Photos: Fotos China

Every morning in Beijing we were missing something.

“Hey! Did you eat all the eggs?!”

“Shite! No milk?!?”

“Oh, maaaaaannnn. We’re outta coffee.”

“Where did those little cookies go?! Where are those little butter cookies?!?”

Without fail. We’d do a halfhearted doomed search around the kitchen and then there’d be the inevitable battle over whose turn it was to venture out into the frigid hazy morning and try to scrounge up the Chinese vocabulary to get whatever we were lacking.

“You go. C’mon, I’ll make the bed and the coffee and—“

“No, you go! You’re the one that mowed down all the cookies yesterday.”

“Please, nooo, it’s so cold…”

I always lost. Basically because Jorge and his photographer’s attention to detail make a better cup of coffee.

Photos: Fotos China

So I piled on sweater and jacket and scarf and hat and coat and fumbled around for the keys and clunked down the freezing concrete coal-dust covered stairs out into the Chinese morning. Most of the time it was gray — a vague, not-quite-human gray — and cold.

Making that venture out into the street in China felt nothing like stepping outside anywhere else. Rather, it felt like tentatively emerging from one’s warm wireless-equipped spacecraft onto an alien planet. No matter how many mornings I left the house on some dumb errand it felt equally, strangely the same.

Now, those brief morning walks have become one of those defining rituals that have etched themselves into my brain to be forever associated with China, and the street scene in the morning will still be what pops to mind in 5, 10, 20 years when I think about the surreal year I spent in Beijing.

Moving around so often, I’ve found that what I take with me are symbols that have formed semi-consciously in my mind. The literary term is metonymy—using a small part to represent the whole. This is what ends up happening to me when I leave a place; my mind and my memory resort to metonymy, attaching to certain symbols which come to represent the whole.

The men playing chess under massive trees by the beach in La Réunion symbolize the island and my seven months there. The light afternoon clouds and the salsa blaring out of tiny bars symbolize Oaxaca, and taxi rides past brightly colored boxes of houses and piles of oranges and pineapples will always symbolize Mexico. The morning walk symbolizes Beijing.

Photos: Fotos China

These things aren’t necessarily central to my life in any of these places, but the symbol factory seems to operate on a different level; searching for symbols based on the same subtle, deeply personal criteria that attract one to a particular smell or type of light or smile for reasons she can’t quite grasp.

Thinking of Beijing now, I remember the half-drowsy feeling of turning onto the street and heading to the Muslim cart for sesame bread or the Dia for eggs or the bakery for donuts and cookies.

There are ridiculous amounts of people in the streets even at 7 and 8 a.m. Bicycles are passing and taxis are skirting around them at speeds that make me cringe. Old couples shuffle with bags full of vegetables. A garage of gray brick spills heaps of colorful garbage into the street and stray dogs roam around eating it. People spit. Girls in knee-high boots (if I never see another pair of knee-high boots in my life it won’t be long enough) giggle and link arms and eat puffy steamed dumplings on their way to class. General chaos ensues in it’s calm, inscrutable Chinese form.

And then I climb the stairs (coal-black and prison-esque) again, stamping my feet every few steps to keep the stairwell lights on, and I open the door and the apartment suddenly feels like a warm haven of love and familiarity.

Maybe I remember the morning walk for that reason—for the fact that it made our provisional, “what’s that smell coming from the drain?!?” “home feel like home. For the fact that it formed, ever so briefly, a part of who I was and what I saw and did and thought for a certain period of time, in a certain place.

Photo: Russ Bowling

I’m waiting in the Correos de México in Puebla, the local post office where I’ve been told I could get an identification card by presenting the proper documentation.

But there is a problem ―no one will believe me when I say that I am Mexican.

For more than an hour now I’ve been explaining to one postal employee after another that despite the fact that on my birth certificate my place of birth is listed as Los Angeles, California, I am indeed a Mexican citizen.

“I know it sounds strange,” I say. “I’m American, but I’m also Mexican. I was born in the States but since my father is Mexican through a law that was passed in the mid 1990s…” But it’s no use.

No, they say. It’s impossible. This birth certificate was issued in Los Angeles by the Mexican consulate. It doesn’t count as an official birth certificate here. They wanted to see a visa. They wanted to see proof.

I should explain.

I moved to Mexico because I decided to investigate my family’s roots. At the time that the post office incident took place I’d been here for only four months. I’d been offered a job and needed this identification card so that I could officially qualify for the job, otherwise they would give the position to the next candidate in line. I was stuck. Exasperated. I’d gone through so much to get this Mexican citizenship.

Photo: Russ Bowling

Only six months prior I had started preparing for the big move. During that time I’d searched for my father’s birth certificate, which had disappeared in the shuffle of green cards, visas and finally permanent residence.

