There's no one place like home for an expat

When Dorothy clicks the heels of her ruby slippers and asks to “go home” she knows exactly where that is: Kansas City and her Auntie Em’s place. If I were to put on those slippers I would be confused – there are so many people I feel at home with and so many places I have called home on opposing sides of the world – where would I go?

Over time, home to me has been in a number of towns, cities and even countries. There were the student digs in Leicester, the bachelorette pad in Sydney and the lovely house I live in now with my husband and four-year-old boy in Newcastle, New South Wales. If my son says “I want to go home,” I know exactly where he means. As an expat however my sense of “home” is hard to pinpoint.

When my son goes to bed and I sink into our worn leather sofa, ready for that first sip of wine with my husband after a long day, I am at home and I am happy to be there.

When summer comes around however and I sit on the beach frantically covering my pale skin and freckles with factor 50 sunscreen while watching my son play confidently in the shallow water, I feel as if I couldn’t be further from the place I used to refer to as my home.

My childhood home in West Sussex, which my parents are poised to sell as they move into their next phase of life, is still the place I have called home for the longest time. If I close my eyes while sitting here at my desk, I can be walking up the path, I can hear the iron gate squeak on its hinges, the distinct judder of the door that opens the conservatory, and the sound of the key in the lock as I go inside. That home is so very familiar, all of its nighttime noises and floorboard creaks, the feel of its worn-out banister under my hand and the view from each and every window. I can go into any of the rooms and replay a thousand single memories over in my mind.

That type of home takes many years to construct and for expats like myself living away from family and the place where we were born, we may never truly recreate that same feeling.

There are thousands of UK expats in Australia, happily married to local men and womenfolk or just going about our business away from our homeland. While we are hardly curiosities to a well-travelled Generation X or Y Aussie, I wonder if those that have spent their lives in one place, surrounded by loved ones, really appreciate what it means to be separated from family, friends and home by thousands of miles of land and ocean.

Over the 12 years I have lived here, many people comment that they can understand why I would leave the UK to come to Australia because of the weather and the outdoorsy lifestyle. “It’s too cold over there, you’re better off here”, “It’s so much warmer/friendlier/nicer here though isn’t it?”, are just some of the comments I field about why I would live here instead of in the UK. I used to feel slightly affronted; nowadays I just smile politely and change the subject.

It goes without saying that the lifestyle in Australia is great and I can imagine that if you were born and bred here by the beautiful beaches of my current home in Newcastle, that a rainy, grey November day in London would indeed seem very grim.

For me however, and many other expats like me who did not necessarily choose to fall in love with an Australian and live away from family, the pull home never goes away completely.

Some days when I wake up to that vast Aussie blue sky and go for a jog along the coastline, or see dolphins and parakeets, I feel a sense of privilege that I live in such a wonderful part of the world. Other occasions when someone unintentionally makes a flippant comment or I see a mother and daughter out for a coffee, I feel wounded and very far from home.

When I first moved to Australia as an intrepid 22-year-old with a hot Aussie surfer boyfriend, the reality of being an expat was still to come. I was in love and young love conquers all. I relished being somewhere new and it was one big adventure.

Now with kids in the mix and grandparents and aunties and cousins all missing vital milestones in development, it can be achingly hard to have two homes. There is nothing that can replace a hug, not even Skype. I find it hard that our family is so one-sided, all of my husband’s kin are near by, and none of mine are. We have very helpful and extremely lovely in-laws but they can never replace my own parents and sister and nor would they want to.

In order to survive these recurring bouts of homesickness and feel a connection with those around me, it has always been important to have understanding expats in my life. Some are now my dearest friends.

We bond over what we miss of our old home – the BBC, fat weekend papers and cosy pubs –  and what we love about our new one – sunshine, great cafes and colourful birds (most UK expats never seem to lose the excitement of seeing a galah, it’s PINK for goodness sake).

I recently caught up with one of these expat friends for a coffee who is the partner of a local. We spoke about a holiday I had just been on back to the UK, and how she was soon to return herself before she shared just how worried she was about her ageing parents and then broke down in tears. Separation from loved ones is hard, however wonderful the weather or colourful the birds, but at least we can be there for each other.

While my son and my husband are the most important people in my world right now and I am happy and content to live with them here in a wonderful house and country, the land I grew up in still holds me tight.

I have learnt that for me to be able to live so far away, I need my expat community and regular trips back to the UK. When my plane touches down on the tarmac at Heathrow, I see those invariably grey clouds and know just what they represent: precious time with my family and old friends. Expat life might be hard, but the excitement of coming home again is simply wonderful and I never, ever take that for granted.