As of today, I’ve been living in the UK for 5 years. 60 months. 1,826 days. Did I make each one of them worth it? No. But I did make enough of them.
I don’t intend to write a full retrospection, like I did in my three year anniversary. I just want to write down a few thoughts, scattered and perhaps not that meaningful.
Today it’s been 3 years I’ve been living in the UK; an immigrant, just like my grandparents back in the 50s. The following story is an account of these years, but, at the same time, a confession of things that only few people know about me.
I decided to leave Greece when I started feeling sorry for myself. I was 26 years old, I had just completed my military service, I was living again with my parents and I had spent my whole summer working as a waiter at our family-run restaurant, which we had to close down a year later, unable to cope with the economic crisis and the consequences of all-inclusive tourism.