My father, although Mexican, has been living in the U.S. since he was six years old and is now more American than I would sometimes care to admit – he doesn’t even speak Spanish anymore.

“Why do you want to go to Mexico?” he asked me. “We’ve got no family there, your family is here. First you go to Europe and now Mexico?” I tried to make him understand but he wasn’t convinced. I think there are certain things that you can’t really explain to anyone. You have only to justify them to yourself.

After a period of searching for the missing document to no avail, I began a long series of disconnected phone calls, misinformation, complications and dead ends. Having just returned from a three year sojourn in France, I thought I knew what bureaucratic red tape was.

I was finally able to track down the elusive birth certificate through the help of an aunt, my father’s sister, who had kept a copy of hers. Using the information from her birth certificate I was able to track down and request a copy of my father’s, sent to me from Mexico City for a hefty sum. I felt like a veritable sleuth. With my father’s birth certificate in hand Mexican citizenship would soon be mine.

The tricky part of moving to a country where you have ‘roots’ but no family and very little knowledge of the culture is that you just come across as weird. I look no different than the poblanos I live and work with and I have a barely discernible accent, yet I still make grammatical errors. I couldn’t cook a molé or chile en nogada to save my life. And so I have the “I’m not from here” explanation perpetually ready for deployment.

Photo: Russ Bowling

There is a certain ambiguity to being foreign but not glaringly so in Mexico. Clearly I am not from here because of my accent, way of speaking and dress. Yet my Mexico experience has been greatly different, for example from that of my fiancé, who is 6-feet-tall, French and white as a tortilla. Sometimes I think it must be less complicated to be dramatically different instead of subtly different.

There are moments when I have to stop myself and say “Wait, don’t get offended.” The use of the word güero, for example, is very common. If you are pale or blond, redheaded, have light brown hair or eyes any color other than dark brown you risk being called güero, güerito, *güiriche (¿), or any other variation of the word, which loosely translates as “blondie” or “whitie.” It doesn’t matter whether you are from Europe, the United States of America or the United States of Mexico, if you are light-complexioned you will probably have to put up with one of these epithets while here.

In that post office in Puebla a year ago I didn’t expect things to be so complex. I thought that as long as I had the paperwork required and explanation ready things would be easy. What I didn’t realize was that what seemed like a straightforward question of ‘Mexican or not Mexican’ was tied up in a whole network of meaning.

Mexicans have had shifting identity issues since Pre-Columbian days, when they experienced shifts in power between various civilizations until the Aztec period. When the Spanish arrived and claimed this territory as New Spain, there were somewhere around eighty dialects spoken in the North alone. The subjects of this new colony were nothing if not an astoundingly rich mixture of languages, cultures and history. Hence, in my opinion, one of the sources of the characteristic Mexican orgullo, or pride.

And there was I, the privileged American asking (in what seemed to me to be very crude Spanish) to be considered Mexican, just like that.

Just as I was on the verge of being definitively turned away, I decided to assume an attitude that I’d observed on several occasions since arriving in my adopted homeland. It was one that I was uncomfortable trying on, even for a brief moment. Somewhere there was a tiny jab of guilt, like backing slowly into a prickly pear cactus.

“Let me speak to your supervisor,” I said, allowing my impatience to maneuver the situation.

One of the things that bothered me the most about Mexico when I first arrived was the stiflingly rigid hierarchy. In any normal day-to-day activity you never know how many licenciados, ingenieros, maestros, dons or doñas you are going to encounter. All are respectful ways to address older and/or educated people/people of a certain professional or social standing and I am still trying to figure out which to use when.

In any case, the problem only got worse when I started working. Suddenly I was someone that people were tripping over themselves to get out of the way of in hallways, someone who gets their office cleaned for them every morning, someone who has a receptionist to make my phone calls for her.

Also, I was someone who wasn’t necessarily going to get greeted every morning by certain higher-ups. A very clear-cut system, to be sure, but one that is hard to get used to when you’re from a country that pretends that social classes don’t really exist.

And so I always say hello to everyone I pass in the hallway, at the water cooler, etc. But I don’t necessarily make small talk with certain members of the staff, who might get in trouble for chit chatting instead of buffing the wood paneling to a flawless finish. Sometimes I get that prickly cactus feeling, though. Like when one of the maintenance employees sees me carrying something heavy and drops what they are doing to take over and escort me to my office.

And I also have trouble telling postal employees what to do.

But I gathered up my courage nonetheless and stated my case.

“Señor,” I explained, “I’m Mexican but I was born in the United States.”

Photos: author

Saturday was the first day all week I didn’t need to wear my rain jacket to walk out the door. It was also the day the whispers began all throughout the medina, and grew to a frenzy.

