It would be, I think, essentially the same thing I described in the original post — the constant (and unfair) feeling of being dumb. After decades of being in the US, I knew how to do everything. I knew where to get prescriptions, I knew how to send express mail, if I wanted to have my house painted I knew who to call, and on and on. Everything here is different, even if only to small degrees.
The nice thing is, this effect is reduced over time, as you learn more specific tasks and procedures and internalize the principles according to which everything operates. For example, it’s very uncommon here for house windows to have exterior screens. If you want fresh air, you’re letting flies in. People here don’t seem to mind; “just leave the window open and they’ll go out again.” There are screens you can buy and install, but in most places, you have to get approval from the commune (a level of regional government halfway between city and county) before installation. They will examine your neighborhood, and your individual house, and tell you whether or not window screens are acceptable according to the “character” of the area. This seems very strange to an American, like you’re living in a giant home-owners’ association, but overall it’s not that bad; there’s a much lighter touch to the rules compared to a typical HOA. The first time you encounter something like this, there’s a mental “record scratch” noise, but then you get used to it.
On my side, the immediate family is very small, fewer than a dozen people. There’s a lot of loosely connected cousins and such, but we’re not that close and didn’t keep in touch with them even when we were in the States. Plus, my parents are snowbirds, so they weren’t around for the holidays anyway. For Christmas and similar events, we would gather with selected friends, and we have continued to do the same here, albeit with our new local friends. I miss my American friends, of course, and stay connected with them via social media and regular video chats.
This is much more difficult for my wife, who has a very large family with many close connections. She really, really misses not being able to see her mom any time she wants.
Our particular situation is a little different on this point. My wife was born in the Middle East, and naturalized as an American when she was a teenager. She was already between cultures, and was making an effort to maintain two sets of traditions, even before we moved. We made sure our kids were eating her native cuisine, hearing her original language, and celebrating her country’s key holidays. So now that we’ve moved, we’re basically keeping up the same practice, just with an enlarged list. And we’re also adopting some of the traditions of our new home country as well, trying them out to see if we like them, and seeing if they help us feel more adjusted.
It’s a continuum, always changing, and each person makes the journey at a different pace. I’m probably thirty percent along from the first to the second; over the next dozen years, I’ll probably settle in somewhere between fifty and sixty percent. Identity is powerful, and changes only so much. My wife is lagging a bit behind me. Our kids are well ahead of us, and will have a much higher ceiling.
We went back for a week the summer before last. As for what it was like, I will echo this:
It’s been shy of four years for us, but we’ve already adjusted to a lot of the superficial things. In addition to what Gyrate mentions (driving everywhere, huge restaurant portions), one of the things that I found most striking was just how freaking huge all the cars are in the US. Here in Europe, vehicles are much, much smaller, even within what you’d consider to be conventional classes. On the trip to the States, the first time I had to cross a busy street, all the passing cars felt bizarrely gigantic. It was a very strange effect.
More fundamentally, I realized I had lost my sense of what I can only describe as “American ego.” This isn’t a negative judgment, not really; it’s something you’re surrounded with, all the time, like the water to a fish. It’s true for everybody, regardless of political persuasion; you know, at an almost chemical level, that the US is a wealthy and influential country, special on the world stage. Then, when you immerse and open yourself to an alternative culture, and you’re exposed to all the little differences in values and lifestyle, you start to realize that these are simply different ways to live, different rules, different philosophies. Some better, some worse, but all, primarily, different. And the American exceptionalism begins to peel away. I’m not an American! living in a new place, bending the world around me; I’m just a citizen of one country living among citizens of other countries, all more or less equivalent, separated only by language and day-to-day habits.
I’m not explaining this very well. It’s a really difficult feeling to put into words. But it’s very real.