How I came to consider myself an immigrant.

Technically, I am not an immigrant.

I am a European citizen living in another EU country (at the time of writing before the June 23rd referendum).

When I drove from Italy, all those years ago, with a car full of the few things I was bringing with me from my old life, I did not think of myself as an immigrant; that was a word I reserved for the poor souls who daily put their life at risk over the waves in the hope of finding an existence free from threats and persecutions. No; I was a sophisticated, self-confident bloke from Tuscany, coming from a land brimming with culture and proud of the education I had received, moving to a country I had always loved, in order to live with the woman I wanted to share my life with.

Leaving my own country, family, friends, former life was something I chose; not something I had to do. The new chapter of my life was promising and exciting; I felt like a newly-born baby and life was good.

I soon learned that there is a negative side to “being newly-born”: nobody knows you and you have to prove everything all over again (not without swallowing some pride). As if you had spent your previous life in the seven sleepers’ den, you wake up and the world around you has changed; it looks good but you know you are an outsider.

No bank wanted to open an account in my name, though I was ready to give them quite a lot of money, because “you don’t have a credit history in this country”; I needed a National Insurance number to work and pay taxes regularly and it took me ten months and endless visits to more offices than I can remember before I could get one, because no-one knew how to give a NI number to a self-employed foreign person. Registering my foreign car was even more difficult, long and expensive. Everywhere I went I had something to prove: my knowledge of the language, ability to drive, identity, address, credit rating, which way my car beams were pointing. Everything I had taken for granted so far did not count. Everything I did required a sponsor or referee; someone who actually existed on the papers and would vouchsafe for me, often not a family member — just to add the extra difficulty. I had no history at all, not just a credit history.

Those who say history is not important should try living without one.

On my journey to prove who I was, all the people I met in all the offices I visited were nice and wanting to help me but I was simply not in their books; there wasn’t a classification for me or a box in their forms. They just didn’t know how to deal with me. I didn’t exist on paper, therefore I didn’t exist. I was an immigrant.

Meanwhile in my private life or work, everyone was really nice and welcoming and new acquaintances were easily made. Eventually, all hurdles were jumped and I could begin laying the first bricks of my new life, but the feeling of having to prove everything and of being an immigrant has never left me to this day.

Fourteen years on, I am a very different man. Emigrating has added an extra layer to my life; it has made me stronger and richer. I have overcome a certain amount of difficulty but nothing compared to the ordeal that emigration means to the less fortunate: when I emigrated I was equipped with an education and experience which had given me knowledge of languages, vision of the world and skills. I have a fantastic wife who has always supported me and I have a lot of really inspirational people around me. I have the best (and the not-quite-so-good) of both worlds and I have learned that you must enjoy the best and accept the not-quite-so-good, take rejections when they arrive and move on towards your final goal which is the most important thing.

Home is where you feel it is, and it is mainly in your heart.

You don’t need a passport for that.