I was a budding "expat" from the age of 3
. My earliest memories aren't of America, but of London.
My parents and I were riding on top of a double-decker bus, which should have been great fun. But, the bus was swaying back and forth and little me got sick all over my jumper. I remember my mother washing it out in a public restroom sink, then trying to dry it on a hand dryer. That didn't work so well, so I just went on in a kind of leotard and tights.
We were there because my middle brother, at age 22, had disappeared from college just before he was supposed to have graduated, and months later sent a postcard from London, saying he was working in a restaurant and was OK. Even though brother was an adult legally, my parents still took myself and my youngest brother (age 12) over there to find him and see for themselves.
I have a memory of my mother standing me up next to one of the guards at Buckingham Palace for a picture. I think they have to remain absolutely still, so somewhere in an album is this grown man with a tiny girl at his feet. They must get that, even today.
As for my older brother (not the 12 year old), he eventually did come back after about a year. He joined the Marines and was wounded in Vietnam, which I think planted the seeds of his alcoholism and later demons. But, he raised a fine family, went back to college and earned a doctorate, and had a long and obviously adventurous life before he died two years ago.