Damien Galeone

Extras from Expatriates: The Movie

“Oh man, you are sooo lucky to live overseas.”

I’ve heard this before, but I’ve heard it more often recently. “Ah yeah. Trump?”

He looks at me sideways. “No, I mean, living in Europe must be awesome.”

“Oh yeah. It’s pretty cool.”

He cocks his head. “It must be much better than living over here.”

If you are an American expatriate (living in a non-combat zone) then you have had some version of this conversation. In the first place, yes, living abroad absolu-frickin-lutely rocks…at times. No matter where you are living, there are some aspects of living there that are “better” than living in the U.S.

However, you know that your friend is romanticizing the expatriate life. And that is because they are basing their mental picture of your life on movies (and other intake) they have seen about expatriates. You do not judge this person, because before you moved abroad your mental picture was based on the same movies.

But you learned.

A Day in the Life: Expatriate the Movie

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It was December 23^rd and the mall was packed. The shops were overflowing with deranged shoppers. The food courts were like Valhalla without the booze or war hammers, and mall staff looked as though someone had just set their readiness alert to DEFCON 3.

The walkways of the mall were jammed with people trying desperately to get last minute gifts to bolster Christmas piles. And it was all happening to a soundtrack of Christmas music, store announcements, and screeching children.

I didn’t mind, as it was all part of the atmosphere. Moreover, it was one of my favorite days of the year. I have always enjoyed the build up to an event more than the event itself, so the day before the day before Christmas holds a special place in my heart.

My mom and I made a morning of it. We are early morning people: up at 6 am, caffeinated, organized, and out the door by 8:30 to the mall. We stopped for a bagel and a coffee. We had goals. Goal number one was to get me a coat. The second was for me to buy 90% of my Christmas gifts.

We started at Boscov’s. If you don’t know Boscov’s, sit back and picture every Christmas movie scene that takes place at a mall department store and you have Boscov’s. The clothing floor (ground level) is immense, aisles cut through uncountable racks of clothing and accessories sectioned off in age-old classifications: ladies, misses, juniors, men’s, young men’s, intimate apparel, active, LL Bean. Upstairs is kitchen and dining room, downstairs is living room and bedroom.

After Boscov’s I ran off to Barnes and Noble to buy books. My mother went off to accomplish her own tasks. We agreed to meet at 11 am at the junior miss department at Boscov’s, since that is nearby the east exit and where we parked.

After I left the bookstore I stopped in a sweets shop and picked us up a couple of coconut chocolates. And as I made my way back to the department store to meet my mom is when I processed what I had agreed to. I was going to meet my mom in a massive department store on December 23^rd. This was not going to work.

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Crazy Christmas 3D Glasses Claim Two Victims

I am sleeping in the library on an air mattress that takes up the entire core of room. Every spare inch of the room is otherwise occupied with books, luggage, or boxes. I think there’s a chair in the corner, but it’s beneath a pile of clothes that could clothe the residents of Manchester.

This library has obviously doubled as a storage room. I guess it still does, only the stores kept here now include a 42-year-old English teacher and his bag.

I lie in the bed and stare up at long shelves of paperback spy thrillers, National Geographics, classic novels, yellow DIY books. Occasionally, I reach out and pluck one from the shelf, give it a quick perusal or read it to the end.

I’d get up, but getting out of the air mattress is more arduous than it should be. It’s sort of like trying to get out of a bowl of Jell-O without using your arms. Also, every time I manage to get out of the bed, I stub my toe. Every. Time. By the weekend my toes are bloodied and bruised stumps that once were utilized in helping me walk. Now they are slightly hairy pain sticks that jut out of my feet.

It doesn’t matter if I get up or not, I am on holiday, so my routine has been shattered, it no longer exists. I keep up my workout, read a lot, do some writing. But otherwise, my days are long and short, dark and light, and filled with family or very few people.

By the following week, I realize that my handle on reality has become slightly, well, tentative.

This failing grasp is not strengthened by the fact that I wear pajamas all the time and have eaten so many carbs that I would die of bread poisoning if that was a thing. I can’t remember what fruit tastes like. I reach greedily for a vegetable in the fridge, but it turns out to be a green bag of Christmas fudge.

Since my dad has a famous sweet tooth and his patients and colleagues love him, the house is overflowing with cookies, chocolates, and sweets. The quantity and variety are such that each room in the house could have a theme: the living room is nutted chocolates, the dining room is pralines and caramels, the kitchen is caramelized figs and pound cakes. I walk throughout the house simply dipping my hands into baskets of sweets and pushing them into my face.

