Have you ever thought about living in a foreign country? In a way, when as a child I imagined living somewhere far away from home, I had.
For some, the thought of living abroad crosses the mind while watching a movie set in another part of the globe: one glimpse of that exotic landscape and it immediately stirs something up in the soul. For others, moving to another country becomes a full-on reality when faced with the possibility of an international job transfer, a study abroad opportunity, or an overseas assignment in the military. For most, however, the notion of living a life of foreign adventure is only a fleeting thought, one that takes away from the daily grind.
Well, in January of 2007, I got the chance to live that thought. I moved from the Massachusetts suburbs to Frankfurt, Germany, for love.
I met my girlfriend (now-wife), a German woman of simple beauty and lofty ideals, at a restaurant in Boston in the summer of 2004. Back then, I thought I knew everything about life and the world. That is, until Kathleen came along. At twenty-two years old she was working as an intern at a major financial services company in the city. She’d come over from Germany by herself, on the cusp of a recent break-up and looking to broaden her horizons and gain valuable working experience in the States. Single, I was five years her senior, working at a family-owned company that handled insurance claims.
I fondly remember the night we met. She took the seat right next to me after scurrying in late to the restaurant where a small group of us had gathered to celebrate the birthday of someone my childhood pal knew. I couldn’t help but notice the friendliness in her smile, and I could tell she wasn’t from the area, though her accent was nearly undetectable and her clothing resembled that of all the young women in Boston at the time. When I offered to share some pizza with her, she courteously declined, but with an air of grace. Later on in the evening she would go on to tell me that I was different, nice, “a good guy.” We felt comfortable sitting next to each other, two strangers from separate backgrounds, entirely different countries.
Coincidentally, we both had contemplated staying in on that auspicious night. But, her cooperative attitude won out and she would eventually succumb to her co-worker’s wishes; and I reluctantly agreed to tag along and be the proposed wingman for my friend. Still, we came to that nostalgic Italian restaurant for good food and good company, and got what we were looking for, only that much more. Soon we would wind up alone on a rooftop overlooking the city, our lips pasted together under an evening sky, and later, in my silver Nissan Altima, driving around and laughing until the wee hours of the morning, searching for a fool who had lost his way. It was one of those chance meetings you never want to forget.
By the late spring of 2006, Kathleen and I were officially a couple and in our second year of courtship. She was living in Germany again, so we would fly back and forth every few months across the Atlantic to see one another. At first, it was exciting to jet off to Europe to visit her. I had never even so much as crossed the border into Canada before. Now I was traveling to places like Germany, Finland, and Sweden. I felt like some mysterious character out of a romance novel. But after a while, the distance between us began to put a strain on our relationship. There were frequent misunderstandings, petty arguments over the phone, and a general sense of frustration due to spending too much time apart. Something had to give in order for the relationship to work. One of us needed to make a move.
I think the day I said it to her was a Saturday (we often stayed on the phone for hours on the weekends). She was far along in the process of trying to secure a job in America, so it was all we talked about; and having missed a visa application deadline earlier in the year, the chances of her getting an employer-sponsored visa were looking grim. We had tried just about everything to find her a job. Frustrated, we couldn’t stand the thought of being apart for much longer.
“What if I move instead?” I’d said to her on a whim. “How about I move there?” I think she was surprised when I said it. I think I even surprised myself when I said it, too. Neither of us had considered that as an option. Why would I, an American, move to a foreign country? The answer: I was in love. It seemed like the only way for us to be together. I needed to do it.
Once certain I’d be moving to Germany, the necessary preparation went underway. I was going there without a job so I immediately enrolled myself in an ESL certification course in oder to gain the skills necessary to teach English to foreigners. It was my best hope for employment, considering I didn’t speak a lick of German. Aside from that, I’d have to sell my car and take care of all the other practical things one needs to take care of before a big move. And then there were the emotional aspects to attend to as well. I received a lot of questions from family and friends when I told them of the news. Most were surprised that I was moving but many understood the reason for my decision.
