In Singapore, I was an “Ang moh”. In Thailand, I was a “Farang”. In Dubai, I was the “Shy Scandinavian Kid living in house No. 2 in Satwa Compound”. Here in Crete, people call me “Kyria Anglica”, which means Englishwoman, even though I’m actually Swedish. Wherever I go, I’m a foreigner and I’ve been a foreigner since I was nine years old.
A fellow 48fourteen Author I’m just getting to know asked me where my home is. For me, that’s a tricky question to answer. The truth is that I don’t really know where my home is.
I left Sweden twenty years ago so home certainly isn’t Stockholm, which is where I was born. Dubai, Bangkok, Singapore or Kuala Lumpur aren’t home to me anymore either. And calling the hotel room where I’ve been sleeping and scribbling down story ideas for the past six months “home” is a stretch even for my vivid imagination.
For me, the price of being an expat is not having a clue where my home is. But it’s a small price to pay considering all the experiences I’ve gained in exotic and mysterious places. How many people have watched a Boa Constrictor take a cooling dip in their swimming pool in the afternoon? All in all, I consider myself lucky to be a Perennial Foreigner.
