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I realized, as yesterday turned into today, that I’ve been out of my own country for three months.
I never feel more American than I do when I am not in America (probably because I am constantly reminded by others that I am American, but I digress). But it’s not a heightened version of the nationality that I feel back home. It’s more like American once removed. It feels like I’m wearing an identity that always rubs, ever so slightly. Like I have an exaggerated consciousness that I know is somehow off. It feels like
“You’re an expatriate. You’ve lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You’re an expatriate, see? You hang around cafés.”