I’m NOT a trailing spouse
When asked why I moved to Ankara, Turkiye, I have difficulties answering. The obvious reply would be “my husband’s job”, but I cringe when I hear myself say it. These very words make me a trailing spouse, someone who has no direction of her own and just follows!
And yet, if it wasn’t for his job and the fact that we didn’t want to separate our family further, I wouldn’t be here. So that’s the hard truth, I am here because of his job. At best and to avoid an unwanted label, I say that “I’m visiting my husband”. It adds some mystery to an otherwise traditional situation in which I don’t recognise myself. By “visiting him”, I make our marriage less conventional, maybe more puzzling as it implies that we don’t go through the daily grind together that dulls any relationship.
A move is never an easy decision for a couple. From the outside, ours may look like a workable combination. My job as a writer is so portable that I could be anywhere. His job requires him to move, so yes, I can follow without compromising too much. All I need is a computer and a desk.
But the reality is more nuanced. At each move, I lose and gain. I lose my focus for about six months, I lose my routine -an essential element of the writing life-, I lose my friends, I lose my social and professional network, as well as the local reference points that give us small pleasures in life, like a favourite café (St Eustachio in Rome), specific food (parmesan), or a particular walk (piazza Navona at dawn).
This time, with only our youngest at high school, I am further away from my older children at university. It makes the move harder. I feel split and if I could be in two places at once (even three with my recently widowed mother), my life would be easier. I suppose this is the emotional price to pay for discovering a new culture and rejuvenating oneself.
The big gain of course is the privilege to see the world through a new prism. Immerse oneself and get to understand what the world looks like through the eyes of a different people. It is at once fascinating and humbling.
For that in Ankara, my main obstacle is language. I do not speak a word of Turkish and few people speak English here. This is a serious limitation for a writer who needs to talk to people to understand the local mindset. Google translate (which didn’t exist at my last intercontinental expatriation ten years ago) is useful for ordering from a menu or for basic queries, such as “how much does it cost?”, but it cannot replace a conversation.
For the first time, I feel illiterate. With the languages I speak, I can communicate in the whole of Africa, part of Asia and the Americas, but here they are useless. So, failing a fulfilling exchange of words, I spend my solitary days sitting in cafés in front of my computer and watching people around me.
