“I can’t watch House Hunters International with you anymore.” My husband said to me one night. “You just get too angry watching all of these people move overseas and you’re not.” He was right, you know. I was one of the lucky ones many years ago. When I was the tender age of 19 and married just three days (to my now ex-husband), I moved to England for his job. It was a love/hate relationship (more love than hate) for six years and I thought I was ready to move back to the States. Boy, was I wrong.
Sure, the mountains and dry weather of Arizona allured me, it was love at first sight. Wal-Mart! Target! Restaurants! Places that don’t close at 4pm on a Sunday! It was incredible. I was happy to be “home.” But then…I started missing England. The quiet, slow-paced lifestyle to what I had become accustomed. The crappy roads and crappy weather. The people. The markets. Europe. England was suddenly “home” and I felt as though a piece of my heart had been left when I moved and I was desperate to get back.
For the next almost 10 years I have researched dozens of ways to get over there from jobs to ancestry (totally not kidding – my mom could become a citizen due to her grandfather being born in Wales, but me…nope) and nothing short of the winning the lottery would get me back there, I thought…but I did not give up hope. I knew someday I would be back. I just knew it.