the american accent

You moved to Luxembourg almost a year ago. 

Friends back home insist you developed "a god-awful American drawl". You don’t hear it. Or maybe, you’re pretending not to notice it. Somehow, you look different. You feel different. You feel jaded; evolved. You feel indifferent to most things that used to bother you as an islander. You're more prone to being individualistic. 

And maybe, all of this was shaped by the people you met here. 

Some, were cruel — so lost that they wouldn’t know which way is up even if the archangel Gabriel himself pointed a bright pink neon arrow to the Heavens. Every time you meet, it’s a nice conversation. Then it leads to something else. Clothes slip off. Gasps start. And, then, it’s always the same — an intimate moment followed by some form of meaningful conversation. You think, in that moment, “OK, maybe they're not such a dick.” Then, there's the awkward drink at the White Rose months later. It’s the same question, on repeat: what is it that this person wants from you? Is it chemistry, or are you just being used? You ask them why they didn't reach out. They say something along the lines of: "Us Americans, we like to move forward." You laugh. They say that they overthink everything. Instinctively, you want to help them. It’s a theme, this. You're attracted to broken things. You reach out; try to be nice. But, it ends in the same way: radio silence. That is, until one of you sees the other around the city. Thereafter, the cycle starts again. And to think, this would have never happened if you didn’t lock eyes on the bus. God, fuck this city. 

Others, were emotional leeches. What is it about you that attracts them? You’re a good listener (everyone says so). You’re amazing at giving advice (but complete shite at following it). Life’s put you through the wringer. You’re still here — wasting precious energy, listening. They’re attracted to your kindness; your quick wit. Your availability. You let them sleep in your bed. You tended to their wounds. You cooked them a warm meal. You wasted your night/s listening to them bitch and moan about the same things ad nauseum. And, the worst part was that you were happy to do it. You so desperately wanted to be a friend to them; always striving to make a connection. It’s what you’re used to — helping. That’s the Mediterranean in you; you were basically bred into hospitality. Is this what you are to them, a warm, Southern girl, lost in a cold city?

Others, were selfish. They started off as good friends; you were a power couple. The introverted, weird, creative one (you) and the bubbly, wannabe sophisticate. You knew them from back home. You lost touch during university. You forgot why. There was a certain creature comfort to this friendship. You didn't want to admit it, at the time, but you were missing home. You stuck around this person for as long as you did because they were the only connection to home you had in a place like this. And then, you remembered why you lost touch with them. It started when they proclaimed that "If you didn't improve your vibe, I'd have ditched you." And that's when you started to see it: you're the sidekick. Every time you went out, you weren't the priority; others (men) were. You were just there as decoration. That's when you started to take a step back; to value yourself. You were sick of feeling second best. The lesson here, perhaps, is that you should stop taking the company you keep so seriously. 

Once, you complained to a someone that you're having a hard time making genuine friends. They replied with: "Why are you always trying to make connections? Just use people for what they give you." That's when it all fell into place. Actually, yes, you were being used. You're still being used. And now, you're doing the same — putting people into a box and taking them out to play whenever you need a party, a sob, a gossip session, a swim, a workout, or a day at the park just watching the clouds go by. Gone are the days where you made friends based on chemistry. 

A year ago, people were genuine. Or, at least, the people you chose to be around were. Most of you are still friends. You're scattered across Europe. You take turns visiting each other. A year ago, times were different. We didn't have the pressure of a career on our shoulders. There, we were in a bubble. It was due to burst, at some point. Now, you have people insisting that you shouldn't trust anyone. Not a single soul. You receive advice such as: "Don't be so romantic. Don't trust anyone. No one is your friend here. As expats, we have a tendency to want to find friends in everyone." Hearing this was painful. But, you can't lie to yourself anymore. It's the truth. Here, for the most part, we make friends out of necessity. 

You almost always saw the good in people. You weren’t one to immediately sever ties with people. You withstood a lot of disrespect and disdain from friends. You had a hard time establishing boundaries, even if they hurt you. You stayed. It’s almost like you enjoyed the snide comments, the verbal lashings, and the duplicitousness of their natures. You like/liked pain in all aspects of your life, it seems.  

Now, the you of last year doesn't exist anymore. You're no longer romantic. Nowadays, you're melancholic; you lost your charm. You hardly ever smile. You automatically assume the worst in people. You weren't like this before. Are you better off, this way? Are you finally becoming what people have told you to become; less trusting, and more self-autonomous? Everyone says you should become more heartless. And now, now it's a battle between your nature and reality. 

Although, not all the people you've met here are bad. You disappeared for a few months; no one knew what happened to you. The kind ones did reach out though. The standard: "where are you? It feels like I haven't seen you in ages." Others asked you if you needed anything and actually showed up behind your doorstep. You were just stressed; self-isolating. You no longer felt like partying. All you wanted to do is lounge around at the park and drink an Aperol Spritz (fun fact: you hated Aperol Spritz before moving to Luxembourg). You've started to feel like one of those tragic historical figures; a Jean-Paul Sartre type. You get bored easily. You cannot hold a conversation anymore. All you want to do is sleep; you're forcing yourself to go out — to save face. This is your life now: wake up, shower, primp your curls, apply your makeup, wear your girl-boss power outfit, go to work, and network. Squeeze in a workout; an apéro. 

Every time you complain, your father says: "You chose this voluntarily. Besides, any country you work in will feel this way: boring." It's true, of course. You chose this. Your friends back home beg you: "Come back; get your confidence back. You can always leave again." One part of you wants to pack everything up and leave; bid adieu to this godforsaken Duchy. Should you go back, though, you have this sneaking feeling that you'll buy into the ħanina, ħobża u sardina mantra, and get trapped in the sweet safety of being home. 

Another part of you (the dominant part) wants to go back to the Netherlands. Everything was almost always tulips and stroopwaffel there. And cheese. So much cheese (but you’re pretty sure you’re lactose intolerant). Mostly, though, it's because you want to be anywhere but in Luxembourg. Somewhere more interesting; somewhere which has a soul. But, home is still not an option for now. You convince yourself: your adventure is not over yet. You're here to enhance your work experience — you're here to continue growing. Deep down, you know that it will be the same everywhere. People you meet at home, in the Netherlands, and anywhere else will be replicas of the ones you met in Luxembourg. 

You decided, though, that your adventure isn't over yet. You're not done broadening your horizons; not done growing.