After almost a whole week of driving rains, culminating in an all-day deluge on Friday, a friend and I spent the morning exploring the Old City and returned to the local salon de thé for lunch in the garden. I was up to my elbows in chicken tajine, baba ghanoush, and cinnamon-spiced potatoes when Denny showed up.

A middle-aged American photographer living in the Fes medina, Denny is a big talker – the kind of ultra-friendly guy who might finish his drink, say goodbye and then tell you three long, intricate stories before he actually leaves. Something about the quantity of Denny’s stories has always made me suspect their quality, and the information he delivered on this afternoon only confirmed my doubts.

He strode into the garden, glowing, like an Oscar winner on his way to the podium. Unable to contain himself, he immediately announced, to no one in particular, “Have you all heard the news? They found three dead cows in the water supply today, so now they’re going to cut off the whole city’s water for three days.”

Photos: author

Stunned silence, and some obvious disbelief, hung in the air. As if it proved anything, Denny reassured us, “It’s true. Just heard it.”

An hour later I was in a taxi and I explained to the driver what I had heard, as taxi drivers are known in Fes as reliable sources of popular gossip and rumor. “Waash kul haad saheeh?” Was all this true? Yes, sadly. Starting tomorrow, they will cut off the medina’s water supply, and maybe all of Fes’s.

When I returned to the salon de thé, the French owner, Cecile, told me I had just missed the city government representative who had passed by to officially inform all restaurants and cafés: at midnight that night, three days sans eau would begin. Cecile, now quite flustered, ran through the implications: How will we flush the toilets? How will we wash the dishes? Will there be bread? How much water do we need to buy if we stay open?

By dinner time, the standard 5-liter jugs of water that usually sell for 10 dirhams were up to thirteen and climbing.

The kids on the stoop outside our apartment were enjoying this, in the way that kids back in the US enjoy approaching blizzards, hurricanes, and other catastrophes which worry their parents and hold the promise of school cancellations. They laughed when I told them I was going upstairs to take three showers. (Whether they laughed at the joke, my Arabic, or the concept of a daily shower I just don’t know).

Photos: author

A few members of the Fulbright group gathered at our apartment that evening. All had heard some story about the water being contaminated, either with dead animals or from muddy runoff from the rains.

We did the natural thing when faced with an impending crisis – drank beer and played cards. In between each hand, I scurried to the bathroom to switch out the bucket under the running faucet and replace it with the next empty one. Like everyone else in the Old City, we were stockpiling.

As the evening progressed, it occurred to us how bizarre was the government’s decision to continue dispensing water to the city when they knew it contained dead cow particles. Why didn’t they just shut the supply off immediately? And what was the point of everyone’s hoarding contaminated water? Perhaps the local water department had concocted the story itself, someone surmised.

* * *

Photos: author

The first sound I heard when I woke Sunday morning was Ryan running the faucet in our bathroom. The water was still flowing.

After all their frenzied panicking of the day before, the Fassis suddenly acted as if nothing had happened. Only when I brought it up would the water situation get a mention: “Oh, yes, that water situation. Well, they shut off the water in the Sidi Bou Jida neighborhood, but not all of Fes, so it’s fine.”

A few, still alarmed, said that the city was using the last of its clean water supplies now but would soon run out, and could cut the flow at any moment. Even they soon forgot it all, and the frenzied panic of the previous day dissipated as quickly as it had arisen. By the time we got to class Monday morning, neither of our professors could be convinced that they knew anything of any such water crisis.

The speed with which a whole city reached full panic mode and then returned to normal only made the incident seem more surreal. I’m still a bit dazed.

But then, I expected surprises here, as I wrote soon after arriving. The popular advice “so long as you are in Morocco, let nothing surprise you” captures the great irony of successfully living abroad, precisely because it is impossible to obey.

No visitor to Morocco can avoid being utterly baffled sometimes by daily occurrences here, and those who try to know what’s around every corner merely frustrate themselves.

Photos: author

Being completely bowled over by Morocco is like being the brunt of a friend’s practical joke. It makes you feel vulnerable, and the natural reaction is to lash out, to erase the vulnerability. But at that moment, embracing one’s vulnerability, accepting that you were fooled, and laughing along with your friend can bring you to a new level of familiarity and trust.

And so the saga of this weekend, which all began with three allegedly dead cows allegedly in a reservoir and ended the same as any other weekend, was simply another reminder that I live in a medieval city, and that sometimes it will act like a medieval city, and that maybe I just need to learn to sit back and enjoy it. It might just be the start of a solid friendship.

