I became an immigrant for the first time at the age of 3.5. I moved back to the country I was born in, but I was an immigrant for sure. I had already by this age moved countries to live in some 3 times. However, this one move back, the immigration, was just as traumatic and exciting as immigration might be for a 30 year old person going somewhere they have no previous relationship with.

I call this move immigration, because I moved from my home, friends and family to a place where I didn't know anybody yet, even my family. I stopped living on the sunny shores of the Mediterranean, where I was able to walk to the beach any time, run around without much care and learn rude words that mum did not yet know!

Just like all immigrants, I left behind the food I knew, the baguettes, the croissants and the like to learn to eat a new type of bread - flat bread. I left behind a high consumption of fish in my food for where fish was eaten on average once a year. I left a socialist country for what was then a monarchy. The latter I did not understand exactly at the point of my move, but had a lot of meaning later on.

When we moved, there was expected first the shock, that of the change of language, although I understood and spoke this already. Actually, even for those who go from UK to USA this is an issue I believe. In my case, everybody was able to babble in mine and mum's language, but nobody understood the language of where I came from!!!! Heck, what was going on? Okay, this was strange, but there was more to come.

The next morning, the breakfast did not consist of MY breakfast, but of what the locals ate. Hmm, the bread was flat and there were these white big pieces of cheese! People drank their tea in little glasses with sugar cubes. And if you wanted to have fun, and your tea was really hot, you could pour it in the saucer and blow on it and drink it out of there. AND you drank LOTS of tea, from a samovar. Ok, so far actually so good, I could make a mess and the bread and cheese tasted good. I even took one called sangak (little stone) from the kitchen and put it in our still unpacked suitcase. I was not sure we were staying. The sugar cubes were a god sent. Even better than chocolate really...

I call this move an immigration, because I needed to adjust to be able to survive. I was not going back home, but making a new one. I was to belong to a new set of people with their cultures and rules. So, the best thing to do was to adapt. I did this very quickly, given my age, and some pre knowledge due to my mother. However, even some ten year later, when I left this home, I felt a little like an outsider.

I still did not understand some things. I did not get used to the way one could just say so much that they did not mean, in compliments, how it was at all important that a boy and girl might play together or talk to each other. I did not understand or accept how "foreigners" were seen to be cold and quite disliked by some. After all, I was also partly foreign... The war, the still revolutionary atmosphere and the closed borders did not make me feel any better. They made me wish I could leave actually.

Finally I did get the chance to move to a new home land. With the bravery and efforts of my mother, we left for a free land, where we could live without the fear of war, oppression, revolutions and so on. Despite its weather the new island home was what I had wished for. The first day we arrived back there (I had lived there before) was cloudy, humid and warm, but I still wondered whether I could ever have any new wishes. I was so satisfied and happy, that I felt the lack of NOTHING.

This particular euphoria lasted a long while, at least several months, until I learned what a Walkman was! I wondered at this new wish and did not know how I could possibly have a new wish. Of course that was normal, and not forbidden, I could have new "needs", but they were not comparable with the need to live free of fear and oppression, without the constant threats that war presents.

My new home was of course also not perfect and even I sometimes complained about it. But, I adapted and met the new cultural "challenges" head on. So much so that within a short time (and on time) I was able to study at one of its best universities, speak the language better than many natives with a good native accent. I did not perfect everything to match, and there was a lot that I had to learn, but it took a long time before the wonders of adjustment bothered me. Actually, it was the stress that got to me so I wished for a new horizon. I could no longer stand living in such a huge city.

In this home I was one of the untypical immigrants. I was/am highly educated, always worked and therefore paid a lot of taxes, did not have zillions of children and did not burden the social system. This for me is what immigration was about, choosing a better land to live in (for personal reasons, whatever they may be) and realistically trying to adapt to the host country to the degree where one is no longer an outsider, but part of the makeup of its society. After all, it was the least I could do, as I now had been given all the same opportunities everyone else enjoyed.

Very much aware of this and actually quite happy, it was time to do this immigration thing one more time. Perhaps actually for the last time. After lots of thought, consideration and reflection, making lists of pros and cons and drawing up a shortlist, it was time to choose the new land and move there. The continent was an obvious choice away from the island, and given the circumstances, the continent's (union's) biggest economy was the way and place to go.

Again, adaptation and acceptance of the fact that I as the newcomer have to do more to fit in was and is essential. Otherwise, it would be better to stay where I was or just go elsewhere. Learning the new language was essential, expecting some adjustments and new experiences, and willingness to learn how to do things their way was on my mind. I was there to build a new life and a new life needed effort from me.

And how is it going? So far so good, although my accent is not yet perfect and there are words that I still need to learn. (It is not even three years yet.) I will always look like I come from foreign lands here, and may not manage a perfect neutral accent, but I imagine I will be accepted as part of the fabric of society. (Actually, this is already the case, as I already work here.)

The essence and reason of my blog and telling this little story? In my view if one chooses (irrelevant what the reason is and how long one thinks one would stay away so to speak) to move to a new home land one must be prepared for adjustments, adaptation and maybe even some sacrifices. The hosts may also adapt in time if this is a mass immigration of some kind, but they are the ones at HOME. The new home of the immigrants will have good and bad points, these come in one big package. I guess what I am really also saying is that life is what you make it.