Issue #21: Could I move to a different country?

On wanderlust, the reality of expat life & why my fantasy self lives in southern Europe.

There is a fantasy version of me who lives abroad.

Specifically, in an ‘off the beaten track’ city in southern Europe. Perhaps (let’s dream) in a studio flat with herringbone floors and a balcony overlooking a narrow, cobbled street. I’m on first-name terms with the owner of a bakery in a nearby square, where I begin each day sipping espresso in the early morning light. I’m fluent in the native language, aside from the odd idiom which I stumble over, charmingly, giggling with my local friends while they explain it. I write all day, before enjoying a rustic supper made from fresh ingredients: think tomatoes grown within a 5-mile radius, tasting so delicious that putting them in the same bracket as their Tesco Express counterparts is nothing short of sacrilege. Life is slow-moving and simple, with regular interludes of comfortable, undisturbed solitude.

I won’t deny it; part of me thinks that’s how I should be spending this one wild and precious life. It’s a fantasy that’s proved particularly appealing these past couple of months, as I’ve wandered around north London leading a vampiric half-life, shrouded in a tombstone-grey Uniqlo puffer coat, closing my eyes during my hot yoga classes and drifting away to sunnier climes. But then, I’m not short of inspiration…

My Year of Wanderlust

I spent the bulk of last year abroad, travelling (mostly) solo and taking my professional life abroad to work remotely from ten different countries. Which meant interviewing Dakota Johnson via Zoom from a cafe in Abu Dhabi. Doing cover work for a magazine from a deck chair at a hostel in Florence, while gap year students cracked open Birra Moretti at the table next to me. Filing a 2,000 word feature with my legs immersed in a residential swimming pool in Bordeaux, my fervent typing bemusing the AirBnB host’s pet tortoise. Recording a podcast interview from my friend’s Brooklyn apartment, the time difference gifting me the 5am morning routine of a Silicon Valley CEO.

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A post shared by Francesca Specter (@chezspecter)

My travels were made possible by several privileges:

• Having a freelance career I can do anywhere

• The pandemic-inspired remote working culture

• Writing for various travel publications

• Being single & childfree

• Having gained the ‘solitude skill’ of travelling alone – something I never could have done before discovering the value of alonement

Last year was one of the happiest of my life, in no small part because I spent the bulk of it on the move. It was a wanderlust I wanted to get out of my system, honouring the circumstances that conspired to make it possible. I also commend myself on treating the four corners of the globe as one giant co-working space (a six-hour flight delay in Valencia airport led to the most productive working day of 2022). But the digital nomad existence wasn’t sustainable.

As grateful as I am that I can work remotely – friends of mine battle tirelessly with their employers for the same right – I thrive, both personally and professionally, in a stable environment. It’s not just the all-essential strong wifi connection; I like knowing where my favourite socks are, and when I’ll next eat dinner with a loved one (it’s perhaps with a similar sentiment that Swedes say, Borta bra men hemma bäst, or ‘Away is good, but home is best’). Equally, I enjoy holidays most when my laptop stays well away from the beach.

Being honest with myself, my Year of Wanderlust was underpinned by another privilege, which I didn’t list above…

The value of roots

I pursued my travels with the knowledge that I had a lot to return to. Close friends and family. A flat to move back into. Streets that I know my way around, the well-trodden paths containing memories of the past 17 years. My packing went as follows: passport, check. Phone, check. A internalised feeling of Maslovian safely, love & belonging, check. Knowing I had those roots, back home, emboldened me on my mostly-solo travels: imbuing them with a sense of finiteness, a flipbook of memories I could carry back to share with others. In her book, A Trip of One’s Own, travel writer Kate Wills writes about losing this privilege after her divorce, when she no longer had a ‘Someone’ back home:

Whenever I meet people while travelling solo, the most common response is, ‘You’re brave.’ It’s similar when I told people I was getting divorced. Th e truth is that I’ve never felt particularly brave while travelling on my own. I’ve felt stupid, disorientated and embarrassingly ill-equipped (like the time I tried to hike the foothills of the Himalayas in flipflops) but never really brave. Bravery is when you’re scared of something but you do it anyway. Travelling for me isn’t scary. It can be hard, but most of the time it’s too rewarding and exhilarating to dwell on the fact that you’re doing it solo. But going through life alone, as I was now? That felt truly terrifying.

Rootlessness can be its own kind of empowering.