Feature and Above Photo: orazal

In Stendhal’s “The Red and the Black,” the heroic (but mostly tragic) Julien is the petty bourgeois son of a carpenter who, through a mixture of luck and intelligence, obtains a promising job that under normal circumstances would be beyond his reach. During a period of illness Julien’s boss, the Marquis de la Mole, suggests that Julien come visit him wearing a blue suit as opposed to his usual black cleric’s garb.

To Julien’s surprise, the day he shows up wearing the blue suit the Marquis treats him like a totally different person. Suddenly, he finds himself being spoken to respectfully, thoughtfully, as a friend. Class boundaries and other social delimiters suddenly dissipate.

I think that on an subconscious level, my decision to leave Los Angeles for Paris came very much from a desire to shed my cleric’s robe and try on a different personality, in a place where no one would be able to pick out, like, the Southern Californian inflection in my speech, spot my Mexican-American background, or judge me by my (suburban) area code.

Photo: david.nikonvscanon

Consciously, I had quite simply decided to go abroad to become fluent in French. My imagination having been piqued by years of fervently watching Mais Oui instructional videos and practically every film by Truffaut, the obvious choice was Paris. I would have none of Aix-en-Provence or some other Francophone country.

It had to be Paris. And so Paris it was.

Since I’d waited until my senior year of university to study abroad, I was slightly older than most of the other international students I met upon arriving. This became obvious through my choices to live alone instead of with a roommate, to not get together with “everyone” at the American Bar once a week, to take regular courses at the University of Paris instead of special classes for American students. The unexpected byproduct of my independent spirit was that suddenly I found myself completely isolated; which, as it turned out, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

There was probably nothing more exhilarating during those first few months in Paris than flinging open the windows to my first floor apartment and smelling the fresh bread and coffee wafting upstairs from the shop just underneath. From my perch I could witness all sorts of Parisian action on the flagstones of my quaint street. My neighbor and her musician boyfriend would be playing the piano and laughing.

Photo: Did_

Soon I learned how to navigate the metro, how to proudly boast that I lived in the Bastille for a scandalously low price, how to keep away from certain clingy streetwalker types who didn’t care if you had a boyfriend (invented or otherwise).

I realized I would have to drop my West Coast ways after repeatedly misjudging the weather (for me a sunny day meant I could go out without a jacket). I learned how to ask for a baguette in the bakery without undergoing too much anxiety.

But winter inevitably came. My classes were spent oscillating between confused frustration and overexcited reverie ―I was lucky to be able to understand enough to get a paragraph of notes out of a two-hour class session.

I spent a week in the middle of winter without electricity or hot water, because of an Electricité de France website error. My landlord was forgetful and flippant, and suffered from what appeared to me to be bipolar disorder. Also, I was inconsolably lonely.

The silence of winter in Paris when you live alone and have only a few friends and no family is unnerving.

I began to drink alone. But I also watched films, wrote in my journal, got to know myself better. I started to frequent the panoply of museums and galleries that Paris offers. My Louvre was the Centre Pompidou; I spent every spare minute I had in the temporary exhibitions and film screenings. I went to concerts on the outskirts of the city by myself via the infamous suburban trains, called RER. I discovered the maddening meaning of the word grève, or strike, when all my classes were canceled for a month and a half straight. Just to remind anyone who might be too academically motivated, the entrance to the university was blocked by a 6-foot-tall barricade of chairs and tables.

I repeated phrases I overheard in the metro to myself in my empty apartment. Every day I carried a notebook with me and, stealing glances at my fellow passengers, jotted down phrases from the books they read on their commute to work or school or gilded lives I would never know anything about. I convinced myself that this was the only way I could ever know what they were thinking.

Photo: FunkyFlamenca

It never occurred to me to actually try to speak to people, much less in French. It seemed that the new personality I’d been looking forward to trying on was that of a misanthropic loner, who had to hype herself up for 10 minutes before working up the courage to make a simple phone call.

Needless to say, my French skills weren’t exactly improving that winter in Paris.

My expenses, although minimal in comparison with some decadent semester abroad students I knew, were also adding up to more than what I’d expected. So, I thought, that’s what roommates are for.

When a group of the semester abroad students who’d been working at a technical school as English teachers were getting ready to fly back home, leaving a number of job openings, I saw my opportunity and seized it.

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, teaching English was also going to be my best opportunity to speak French.

Arriving at the technical school, which I’ll call “Omnitech” I realized the job, deceptively simple on the surface, was much more complex when seen up close. In the entire school, which was located on the outskirts of the city, there were only a handful of girls.

The whole student body, it seemed, was made up of socially hesitant post-pubescent techies, whose genius for programming was surpassed only by their reluctance to speak English. We, the English teachers, or “Suzies” (incidentally all attractive young women) were expected not only to bring them out of their shells, but to get them ready for the English test they would be taking in the spring.

