Immigrant.

Last week I got called an immigrant. No, I'm lying, I got called a 'fucking immigrant', and got asked politely to 'go back to my own fucking country'.

Now, I'm not sure about you, but I have never really thought about the impact that word could have on someone. I recognised that it was a label, a label we use on a daily basis in the media, but I never thought of how it could make someone feel, as surely 'immigrant' is just a technical term to describe someone not living in the country they were born into? Surely?


That word 'immigrant' made me feel sick. As I stood outside my German class with a mixed bunch of foreigners all keen to learn the language, we got abuse hurled at us from a respectable looking middle aged man, who did not look dissimilar from my own Dad. He was wearing a suit, we were in his way, he was probably tired and irritable from a long gruelling day in the office, but that only made his words all the more venomous.

'How dare he? I'm not an immigrant!' - The instant rage bubbled beneath my skin; I could feel my fingertips tingling with adrenaline and my neck stiffen ready to battle with the lines 'two world wars, one world cup', but within milliseconds, this insatiable rage gave way to utter humiliation - 'Oh Christ, I am an immigrant. I don't belong here.' The heat radiation coming from my burning cheeks could have fried an egg. No exaggeration.

But why should I feel so ashamed? Because I am wholeheartedly taking advantage of the generous German FSA scheme? Or perhaps because I stick out like a sore thumb in a place where anyone wearing anything but the jeans-tshirt-converse-scarf-leatherjacket combination is considered pioneering. But most likely, it is because I am not like everyone else; horror of horrors - I am British.

Immigrant suggests that you can never wash the taint of your home country off of your skin. You can walk the walk, talk the talk, eat their disgusting food, but as soon as you're called an immigrant, your charade as a native is viciously pulled away. You are exposed for what you truly are. Naked and vulnerable to a culture that is not your own.

All of these sentiments washing through you and over you and into every part of your being, with one small word. Reducing someone to a mere label. You are an immigrant, you are nothing.

I address this post to everyone living in their native country; I beg of you, please rethink how you use this term. Don't make others feel different, I'm sure they are well aware of the many social faux pas' they make on a daily basis, and don't need you to highlight the fact that they said 'shall we kiss', instead of 'shall we cook'.

I am humbled, humiliated, sometimes hated, and my British high-horse has been firmly swept away, but that's alright, 'cos I'm a job stealing, benefit thieving immigrant, and I bloody love it.

Winning at Life.

Until a day like today pops into your life, it is very easy to believe that they do not exist, that they are the fictional produce of Hollywood and Jane Austen novels.

Today is a day which is brimming with joy, joy which is all the more delicious because you know that you are the only one responsible for such intoxicating feelings. No-one else has made you feel like this - this is the culmination of days, weeks, months, or even years worth of hard graft. And it's all yours.

Today is the day that you realise that it might all be worth it; there might actually be light at the end of the tunnel. Fulfilled dreams are not a lifetime away, they are right in front of you waiting to be snatched up and greedily consumed.

And today is the day that you recognise that 30 shit days are completely worth this one day of utter happiness and contentment, because you did it yourself, and no-one can take that away from you.

Beer.

It turns out, Germans like beer.

I know this may shock and surprise some people, but it is true; they really do love the stuff. So much so, that towns dedicate whole weeks of the calender to celebrate the majesty of the beer produced in the region - singing songs, holding hands and guzzling litres of the liquid gold, whilst parading around in leather trousers and bosom enhancing dresses.

Last Saturday, I found myself in the midst of this mayhem. Picture the scene, myself (a timid, modest young lady who enjoys a quiet ginger beer at the end of a long day) accompanied by two like minded gentleman, stranded in a beer hall where the only occupations available to us were: beer, beer songs, beer induced dancing and beer induced friendship making. Terrible. Bad Canstatt promised a 'Volksfest', rather naively I believed this to involve a tombola, merry-go-round and a tin of sweets.

After this horrendous encounter with the beer-loving masses, I decided to investigate further into this dark underbelly of German culture.

My first stop was the supermarket. Not only were there nearly one hundred varieties of beer available to take away in crates, they were priced at a maximum of 90c each, and many of them were brewed locally! In my very town! Not only that, dear Readers, but if you take your used bottles back, you will receive money for doing so - practically forcing the poor consumer to drink.

A diversion into work on Monday illuminated me to the fact that the wretchedness of drinking beer is not only forced upon adults in this country, but the teenagers too. A youth, 16 years of age, in my English class informed me that he too had been at the so-called 'Volksfest', and not just on the fun fair rides, Ladies and Gentlemen, in the beer tents too! It is legal to drink beer and wine from the age of 16; well I never.

Tired of this investigation, I arrived back to my home town to find that a wine festival had taken over its sleepy streets.
What ever will they think of next?!

Last night.

Things I remember from last night:

- Oktoberfest.
- Beer.
- Drunk Mark.
- Being really hot.
- Being really cold.
- A random hut party in the woods.
- Inviting myself and Sam to stay at someone's grandparent's house.
- Tequila.

Things I do not remember from last night:

- How we got to the random hut party in the woods.
- Who I was talking to in the random hut.
- When we left the Oktoberfest.
- Where the new German girl is now.
- Where drunk Mark is now.
- Where the Grandparent's house is.
- Why I was in the woods drinking in a hut.
- Tequila.

