Extranjero que la ficcin

And is there then no earthly place
Where we can rest, in dream Elysian,
Without some cursed, round English face,
Popping up near, to break the vision?
--Thomas Moore, Rhymes on the Road (1819)

If there's one thing I hate more than tourists, it's expats. With their Hash House Harriers and their 'oh it's so hot here isn't it'. Their 'why don't they have ketchup' and the English Overseas Club. Their bridge nights and their need to watch the Eastenders omnibus in any of the far-too-many English pubs. The constant harping on about Marks and Spencers and their desperate need for Jaffa Cakes and sensible shoes.

If I ever find myself now in the middle of a group of expats, I pretend to be Spanish. I accept their patronising congratulations for my deliberately-badly pronounced English while extricating myself as soon as possible from their dull conversation. It doesn't matter where you go in the world, it's always 'us and them', the wallahs and the memsahibs, the savages and those who understand the lbw rule. Just because the colonial flag isn't flying above every rooftop doesn't mean it's not flying over theirs, a continuing haven of civilisation in this hell-hole of foreign sights and smells.

Expat is also a group noun - in their English theatre societies and their boat trips, their picnics and their pub quiz nights - and I shudder whenever I see it in evidence.

This being Europe, it is perhaps no surprise at all that the two most pro-European UK newspapers also have daily European editions to catch up on news from 'home': the Guardian (who also run an international weekly) and the Independent. But who knew that the prince of sceptics The Daily Telegraph had one as well, catering presumably for those in Europe but wish they weren't. They also have an expat e-newsletter with adverts like this one for BUPA:

The shameful thing of course is that you can get the Dog and Duck here in Barcelona, along with The Dirty Duck, the Red Lyon (sic), the Sherlock Holmes, the Fastnet, the Quiet Man, the Black Horse, the Clansman... All with jacket potatoes and as much HP Sauce as you can bathe in. I did once go into one (out of sheer curiosity and a need for a football update) to order a pint of what they called 'English bitter'. Never again. The tap water in Barcelona takes longer to settle. It's browner, too.

Thanks to extensive research across two continents, I have now come to the conclusion that there are five stages to leaving a country.

They are:

1. Just arrived.

You can't understand why you didn't leave sooner. You don't understand a word anyone says, naturally - but you love that. It's a whole new culture, man. Give it three months and you've been assured you'll be discussing the subtleties of Kirkegaard with the rest of them. In the meantime, you revel in the dome of silence that comes from not understanding the noise.

Confidence: Sky-high and soaring

2. A few weeks in

You start to permit yourself the luxury of an occasional English newspaper, only once a week mind, unless things are really tough. You sit and read it in your room, alone. You spend half your time emailing the UK and the other half hanging out with your new friends - all of whom you met on your language course.

Confidence: Dipping, but it's only temporary. Isn't it

3. A few months later

You never want to speak English again. Your language skills have stretched to asking the waiter where he's from as he pours your beer - and mostly understanding the answer. You shun tourists but at the same time go out of your way to overhear them struggling with foreign words. You have local friends who you hang out with once a week or so, and in the main you have no idea what they say. But that's great. Everything's great.

Confidence: Higher than a space cake in orbit

4. Still later

Your non-British friends start asking if they can speak English with you. You reluctantly agree as long as no-one else can hear you. You permit yourself some home-spun eccentricities and foodstuffs, but that's ok too because you're actually being ironic as you enjoy them.

Confidence: becoming rapidly irrelevant

5. And finally

Your foreign friends don't get your jokes. You start to notice them making cultural references you don't understand. You begin sitting alone in tourist areas, jumping on anyone with a map to see if they want a guide around the city in return for a shared beer. You love confessing to strangers how this was the best move you ever made - but make sure you go home at least twice a year 'to reconnect with your roots'. Your foreign friends in town soon become as unexotic as your new British ones. Normal life ensues.

Cynicism: back at normal levels

I guess the next step is opening your own pub. I think I'll call mine...

oh someone's beaten me to it.

Who am I trying to kid? Myself, more than likely. If a move abroad is one of choice and not necessity then it more than likely has its roots in pure fantasy. My real problem isn't that the English pubs are here, it's that I know about them. It bursts my bubble of exploration, being adventurous, leaping into the unknown. Boldly going where no Englishman has gone before. The fact of the matter is, in any major city in the world, there's a British safety net whether you want it there or not. And deep down, most people probably occasionally do, even if it's only a shop that sells Oxo cubes.

Britworld's EXPAT Center is a global franchise. Sure, it constantly reminds me of what I'm trying to leave behind - but it's also a symbol of what I'm inextricably linked to, no matter how much it offends my left-wing sensibilities. Why deny it? I'm not always proud of my country but I'm certainly not ashamed of my origins.

And of course things never fit as neatly as they should into their compartments. If I ever did actually pretend to be local among a group of expats, they'd probably launch into more fluent Spanish and Catalan than I'll ever have. Walk around the Catalan area of Gracia and you'll find the recently opened British Shop filled with UK goodies - though its owned not by expats but by two Anglophile Spaniards who wanted to bring new products to the locals. And what are those Catalan students doing drinking in the Black Horse?

It's all a mix and it's all about perspective. It may be fine and right-on to embrace Indian curry houses and Lebanese restaurants in Brixton but why isn't it cricket for Brits to set up their own versions abroad? Most of my home comforts can be satisfied by extended trawls around BBC News Online. But who am I to say where less connected folk find their metaphorical Marmite?

Everyone has the choice where and with whom they spend their time. By moving away, I've broadened those to include people and places I would never find in London, as well as a new culture and a beautiful language. But there's certainly no point getting in a froth about a small number of Brits who wouldn't be my companions of choice in the UK either. So I'll stay in my corner and I'll let the Black Horse regulars stay in theirs. Until we club together and set up a Spanish bar in Hampstead, anyway.

For me, travel is about moving yourself as well as your location. But my feet itch more than an ant jacuzzi. Other people want to settle down - even if their job or love of warm weather means they physically have to keep moving around. That's up to them. It doesn't make them a different species, just not included in my round of drinks.

So do I really shudder when I see an expat? Perhaps it's one reason why I now have a beard. It's hard to shave without using a mirror.