I laughed hysterically the first time somebody called me Frau Murphy, but that is who I have become. To be an emigrant is to be an enigma, shrouded in mystery and, in my case, wrapped in a conundrum of shamrocks and sauerkraut. Emigration changes every ounce of your being, over and over again.
At first, the changes are subtle. You start off with the small things, the accent is toned down and you stop saying things like “I amn’t”. You buy a Jack Wolfskin anorak as if rain is something to be feared. You take off your shoes when you go to somebody’s house and you patiently wait for the green man before crossing, even if its 2am and the roads are deserted.
Then it becomes more deep rooted, ingrained. You are thrilled when all the years of practice pays off and a stranger asking for directions mistakes you for a good Fräulein, albeit a pale, freckled one.
Your German friends see through you - you are not efficient, organised or punctual! You are the funny Ausländer who always forgets the rules, but are great, how you say, craic?
Secretly you find yourself starting to miss the rain, the ham sandwiches, the Club Orange and everything you once loftily declared provincial. The rules and regulations are driving you mad. And they talk on the phone about flooding, factories closing, water charges... and it all sounds blissful.
You re-programme your brain mid-flight. Now you are determined to be the same as BEFORE. You ramp up the accent in case anyone thinks you’ve gotten notions.
You are outraged that Barry's has been replaced with the Aldi brand at home. You make scathing remarks about the country that has given you free university education, health insurance, employment, your best friend.
But slowly, very slowly, it dawns on you that you no longer quite fit in here. How could you? It’s been 18 years since you boarded that plane in Shannon, things have changed. You remember the life you have temporarily left behind you in the Land of Lederhosen and begrudgingly realise you miss it a little.
You cry at Dublin Airport every single time. But it's only because you'll miss Mam you tell yourself. You are lucky, you repeat silently, and perk up a bit; but then you are greeted in German at Passport Control. You have a Derek Zoolander moment in Baggage Claim and feel desperately alone. Not because you are in Germany. But because you realise that you are a little lost.
What are you? Gerish? Ireman? The doomed emigrant of yore, a stranger at home and abroad. You are predictably melancholic that evening as you enjoy the last bag of Tayto’s while watching your favourite German soap. The irony is lost on you.
This indulgent, self-absorbed navel gazing is short lived, thankfully. A good night’s sleep and you are back to yourself: Irish one minute, German the next. You are genuinely grateful to have both worlds. Perspective is a wonderful thing.
