American

As if you needed any reminding, it’s Thanksgiving in the States today.

It’s a celebration that I always viewed with a degree of envy as a boy growing up in England, something else to look forward to in those interminable months between the end of summer and the fever of Christmas. And what a great tradition – lots of hearty food shared with the family, and then licence to spend the rest of the day lazing in front of the television.

So although it felt almost like a betrayal to my nationality to be doing so, when I moved to New York at the turn of the millennium I determined to take part in the festivities. We braved the freezing temperatures with the thousands of other people to watch the inflatables bob down Central Park West, and then returned to our apartment to cook up a passing resemblance to the traditional feast that would be laid on millions of tables across the States.

Unfortunately my wife had come down with flu the night before, so it wasn’t the liveliest occasion. But just being off work and sampling the experience in the flesh was good enough.

So I can see why for the millions of expat Americans around the world this is a day when homesickness is at its keenest. It is, after all, a peculiarly American holiday that is meant to be shared with your nearest and dearest.

Still, while it’s a day to miss home, it’s also a day for gratitude for all the things you do have, right here and right now, wherever that happens to be.

And so in some small way I too have been trying to appropriate this tradition by remembering those things for which I can truly be grateful: my wife and daughters, my health and theirs, the love of family and friends, having a roof over my head and food to eat, having the opportunity to live in Spain and experience first hand and in detail a different culture, with all its joys and frustrations.

Plenty to give thanks for I feel.