Lonely in
Ireland, since it was not
home,
Strangeness made sense. The salt
rebuff of speech,
Insisting so on difference, made me welcome:
Once that was recognised, we were in touch.
Their
draughty streets, end-on to hills, the faint
Archaic smell of dockland, like a stable,
The
herring-
hawker’s cry, dwindling, went
To prove me
separate, not
unworkable.
Living in
England has no such excuse:
These are my
customs and
establishments
It would be much more serious to
refuse.
Here no
elsewhere underwrites my existence.
Philip Larkin
I think every expatriate feels this way at one point or another. It’s a counterweight to the homesickness and culture shock generated by the clash between where we’re from and where we are now. A new country is a chance to reinvent ourselves, and an excuse for not fitting in.
It can make it hard to go home again.