Learning to Be An Adult… Again

A couple weeks ago I was talking to a girlfriend who had been living overseas for four years. We were talking about the newness of Italy, and she said (a phrase which I now use all the time), “Living in a foreign country is like learning how to be an adult again.”

Truer words have never been spoken.

I thought this was genius and a little funny, particularly if you’ve ever lived in a foreign country, so I posted it on Facebook. Almost instantly, I started getting responses about “hanging in there,” “it will get better,” “you’re so strong,” “I don’t know how you do it.” I almost wanted to laugh except that I felt like people thought I didn’t love being here.

I deleted the post within 20 minutes. The fact of the matter is, I love being here.

I love the culture.

I love the experience.

I love the food and the wine.

I love the people.

I love the simplicity.

But, there is the other side of the romantic idea of moving and living in a foreign country that is nothing resembling romantic.

Almost every person we talked to when we were picking their brains about moving to Italy told us a variety of the exact same sentiment: For the first 6-8 weeks, you live life like a tourist, and everything is shiny and new and exciting.

Then, reality sets in.

After that initial 6-8 weeks, when you move into your Italian home with Italian appliances, culture shock sets in, and culture shock is a real and honest thing. We aren’t vacationing anymore, and that’s a brick wall of truth.

This is where the “learning to be an adult” comes into play. You have to learn to do a lot of things that used to be second nature to you in the United States. I have to learn to count money again, because I can’t just look at two quarters, three dimes, and a nickel and know off the top of my head I’m holding 85 cents. I have to stop and actually count money now, because the shape and size of the coin isn’t second nature to me yet.

I’m learning the language. Contrary to popular belief, not everyone in a different country speaks English, and it’s rude and arrogant to assume they do. In your major touristy cities, sure, they will speak enough English so they can do your business, but in most cities and villages you will get a blank stare and response like, “No capisco.”

1. Thank goodness for Google translate. As in, it has saved my bacon more times than I care to admit.

2. You better be humble enough to use small, slow words and mime out what you’re asking for

3. There is a better way to learn than to be thrown into the fire and destroy a beautiful language.

We Americans, according to Italians who can speak a little English, speak very fast. So, you have to slow it down as if you’re speaking to a small child, hence learning to communicate again.

But, I will say, for almost 95% of the Italians we come in contact with, they’re hospitable and welcoming. They smile at you when you utterly butcher their language. They’re patient and gentle when you’re communicating with the property manager of your home because the water heater went out in the house the night you moved in and couldn’t be repaired until four days later.

But most of all, Italians are excited to help you learn. They take pride and joy in helping you out. A common phrase I use a lot is, “Per favore rallenta sto cercando di imparare l’italiano.” Translated, it means, “Please slow down, I’m trying to learn Italian.”

Truly, a little humility and a desire to learn goes a long way in this culture.

Then, there’s learning to drive with Italy’s something like 500 different road signs. There are four different signs for four different types of “yields.” Remembering that speed limits are in KMP not MPH (and most Italians treat speed limits as a suggestion not a rule).

Having a conversion chart on your phone to quickly change Fahrenheit to Celsius so you can eat dinner and not freeze the kids out of their rooms with a too-cold thermostat is important. This also applies to kilograms to pounds, so I don’t order four pounds of green beans inadvertently. Not that I did that the first time I went to the market or anything.

Oh, and keeping the instruction manual on top of the European washer and dryer so you don’t break them because the instructions are so wildly different than American washers and dryers. (And only to make things more interesting, all the dials and wording on my machines are in Dutch.)

You have to learn about garbage. Italians demand recycling, and the garbage men will shred your trash and leave it on the street if they catch you with the wrong item in the wrong trash. But, it isn’t as easy as every week you take out the trash can. Nope. There is biodegradable trash, glass, paper, plastic, non-biodegradable trash, metal, and all these have different days for pick up, and it’s all on different weeks. So, for instance, paper and cardboard was yesterday and will be picked up again in three weeks. Our biodegradable is every three weeks on a Monday. (I think.) We still haven’t figured it out, so I separate my stuff and have Ben take it to post to get rid of it.

Yep, culture shock is a real thing. It’s a tough, real thing because everything I know how to do quickly and easily in the U.S. has become a process and a challenge.

It hits hard one day out of the blue, then little by little, each day gets easier. (It’s a good thing I have a personality that thrives on challenges.) By the time most Americans end up leaving here, Italy has their cuore—their heart.

We’re learning to be adults again. We’re learning to be adults and parents in a new, strange culture.

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Retired Blogger

Retired Blogger

Army Wife Network is blessed with many military spouses who share their journey through writing in our Experience blog category. As we PCS in our military journey, bloggers too sometimes move on. Their content and contributions are still valued and resourceful. Those posts are reassigned under "Retired Bloggers" in order to allow them to remain available as content for our AWN fans.

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