Stepping out into the fresh Scottish air, the deep lull of the bagpipes – played by men in kilts – greeted my arrival; while haggis pranced around the Highland hills to the tune of their homeland. I had returned. And, as I turned my view from the scenic curves of the hills to the luscious, impenetrable line of the loch in the distance behind me, I couldn’t help but notice the retreating outline of the Loch Ness Monster; slowly dipping its head beneath the loch skyline as it returned to its slumber for another glorious Scottish summer evening…
Okay, okay, okay. I imagine it was the ‘glorious Scottish Summer evening,’ that was a step too far into fantasy land. But, stepping out of the airport into the pissing down rain, which slapped my face in an affectionate hello, it was the sight of the ‘People Make Glasgow’ sign, followed by a fat black cab taxi driver – stubbing out his smoke while coughing and spluttering into the crusty Scottish air beside it – that truly made me realise: I was home.
It may have been 11 days later than I had hoped, with several sticks being flung up my nose and inside my throat before I was allowed to board the fully booked RyanAir flight but…I had made it! I was back on Scottish soil!
And despite having only left the homeland three and a half months earlier, it still felt like a lifetime had passed since I had last seen my friends and family. Since I had last guzzled on the sweet liquid of the infamous tooth-rotting Irn-Bru. Since I had last had a traditional Scottish meal of Chinese curry and chips (the dream!).
However, while I was excited to be back, I was also nervous. What had I missed in the time that I had been gone? Would my relationships with my friends still be the same? Would I still even want these relationships with my friends or would I have changed? It was questions that I was sure many expats like me had thought about on their first visit home too. I mean, how did an expat now exist in this new world that was once our old world? Where was our place?
But, what I did know was that this too would become familiar and routine. It was just what that familiar and routine would look like, that I was having to figure out on this first visit.
And it wasn’t long before I found out the first part of this routine – being greeted by the warmest of hugs by my family at the airport. They genuinely looked overjoyed to see me (but I mean who wouldn’t be, I’m fantastic?) and couldn’t wait to tell me all of the plans they had in store for me with my limited time here.
Not only did they have a minute by minute plan of my visit to Scotland as if I were the Queen on a royal tour, but they had also brought me the starter pack kit to becoming Scottish again – a can of Irn-Bru and a piece and square sausage (if you don’t know what either of those things are, then seriously, get a grip of your life).
Therefore, as we made our way through the grey Scottish morning, I could already feel myself shedding my Dubai alter-ego and settling back into my Scottish self – with the urge to tan a bottle of Bucky becoming stronger with every mile driven (and if you don’t know what any of that means, then sadly you aren’t a legend – sorry, Scottish…).
With the thought of alcohol consuming my mind, this then became the second part of my return home routine – getting pissed on the first night with my family!
We were a traditional Scottish family after all, and what doesn’t say more of a big Scottish ‘welcome back’ than guzzling a litre of vodka with your mum, step-dad and sister into the wee hours of the morning? Plus, as my step-dad said, ‘we need to get your stomach used to the hardcore paint stripper stuff again, no that fancy Goose shite you will have been drinking over there…’ Got to love how eloquent us Scots are, eh?
And, just like that, I had easily reunited into the familiar embrace of my family but, it wasn’t their interactions with myself that I had been worried about; it was the ones with my friends. As I’m sure many of you will know, when you move away, life can get busy – like, really busy. Meetings here, deadlines there, social plans everywhere and combine that with the time difference well…one of the first things to get cut to save time is regular communication with your besties back home.
It’s sad but it’s true. You start off with the best intentions; speaking three times a week. But slowly and surely, that three turns to two, and then that two turns to one until…well, you get the jist of it.
All I could hope for was that they would understand; that they would empathise with the fact that life just gets so damn busy sometimes and that they wouldn’t hold my shortcomings in communication against me.
So, as I put on a t-shirt, followed by a jumper, followed by another jumper, followed by a jacket, followed by a duvet (trying to re-acclimatise again is a bitch) to meet my besties, my worries began to creep into my mind again.
However, if you have a group of friends like I was somehow lucky enough to land upon, you will soon find out that all of those worries are not necessary. Because, as I walked into the bar and saw one already doing a shot and another slut dropping to Britney on the dance floor, I knew that they were still the same drunken and disorderly fuckwits that I had left three and a half months ago.
Therefore, as I walked over to affectionate greetings of, ‘awrite ya cunt!’ and ‘look, there’s that Dubai dickhead,’ it took no time at all before we settled into our normal interactions with one another.
And just like that, we entered into the third part of my routine on my return home: laughing, drinking and life updating with the ‘home besties.’
But, just like everything, when you gorge on a good thing too much it can sometimes make you sick and – as many expats will tell you – the same applied to returning home.
Don’t get me wrong, being reunited with my friends and family had awoken a feeling of longing in me that I hadn’t realised had been there until we were together again but…it also reminded me that this wasn’t my life now.
Even although it was nice to return back to the familiar routine, and return back to it in tenfold, I began to feel sick of my Scottish surroundings. The green that I had been yearning for since I left, I now couldn’t wait to see the back of. And the foods that I had craved after for so long, I now couldn’t wait to get away from – and my waistline couldn’t wait either.
You see, while there is no better feeling than reuniting with loved ones, there is also no better feeling than returning home. Than returning back to the place where your life now exists. It doesn’t mean that you don’t love your family and friends and miss them every day but, what it does mean, is that you have finally transitioned.
And that’s exactly what I suddenly realised; I had transitioned from my Scottish life to my Dubai life. I was comfortable in Dubai, at home in Dubai and suddenly, I couldn’t wait to return. A feeling that I realised I should be having, otherwise perhaps my move hadn’t been the right decision after all.
Therefore, as I waved goodbye to my family and friends for the second time this year, I was more assured than I had been on my previous goodbye. Content. But, I also couldn’t wait for my next reunion with the people that would always be a part of my life, regardless of where I went.
Never related more to something in my life 😂 love love love!
Glad you enjoyed! 🙂