Before I turned 26, I sold almost everything I owned and flew to London for a teaching job. After a smooth flight and an expensive taxi ride (an early lesson that I should have taken the train), I found myself on the doorstep of St Christopher’s Inn, Greenwich. It’s an old three-story brick building with a train station on one side. On the other stood a real estate agency with the faded words “Cigar Warehouse” prominently displayed near the roofline, signaling its since-abandoned origins.

The first thing I noticed was how everything oozed a complex history, and it isn’t always obvious unless you know where to look. Blue plaques mark buildings where famous people once lived. Look a bit closer and there are still hints of where the area was heavily bombed in World War II. I couldn’t find the orphanage where my great grandfather Pugh resided before being sent to work on a farm in Canada as part of a government child migration program. The building no longer exists. There are, however, still indications of where it once stood: the shape of the lot, the angle of the road, and discolorations on bricks showing where buildings once connected.

Returning to the Inn at the end of my first day, I sat in the common room and was joined by a dozen people about my own age who I had never met. Being from Alpena, I was unnerved by the strange gathering at first. There were two people from Bulgaria, two Australians, two from South Africa, two from Ireland, and one each from Canada, Pakistan, New Zealand, and Syria. Even though there were a wide variety of religions, races, genders, and sexuality in the room, I noticed things we had in common. For one, we were all on what we each considered to be an exciting journey. We laughed at our varying abilities to understand each other’s English accents, and shared stories about what brought us to London. The more we talked, the more I began to ignore our differences. We stayed until the early hours of the morning before retreating to our various bunk beds.

On the second day, I met with the other newly qualified teachers from Michigan. We had gathered once before in a bar near Grand Rapids to make plans. The teaching abroad program we had joined insisted that we collaborate and help each other settle. It was good advice. Within a few weeks, three of us moved into a house near the river Thames. The landlord was happy to accept. I suspect he was grateful to not house rowdy college students from the nearby University of Greenwich.

He obviously didn’t know many teachers.

That house served as our base of operations, and for a year we struggled with the ups and downs of young newly qualified American teachers in a strange land who didn’t know what they’re doing.

When I returned to Alpena for the holidays, what surprised me most was how different it felt. From my time in England, I became primed to notice the details. I found myself studying the bricked up windows on the State Theater, empty lots, churches, the detailed brick work above The Thunder Bay Theater, and the triangularly-shaped IOOF building on Chisholm. Features of them jumped out much more than they had back when I saw them every day.

Jesse Besser Museum, and the National Marine Sanctuary both became frequent visits. I also became a fan of Janet Young’s history books of the area. The most important thing I learned, however, was that one of the best ways to really see something, is to first step away. Living in Alpena for so long had caused me to ignore its finer details.

In psychology, this is called habituation. It roughly means that you pay less attention to things you see or hear every day. The brain does this intentionally so it can tune out non-essential things and let you focus on the unusual or new. By leaving Alpena, I had unknowingly reset this sense. Everything felt newer, and I was able to see through somewhat fresh eyes.

This concept can also relate to people. While teaching, I was overwhelmed at first by the different cultures, religions, and languages I encountered. They felt unusual, new, which I naturally focused on. To fight this, I had to step away from any assumptions and stereotypes I had lived with until then. Instead, I listened to them. Only then was I able to notice most of the details which I had previously missed. These students fought hidden battles. They had their own hills to climb to achieve their dreams. I quickly learned that teaching is more of a collaboration instead of merely lecturing. In the end, they taught me far more than I was able to teach them.

Matthew Pugh is a technical architect and software developer who was born and raised in Alpena. He now lives in Suffolk, England with his wife, Rowena, three kids, a cat, a dog, and a dangerous number of guinea pigs. He can be reached at pughmds@gmail.com.