After the Move, There Was No One to Call

On the unexpected loneliness of starting over.

The strangest thing about moving to Spain for me wasn’t the language. I actually knew it well enough to communicate without any trouble. Even the local traditions and culture (though vastly different from the world I was used to) were rather inspiring and interesting. No, the strangest sensation turned out to be me. It felt as though someone had erased me, reprogrammed, and turned into an invisible girl.

In Moscow, making new friends has always come naturally to me. Whether it was through work, running clubs, or swimming competitions, people always gathered around. Any activity became vibrant and exciting, and my circle of friends and acquaintances was constantly expanding. With a single phone call, I could round up a group to go running, hiking, to the cinema, or just over to my place for dinner.

And then, suddenly – I’m in a completely different world with no-one to call for. I’m all alone. I watched a brilliant film, but there was no one to discuss it with afterward. I want to sit out on the terrace of a local café under the pretty fairy lights, but there is no one to invite. I remember swimming my drills in the pool, my goggles filling with tears because the people I used to share things with weren’t there anymore. I was completely on my own. And that was frightening. 

Moving to Spain was our very first emigration, and we did it as adults with fully established lives in our beloved Moscow. All the familiar, well-trodden paths, the ways of communicating, our families, and a million friends vanished overnight. In their place, a vast unhealing wound appeared that could never be fixed with all these friendly smiling small talks. 

All my old joys stop bringing pleasure. Not because I suddenly fell out of love with good films or swimming, but because it turns out that sharing the emotion of an experience is far more important to me than the experience itself.

People gave me advice like: “Just wait, you’ll get used to it!” or “Hang in there, everything will go back to normal.” I even started doubting my language skills and signed up for courses. But nothing worked. Not time, nor a 1000 newly learnt words. I was used to connections and companionships forming naturally, just by being in the right place at the right time. But no matter where I showed up, that old formula failed.

And I showed up in plenty of places. I kept assuming friendship would happen the way it always had. I volunteered with the Red Cross, interacting every day with fellow immigrants. With people who were just as lonely as I was. But even after heartfelt conversations, the sense of isolation didn’t leave. They went on living their lives, and I lived mine. I visited every coffee shop in the city, chatting with baristas or whoever happened to be at the next table. It filled my days with words, but those people disappeared as quickly as they arrived. I signed up for a screenwriting course, but somehow, being there only amplified the distance between me and everyone else. No one to call, no one to invite, no one to share a life with.

Finding a swim team turned out to be even harder because in Spain, people rely on word of mouth rather than looking for information online. But even after I joined, it didn’t get any easier. It turned out that an academic level of language isn’t enough to spontaneously express your feelings or react to jokes. While everyone around me dissolved into laughter and kept the banter going, I was stuck trying to figure out what they were even talking about. The cultural code rose between us like a massive, impenetrable wall. And even if a few sympathetic souls tried to explain the local humor to me, the rest of the group quickly lost interest in our conversations.

I tried language exchanges, expat meetups, and accepted every single invitation, even when the idea sounded incredibly boring. But my efforts to “be in the right place” bore absolutely no fruit. They only highlighted my loneliness.

Sometimes, I didn’t want to go out at all. Sometimes, I was deathly tired of being the outsider in a group. Sometimes, I couldn’t find a common language with a single person around me. 

I had to reinvent my method of making friends, because the complete lack of effectiveness in my old way could no longer be ignored. Instead of: “I’m here, I’m open, come talk to me,” I shifted to: “I’m alone, I need friends, and you look like someone worth a try.”

I started talking to everyone. I began saying yes to joint activities and get-togethers more often. I chatted with strangers more frequently and took the initiative. Instead of saying, “I love swimming,” I started asking, “Mind if I swim with you?” And, damn, it’s not easy for me. Every time I asked someone to have coffee, it felt like I was sixteen again. I blush every time I do this. 

And one day I realized, I can call Anna and invite her to watch a movie together. She’s a busy girl, but sometimes we can find time to meet. And I can share a glass of wine with Alex when I feel up to it. And Javi invites me to swim frequently. My circle is still much smaller than it was back home. But It still feels like a small miracle to spend an evening at a friend’s place. Finally I have people I genuinely want to listen to and hug. My interactions are now built on a genuine curiosity about other perspectives and worlds.

If everything goes according to our new plan, a year from now we’ll probably do this all over again. Another language. Another city. Another empty contact list. And of course, it’s just as nerve-wracking. 

But there is a difference. Life goes on.  Even when I’m home alone, feeling sad for a moment or greeting “Go!” to my new team-mates at the comps who don’t know my name. I won’t wait for life to begin once everything settles down.

I’ll just keep living.