Culture Shock

              They say you can’t go back, isn’t that what they say? We looked back, although inwardly had all told ourselves we wouldn’t. Looked back at our home, the green lawn stretching out like a lake, the edges dancing with colour as the new born sun gently swept over pansies, impatiens, roses, cassia, blossoms, pampas grass and lavender. We looked back at the pastures beyond and the cows grazing in slow motion, the picture we’d been part of many a morning while sipping coffee on our veranda. We looked back at the homes around, the dogs stretching from a night’s rest, the cat’s chasing moths, butterflies and other imaginary insects in their large spacious gardens. We looked back, with a grin, at the Hadeda Ibis violently jabbing his long beak deep in the grass to spear the choicest worm, and then startled by nothing but the silence, he rises clumsily, squawking in fright. We wouldn’t miss him - or would we?

We drove silently through wide empty streets, the cars still sleeping in garages, safely locked away for at least another hour or two. There’s no going back. Tomorrow a new family will discover the tranquillity and delight of the gentle farm-like landscape. Another little girl will be rolling over the soft green lawn. Another dog will be darting in and out, overawed by new smells. Another cat will be cautiously tiptoeing through unknown territory.

                The plane landed. The weather in the northern hemisphere had been unpredictably warm and so we stepped out into a bubble of warm sunshine – much like ‘back home’ – a gentle introduction to a new home, a new beginning, a new life. The bubble kept its shape for two weeks, as we enjoyed a holiday type period living in a friend’s home with greens in the distant hills and vales visible through the small side window.

But the bubble burst as we walked into our ‘own home’ – a box within a box. A garden of three or four bushes leaving a narrow strip of … is that grass? The bubble had burst. Travel cases were emptied and packed away. This is now home.

Cars line the streets parked half on and fully on pavements, and even then there’s only room for one car at a time to move towards the ever wriggling snake of metal boxes on their way to central London. No cows grazing, just neighbours dressing with curtains undrawn. No dogs barking or wagging tails, and the one or two cats glimpsed in the wink of an eye, slink under cover of trees and sheds.

              No privacy to sit in the middle of one’s garden and shed sad tears. The neighbour is just a few feet away pegging her undies to the wash line which stretches the length of her garden. The sun plays on the yellow t-shirts, pink panties, white pillowslips and green dresses. And I long to go back. But this is now where I live; this must become my home. Many tears will flow, but it’s time, we can’t go back. A new life has begun.

(Published in Carillon Mag 2011)