I'm a Legal Alien

They used to say you need to live abroad for at least five years. As of December, my English adventure has reached that milestone. This piece is actually a 342-page memoir, but I wanted to share just the first few pages, edited for clarity. While writing, I always listen to "Englishman In New York." It's ironic but soothing, and I recommend you listen to it as you read.

The decision to move to England was made in the early 2010s. A dear childhood friend had moved to London long before me. "This place is just right for you," he would always say. Everything has its time.

December 2018 it was. Walking to the taxi stand, bag slung over my shoulder, the sound of my suitcase wheels and the stares of the street dogs I played with every day are still vivid in my memory. I knew I would see many things again each time I returned, but I also knew I might never see most of my street friends again.

After a pressurized flight, I descended through London's clouds into a new adventure. A shrewd English customs officer greeted me. The British hospitality I expected was nowhere to be found. "How can you ask a guest why they came?" I thought, feeling slighted, and stepped inside with small steps.

There was an excited energy about me that I couldn't understand, foreign yet mine. Anxiety was liking my old Instagram posts. I wasn't indifferent to it either.

After a long, rainy journey, with my friend's help, I settled into a damp room in a Victorian-style house. Exhausted, I dozed off for a minute or two, then woke up to find my phone dead. I set it aside and started waiting for Pisabi (my cat). He never used to be this late. Just as I was about to worry, I released the strong man inside me. I bent over to grab the charger from the nightstand, but it was gone. The painting in front of me, the sunny window to my right, the pigeon sounds from the roof – none of them were there anymore.

Anyway, life goes on, too short to be sad, I thought, and drifted into a fragmented sleep.

I might tell you another time about our new cat we met on the streets of London, and the story of my roommate Ayşegül.

Moving to England is different from other countries. Their native language is English. Daily conversations are heavily accented in English. Words I heard a thousand times, like "schedule," became "shed-yool." Despite similar situations in our language, their hostile approach to the letter 'R' always unnerved me.

The software market was very lively back then. Until after the pandemic, it was like the American stock market. There were days when I was annoyed by too many messages, but "being liked is something every programmer enjoys." There were crazy startups. I'm talking about the days when Monzo was a startup. Recruiters who found my Instagram and stalked me, startups that boasted about having dog sitters for their employees' pets. It was like a dream.

Once my visa application was approved, I immediately started a job. I could now continue the small electronics hobby workshop I had near my house in Turkey, here as well. Maybe I could buy a caravan and live in the Scottish mountains. Wait for me, Great Britain!

New people, nightclubs, musicals, pubs, parties. The number of pins on my world map on the wall was increasing every day. I oscillated for nearly a year between the urinal walls in nightclubs, reminiscent of sheep troughs, and the civilized face of Europe.

Lately, the diversity has decreased, diminishing its charm, but there used to be people on the subway who would sneakily observe others. The British are a bit reserved about approaching strangers. They're not cold, but this shyness, combined with confidence, turns into a sweet aloofness.

Especially with the influence of Turkish dramas in Spain, Russia, and South America, attracting attention wasn't hard. I'm not exaggerating, Tinder crashed.

To be continued in the next journal.