have you ever had the feeling, you needed to be somewhere else? That you are in the wrong place, not entirely belonging where you are? I’m quite used to the feeling. Since I was living on my own, I moved around. Never living more than a couple of years at one place, switching apartments every once in a while. I was in living in a small town in the very northern part of Germany, Hamburg, Berlin, Leeuwarden, Groningen and Düsseldorf within the last six years. Never being satisfied with the city, the people, the culture. Don’t get me wrong, I had wonderful times everywhere. But something always was missing. Even while I was in Berlin. The place to be, as I thought. When I was lucky enough to go on a business trip to Washington, Baltimore and New York last November, I got a feeling what my missing piece could possibly be. For quite a while I was reading books in their original language. During my studies I got more and more used to TV series and movies in English, as the Dutch don’t dub. Being in the United States, surrounded by English speaking people, I blossomed (very histrionic, I know). It’s not that I was sad before or had a bad time. But listening to this wonderful language put my mysterious puzzle together. The perception hit me immediately: I am anglophile! Traveling to Ireland in March this year tightened this realisation, as I immediately planned to move in a tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing else than English speaking people. During the last year, I treasured this feeling, cultivated it and brought matters to the head while I was in London again a few weeks ago. I am lost in my desperate wish to head right over the channel and find me a very British place to live.