"How do you like it here?"

Beneath the surface of a seemingly simple question...

Good morning, friend,

The first newsletter I published, titled “where are you from?”, tackled a question we often get asked because of our accents. Another frequent question is “how do you like it here”, usually emphasizing the “here”. And while this question is in no way unique to our immigrant experience (people ask it when moving houses or cities too), it's how I perceive it, that feels different. Initially, I felt like this was a request to compare my home country to here, a kind of unspoken competition. But I've come to realize that people might be genuinely curious about my experience.

Naturally, there's no easy answer. My response depends on who's asking and how well I know them. To the barista at the coffee shop? “Yeah, I like it here.” To a neighbor? “There are things I enjoy and aspects I'm adjusting to, but overall, yes, I like it here.” To a fellow expatriate? “…” Well, those are usually the conversation that tend to dive deeper, exploring the complexity and challenges of settling in a new place compared to where we originated. Our shared experience of migration can make a seemingly simple question hard to answer.

All these responses, no matter how straightforward or nuanced, are genuine, because there's no one perfect place on earth (though some places may come close). My answer is yes, I like it here, but also, from time to time, I face challenges. And, of course, the overall experience outweighs the downsides by far, after all, what else would be the point of staying? But this feeling isn't unique to my immigrant status either. I felt that way in Belgium, and I feel the same way here. It's just the reasons why that are different.

I like it here because of the wide-open spaces and the abundance of nature. The freedom to buy a spacious home for the same price we'd pay for a much smaller one in Belgium. The overall friendliness of the people has been a welcome change. The absence of traffic makes driving a breeze, and I no longer have to rush to get groceries before Sunday's noontime closure. Living abroad has broadened my perspective, and the opportunity to travel to destinations we could only dream of back home is truly enriching. I'll even take the weather here, although the winter can be dreadful, over Belgium’s climate. These are just some of the many reasons I appreciate life here. I could go on.

Although Belgium undoubtedly has beautiful spots of greenery and nature, there’s no comparison when it comes to the abundance of it here.

I don't like it here when it's time to pay our property tax, because that bill is ridiculously high. It’s hard to wrap my head around how strongly politics and religion are intertwined, I can’t see how the two should be connected. I miss walking and biking to places, it's disheartening how reliant we are on our car. I don't like it here when there's another (school) shooting, followed by empty debates about gun control, because somehow, gun rights always end up being more important than the lives of human beings. That's when I really don't like it here. I could go on.

But mostly, what I dislike about being here is that it requires an airplane trip to visit family and friends.

Because my son had just turned three when we moved here, he didn't have a clue about the concept of family for the longest time. Except for grandparents, perhaps; they were the only ones we didn't need to explain. We spoke regularly on Skype, and they visited us here, so not only did they always have a name, but they also had a face. All the other family members—aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, great-grandparents—were harder to explain. For the longest time, it seemed that the definition of family was lost on my son.

Until we finally took that flight back to Belgium in February of 2022. My kids were on their mid-winter break, and it was the first time in close to five years that we had flown back to Belgium. It was an eye-opening trip for our son. He finally met his roots, but more importantly, he understood that he too, just like every other kid in his classroom, had family besides just us.

When we returned home, my son couldn't stop talking about his nephew (and also about the typical Belgian frituur—I had to use the Flemish word here because there simply is no translation; it's a place where you go to eat fries with fried meat—that we visited, and the crepes he had). But above all, his nephew had made the biggest impression on him. Although they only saw each other twice that week, now, two years later, my son still talks about how his nephew gave him his first couple of Pokémon cards and how they played basketball together.

Inside a Belgian “frituur”. Nothing in the US comes remotely close and that’s a real shame, I still miss going there on a lazy Friday night.

Two events, seemingly unremarkable, I can't help but think about how unique it is that my son remembers them. Not only does he recall receiving his first couple of Pokémon cards, but he can also identify which ones they were, despite having a rather extensive collection by now. And that’s where, for me, solace resides in witnessing my children grow without family nearby. For anyone else, seeing their family members on a regular basis, playing a game of basketball with their nephew would be an ordinary event. For my son, however, it will forever be a lasting memory. And more so, he finally understands the definition of family.

So no, responding to the question “do you like it here?” isn't always straightforward. Every aspect of living here, compared to living there, carries both positives and negatives. So next time I'm shoveling snow, I'll think about how beautiful the landscape will look the next day, when the storm has passed and the sun is out, as opposed to a grey and rainy day. But also, when we visit Europe this summer, I'll relish in the leisurely walks, treasure our brief family visits, and indulging in all the “good stuff” my stomach can possibly handle.