Happy thirtieth birthday to me.
Let the death march begin.
It’s okay, I had fun in my youth. Shenanigans in my teens, going for something between goth and heavy metal. Dating a local musician, going to shows, becoming the unintended groupie. And my minivan really rounded out the persona.
I embraced the academic world, took a range of classes – philosophy, world religion, literature, biology, psychology, statistics. Even stayed up late reading great works, and made time to go to a few shows every semester. Slipped away and reunited with my high school friends over drinks and live music.
And then I became a corporate whore and suburbanite.
From here I figured I’d make the obligatory climb up the corporate ladder. Settle down with the guy I was seeing even though I wasn’t in love. Maybe have a kid, or something. Take the obligatory annual vacation that I’d dreamed of all year long. Only to worry about work while I was away. And if they didn’t move the retirement age to 100 by the time I got to my late sixties, I’d retire and finally get to travel and enjoy life for the last 10-20 years. Given I didn’t fall prey to the chronic diseases plaguing the standard American lifestyle.
Just another thirty years or so of the daily grind. It’s the price we pay for all of these things. All of this stuff to do. The price to be busy. And the price of happiness.
So when a coworker offered me a job as a data analyst in London, England, I did what you might expect.
I said no.
This did not fall into my plan. I just bought a house a year ago. Even spent a lot of time fixing it up. And what about the guy I kind of liked. We’re committed. Someone in a committed relationship doesn’t just up and leave at every little opportunity. Even if it does mean leaving the country for the first time in your life. Traveling to Europe… a dream you have had since you were a young adult….
Shit.
Luckily for me, this coworker was persistent. He asked me two more times to join. I said no the second time, and hesitated the third.
What was I doing? If I just stepped back a bit and forgot about the little things that mattered, I could see the big thing that mattered most. I was not happy. And that made me feel guilty. I had everything I thought I wanted, everything my family told me I would need to be happy and successful. But something was missing.
So I asked an expat living in America what he thought. His answer was perfect:
“Just go do it. Do it for a year. You can do anything for a year. If you hate it, you can come back. If not, you can stay. But if you don’t do it, you’ll always wonder what would have happened if you did.”
And that was that.
I packed up two very large suitcases with my essentials. My boyfriend at the time would stay in America. He’d reimburse me for the mortgage and bills, which I would auto pay from my online US accounts. I would leave my truck at home. Start being more active on social media to stay in touch with friends. And I told myself, if I absolutely hated it, I could just come back in a year. Home was only a nine-hour then one-hour flight away.
There are many things about living abroad that no one warns you about.
Everything is smaller – the food portions, the flats, the closet space, your personal space. You spend the first month or so uncertain about money exchanging hands. Hoping the merchant hasn’t ripped you off because you can’t tell a pence from a pound. The English rarely eat English food (this is common in pretty much every Western European country I traveled to). Your walking pace will change. Start calling soccer football. And you’ll always know what time it is back home. It was the biggest life change I had experienced.
I loved it. And sometimes I hated it. I adored living a new way of life. More of a city life, walking instead of driving, daily instead of weekly shopping trips. Weekends spent exploring – perhaps an English town, perhaps another country just a train ride away. Paris was a favorite destination. There is a beauty to that city that is unmatched. But it was also lonely. I didn’t know many people, and the Brits aren’t exactly known for their eagerness to warm up to others. But I did make some wonderful friends and memories while abroad.
The unexpected outcome – I began an experiment with minimalism across the pond.
While in London, I lived in three flats. The first was short-lived, a corporate flat for the first month while I found my own place. By far the nicest place I’d stay. The second was a studio between Ealing Broadway and West Ealing – between Central London and where I worked in Hayse. I’ve seen modest master bedroom closets bigger than that flat. And the third was a modest one bedroom (an actual bedroom!) in Uxbridge, a lovely town on the outskirts of London and the tube lines.
