CULTURE SHOCK

I guess I originally intended for this to be mostly lighthearted and funny all of the time, but this particular bit isn't going to be much of either. I may even come back and delete it later, because I guess I do feel a little weird about posting about this particular topic here.

My first couple of weeks here were really really hard. I should stress that things are an awful lot better now, but it was really tough right up front.

Some of that, I think, was due to the fact that my last few weeks before leaving were physically and mentally exhausting. I had to get rid of almost everything I owned. There were little things that came along and blindsided me--I'd be going through books on a bookshelf, and in between the pages I'd find a photograph of Dad looking sick and, well, humble--the way he did when he got weaker. Even typing this makes me cry again.

I wouldn't be expecting this. I'd just be sorting through some kind of random books. But even books have an emotional attachment to them. This is the book that Natalie gave me, and I know she didn't have any money that year, but she still managed to scrape together enough coins to get me this book.

Every day was a study in how much I could take, both physically and emotionally. And every day, something else would go just a little wrong--I couldn't sell my electric violin, or I needed to ask Michael to help me out (because my cornea had developed an ulcer and I was blind), even though I knew his girlfriend would have a fit if she found out.

There was a point when I realized that I could alternate things--going through clothes to decide which jeans to pack seemed like a picnic after having to sort through my "important papers" file to discard old bank statements but keep Dad's death certificate. So if I was having trouble deciding whether or not I really needed a sweater, I'd sort paperwork for a while and then go back to clothes.

One of the hardest things was getting rid of my cats. Michael helped me, though. I asked him if he would mind taking them to the shelter--the thing I finally had to do--because I just couldn't. And so he did it for me. I literally could not have done this move without him. He would show up some morning and say, "Look, I know you have more than you can do today, and I knew you wouldn't ask, so I'm just here. Let's carry this heavy piece of furniture outside." To say that I love him, or to say that I am grateful, is an gross understatement.

So then I took medication to keep myself from getting sick on the plane, and that always knocks me out for a few days. On top of that, there's just this terror of the unknown--I was leaving everything that was familiar to me, the place where I feel competent and comfortable and know everything and everyone, and coming to some place where I don't even know how to send a piece of mail. In the weeks before I got here, I had all kinds of terrifying moments like this.

I didn't quit my last job with a new one already lined up. I didn't have anyone who I could say, "Hey, can I just stay with you indefinitely until I have a job" to. Nobody who I could ask for help--my family, and to me that includes Michael--is in the position to help. And I'm quitting a perfectly good job, and just taking off. You can imagine that I'd have terrified moments almost every day.

Granted, I know for sure that this is the right thing to do. It took a long time for me to come to that conclusion. But I've spent my whole life having responsibilities, and having to take care of things and people. This is the first time since I was a kid that I felt like maybe it is possible that I can go somewhere, and do something, instead of just surviving the next day. And I can do anything. That would be conceited if it weren't for the fact that my life has sucked SO badly that I know I can do anything because I've HAD to. I wish I didn't know this about myself. I wish I had the luxury of believing that there was something that was too difficult for me.

Another thing that makes this hard is that I have the additional pressure of being in a weird, new, and frightening relationship with Matthew. First we went through this bizarre long-distance thing. And now here I am coming to this new country, and I know that any breaking down I do, any move-and-stress-related weirdness I exhibit, just destroys any chance I have of having him eventually figure out who I am. I mean, if we break up because we're not compatible people, that's one thing. But if we break up because he thinks that who I am is this stressed-out person who curls up in fetal position and cries because she feels unexpectedly lost and afraid for reasons she can't explain, that's something different. If we break up, I want him to be breaking up with *me* and not with a misconception.

I know it's not fair. But he doesn't know me at all. And, you know, it's not 'fair' that I have the flu this week and have to job hunt anyway. But in a month, if I run out of money and out of food, and I walk up to the refrigerator and say, "but I had the flu", it's not going to make any difference. And if the only 'me' that Matthew ever gets to know is the one that's trying to figure out a long-distance relationship with a man from a different culture, and then one who is in culture shock, well, it's not going to make any difference either. It's not defeatist, it's just pragmatic.

I mean, if we'd known each other for years, I'd probably collapse in a chair at night and tell him how hard things were. But as it is, when I do that, I'm conscious that these are the only experiences he has with me. And so I just feel pressured to try to be my normal self even when I don't understand this country and I don't understand him and I just want to cry.

