moving abroad is not like the movies
Four years ago, during the summer of black squares and the first COVID summer, I lived with (in) my ex-boyfriend’s dachgeschoss wohnung (German for ‘attic/top of house apartment’) in Berlin. Being a top-floor flat in an old building, the heat that swirled and sweltered around me felt oppressive, but not more than the toxic, tumultuous, stepping-on eggshell tension that was that relationship.
You see, two years earlier, I’d accepted a remote job in Germany in tech that allowed me to tick off my “live on the continent and learn a language” from my bucket list. I imagined myself going to group language lessons and making fast friends with someone else who also new in town. I Googled quaint German towns with the hopes of taking advantage of Germany’s relatively affordable and reliable (in comparison to the UK’s) rail services. I scrolled Pinterest, thinking of how I’d decorate my altbau apartment, getting excited at the idea of stronger tenant rights, which allowed German residents to do much more to their abodes than I could back in Blighty.
In short, I romanticised my life a lil too hard.
There is something addicting about starting again. It’s a chance to idealise putting your best foot forward; new home, new job, new city, new you!! The allure of a blank slate is so magnetic, and the media archive of young gals about town doing it for themselves is full. Unfortunately, in my experience, Emily in Paris is it not. Moving abroad alone is hard, difficult work — amplified by being Black, a woman, and too damn old to deal with nonsense.
At 25, when I moved to Melbourne, Australia alone I had youthful innocence and a lack of self-assuredness that meant dealing with exoticism from Australian men, shitty landlords, inappropriate bosses and fake friendships was something I stumbled through. Now, a decade later at 35 — I don’t have time. Call me cynical, but I have been in therapy for too damn long to deal with any of that. This means, that this move — my fourth in four years — I am much less excited. Don’t get me wrong, I am lucky: I have a great remote job that pays me six figures, which is, insanely, something that is needed to live in one of the most expensive cities in Canada. Having employment and a solid immigration status (I’m a Canadian citizen) are two massive plusses in the international moving game. However, there are still barriers: banking is set up entirely differently here; I have no credit score; I have to wait two months to access healthcare; I am a Black woman, and the Black population where I live is tiny; I know the city from youth, but I don’t know what it’s like to live here as an adult; I only know one person; I’m in a long distance relationship.
All of these small but re-constitutive things add up to increase the friction and difficulty of settling in; especially when research shows that to do so takes between 18 and 36 months. Researcher Melody Warnick found that to feel as though a place you live is home —quantified by one metric of having 2-3 people you can call to hang out at any one time— takes much longer than we realise. Relationality is not guaranteed by living in a ‘nice’ neighbourhood with a community centre and local coffee shop. It takes consistency, commitment and showing up. In the age of TikTok, shrinking social security and the decimation of third spaces, the notion of community is fractured and tenuous. It is not as easy as it once was to meet your neighbours. Moving alone forces you to confront tiny anxieties almost every day, because there is no one else to help you; you have to go through it.
My last move nearly broke me and our relationship. I was so miserable in the UK that it clouded everything, I’ve only recently realised how unhappy I was now that I’ve left. I was constantly broke because doing a PhD requires so much of you that I could only do bits and pieces of consulting work. The fascism. Keir Starmer. The cost of living. The obsession with drinking. The grey! Oh god, the grey. Liverpool was not the place for me, but honestly, it would have been the same anywhere else on that island. I hadn’t meant to stay so long back in Blighty, I only came back to escape the aforementioned terrible relationship in Berlin and complete my MA degree, but then I met L and decided to do my PhD, and well life happens. So when I got this new job that I could do from anywhere, I begrudgingly knew I had to gtfo.
And so we are here. My 10th move in 10 years, and my re-entry to Canada. I signed a lease on a one bedroom apartment a block away from my only friend here. I’ve started the long, slow, and expensive process of furnishing a home. My precious items are in boxes in a container ship, somewhere between Dorset and Hong Kong right now. I’ve joined a gym. I’m starting to get a feel for my favourite cafes and side streets. I’ve just been paid (we’re paid bimonthly in Canada!) and now that I can afford life again, life feels easier. It’s not perfect by any means. I am nowhere near settled. I don’t know where to buy Nigerian food. My boyfriend is 3000+ miles away. I am surrounded my many memories of my mum, and she’s not here.
I am starting over again at 35, and I am SO DAMN TIRED of doing so. But for the first time in a while, I feel hopeful for the future. And that is something to hold on to.
me in my new flat