Before I traveled abroad, I learned fully furnished flats were standard in England, which changed my approach to the move. I really only needed clothes, toiletries, some personal items, my laptop, and myself. And as I lived in London, most of these items changed. My Central Texas clothes were not adequate for England. And my toiletries were American brand, and were substituted with what I found in the UK.
Months two through six were the loneliest for me.
The first month I was simply in awe of my surroundings, the people, the places. I got to know my new coworkers, the office. Got the hang of taking the train, even got used to walking more, and in inclement weather. The gorgeous prewar flat in Chiswick Park helped.
Then I moved into a tiny studio a bit further from Central London, and a bit closer to work. The summer air was turning crisp. The gray skies became dull. The nights alone, long. I was half way across the world in a flat the size of an American walk in pantry. I tried walking around and discovering the city, but honestly, I was uncomfortable and a bit scared. I’d come home to a room with no personality. I wanted to embrace my experiment with minimalism across the pond, but I was out of my element.
This was one of the best opportunities in the world. And I felt miserable.
Of all things, a few French authors helped me out. To be honest, I felt horribly fat in London. Everyone seemed so svelte, and I stumbled on the book “French Women Don’t Get Fat,” then “Madame Chic.” While these did help reframe my idea of food at the time, they also helped me refocus. Sure, I was out of my element. Alone. Even a bit scared. But I had the opportunity to feed my body and my soul in the best and most chic way possible.
On a chilly autumn Saturday, I went out in my boots and coat and stopped by a local coffee shop. Ordered a latte and pastry and slowly enjoyed breakfast in the shop, reading a book and observing the people. Struck up a conversation with a woman from Germany. We shared a laugh about how standoffish the British can be.
Later I walked up and down my street and visited several shops, searching for things to make my flat feel like a happier place. In the end, it didn’t take much. A duvet cover, a throw, a few small plants to put on the windowsill, a few books, a vase, and a nice smelling candle. That evening when grabbing groceries, I picked up some cheap fresh flowers. My flat was transformed, and so was my attitude. My experiment with minimalism across the pond was taking a turn for the better.
I started reaching out, really trying to get to know people. Reading and exploring were high on my list. Found a group that hiked in quaint English towns on weekends. Booked some long weekend trips to Paris and Belgium. Made friends with a handful of coworkers and saw England through their eyes. Found some great pubs and entertainment in Camden Town.
Overall, this experiment with minimalism across the pond taught me something unexpected. I started valuing people and experiences over things.
I got out of my head. Put myself out there and enjoyed the moment. Some of those moments, I was alone, and I got comfortable with that. Not every second was a nonstop adventure. And most of the adventures I had were not recognized at the time – only days later at the pub recounting the week with my friends did they emerge.
I got over my fear and started taking vacations alone. Besides long weekends in Europe, I spent one week in Hong Kong and two weeks in Phuket, Thailand. In the two years I lived in the UK, I traveled more than I had in the prior thirty. I felt more confident in myself, less risk adverse, and more appreciative of this rock we call Earth. So much diversity. Yet so much oneness.
And during this unintentional experiment in minimalism across the pond, I found my frugality went up. Part of this was the cost of living and how much less I could afford in London than I could in Central Texas, and part of it was the desire to save money on things that mattered, like vacations abroad and visiting my family in the States for Christmas.
As luck would have it, during my second year in London, I got a new boss who, frankly, really didn’t like me. He even got in trouble by the company’s HR department for shouting at me during a meeting. Got in trouble for a lot of reasons, actually. The new boss would later get fired due to the stack of HR complaints against him and for losing his temper…
This shift in the workplace was not something I felt comfortable with, so I made a call to my home office and lined up a new job there. My plane ride back was booked for the following month, and my adventure abroad came to an end.
The experiences I brought back with me were priceless. And my unintentional experiment with minimalism across the pond would impact me more than I knew at the time.
The money I brought back with me was not. Somehow, in one of the most expensive cities in the world, I saved up $10,000.