The Expat Life

The expat life has always perplexed me. Expat communities can be an odd thing, especially when they consist of members from a single community. I can't wrap my head around the idea of moving across the world to be exposed to your former neighbourhood.

Though I can understand why one would seek out fellow foreigners for advice on traveling, to alleviate homesickness, etc. I met a Canadian man who was probably in his late 60s and made the move to Quito only three weeks ago. I asked him why he decided to live the retired life here.

"Well, I could hardly move to Cuenca," located in the south and known by some as the retirement capital of the world, "the foreigners ruined it."

I glanced around the room and the irony was palpable. English seemed to roll off of almost every tongue, with the exception of the Ecuadorian bartender who seemed flustered as he tried to navigate the room. Many, if not most of the expatriates, spoke at least some  Spanish. But in loud rooms and restaurants, unless you can nail the accent you're virtually incomprehensible. Somewhere between my brain and my mouth I lose confidence and stutter orders in Spanish.


There needs to be a fine balance between getting caught up in the expat life and meeting locals. Both sets of interactions are unique and one can't replace the other, but I struggle to understand those who value the former over the latter. I don't think you can transition into a new city without getting to know those who built it. In the meantime, I'll be working on my Spanish to get to know the inhabitants of this incredible city.

Transition South

I left Mumbai expecting to welcome my original life--a juxtaposition to the speeding motorcycles, 3 a.m. celebrations, and late night street vendors. I expected to be relieved. But for days and weeks I felt out of place. I lay awake in a bed that was both strange and familiar and listened to the silent streets and yearned for the familiar ruckus of a far away home. After eight months of a calm Canadian life I'm lying awake and listening to a backdrop of incessant Spanish screaming and music.

Maybe it's because I decided to move to Quito only two weeks before boarding a flight that I have so often woken up unable to remember where I am.

I've spent the last year living on three different continents and trying to, usually poorly, get by in four different languages. Culture shock feels like my natural state, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

After one week, I am settling into my new home nicely and extremely disappointed in the tenth grade version of me that managed to be consistently absent for Spanish class.

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I had my first day off today and wandered aimlessly around the city. The only way to get to know a place is to get lost in it--repeatedly. Once I gave up trying to get my bearings, I hopped into a taxi with the chattiest driver ever, which gave me an opportunity to stumble through some broken Spanish. He was very friendly, patient, and curious about where I was from, how I felt about Ecuador, what I was doing there, and where I hoped to go.

We stopped at an intersection where pedestrians crossed briskly, very aware that they did not have the right of way. We continued chatting while three men stood on each other's shoulders juggling blunted swords in front of the car. For whatever reason such spectacles were not an unusual way of making money.

We pulled up in front of the gallery, I paid him and he laughed when I caught him trying to short me a dollar. It's been a while since I've been in a country where you can be smiled at and stolen from in the same moment.

I stepped into the art gallery and the receptionist told me the modern art section was closed for four months. Ecuadorian time feels a lot like Indian time.

View from La Basilica