amazon. The result is that even though people are mostly friendly, there seems less of a sense of community, of neighbors connecting with neighbors.

Another thing that surprises me is how expensive everything is here—I seem to suffer from chronic sticker shock. I thought my savings would be sufficient for the rest of my life, but nowadays I increasingly worry that they won’t. Although I have a place to live now, I am worried about the possibility of having to move to a different house or apartment in the future. I hear stories from my fellow immigrants and even from many residents about the challenges of high housing costs.

I feel sorry for the young people here. I hear that college is so expensive that many students graduate with enormous debt due to skyrocketing tuition, as well as the opposition among state legislatures about allocating money for public colleges and universities. Although I had to work doing manual labor on summer break and then held part-times jobs during the school year, I put myself through college and graduated without debt. I don’t think that is possible now.

Conspicuous consumption is certainly conspicuous here. Unlike my old country, people tend to like fancy cars and gigantic, expensive trucks. I am continually surprised at how many cars are BMWs, Mercedes, and other expensive makes. And I am startled and sometimes frightened at how large pickups have become. It is as though the manufacturers are in an arms race to see whose truck is bigger, more powerful, and perhaps more intimidating.

The expat community here to which for better or worse I now belong, is another source of interest, sometimes amusement, sometimes amazement. I notice that a lot of the talk among my cohort is about their health and their experiences with the medical establishment. Common topics are knee and hip replacements, cataract surgery, and how many times at night one has to get up to pee. I think it is interesting that almost no one talks about death or the likely difficult times leading up to it.

The number of expats seems to be growing, particularly here where winters are mild. I am discovering that in response, there are groups that cater just to our community, though. For example, the local medical center has classes in art, yoga, and even chair exercises for old people. Some businesses even offer discounts on things like meal, tickets to performances, and travel.

One thing I really don’t like is that many of my new acquaintances among immigrants have rigid opinions on politics. Not only do they know the Truth about how the government should work and about electoral politics, they seem to have a death grip on their opinions, which tend to be “conservative.” Listening to them, I am often reminded of an observation George Burns made decades ago: it is too bad that the people who know how to run the country are already busy driving taxis and cutting hair. The immigrant community here is filled with people who are like that, and they weren’t barbers or taxi drivers.

On a more positive note, the members of my cohort seem to like sharing stories and photos about grandkids and about their lives back in the old country.

I notice that we immigrants tend to fall into two groups: optimists and pessimists. The optimists are those who have accepted the reality of leaving the old country and settling in this new one. They seem filled with possibility. They stay busy, are active in organizations, seek new acquaintances, and generally enjoy themselves, even when they face the inevitable health problems that are epidemic in our community. In contrast, the pessimists seem unable to accept the situation and have given in to an attitude of resignation. Even if they have few monetary or health problems, their conversation is filled with complaints about life now, and they are always talking about the past.

Certainly, many of us have the tedious habit of talking incessantly about the good old days. Although I try to avoid nattering on about my previous life, I admit I am susceptible to nostalgia about what life was like before I arrived here, and I, too, like to tell stories about the old country. I know, however, that everyone tends to burnish memories and view the past through a fuzzy lens, illuminated in a soft, rose-colored light that hides faults and obscures uncomfortable events. The past is over, the future is uncertain, so I figure we might as well savor what we have—and try to regale the younger citizens with our stories. Even if they don’t seem to care, perhaps they are envious.