I guess part of what helps is that I've always had to be strong and I've always had to rely on myself. Just sometimes, I want to just sit down and cry and be the one who isn't the adult and be the one who's acting irrational and not worrying about what anyone thinks of it or whether it's going to cost me a relationship or a job or a friendship. But every time I've convinced myself that it's okay to just cry in front of someone else, it's turned out to be the wrong decision. So once I finally accept the fact that I just need to continue being self-sufficient emotionally as well as physically, and that it's something I'm capable of because it's something I've always had to be capable of, it's...easier. It's easier once you accept that life is just the way it is.

The biggest part of culture shock for me has been the constant feeling of precariousness. The only way I can think of to describe it, and "precarious" is a lousy word for it, is like...like your "self" is attached to your physical home by a rubber band. So when I'm over here, I feel like my soul is attached to the earth somewhere in San Francisco or maybe even Alaska, and coming over here has stretched this thing so far that it's inconceivable that it's not going to break, and then I'll just float out of control with no attachment to the earth.

I don't have a map of London in my head. I find myself someplace, and I have no mental picture of where I am, where I am with respect to some familiar landmark, how I got here, how to get back. I don't know how to go about taking a bus. I don't know if the bus fare is always the same, or if it depends on how far you're going. I don't know if you need exact change. I don't know if you hand money to the driver. I don't know if it's rude to walk back and sit next to someone or if there's some kind of cultural understanding that if you're under the age of 70 you go upstairs on the bus.

I'm saying these things in the present tense, but most of this stuff I'm gradually figuring out.

I go to the grocery store, and I am faced by ten different types of yogurt, and I don't know anything about the brands.

I'm conscious that everywhere I go, people stare at me because I look different. My face is a little broader. I weigh more than most people. My clothes are slightly off. I'm afraid of talking because when I do, I attract even more attention to myself. I know it sounds weird, but the awareness that everywhere you go people notice you is really really disconcerting.

In the US, I knew how to be invisible. If you dress in a way that shows off your figure, men notice you and stare at your breasts. If you weigh too much or too little, people notice you. If you make eye contact, people ask you for change or say something to you. I knew how to be invisible there.

Now I'm here and no, it's not paranoia, but I'm just aware of people looking at me. All of the time. They come up and ask me where I'm from. And so when I don't know what I'm doing--when I am standing at a train station trying to figure out which train will get me home--I'm conscious that the people who are looking at me are watching me obviously not knowing what I'm doing.

None of this stuff is necessarily a big deal in and of itself. It's just this overall sense of...of going through a day and being completely lost, physically and socially, every second of that day.

I go out with friends, and you know, I've figured out a certain amount of the social rules in the US. Yes, I break them, and generally gleefully. But I'm completely aware of what I'm doing, and and if I decide to go blazing over a line, I do it happily.

But here...well, I don't know where those lines are. Everyone knows that Americans are considered rude and crass. I don't know if I am or not.

And so I'm conscious of being lost in general, and here I am dating someone who I completely don't understand.

I probably shouldn't talk about this, but I will anyway.

I don't believe in playing games with people. I just don't. I try to be as honest as I can. But I'm acutely aware right at this moment that being a non-game-playing person doesn't mean that you don't have to figure out the person you're dating and adjust your behavior sometimes. I mean, for example, Matthew hates talking on the telephone. Hates it. So when I'm presented with the fact that he obviously hates talking to me on the telephone, I have to figure out if it's me, personally, or if this is just a personality quirk of his and that it doesn't mean anything, and I should just consider being flexible and not calling him.

One of the things that makes it really difficult is that I can't seem to explain to him that I'm not trying to make him feel guilty about things. I just don't understand. Anything. I don't understand the brands of yogurt in the store. I don't understand what a jacket potato is or why you'd want to put tuna on it. And I don't understand when we go through a day and he never gets closer than three feet away from me. I don't know what any of this means. But if I say, "You didn't return my call, and that sort of hurt my feelings," I'm not trying to make him feel guilty, I'm just trying to understand because I don't. Maybe he hates returning calls, but I don't know that. I don't understand any of this, and nobody will explain any of it to me.

Incidentally, I don't know who Matthew is, either. I am aware of this. I am aware of the fact that odds are high that when I do figure out who he is, I won't like him that much. But I also know that I'll stick around until I figure out who he is, and then I'll make an educated decision. I don't trust him to do the same, so I guess I'm going to have to be the grown-up for now.

