The curious case of the American expat

Chasing the un-American dream.

DRESDEN, Germany — It goes without saying that I never had to move abroad.

I could have had a fulfilling career without leaving the U.S. Most of my American friends will do just that. For all I know, my work could take me back to the States forever before long. My career wouldn’t suffer if I never lived outside of the U.S. again.

The same is true for most young Americans who expatriate. The number of 22-year-olds, fresh out of college, who actually need to move abroad is incredibly small. I don’t think I’ve met one yet.

I’ve met people who came to Dresden from Russia, Venezuela and Ukraine. For them, moving was a necessity — for their safety, for their careers or education. They weren’t trying to make a statement or broaden their horizons. Compared to them, the stereotypical American expat’s journey of self-discovery looks impossibly silly.

Maybe you know these Americans. The ones who believe if they live abroad for long enough and integrate it thoroughly enough into their personalities they can unshackle themselves from being American, the most pedestrian thing you can be.

“I’m barely American,” they’ll tell you. Or when you ask where they’re from, they’ll immediately start qualifying. “I’m not one of those Americans,” they’ll say.

So the stereotypes follow — that American expats are privileged, out-of-touch, somehow both unforgivably frivolous and painfully self-serious.

If you’ve read my writing, you’ll know I’m skeptical of the idea that traveling or living abroad magically transmutes you into a better or more interesting version of yourself. I don’t believe there’s a list you can check off.

It’s not to say I don’t believe we should travel and seek to better understand the world around us. And I think a lot of people would benefit from an extended stint abroad — I certainly have. I just take issue with the idea that simply living abroad can elevate your personality or your very existence. It’s a different place, not a different self.

As Americans, we seem particularly prone to this kind of thinking. I think it’s a fundamentally American mindset, a manifestation of our individualistic obsession with self-improvement and self-discovery. Even Americans who stay in the U.S. are more likely to move far from home for college or a job. We prize the idea of striking out on our own and setting ourselves apart.

And I think that tendency gets coupled with a certain anxiety among a particular subset of young, affluent Americans. A belief that being American makes them inherently provincial and gauche.

We see America as so totally bereft of culture that we flee to the Old World in search of it. Often that “real culture” implicitly means nothing more than old buildings and cobblestoned streets. A quainter world, free of seven-lane highways and strip malls, and thereby free of all the problems of our modern existence.

The Cologne Cathedral (or the culture we lack in America).

As I was writing this, I came across an older column in the New York Times, “I Live in the Europe of My American Dreams.” The author writes about his experience as an American expat seeking the “mythical” Europe. I guess I’m not so original after all.

Unwittingly, I was following in the footsteps of generations of Americans before me who had come to “Europe”: a place that, though it has always existed for us, doesn’t quite exist for Europeans. It’s that mythical place where New World people come to lead different lives.

But I’d argue, for many, it’s not unwitting at all. I think plenty of American expats — especially those who move to Western Europe — are self-consciously trying to live out some kind of Hemingway fantasy.

I went to Caveau de la Huchette, a famous underground jazz bar, last month when I was in Paris. And when I say underground, I mean the bar is literally underground — not that it’s in any way under the radar. Around 11 p.m., the line already snaked around the corner. We waited at least a half hour, mostly surrounded by 20-year-old American kids on semesters abroad. (No judgment, I’ve been there.)

We eventually made it inside, and we found a place on a small mezzanine overlooking the dance floor, which was totally packed. I looked out over the crowd as the band played a frenetic rendition of “Hit the Road Jack.” Hundreds of kids danced with their eyes closed, moving and swaying erratically to show how deeply they felt the music. How deeply they connected with it.

But it all just looked impossibly affected. Like everyone was trying to experience Paris in a way that no longer exists. Chasing a dream of jazz bar debauchery based on a recommendation they found on TikTok. It’s part of the search for “real culture” abroad — never mind that what the Caveau offers is nothing more than a reproduction of a world that in reality no longer exists.

(As Jack texted me this weekend, “the golden age of everything is over.” He was talking about Coachella, but the same sentiment applies.)

These fantasies about “life in Europe” remind me of a very awkward dinner I had with my mother in Buenos Aires. For my 21st birthday, we went to a “closed-door restaurant,” a dinner party and wine pairing hosted at a sommelier’s apartment.

Sitting next to me was an argumentative and somewhat sleazy quant trader. Across from us were two women in their mid-30s, friends from business school. The conversation became more confrontational the more we drank. One of the women was single, and the quant trader began grilling her about her love life.

“Well, I’ve always seen myself with a European guy,” she said when the quant trader asked her what she was looking for.

“So you’ve dated European guys?” he asked.

“Well, no,” she said. “I’ve just always had a feeling that I’m not meant to be with an American guy.”

When I first moved to Dresden, I was going on first dates like it was a part-time job. I thought if I could find myself a German boyfriend, the mysteries of the German language and culture would reveal themselves to me. I wasn’t trying to escape my Americanness per se, but I did hope it would help me integrate.

When I first moved to Germany, I was reading Leaving the Atocha Station, Ben Lerner’s 2011 novel based on his time as a Fulbright grantee in Madrid. I hoped I’d have the same experience as the narrator — that I’d meet and date interesting locals who would bring me into contact with the real culture. Not much luck there.

(You can refer to a previous post on this blog for more reflections on dating abroad.)

Leaving the Atocha Station, which became one of the seminal texts of my life abroad, is also replete with incisive descriptions of American expats. My favorite among them:

I came to understand that if you looked around carefully as you walked through the supposedly least touristy barrios, you could identify young Americans whose lives were structured by attempting to appear otherwise … Each member of this shadowy network resented the others, who were irritating reminders that nothing was more American, whatever that means, than fleeing the American, whatever that is, and that their soft version of self-imposed exile was just another of late empire's packaged tours.

These days the empire feels later and later every day, making the desire to escape it, to assert yourself as anything other than American, all the stronger. Not that I’m ever particularly inclined toward patriotism, but I’m certainly not proud to be American right now. And I’m not exactly dying to move home.

Still, I am American. It’s on my passport, and it’s immediately evident when I open my mouth. Trying to shed or disguise my unambiguous Americanness is a fool’s errand.

I was talking to some German friends recently about my relationship with my roommates. I told them I like them, but I don’t exactly fit in. I said I think they see me as irredeemably amerikanisch. I was half expecting them to protest, but they just looked at each other knowingly.

“Well,” one said, trailing off.

Again, I can’t really take offense at this. It’s not insulting for someone to tell me I come across as American when I am, in fact, American.

When I was in Hungary, Klaus and Sabine told me they were unquestionably happier following their expatriation. But they mentioned some Germans they’d met in Hungary who weren’t much happier than they’d been before. “They brought their problems with them,” Klaus and Sabine told me.

“Well, wherever you go, there you are,” I responded absentmindedly in English. I was sitting in the backseat of their Volkswagen as we drove along the winding, rural roads. We lurched every so often as Klaus shifted gears.

To my surprise, Klaus’ eyes lit up, catching mine in the rearview mirror. He asked me to repeat the phrase, and he slowly parroted the words back to me. Together, we roughly translated it: Irgendwo du gehst, da bist du. Later that night at dinner with a dozen other Germans, he proudly shared the new phrase, crediting it to me.

It’s a serious cliche, of course. And certainly not one of my own invention. If you’d asked my late grandfather, he’d have illustrated the idea with a folksy five-minute parable involving a gas station attendant. I’ll spare you all that, but you get the point.

But still, even if we do bring our problems with us and we don’t become shiny, new people just by expatriating, I think we can all learn and grow from time spent abroad. I know I have. ▣