In order to facilitate the process we Suzies were required to take the students, who signed up for classes voluntarily, on excursions into the “real world.” This could be anywhere from a movie to a museum or even a bar. The only requirement was that the class had to be held in 100% English, 100% of the time.

Responsible for reinforcing this was our patriarch, who I’ll call “Ed,” a vociferous Santa Claus-esque character with an affinity for innocently hitting on any Suzie who bothered to pay the slightest attention, in a “fatherly” way, of course. I avoided Ed at all costs, and was appalled at how many of my fellow Suzies were willing to bestow their charms on him.

Also surprising were the stories I started to hear about the high turnover at Omnitech due to teachers allegedly going against the rules. I also heard about Suzies who took things farther with some of their pupils, and would hold all their class sessions in bars, totally wasted.

Photo: Alexandre Moreau

Certain girls had reputations, and their class enrollment reflected this ―Omnitechies signed up by the dozens. To me it seemed so simple to just insist that everyone speak English, to be firm and offer interesting dialogue.

For my first class outing, I decided to take my class to a Dada exhibition at the Centre Pompidou. I uploaded my carefully worded class description, expecting a handful of art-loving students to sign up, eager to discuss the merits of Dada and the impact they would eventually have on the Surrealists.

To my surprise, arriving at my appointment at Rambuteau station about 15 nervous-looking guys were waiting patiently to peruse the exhibition that I’d already fanatically devoured about three times. After introducing myself and asking if anyone had any questions, I realized that everything I’d just said had been lost on my students, who were staring at me rather blankly.

“I think you have to speak more slowly,” a tall, lanky blond student with a very pronounced accent told me. “They didn’t understand anything. Most of them don’t even speak a word of English.”

I had, of course, labeled my Dada class “Advanced.”

Over the course of the next few weeks, I found myself lapsing into French more and more frequently during my classes. Some of my class sessions even included the consumption of alcoholic beverages. I found that this social lubricant could actually completely transform some painfully awkward students who just needed to relax a bit.

Luckily Francis, the tall blond student from the first day, and his best friend Romain — both of whom had excellent English skills — became my dedicated students, never missing a class and almost never asking me to speak French.

They began to fill me in on the workings of Omnitech and the dangers of getting on Ed the English department head’s bad side. Despite my rare encounters with Ed, I began to get the feeling he really didn’t care for me. Since I was a good teacher who got along well with my students, however I felt I didn’t have anything to fear.

One day, I witnessed for myself Ed’s explosive temper when he publicly berated one of the English teachers, who wouldn’t have any of it. She promptly told him to fuck off, and said she was quitting. But it seemed like the more disrespectful she was towards him the more facile he became. He asked her not to leave, and told her how valuable she was to him, words I knew I would never hear from Ed. I quietly resolved that I would leave Omnitech as soon as possible.

That time would come sooner than I thought, since right at the beginning of spring I met an engaging non-Parisian who was willing to discuss the implications of Dada in French. We met in a museum, and at first he thought I was Italian.

That first year was singular in that it permitted me to actually live in the moment. Although I ended up leaving Paris two years later my first year there was probably the most interesting; there was that certain immediacy that you can only experience when you know what you’re feeling won’t last.

In a way, it didn’t. Although there would be more Paris moments, never again would I step so completely outside of myself for the first time, feel so disoriented while learning a new language, learn how to overcome a fear of the Other by reaching out in a foreign language.

For that brief couple of semesters in Paris, I personified that other, blue suit-wearing person I had envisioned from the start: adventurous, independent, a hazy past…possibly Italian? And then, as the years went by, I became more and more Parisian.

Photo: geotheref Feature Photo: vince42

“You can’t handle the truth!”

This was my line, and I said it just like Jack Nicholson from the witness box.

We were sitting inside an African courtroom, summoned to start proceedings at 9:00 am. Victims of a crime, it was finally our day of retribution.

However, the hour was already 11:00 am and not one single person had managed to show.

No judge, no lawyers, no defendant. Just two foreigners naïve enough to actually arrive on time.

To fill the stuffy empty space, we reenacted scenes from movies like “A Few Good Men” and famous news cases. OJ Simpson kept us occupied for at least forty-five minutes.

My housemate Nicole and I were Peace Corps teachers living in an isolated desert region of Namibia. That day we experienced an eye-opening brush with an African legal system.

All the events leading up to that day and its aftermath taught me that just like ideas about time, family, and relationships, basic concepts of fairness and punishment are also not universal. Justice is culturally defined.

Strange Disappearances

Photo: fiverlocker

Over the previous year, we had noticed things go missing from our ramshackle house in the township. Most items were inconsequential– chocolate bars, small bills, or wooden figurines. Not anything to be stressed about.

