For a big part of my communist childhood, I thought that “abroad” was a country. Everything good seemed to come from Abroad: chocolate, coffee, soap, lipstick, you name it. What is strange is that I read a lot, and I had been exposed to names of different countries, but I didn’t connect them to the magical Abroad that had real consequences in my life.
In time, I realized that our Abroad was called Germany, and that many families had an Abroad of their own, depending on where they had relatives that could send them stuff. We had an uncle in East Germany who grew to mythical proportions in my eyes, on par with Santa, because he had the power to make any day a holiday.
Playground dominance was very connected to how resourceful your Abroad was. Of course, you had to have something to show for it: chewing-gum, candy, kids’ magazines, sneakers, soda caps, or, the ultimate, a battery-operated robot/car/doll. Rarity was the key-word. It surprised me to see how obsessed American children are with fitting in and having what the others have. The monotony in our homes, our closets, our toy baskets, dictated that you had to stand out, to have something unique. If anyone else had it, it was no longer special, you were no longer special.
Years flew by, communism fell, Western goods started to flow into our homes, but the fascination with Abroad lasted. Before travel regulations loosened, people would stand in line at embassies for days, sleeping outside, using the bathrooms of restaurants nearby, just to get the visa that would let them catch a glimpse of the other side and bring back some tokens. The foreign brands were no longer good enough, once it came out that they were made “especially for Eastern Europe”, and, therefore, worse than the real thing.
The commercials, the movies, the TV series, kept the illusion alive, together with the word-of-mouth. There was always a cousin, an old classmate, the son of a neighbor, the hairdresser’s niece, who went Abroad and made it, because they managed to buy a 20-year old foreign car and outlet clothes. The defectors who came back to visit usually lied through their teeth about their jobs, their homes, their living standards, but everybody believed them. Abroad there were no holes in the roads, cars never broke down, detergents took out all the stains, and top sirloin was every day’s lunch.
In time, people became more selective about their destinations. Germany and Turkey were trendy at first, then Greece, Spain, Italy. Depended on what you were willing to do to get ahead, most jobs available and the working conditions were not for the delicate.
However, one destination was/is always shining among the others in Romanians’ imagination: Canada. The place where only a certain kind of people are allowed, the college-educated, the highly-trained, la crème de la crème. The place where you, the doctor, the engineer, the PhD, can’t possibly end up mopping floors or picking fruit. The place where “Romanian” is actually a positive word, since we only sent our best to represent us. The place where not only do you achieve wealth, but you do it like a gentleman/lady. The fact that Canadian immigrants don’t visit as much as European ones (longer trip and more expensive) only made the Canadian pie rise even more in people’s minds.
When I decided to leave for Canada, it became an obsession. I knew it would take around a year to get everything done, but during that year I felt like my life was on hold. My “real” life would start here, in the ideal, carefully-selected Abroad. Every sentence I uttered had the future tense in it; every expensive item I purchased was not to be used, but saved for Canada. I avoided listening to anything negative (and, by that, I mean realistic, as in “no place is perfect”), because I wanted it so bad to be perfect.
I’ve been here for almost 5 months, alone and jobless. Yet I am the envy of everyone at home, because I took the leap. I am the daughter/friend/niece/neighbor from Canada. It’s definitely not perfect, but I think I could really be happy here. I’m not sorry I left. I’m just sorry that I underestimated the meaning of the word “home”, that I didn’t spend enough time with my family and friends, that I didn’t visit all the wonderful places that were in my arm’s reach, that I didn’t enjoy my last year there as I should have. Instead of coming here with energizing memories of happy moments, I just came with empty, unrealistic expectations.
When I go back to visit, every second will have to be carefully planned and I will have to divide myself in a myriad of directions, see everybody, talk to everybody, give them t-shirts with the maple leaf, tell the same story over and over again, minimize my failures, exaggerate my achievements, paint everything in pink, because something inside me prevents me from ruining the fantasy. I just don’t have that level of cynicism.
