An Immigrant’s Rain Soaked Heart

Immigration is on everybody’s lips these days. I’m not referring to falling in love with an immigrant, or kissing immigrants being the new ‘in’ thing. I mean immigration is a topic being widely discussed in the media and around the media and depending in which city you live, it’s around you - full stop. I’m an immigrant. But I don’t really count do I? Or do I? And before you all ring immigration control, since I know the UK is deciding to limit entries – I do have British citizenship thank you very much…just with a touch of Franco-Hispanic pallid complexion-ness thrown in.

Now that I’m an expat, (or a fake expat really, because it’s me going back to my point of origin but leaving a rather surprisingly big chunk of rain soaked heart in the UK), I am the embodiment of all things English. I have turned into a firm believer of Sunday lunches, though it only stays as a thought as trying to push a full roast in front of my family would probably not go down too well, not to mention what my thighs would have to say on the matter passed a few weeks…I was always into tea, so that hasn’t changed, but also it tastes quite different, a lot more watery and just simply does not even compare in colour. But tea it is, not to mention toast and I am still hunting for the Rich Tea biscuits…

I live in Spain where the weather is fair and the food is olive oil and the nights smell of wintery pine trees and the drivers are crackpots, but that’s beside the point. I live in Spain where the rhythm of my life is so much calmer and for the first time in two years I am being looked after and wrapped in a thin layer of cotton wool (which involves a lot of food…may need to readdress the layer)– but all I can think about is the UK. Where on earth did the real, strong tea go?? And the toast and the take away coffees (the Spanish hook themselves up to an IV line every morning) and the humid African winds that sweep through Exeter (look, I’m an English student and it just sounds like a possibility) and the English friends who manage to make me look like a foreigner and the ones that are foreign with me and muddle along with the similar words that aren’t actually similar – though in our opinion they could be. ..

You have straight hair you pray for the curly. You live in the UK and dream all things Spanish… I am spoilt by choice of country, but somehow and without my noticing, my heart was won over a long time ago; my heart belongs to the god awful mix of colours that is the union jack. I have spent so many years denying the fact I was anything British (after having spent 18 of my 21 years here) to go and live back ‘home’ and discover I actually quite fancy the pants off England. Good heavens where did it all go so wrong? …is what I tend to think when I look at baby pictures, but in this case regarding ‘who’ my heart belongs to – for now. Other candidates do include Canada and Seattle, but that’s another story.

On this trip I arrived in England terribly stressed because I was made to check in my VERY SHINY, DESIGNER HANDBAG at the door of the plane, yes, Easy Jet turned anal and nobody thought to inform me. But anyway, God loves me and if he doesn’t somebody is paying him to love me as my bag arrived intact and still full of my crap. Riddled with stress and delay and wondering whether I would make my first of two coaches I careened out of arrivals and in a ray of godly light my eyes happened upon Marks and Spencers. Suddenly everything was OK and it was worth the extra stress of maneuvering my luggage trolley through the narrow aisles in order to get an M&S drink. I was happy, I was in England.

It was raining and I did look like I was sporting a small afro on the back of my head…but I was in England and I was happy.
The coach arrived and the coach driver was a bit of a mad hatter with a cockney accent and whose biggest concern was the fact that “that silly bugger didn’t time it proper and get me a cuppa tea” – it was perfect, I was home.

The second coach journey was the longer one and the driver was the madder one. He stood at the end of the aisle and yelled instructions to us all, along the lines of “no seatbelts means a fine, alcoholic drinks mean a fine, no loud music or you’ll be physically thrown off the bus, no round fruit on the floor or it will roll down the coach… ”etc. He also said that should there be an emergency or fire or smoke that he would be outside and recommended we all follow.

One woman who looked a tad Eastern European, but we were after all near London and everybody lives near London (and I love it and miss it dearly), so she could have been from anywhere and actually, it is beside the point. She said she did not take kindly to his shouting at her. He looked dumbfounded for a split second and said he was not shouting at her, rather just, near her. She answered nothing. The driver began to drive, pulled out of the bay and the woman stood up. The entire coach turned to look at her with baited breath…she swore and announced she did not feel comfortable on this coach and demanded to be let off. The guy sitting next to me, who smelt like he had had an eventful evening hosted by Jack Daniels laughed and called her a “silly cow”…friendly British men. Love it less? The driver pulled back in, it was like a small moment of ground hog’s day, and let her off.

The journey began through an Indian ghetto and then an Orthodox Jewish one and I couldn’t help but smile, this was perfect, this was what I was missing and this, by the by, was exactly where I would never live, but would like to know it could exist…if to be seen at a distance and through bullet proof glass and – alright, so I’m just being spoilt about my choices of country.

Eventually the group of teenagers behind us piped up and expressed their deep love of musicals, hard drugs and desires to be on Broadway. I believe they are the future of our drama students. The guy next to me and I giggled throughout…it was legal eavesdropping as they were being so ridiculously loud and open about their lives…personal and not. Extroverted English teenagers without knives. Love it.

Eventually the coach journey came to an end after having been offered neat drinks by the guy who, according to him, had rolled straight out of nightclub IN DHUBAI and gotten a plane to the UK – and so was medicating himself with hair of the dog and a half. But I was back, I was in my uni. town and not even getting intoxicated by proxy due to his outstanding breath, was going to ruin my rain soaked moment.

The weather was awful, the rain pelted down and the not so drunk guy, (who by the way, had absolutely stunning ocean blue eyes and clearly worked out), told me that the forecast for the weekend was storms, gale force winds and crazy temperatures. I effed and blinded under my breath thinking about my hair and whether I had the appropriate clothing for the week…Turns out I’ve missed the British rain and wind and short dark days, turns out I’ve missed waking up with my hair so curly it’s formed a mushroom shape around my ears and turns out, that right now, I would forgive England anything.

It’s called a honey moon period. I give it a week.