Stages...
...Yes, they exist. Stages of in-country adjustment vary from place to place, I’d imagine; but they definitely exist. The first stage is the honeymoon period, when all new things are fascinating and even getting a cab on your own is a joy and an achievement, even though you are being mercilessly ripped off and hardly know where you’re going. Or, to use an analogy I can follow through to the end stages: going into a French cafe, where you know that real French people sit and sip their coffee while discussing politics is unreasonably exciting, and you may even make special plans to live out this experience in a carefully (or randomly) selected cafe, at which point you would order an espresso and enjoy the porcelain cup and plate with two sugar cubes and coffee spoon on the side, served to you by a lanky French waiter who speaks no English. You will be eager to tip - and if you do not know that tipping is not practiced (and the tax is included in the price of the order), you will leave an extra euro on the table - and decide that you simply must come back to this place again. In the worst of cases, due to extraneous unpleasant experiences, you may choose another coffee time mecca to frequent over lunch or on a late afternoon.
This stage slowly and subtly morphs into the adjustment period, called such (by me) due to the apparent need for major adjustments in your lifestyle, attitudes, and even thought processes. This period is hard, and most consider this to be the beginning of culture shock; personally, it is always a welcome time for me, because (speaking from 3 experiences) it is still an enthusiastic moment when I realize that I have learning to do, and I am finally aware of the extent of my novice ways in a foreign society. Almost everything is going wrong or could be going better, but it is still possible to laugh about it, and doing so will buy you valuable time.
During this period, the cafe visits will gradually lose their luster. You will begin to notice that the people in the cafe are not discussing, but arguing about politics, and in addition to being very loud speakers, they are harshly critical of all things; you may begin to fear being criticized by them in their flying spit conversations. To further the point for the female observer, the garcon (waiter) is really not attractive (not compared to the barman in the ‘boite’ (night club) you and your friends/co-workers checked out a few nights ago as a result of boredom) and the owner is not the quaint French monsieur with small town charm, but a shrewd businessman. The coffee itself is actually pricy. By now, you know better than to tip, or even want to tip, because you’ve realized that your money, of which there is a limited amount, is wanted elsewhere. In fact, you begin to wonder why you are paying 1.5 euro for a cup of coffee the size of your thumb, when you could be having an ‘Americano’ that would last all of the half hour you intend to spend in the cafe chatting about the news and where to buy the cheapest groceries.
On the flip side, you don’t really mind the absence of American coffee, because (beware, this is total rationalizing to prevent reality from seeping through the cracks):
1) the idea of sitting down for a coffee with friends is cool - it’s a break from the rut and the fast pace of the day
2) you think you’re drinking less coffee
- you still hope to meet new people, and this is just the way to do it
- the owner of the establishment is starting to recognize you and be friendly
- you have finally established a place that is markedly ‘yours’, and it is a consistent preferred meeting ground for your little group of expats, which may or may not include some nationals
Finally - though this is really only the beginning - things hit rock bottom. But not really...it will still get worse before it gets better. To my knowledge, most of my acquaintances and friends think that they are at the pinnacle (or more accurately, bottom) of the culture shock curve, only to hit the same point two weeks down the road. It’s an ugly time, when nothing seems right, nothing is right, and there really appears to be no end to the madness. When you habitually note to yourself that this ridiculously overpriced 1.5 euro French espresso cup is the size of a thumb (with even less coffee in it), you are dangerously close to sticking your thumb into the coffee cup to prove it is really that small. And when finished (which takes all of two sips), you have an urge to smash the cup against the floor, because, after all, it is porcelain.
Two weeks later, you may also start dumping the two sugar cubes into the coffee, only to prove to yourself that this country is full of absurdities, and then bitterly regretting your rash action as the sweetness will irritate your throat and mouth long afterwards. But you will keep doing it. You may also start ignoring the owner of the establishment, and even go there as little as possible, because your consistency is only making him a profit and causing you angst. And why is there no Starbucks in this town, like in all of the civilized world? Coffee to go has never been as necessary as it is now. Simultaneously, your irrational craving for something gastronomically awful will haunt you on a 24-hour basis. Basically, you will lurk behind the corner by some place reminiscent of a neighborhood McDonald’s, feeling stupid should you even dare to touch the door, but desperately needing a taste - or a feel - of the worst your home culture has to offer. Yes, you start to appreciate the bad; this is an ultimate symptom of culture shock. Reportedly, at this point people turn to alcohol and seek sex with random partners (the likelihood of which increases if you go out and drink), neither of which helps.
One one of those days you will, hopefully, snap. It may involve tears, or it may involve a particularly anticlimactic sexual encounter with a random partner that prods you towards in-depth reflection and self-assessment. Yet at some point, you will stop in at the cafe, letting the stress drip off your shoulders like the rainwater of a stormy afternoon, call or text your expatriate friend and ask him/her to join you for a glass of wine/juice or a cup of coffee. When the waiter comes to take your order and asks you how you’re doing, you will not perkily tell him you’re great, but sigh and say that you’re getting by, little by little, to which he will respond: just like everyone else! And when your friend finally shows up, and you think you’re about to set off on a rant about your misery, he/she will beat you to it, and you will spend the entire afternoon knowledgeably consoling your comrade abroad.
Thankfully, it only gets better from here. You have, at this point, become the regulars of the cafe/restaurant/bar that you initially chose as your watering hole. You joke about it, and you joke with the waiter(s) and the owner. Moreover, you know everyone’s names, including those of other regulars. If the last bit applies to you, and you are in a bar, you should maybe reconsider going there every night. But all in all, money is no longer the problem, though you have a diminishing supply, because you have figured out how to order the good stuff (food and drinks) without paying too much; probably, your local friends had some good advice to share on this account. The owner of the place has also started doing unheard-of things, like putting down a bottle on your table instead of charging you all for individual drinks, or he has begun to serve your clique of (mostly) foreign regulars complimentary cups of espresso on the occasional long evening.
You don’t want to leave. But it’s time to go home. And when you’ve gone, you’ll understand that you were not the only one going through adjustments, and to an even greater extent, you were not alone in the process - these are two different things. The friends you made in this place are as much changed by knowing you as you were by knowing them. The owner and the staff of whatever place you had frequented were observing you, and may even remember you for a long time thereafter, as the foreigner(s) who stuck. They admire you now, and they’ll miss you too, even though no letters, e-mails, or phone calls will be exchanged between you. But on your last night, a round of drinks was on the house, or the shawarma sandwiches or steak with fries were especially well-made, and you got a free treat (of a varying nature) from your local friends that caused a melting sensation in your chest. You don’t even know how “home” could measure up to the high standards set by this new yet familiar culture, community, and lifestyle. What you missed seems not so vital anymore, and return can be delayed by another couple of months. But really, it’s time to go home. And though leaving is never opportune enough, it should happen when intended, otherwise you’re just putting off a whole new wave of (reverse) culture shock and re-adjustment and possibly souring your near-perfect memory of this adventure abroad.
