I Had To Chase The Sun
"Living abroad is a constant strain, because you don't know how the little things work."
This comes from a feature in
"The Guardian". It is written by Alistair Fraser about his and his family's experience of moving to France. It has not been a happy time; it could just as easily have been written about Majorca.
How the little things work. Where does one start? What are little things exactly? Registering at the town hall; registering at the foreign affairs office; getting an NIE number without which nothing much can be done; finding a gestor to help you; registering for a doctor; getting the kids into school; sorting the telephone line out (at least Telefonica have an English helpline); getting an internet account; re-registering the car if it has foreign plates; changing the driving licence; knowing that the car has to have certain things in it ... I could go on. And this all besides the buying or renting of property. How the little things work. or maybe don't. And without the language it can be hard-going.
But of course plenty of people manage to do all this. The little things can be an inconvenience and they may seem daunting, but they're not really, though the forms can make them so. And you have to accumulate so much damn documentation to do anything. Once it's done though ... . Part of the problem, especially for those from Anglo-Saxon regimes, can be that things seem inefficient. Well they are, and some things are deliberately so, or at least that is an opinion held by some. Take the registration for residency. It's a trial by queue, heat (or rain and cold) and time as locally they don't want to make it easy. It's a stupid attitude, if this indeed is the case. People have made the decision to move here. Making the registration process a hassle does not deter immigration, so why not just accept the fact and simplify it.
The little things are the nuisances of everyday living. In themselves, they are not important. What is, is the adaptation to change in lifestyle, culture and language. One has to want to adapt. Fraser refers to the initial move being like an "extended holiday". For some expats, that extended holiday extends indefinitely. Take it from me, living in Majorca is not one great long holiday, and nor should it be. But from the poolside, the dream of moving here is very different from the reality of actually doing so.
In the past I have spoken about the transience of the local expat population. While there is obvious transience in respect of seasonal workers, it exists also where permanent incomers are concerned. That word - transience - was used the other day by an expat I know well. He said that there seems to be a time limit on much immigration - five, six, seven years perhaps. He and his family want to sell the house and the business and go to England; he's been here seven years. It's not a seven-year itch necessarily. Fraser makes the point that it can take five years to really settle in - or to find that you cannot. The holiday can extend that long maybe.
Five years should not really be necessary though to start understanding some realities. For those who have retired, it is one thing; for those who work it's a different matter. Remember that "bloody country" remark of three days ago; that came from someone who runs a successful bar. The little things can come and hit you any time. You chase the sun and then discover that it isn't all sun or indeed warmth. Here's Fraser again:
"When the weather turned in November, the house turned against us, too. Those features that had kept us cool in the hot summer - the thick walls and flagstones - made it feel like we were living in a fridge."
Once more, this could apply to Majorca. Even with outside temperatures towards the 20 degree mark, interiors can be cold. Can be? Are. Unless there is very good heating. Those charming stone-walled houses with their stone floors. Freezing. And the same goes for much of the housing stock. And it can be cold in other respects - not much to do, not a lot of work. Relationships can be strained, budgets squeezed, and some seek solace on a bar stool or from powders. And above all else is the language. There comes a point where reliance on those who can speak the native or on professionals gets too much. It takes five, six, seven years to perhaps really speak the language. Or it takes this long to discover that you have never bothered to really try or cannot. Chasing the sun, living the dream, and suddenly the miserable British climate may not seem so bad after all.
*For the article in
"The Guardian", go to http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2008/aug/30/family
Incidentally, the same newspaper ran a competition for readers' travel writing. The winner wrote about the Tramuntana mountains. Here it is - http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/2008/aug/30/travelwritingcompetition.adventure
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