So anyway, I have figured out lots of things that help. Firstly, I have two places in this city that I think of as reference points. The first is my house, and the second is Matthew's. The first place I ever stayed in this city was Matthew's house, and I got somewhat familiar with a couple of the streets nearby. So when I go somewhere in the city, (my house is waaay out of town) I always try to find my way back to his neighborhood. I spend a lot of time looking at maps and tracing out where I've been, or figuring out where I want to go, going there, and then finding my way back to Matthew's neighborhood. The more time I do this, the better map of the city I get in my head, and the less lost I feel. For a few days, that's all I'd do--just walk places and then go home and go back over where I'd been.

I've figured out the rail and subway pretty well at this point, and that helps. I bought a month pass that gives me access to just about any mass transit, but I waited until I had a pretty good handle on how to pay fares without it.

And I made a point of going back to my house as often as possible. The more time I'd stay at Matthew's, the more disoriented I'd feel. I don't know why this is a big deal, but just take my word for it--if you ever do this sort of thing, just make sure you spend an hour or two just sitting in your house before you go to sleep.

I've also developed a job-hunting routine. I treat it as my job. I take the train to the Internet cafe, I put in my hours looking for a job, and then I quit for the day after an appropriate interval.

I'm making a point of not taking anything Matthew says or does personally, and not worrying about it. If he breaks up with me tomorrow, that's fine, but it will come as a shock to me because I refuse to think about it. I just cannot deal with it any more. I don't understand him, I don't understand anything he does, and I couldn't even tell you at this point whether or not we're dating. Someone actually asked me on Sunday if we were, and I told him the truth. I don't know. The only thing I can possibly do right now is to just bloody well ignore everything he says and does because I don't understand any of it and he's obviously oblivious to the fact that an American might need explanations for a Brit's behavior every now and then. I don't care. I value my sanity.

There are little things that have helped unexpectedly. Going to a park--I don't know why, but there was just something about grass and wind. They were 'home.' I can't explain it, but something about going to a big field, and having the wind blowing my hair, it just made me feel like, well, like this, too, is the earth. There's grass here. People work, these surroundings are familiar to them. They care about most of the same things. This is all normal. Everything here is just normal. It's people getting to and from work, and going home and having dinners, and trees grow out of the ground.

I've also found that spending time with my friend Iain helps a lot. He knows me quite well, and he doesn't think I'm a psychopath when I cry.

One of the funny weird things that happened during my worst culture-shocked stage was this (this should obviously go further up on the page, but I believe I warned you that I was just typing all of this and never ever editing it): When I got here, I had PMS, and during the worst of the jet lag and exhaustion, I made the mistake of drinking wine at some friends' house and then staying up late and then I got into one *heck* of a fight with Matthew. And he gets weird when he argues--for all I know this is a culture thing, but I don't know--and his particular brand of weirdness is the kind that screams in my head "we are breaking up right now, this very second." So there's some point in the argument when I think, "screw this. fine. I'm not going to sit here and listen to you." So I get up and walk out of the room. Then, in about two seconds, I think, "You're breaking up. If you leave, you will never come back. Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?" and something in my head says, "no, I'm not sure." So I turn around and walk back in. (Please forgive my mixing of tenses here.) And within seconds, I'm so frustrated and infuriated that I don't care if we break up or not. So I leave. And the minute I leave the room, I think, "not like this. You can't just leave without talking this through. And you know yourself. If you leave, you will never speak to him again."

So I turn around and walk back in, and he refuses to talk about anything.

So as a result of him refusing to talk about anything, I keep leaving and coming back in like an insane person, and so we end up *not* talking about *anything* but somehow doing it for four hours.

This was possibly the weirdest thing I've ever done. I must have walked in and out of the room fifteen times. I have never been so frustrated with anyone in my entire life. Seriously. Mostly because nobody I cared about ever made me feel that way, so if I didn't care about them, I wouldn't stick around to let them continue to frustrate me.

Anyway, my first week here, I had nightmares every night. Nightmares about going off and leaving Mom or Dad somewhere. Mom holding my cats, and saying, "no, no, you can take them with you," and I'd realize that I had left them behind. It doesn't take a Freud to figure out what this was all about.

At any rate, I am feeling better. I'm enjoying myself more and more, at least when I don't have the flu. And tonight I'm going out with a whole bunch of friends, and I actually know how to get to the restaurant without looking at a map.