Ultimately, I got the support of everyone who mattered to me. It was the first real victory regarding my international quest. All the rest of my planning would be a piece of cake. And above all, Kathleen was ready for me. I was scheduled to leave in the middle of winter.
On January 19, 2007, I arrived at Frankfurt International Airport on the business class flight I had received as a complimentary upgrade from the Lufthansa representative my father knew in Boston. Kathleen was waiting for me when I got there. She wore a big smile and was overwhelmed with excitement; we wasted no time embracing. Although exhausted from the long flight, I was happy to see her too. We must’ve kissed each other a thousand times. However, reality would eventually set in when we were on our way to the bus stop. This was it. I had moved to Frankfurt.
It took us a while to get back to her place on that indelible Friday, when we traveled by bus, by train, and then by taxi to a tiny temporary studio apartment provided by her work. Located in the Rödelheim neighborhood of Frankfurt, it was right in front of a structure uniquely fit for a serial killer, complete with a garbage laden lawn and a large woodpile that seemed to serve no purpose other than to complete the look of being an unsightly, German Miami Vice-like crack house.
Our apartment was number 007, slightly creepy on the outside but clean and modern on the inside, and yet, a symbol, perhaps, to remind me of my childhood aspirations of becoming a secret agent. This new place, like it or not, would be my new home for a short time, where I would go on to spend many sleepless nights in its cramped kitchen, sitting in a hard plastic chair and reading some old magazines I’d brought over from America with the rest of my belongings.
Eventually, I would find a way to get to sleep in that apartment. And each morning when I awoke, the sight of a low toilet and freestanding shower stall, and the taste of a cold Brötchen breakfast (bread roll typically served with cold cuts), would serve as a simple reminder of one thing and one thing only: I was living in Germany. In fact, I spent three years there. Some days were good, some were bad, but all were memorable. I’ll never forget the frustrations, the inner conflict, the joys and excitement, the challenges I faced, and the critical thoughts that all too often invaded my mind as I struggled to come to terms with being a stranger in a strange land.
For some, the thought of living abroad crosses the mind while watching a movie set in another part of the globe: one glimpse of that exotic landscape and it immediately stirs something up in the soul. For others, moving to another country becomes a full-on reality when faced with the possibility of an international job transfer, a study abroad opportunity, or an overseas assignment in the military. For most, however, the notion of living a life of foreign adventure is only a fleeting thought, one that takes away from the daily grind.
Well, in January of 2007, I got the chance to live that thought. I moved from the Massachusetts suburbs to Frankfurt, Germany, for love.
I met my girlfriend (now-wife), a German woman of simple beauty and lofty ideals, at a restaurant in Boston in the summer of 2004. Back then, I thought I knew everything about life and the world. That is, until Kathleen came along. At twenty-two years old she was working as an intern at a major financial services company in the city. She’d come over from Germany by herself, on the cusp of a recent break-up and looking to broaden her horizons and gain valuable working experience in the States. Single, I was five years her senior, working at a family-owned company that handled insurance claims.
I fondly remember the night we met. She took the seat right next to me after scurrying in late to the restaurant where a small group of us had gathered to celebrate the birthday of someone my childhood pal knew. I couldn’t help but notice the friendliness in her smile, and I could tell she wasn’t from the area, though her accent was nearly undetectable and her clothing resembled that of all the young women in Boston at the time. When I offered to share some pizza with her, she courteously declined, but with an air of grace. Later on in the evening she would go on to tell me that I was different, nice, “a good guy.” We felt comfortable sitting next to each other, two strangers from separate backgrounds, entirely different countries.
Coincidentally, we both had contemplated staying in on that auspicious night. But, her cooperative attitude won out and she would eventually succumb to her co-worker’s wishes; and I reluctantly agreed to tag along and be the proposed wingman for my friend. Still, we came to that nostalgic Italian restaurant for good food and good company, and got what we were looking for, only that much more. Soon we would wind up alone on a rooftop overlooking the city, our lips pasted together under an evening sky, and later, in my silver Nissan Altima, driving around and laughing until the wee hours of the morning, searching for a fool who had lost his way. It was one of those chance meetings you never want to forget.