Dry yer eyes mate

Moving away, abroad or otherwise, is hard. There is no doubt that changing address, packing your belongings, new bank accounts, insurance, mobile number, culture, language, job, and worst of all - saying goodbye to loved ones, cause unrelenting stress and the occasional outburst of tears. I am no exception to this rule.

So there, I said it. I cried. Cried so much that my eyes stung and my breath got caught in my lungs in shoulder shuddering sobs. Cried so violently that I felt sick, and for so long, that I forgot what I was crying about. Am I ashamed? Not one bit.

This outburst of emotion at seeing an all important train pull away from the platform can only be descibed as release; the physical acknowledgement of the physical changes I have made to my life. Mourning the loss of one stage, and acceptance for the next. For better or for worse, time must move forward, and change must ensue.

This is not to say that I wouldn't kill to spend tonight in my own bed, in a corner of Surrey neatly tucked in next to the airport and motorway, midst the din of family arguments, my sister's excellent baking, and a nutty hound, but I cannot dispute the appeal of everything in my new environment.

Yes, relatively, I am alone, but that only means I have room to make new friends. No, I cannot speak the language very well, but I will just have to learn; millions of people do it every year. The weather is dismal, the fashion is appalling and to say the people are conservative is an understatement, but that does not mean I will not adapt.

In conclusion, I wanted to share this horrendously personal insight into my life for the sake of all the people resisting changes in their's, whether greater or smaller than mine, because sometimes it's good to know that someone else had a crap time too.

But, always remember the great philosopher Derek Trotter and his wise words, "This time next year, we'll be millionaires", and maybe one day, just like him, your optimism will be rewarded with riches beyond your belief.

Trains.

Stereo-typically, German trains are famous for working like clock work; clean as a new pin, regular, cheap and always on time. I would like to point out, that this stereotype is not entirely correct, as my adventures this week have highlighted.

On Tuesday, myself and Jonboy ventured out to the nearby city of Stuttgart. We got told to depart the train when we were one stop away from the city, travel back to the previous station in order that we may catch another train to take us into the city centre. No reason was given for this mysterious rerouting, but added an extra hour and a half to our journey. Once in Stuttgart, we had lunch in the gardens overlooking the new palace, then wandered round the beautifully renovated Cathedral. It was gutted in WW2 by bombs dropped by the Allies, and almost had to be completely rebuilt. The result of the renovation is purely stunning - the beautiful old building maintains its ancient charm and majesty, yet is fitted in almost entirely modern decoration.

We filled our trip to Stuttgart with cultural excursions to the old castle, the Vodafone shop (another story...) and a few oldy worldy bars, before jumping on a train to take us safely back home. Before too long, the ticket conductor was shaking his head and trying to rob us of all our lovely Euros. 'Wrong ticket, you cannot use this train'. My poor English head couldn't understand this supreme German logic, and I pointed out that the ticket said 'Stuttgart-Goeppingen, any route', although he retorted that this was a special train, which we hadn't paid for. No-one bloody told us. Having none of it, I hastily resorted to pretending that I did not understand anything he said, and looked as if I was going to cry. That told him. No fine was paid.

Wednesday's train to the Mercedes Museum was similarly delayed, but we minded little due to the childlike excitement we both had at seeing lots of shiny cars. If I ever needed motivation to work hard so I could afford the finer things in life, that place certainly was it.

A trip to Tuebingen to see Mark, and the wonderful medieval town, sealed the deal on my lack of faith in German transport. Saturday afternoon saw us miss every connection due to delays in the network. Where's Southern Railway when you need them? All delays aside, we had a lovely evening perusing the old breweries in the town, watching a brass band playing outside the Rathaus (Town Hall), getting lost down the cobbled backstreets, and gorging on Italian food for dinner.

Perhaps my rant on the state of the trains is duly unjust, as I feel I may have a personal hatred of them tonight. The delayed-by-five-minutes-we-are-sorry-for-the-inconvenience train, which whisked J off to the airport, left half an hour ago, and left me standing like a plonker at the platform.

And so, my true Jaunts in Germany begin tomorrow, 7.07 AM at the same platform I was left at earlier, with a train to Cologne, taking me to the place which will train me to be a language assistant.

Let's hope, for all our sake, that it's on time.

I can't speak German.

Resting my face on an open grammar page, amidst a sea of optimistic looking text books, I have the horrible realisation that I cannot speak German. 41 days to go until I board the plane whizzing me to my new Black Forest home, and I do not know the word for light bulb, pillow case or plug socket, and I have successfully told my future landlady that I want to kiss her, instead of telling her that I look forward to seeing the kitchen.

Despair at my hopeless case continued to wash over me all evening, until I happened upon a fool proof plan; post-it notes.

Much to the horror of everyone around me, I have decided to plaster post-it note labels on everything I own, with the intention of soaking up all this extra vocabulary stress free. I refuse to see a flaw to this I-don't-speak-German-I'm-moving-to-Germany rescue remedy.

After 10 long years of attempting to master this language, a neon coloured light is twinkling at the end of the tunnel.

Buying post-its tomorrow.