It got serious, however, when our battery-operated boom box and favorite mix tape, a compilation of 90s hits, disappeared.

Living in a remote place, music was an important outlet for us. That boom box was so much more than just entertainment. It was our friend and often our therapy. Needless to say, as volunteers living far away from home with so few resources, we felt violated. We were also troubled that someone was entering our private locked space.

Spurred on by indignation, we asked neighbors if they had seen any trespassers. Amazingly, they answered yes. The perpetrator was Eiseb, a 15-year old local schoolboy and well-known thief.

In that moment, we learned our first lesson about the Namibian sense of fairness. Not wanting to rat out one of their own, our neighbors did not intervene in the least. That is, until we asked. Then the floodgates opened.

After Nicole and I identified the boy to the police and filed an official report, events got stranger.

Eiseb was taken into custody, and we were invited to retrieve our own possessions from his home.

There’s nothing quite like conducting your own search and seizure, I was to learn next. It’s unsettling.

When we arrived at Eiseb’s dusty shanty home on the other side of town, I did not feel righteous at all. Instead, shame crept up inside me.

Eiseb’s mother stood out front, holding a baby in one arm and stirring an iron pot with the other. A goat wandered through the yard. The mother waved us into the house without even flinching.

Inside Eiseb’s musty dark room, we found all of our missing items and even a stockpile of things we didn’t know were gone.

One of my blouses, a pink and purple plaid L.L. Bean was found crumpled in a ball in a corner. Eiseb’s mother later revealed that her son enjoyed wearing it often. His family knew good and well it was stolen from the house we lived in.

Relieved that our thief was Eiseb and not someone much worse, Nicole and I were ready to forgive and forget. The only thing we really wanted was to listen to Hootie and the Blowfish again.

However, the police had to retain our things as evidence. What’s more, we were obligated to appear in Namibian court.

At first we resisted the court day, not wanting to stir up trouble. It can be tricky being a foreigner living in Africa. But eventually we agreed, considering that Eiseb could easily graduate from breaking and entering to more serious crimes. Besides, he had violated the law, hadn’t he?

Photo: geotheref

Most of the community also encouraged our decision. Coworkers regularly shook their head and lamented Eiseb’s bad behavior. Neighbors apologized that we endured a bad experience in their village.

“Terrible what these young kids are doing these days,” they would say and cluck their tongues.

The Verdict

After months of waiting for our court day and then three more hours for the legal parties to arrive, we finally brought Eiseb to justice, African style.

In a nutshell, Eiseb was found not guilty, and he received no punishment.

Moreover, we never got our possessions back.

We’ll never know who ended up with the boom box and the pink and purple top, not to mention the money, wooden figurines, bras, books, shoes and very embarrassing cleavage photograph stolen.

And even to this day, my “American” sense of justice doesn’t completely understand the ruling.

We had evidence, witnesses, and police and community support. And what lesson did it teach Eiseb or other kids who might be tempted to do the same?

A short time after, I met a wood carver at a tourist spot outside of our village. As is common in Africa, where locals know everyone’s business, he also knew our case.

The wood carver put it all in perspective for me.

“It is your own fault. You come here. You are rich. You have money. You have things.”

Ouch.

I guess I can’t handle the truth.

Community Connection

Photo: Duarte Carreiro

I watch Nasreen as she carefully measures out four entire cups of ghee. I feel like I’m breaking out just being in the kitchen with this concoction. Four cups of clarified butter, almost pure saturated fat, is being used for just one dish. The golden globs sizzle and crackle as she tosses in the cows’ feet.

“You know how I learned cooking?” asks Nasreen. “From my mother. Before marriage, I learned everything. How to make chapatis, biryani, kabobs, chicken, mutton…so many things! Before marriage I was so smart and slim, but now I am very healthy,” she boasts as she makes the wrestler pose that inevitably accompanies the word ‘healthy’ in Pakistani English.

Breaking the Hulk Hogan flex, she giggles heartily. “Now you…you are looking so weak. You must eat rice and meat today.”

I smile. We’ve had this conversation on a twice-weekly basis since I moved into the upstairs apartment six months ago. As today Nasreen is teaching me how to cook her style, I decide it’s best not to explain that my version of ‘healthy’ differs markedly from the prevailing concept in Lahore.

To many Pakistani women, the more you eat means the healthier you are, and my stomach simply fails to comply. To terminate an endless deluge of food I often joke, “Bas! Mera pet Pakistani nahin hai!” No more! My stomach is not Pakistani!