By the late spring of 2006, Kathleen and I were officially a couple and in our second year of courtship. She was living in Germany again, so we would fly back and forth every few months across the Atlantic to see one another. At first, it was exciting to jet off to Europe to visit her. I had never even so much as crossed the border into Canada before. Now I was traveling to places like Germany, Finland, and Sweden. I felt like some mysterious character out of a romance novel. But after a while, the distance between us began to put a strain on our relationship. There were frequent misunderstandings, petty arguments over the phone, and a general sense of frustration due to spending too much time apart. Something had to give in order for the relationship to work. One of us needed to make a move.
I think the day I said it to her was a Saturday (we often stayed on the phone for hours on the weekends). She was far along in the process of trying to secure a job in America, so it was all we talked about; and having missed a visa application deadline earlier in the year, the chances of her getting an employer-sponsored visa were looking grim. We had tried just about everything to find her a job. Frustrated, we couldn’t stand the thought of being apart for much longer.
“What if I move instead?” I’d said to her on a whim. “How about I move there?” I think she was surprised when I said it. I think I even surprised myself when I said it, too. Neither of us had considered that as an option. Why would I, an American, move to a foreign country? The answer: I was in love. It seemed like the only way for us to be together. I needed to do it.
Once certain I’d be moving to Germany, the necessary preparation went underway. I was going there without a job so I immediately enrolled myself in an ESL certification course in oder to gain the skills necessary to teach English to foreigners. It was my best hope for employment, considering I didn’t speak a lick of German. Aside from that, I’d have to sell my car and take care of all the other practical things one needs to take care of before a big move. And then there were the emotional aspects to attend to as well. I received a lot of questions from family and friends when I told them of the news. Most were surprised that I was moving but many understood the reason for my decision.
Ultimately, I got the support of everyone who mattered to me. It was the first real victory regarding my international quest. All the rest of my planning would be a piece of cake. And above all, Kathleen was ready for me. I was scheduled to leave in the middle of winter.
On January 19, 2007, I arrived at Frankfurt International Airport on the business class flight I had received as a complimentary upgrade from the Lufthansa representative my father knew in Boston. Kathleen was waiting for me when I got there. She wore a big smile and was overwhelmed with excitement; we wasted no time embracing. Although exhausted from the long flight, I was happy to see her too. We must’ve kissed each other a thousand times. However, reality would eventually set in when we were on our way to the bus stop. This was it. I had moved to Frankfurt.
It took us a while to get back to her place on that indelible Friday, when we traveled by bus, by train, and then by taxi to a tiny temporary studio apartment provided by her work. Located in the Rödelheim neighborhood of Frankfurt, it was right in front of a structure uniquely fit for a serial killer, complete with a garbage laden lawn and a large woodpile that seemed to serve no purpose other than to complete the look of being an unsightly, German Miami Vice-like crack house.
Our apartment was number 007, slightly creepy on the outside but clean and modern on the inside, and yet, a symbol, perhaps, to remind me of my childhood aspirations of becoming a secret agent. This new place, like it or not, would be my new home for a short time, where I would go on to spend many sleepless nights in its cramped kitchen, sitting in a hard plastic chair and reading some old magazines I’d brought over from America with the rest of my belongings.
Eventually, I would find a way to get to sleep in that apartment. And each morning when I awoke, the sight of a low toilet and freestanding shower stall, and the taste of a cold Brötchen breakfast (bread roll typically served with cold cuts), would serve as a simple reminder of one thing and one thing only: I was living in Germany. In fact, I spent three years there. Some days were good, some were bad, but all were memorable. I’ll never forget the frustrations, the inner conflict, the joys and excitement, the challenges I faced, and the critical thoughts that all too often invaded my mind as I struggled to come to terms with being a stranger in a strange land.
