You just might be the poet Ovid, once the literary sensation of the city, who in AD 8 was banished from Rome and exiled to Tomis, on the Black Sea. We don't know exactly what he did - he blamed carmen et error ('a poem and a mistake') - but we do know that it happened without a trial and by the direct order of the emperor Augustus.

Ovid wrote a lengthy poem - the Tristia, or 'Sad Things' - about his fate, and towards the end of it gives a vivid description of the miseries of being abruptly separated from Rome and, most importantly, its culture:

If anyone there still remembers exiled Ovid,
if my name’s alive in the city now I’m gone,
let him know that, beneath the stars that never
touch the sea, I live among the barbarian races.
The Sarmatians, a wild tribe, surround me, the Bessi
and the Getae, names unworthy of my wit!
...
Men keep out the dreadful cold with sewn trousers
and furs: the face alone appears of the whole body.
Often their hair tinkles with hanging icicles,
and their beards gleam white with a coat of frost.
...
If I recite my verse, there’s no one about,
to ensure I receive an intelligent hearing:
...
I often search for a word, a name, a location,
and there’s no one I can ask, to be more certain.
Often in trying to say something – shameful confession! –
words fail me, and I’ve forgotten how to speak.
Thracian and Scythian tongues sound round me,
and I think I could almost write in Getic metres.^(1)

As you might expect, Ovid wasn't exactly happy with his change of scenery. Firstly, he didn't recognise any of his new neighbours as Romans, referring to them exclusively by 'barbarian' names like 'Sarmatians' and 'Getae'. This wasn't just snobbery: to be 'Roman' didn't just mean living in the Roman empire. Exactly what it did mean depended on who you asked, but in a purely legal sense it's important to realise that citizenship was a restricted commodity in our period - until Caracalla opened it to all free men in the empire in AD 212, nearly all citizens were either Italians or had received citizenship through military service in the auxilia, which made a retiring soldier and his children Roman citizens. Later in the poem, Ovid writes about the rare occasions on which a Roman sailor would come into port and allow him some civilised conversation - he certainly didn't see himself as a countryman of the people of Tomis, though they all lived under Roman rule.

It's also worth noting that Ovid draws attention to three key markers of difference between the people of Tomis and the Romans - they don't speak the same language or belong to the same literary culture (hence his tongue-in-cheek remark about 'Getic metres'), they don't dress the same (Romans never wore trousers, referring to themselves as the gens togata - 'the nation that wears the toga', and his comments about wearing 'furs' is intended to suggest that these people are close to animals), and they don't groom themselves the same - outside the army, early first-century Romans generally kept clean-shaven. In several ways, then, his point in the Tristia is that the hinterlands of the empire, for all that they are Roman territory, are completely alien to 'real' Romans like him.

You might fairly point out, however, that Ovid had an obvious axe to grind - he was deeply upset at his exile and the major 'point' of the Tristia is to convince the emperor to recall him (or, at least, to build sympathy for the fact that he wouldn't). In reality, Tomis was a reasonably-sized city, which may well already have had its aqueduct and is known today for the remains of one of the largest Roman mosiacs in the world, dating to the 4th century AD. As plenty of scholars have pointed out since Ovid's day, it was originally a Greek colony and would have been home to plenty of people able to speak to him (at least in Greek) about high literature and culture. The division between 'Roman' and 'Barbarian' was not so clear-cut - as Sabine Grebe nicely put it, 'the cultured Greek world and the barbarian world coexisted in Tomis.'^(2)

Indeed, had Ovid gone the other way and ended up near Nickenich on the Rhine, he might feasibly have met an interesting family who had quite a different idea of what identity meant on the Roman frontier. In the mid first-century AD, they were the subjects of a remarkable funerary monument depicting them in impeccably-carved Roman style, and giving their names as 'Contuinda, daughter of Esucco, and her son Silvanus Ategnissa'. 'Contuinda' is an unmistakably Celtic name, as is her father's single name, but her son's name combined a Celtic one (Ategnissa) with a Roman one to form a more Roman-style doublet. In the carving itself, Contuinda is shown wearing Roman dress over Celtic, while Silvanus Ategnissa appears in a Roman tunic.^(3) It's highly likely that Contuinda's son, and therefore presumably his father, had attained Roman citizenship, but she certainly didn't have it - and yet nevertheless the whole family clearly wanted to be recognised as belonging to that Roman world. Moreover, they made a pretty strong case that they could do so while still belonging to the non-Roman world of their ancestors. In his book Barbarian Migrations and the Roman West, Guy Halsall has written much more on this topic, arguing that identities (particularly in Late Antiquity) were generally seen as overlapping rather than mutually exclusive - that, whatever Ovid thought, most people on the Roman frontiers didn't see it as either-or.