Pushing a wisp of black hair out of her eyes, Nasreen rummages through the cabinets and pulls out an array of spices. “First we need to make the salan, sauce, for the biryani,” she explains. Throughout South Asia there are dozens of different biryani recipes, but Pakistan’s staple variety consists of chicken, aromatic basmati rice, onions, tomatoes and a complex cocktail of spices. Nasreen’s biryani is better than any I’ve had at a restaurant in Pakistan or even across the border in India.

She hands me ten garlic cloves along with a stone mortar and pestle. I haven’t used a set since high school chemistry, and Nasreen finds my ineptness amusing. In my fridge upstairs I’ve got a jar of pre-crushed garlic paste.

For me, the need to cook disrupts my daily routine like the arrival of an unwanted and unexpected guest. Almost everything must be made from scratch in Lahore unless you’re willing to shell out for expensive imported items. The temperature outdoors can be over 120 degrees Fahrenheit, and there are often power cuts that incapacitate fans and air conditioners. In the middle of the night, I’ve woken up in a cold sweat, dreaming that I was hosting a dinner party.

I can’t remember ever hearing a Pakistani housewife grouching about how she has got to cook, but it’s something I grumble about at least once a day.

Photo: Duarte Carreiro

Whenever Nasreen comes upstairs to share the latest gup-shup (gossip) about the maid or drop off a utility bill, she asks, “What did you cook today?” If she discovers that I’ve made only soup and sandwiches, she’ll send me a tray of daal and rice or a curried meat dish. More than once I’ve gone downstairs to see her after 9 p.m. and found her thawing substantial amounts of meat.

“Wow, Nasreen Auntie are you having a party?”

“No no. No party. Just my sister, my brother-in-law, their five sons and my three cousins are coming for dinner.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes yes. They are coming are 11 o’clock…you must meet them! I am making mattar qeeema, chicken, shami kabobs and daal-chaval.”

Usually I manage to decline the invitation only after tasting the smorgasbord of dishes. Today we’re cooking for only seven people, but she’s just as exuberant while she explains every step. We finish the salan and move on to the rice. I wonder why we didn’t have both cooking at the same time, since the rice will take much longer to cook. Before putting the rice in the pot to boil it, she soaks it and lets all the tiny insects and broken casings rise to the surface.

“It is very important not to touch the rice. You should shake it; don’t mix it with your hands.”

We wait at least 15 minutes while the rice expels the unwanted elements and sends them swirling towards the top of the bowl. Nasreen picks out each little bit separately and throws it in the sink. I stir the cows’ feet and remove the dish from the flame.

Westerners may look on the lives of Pakistani women and imagine them to be hapless housewives, banished to days of slaving over a hot stove. Only one out of every three women in Pakistan can write well enough to sign her name on official documents, and only a very small percentage work outside the home. It’s tempting to see the kitchen as an oppressive prison, but most ‘inmates’ I’ve met are in no rush to stage a jailbreak.

I once asked a middle class Pakistani housewife if she’d rather be out working. “Work? Why would I want to work? Whole the day I spend cooking, eating snacks, drinking chai with my friends, having some gup-shup…”

Nasreen checks the pot of rice, determines that it’s done cooking, and strains out the extra water. We thoroughly mix the rice with the salan and carefully dot yellow food coloring on the top. As the biryani steams, we set the table and gather the family for lunch.

Pulling off the lid excitedly she exclaims, “See, now you know how to make the real Pakistani biryani!”

And now, it’s time for us to dig in.

Community Connection

Check out Heather’s blog for Nasreen’s biryani recipe. Heather is a student at Matador U.

Photo: exfordy Feature Photo: malias

If you’ve even a passing acquaintance with Cuba or Cubans, you’ll have heard ‘no es fácil.’ This applies to all life’s details and acts, causes and effects. In a nutshell, ‘no es fácil’ means that it’s not all mojitos and sexy mulattos over here in Havana.

After eight years in residence, I can tell you that things can get tough. We’re talking a mercurial and dispiriting kind of tough. When a good day is the one where I’ve remembered to flush the toilet before my toothbrush falls in (the average Cuban toilet – including mine – has no seat or lid) and a bad one runs the gamut from a termite-infested mattress to an unexpected visit from the housing police. Over the course of my life, I’ve been called a “tough cookie” with considerable frequency, but I’m not sure I was wholly prepared for the existential challenges living in Cuba would, in the end, represent.

One great veldt of this existentially tough terrain relates to home (which I’ve come to understand as an overly simple word for a terribly slippery concept). Even if you don’t live in a culture not your own, you’ve likely struggled with this 4-letter, 9-point Scrabble word – at one time or another had to face where home is…or isn’t.

“Where are you from?” travelers ask.

“Where’s home?” a colleague queries.

“Hey fren! Where you from?” Cubans shout on a daily basis.

