Moving to another country was the first culture shock.  Suddenly I was in Germany, surrounded by another culture and another language.  Then the career change: instead of sitting behind a desk, whether as a student or as a proofreader, I had become a nanny, then an English teacher, then a full-time freelance writer.  Then I blew all the other changes right out of the water and moved into a little wooden gypsy caravan on a piece of squatted land on the outskirts of one of Europe’s most metropolitan cities.

In town, bankers sipped 8-euro drinks and talked about their stock portfolios, while I lived with a bunch of adventurous nomadic types with brightly colored hair and wild dreadlocks, without electricity, carrying water 100-meters from the faucet to my little house or the community kitchen, chopping firewood to fire up the woodstove, reading by candlelight.

Almost four years after the fact, it hits me one day in the bathroom.  “I live in Germany.  I really live here!  What the hell?!”

Sure, it may sound obvious to you, but the scurrility of living in another country, in another language, on another continent takes some time to really absorb.  And here I am, facing another renewal of my visa, registered at a German address, with a German bank account, German friends, German books, a German gmail account.  How did it all happen?

“You aren’t a student are you?” the realtor wanted to know.

“No, I’m a teacher.”

“Good, because students don’t have a chance.”  He laughed, picking out several application forms for the apartment and tossing them into the trash.

I was sitting at the kitchen table of yet another apartment.  But this time I was done with WGs.  This time I wanted to find a place just for me, two rooms so I wouldn’t have to work in the same room where I slept, a kitchen that made me want to always be cooking, my own bathroom, reasonably priced, in Frankfurt. (Who I was kidding?)