I don’t want to say that I start to go a little insane, but I start to go a little insane. No routine, no days, no structure, no goals. It’s as though without the parameters of my routine and schedule I allow everything to slip away. I always thought it would take something rather monumental to drive a person nuts, but in my case it only took seven days without a routine. I can now fully understand the men I knew who became pitiful alcoholics or recluses after retirement.

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I am prone, having pressed myself against a wall near the bathroom. I have taken on the physical and personality characteristics of a salamander ninja. In the hallway nearby, three students are chatting and if I move, I will draw attention to myself.

I do not want to do that. One of the students is mine, and if he sees me conversation will commence and I’ll be forced to commit seppuku.

Before you start judging me as a bad teacher, let’s get a few things clear. I love my students. And I even enjoy seeing students in public, where the classroom roles have been shed and we are just a couple of people. The student I am hiding from (in salamander ninja form) is a student who does not attend classes and does not do his coursework.

If you are a teacher at a university, I needn’t explain further. If you aren’t, then read the next few sentences. On the list of all the people you don’t want to see in public, students who don’t come to class are at the top. Why? Because they have 1. an exceptionally low-level of self-awareness, 2. a tiny nugget of some inexplicable feeling in their belly which will eventually introduce itself in their mid-30s as “guilt,” and 3. they unconsciously want to quell that nugget by talking about class and coursework with a teacher whose class they never visit.

These students have a way of moseying up with a What the Hell, Why Not? look on their faces and doing one of several things. First off, they might explain their chronic absence. Sickness. Business. Bureaucracy. I have found that sickly grandmothers feature in these explanations about 59% of the time, with visa problems coming in second at about 34% of the time. They also might simply ask “Did you do anything important in class recently?” to which I usually answer, “Nah, we just sit around and talk about how you’re not there.” Sometimes they get the joke, sometimes they don’t. Either way, a little of me dies every time I use it.

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We start out at Demínka. It’s a classic Czech joint near I.P Pavlova. High ceilings, chandeliers, and, tonight, about 350 people. This is weird. Demínka is usually a relatively quiet place. What is also weird is the fact that three nanoseconds after I walk in the place and begin cutting through the crowd, the waiter is on me like John Goodman on a taco.

If you have ever been to the Czech republic or have had any experience with any Czech waiter, you know they are not the most attentive breed. If a Czech waiter approaches you immediately, it’s because he wants to deliver bad news. And this one does with a smile on his faux-hawked face.

“Nemáte reservace?” Do you have a reservation?

“Ne.” No. I already know where this is going. The place is jammed.

“Ah, bohužel…” Unfortunately, he shakes his head and tries to hide the smile from his face. It’s all I have to hear. I somehow try to resist the urge to give him a Merry Christmas headbutt in the throat.

Here’s the thing, there is nothing a Czech waiter likes more than to say “no” or “unfortunately” or “I’m sorry” and then follow that with bad news. Nothing. And as I walk out of Demínka, I know it’s going to be a Czech waiter kind of evening. And this prediction is spot frickin’ on.

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Meta: Blogger Writing Blog.

On Monday, I felt a bit sick and left work early, missing the second half of my office hours. Normally, my office hours are as deserted as an office building on Christmas morning. I usually spend the two hours doing paperwork or watching videos of animals who think they’re human.

So when I left a bit early Monday, I figured nobody would be wise. I tramped home, slipped mindfully into a matching sweatsuit and began reading on my couch with a cup of tea nearby and a cat irritating me with her tail.

There are some universal constants in the minutiae of academic life. For example, by the time you arrive at the Christmas party, the good juicy pork nibblers will be gone. The day you do something rather unconventional in class, is the day the class is interrupted by a high level administrator who just walked into the wrong room. Printers, projectors, and scanners all have brains, are vindictive, and hate people with advanced degrees.

But the biggest of all the truths is this: students don’t come to office hours, except for the day you can’t be at them, and then they show up in droves, with a desperate need to talk to you about something they could have easily taken care of by just coming to class or by applying 11 seconds of critical thinking.

So when I received an email from a student later that day, claiming that he had arrived at my office hours at 11:20 a.m. and was distressed to find that I was not there, I grumbled. Then I hoped that his arrival, frustration, and subsequent desperation had not been witnessed by someone responsible for my employment or for the successful transfer of cash to my account in return for services.

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