When Moving Abroad Means Living Closer to Home...

I knew there would be obstacles when I made the definitive decision to pursue my Masters degree abroad - for example, the abhorrence and intrigue of anything that contrasts from your own way of life, ala the peculiar cuisine, social practices and the inevitable language barrier... But whatever I had prepared myself for, the one crucial factor I had neglected was the terrifying reality of living near (very near) my parents again.  

Though charismatic, my parents are also Jewish - and consequently critical of every aspect of my life. As an astute 18 year old, I knew attending University across the country was a quick way to independence, and have since managed to maintain -  if not elongate - the physical distance between my parents and me. This is probably why the challenges of living near family eluded me before moving to Tel Aviv.

I knew I wanted to live in Israel at some point, the only problem is my parents beat me to it. My father, Israeli, and my mother, Brazilian, were going through the all-american mid-life crisis, and reacted by moving to my father's homebase - Tel Aviv. Having settled into the city five years before me, they had also spent that time spewing compelling arguments my way in an attempt to get me to move here as well. Eventually I caved, which is inevitable when you have parents well-versed in the clever, persistent tactics of Israeli manipulation. Not only did they convince me to move, they also made me believe it was my idea.

It was only when I unpacked my bags and had my parents knocking on my bedroom door (in their house) every ten minutes that the reality of my new situation sunk in. Though I later moved into my own place, I am still bombarded by phone calls wanting to know nothing more than if I'm free for dinner (again this week). The usual critique/ jokes regarding my physical appearance, once reserved for our visits twice or thrice a year, have became a weekly ritual - which my friends enjoy a bit too much in my opinion. Then there is the  "we don't see you enough" parental tag line, an inescapable declaration to which my parents have assured me I have no suitable response.

Yet there are also perks to having them nearby. In contrast to my old place, my fridge now is somewhat filled with fresh food, complementary of my parents who "allow" me to steal fruit and baked goods from their apartment at my leisure. Not to mention my fancy hand-me-down furniture, which beats my poorly assembled Ikea furniture I prided myself on owning while in NYC. They are also there to aid me through the complications of foreign bills, banks, and all the financial problems in between, which make the cultural gap between Israelis and Americans almost unbearable.

 

But regardless of whether its good or bad to live near your parents, what I find disheartening is that for all intensive purposes, moving abroad has become for me an experience of moving back home. Well, not exactly like moving home. It's like when you're a kid and your family moves to a new neighborhood. Everything seems familiar, but also a little foreign. All my clothes and furniture have been shuffled and reassembled, and my favorite diners replaced by coffee shops bombarded by loud foreigners (or locals, depending on where you're standing). So while life abroad is filled with new friends and new challenges, for better or for worse, this new place feels an awful lot like home.