Last weekend, I went to see Stephen Sondheim’s Assassins. While the production was local, the cast and crew were largely American. The director was from the US. We had a chat after the show. He said that a month before the US elections, you just had to do a show about assasinating the president. I agreed, and thought: there’s a reason this guy’s living in Europe.

In 2006, there were 11,600 US residents living in Belgium (Dutch source, page 155). I’ve met a few of them (a couple dozen, source: my own memory) and over time, I’ve assigned them to three main categories.

We’re not from here

These are the tourists. They make that very clear. They may be clad in plaid trousers and are often over 100. Sometimes they are younger. In that case they talk about pot and beer a lot, but are too young to have tasted either.

They’re friendly types. The old ones think everything here is cute, the younger ones think everything here is awesome. They’re disappointed when not every city here looks like Bruges. They don’t get how we survive without Burger King.

We’d rather be home

These are the expats. They make that very clear too. They live and work here. Their children go to school here. They have Belgian friends. But… never ever will they assimilate. They’re Americans at heart and only passing through. Often they resent being here.

They’re the preppy types: succesful enough to be sent abroad from work, but not so succesful they were sent to London or Paris. They regret this and tell you quite frankly. They’re disappointed not every city looks like uptown Brussels. They don’t get how we survive without living in the US ourselves.

We wish we could stay

These are the exiles. They don’t need to make this clear – it shows in every way. Exiles live and breathe continental Europe. They drink Pastis and special beers because they like it. They love sitting on a café terrace in the autumn sun. They ride bikes, speak our language.

They’re the outsiders. They were never at home in the US. They’re geeks and dorks, outcasts, punks. They’re often the intellectuals, atheists, freethinkers. They’re socialists or vegetarians. Gays and lesbians. Writers. Designers. Actors. Directors.

Their hearts beat to a gentler drum. An American in Paris, the Gershwin tune. Un’altra canzone.

And every single one of them thinks and hopes Obama will win. So they can have their triumph. So they could go back. But only as tourists. Then they’ll come home again. To Europe.