For the exile – whether self-imposed or not – the home question is anything but simple.

I’m from NY, sure. Born and bred. But I can’t give you the scoop on the new Yankees stadium or describe the plan they’ve finally hammered out for the World Trade Center. They have hammered something out, haven’t they? But I can tell you who’s leading the Liga Nacional (Go Gallos!) and about the new hotel going up on the Malecón (killer location, belied by its odd mod design).

Photo: malias

Still – as I’m reminded on a regular basis – I’m clearly not from here, although I do feel just like a real Cuban when a guy sells me two pounds of tomatoes for the price of three. Especially authentic is weighing the sack of veggies at the station for this purpose and reclaiming my five pesos from the crooked tomato peddler.

I’m not breaking new ground here with this ‘home-not-home’ stuff. This is a communal itch scratched in innumerable ways among exiles and ex-pats the world over. Just peruse the nearly 500,000 Google results for the song lyrics ‘no soy de aquí, ni soy de allá’ to see what I mean. It’s an old story this one of ‘I’m not from here, I’m not from there.’ Meanwhile, Yucatán expats cook up chili contests, Super Bowl parties are hosted in Panajachel, and 4th of July barbecues are all the rage in Hong Kong.

Here in Havana, things are different. First off, there are far fewer expats here than in other Caribbean countries and Latin American capitals. You can imagine a host of reasons why this is I’m sure, but above all, Cuban immigration laws are strict – that is to say, they don’t make it easy to live here from the get go. So that naturally delimits the expat community.

There are also all the Cuba-specific political-economic mechanics at work. Foreigners can’t own private businesses for example, so there are none of the stereotypical (insert nationality here) sports bars/sidewalk cafés/burger joints acting like a foreign resident magnet you find in other countries.

Finally, people drawn to Cuba are a diverse group. The primal attraction is usually philosophical in nature, though more often than not a love/lust interest also figures in. Political exile (or straight up on-the-lam type exile) compels some to live in Cuba as well, as does just wanting to take it easy on a safe, sunny isle.

But as those determined or loca enough to try and live here know, it becomes all too clear, all too fast, that taking up residence in Cuba is anything but an exercise in taking it easy.

When I arrived in the spring of 2002, a Cuban American who should know said to me: ‘So you’re a New Yorker. I’m convinced that only New Yorkers can survive in Havana.’ I took him to mean that only those well-versed in the struggle of the über-urban and all the noise, garbage, hard times, neuroses, potential, and energy that implies have a shot of making it here. And he’s right.

But although Manhattan and Havana have a lot in common, there are important distinctions: the former is a mosaic of all the world’s cultures, where respecting individual space and anonymity is the golden rule, while the latter is decidedly homogeneous, filled with Habaneros who get all up in your business, uninvited.

Photo: neiljs

It’s a little like high school in that way. For someone like me (i.e. obviously foreign), this means I have men of all ages and colors, school kids and their moms, insecure teens, bent old ladies – anyone and everyone really – staring, pointing, commenting, stopping me on the street to chat me up, and breaking once again into my private space with the ubiquitous ‘my fren! Where you from?’ In short, Cubans are persistently and relentlessly underscoring my “other” status.

Contrary to what some naïve observers believe, this is not a good thing. Not in Havana anyway. Because here, in the calcified social hierarchy that few Cubans I know will admit exists, foreigners dwell on the last, lowest rung. They, I mean we, scrum at the bottom of the Cuban barrel and are alternatively perceived as clueless, rich, frivolous, or horny. Regardless of how long we’ve been here. In essence, we as a group, are seen as easy marks.

You can imagine how the New Yorker in me reacts each time someone sets these sorts of sights on me, which (sorry to say) is pretty much daily. After years of this, I’ve realized I’m much better suited to being a small fish in a big pond than any sort of fish in a small pond.

Sometimes it gets so absurdly awkward and I feel so uncomfortable it’s like I’ve been possessed by Larry David. Maybe slightly less annoying and asshole-ish, but artless and a little bit awful all the same. Like, who do you kiss when you walk into a crowded room? Everyone? Even the people you don’t know? which is SOP for Cubans from everywhere but Havana.

But I’m not Cuban, nor from the sticks (where people are generally friendlier, let’s face it), and this can get complicated. What to do if there are foreigners present – most of whom aren’t used to being touched, much less kissed by strangers? How about nasty ex-lovers? Do you bestow upon them this congenial howdy-do as well? And worse, what to do when someone greets you with a kiss that leaves a slick of saliva on your cheek?

This happens more than anyone acknowledges and I know several people with this lamentable trait. Wiping it off while they’re standing there making nice hardly seems appropriate. But I know from experience that letting that saliva sit to dry is entirely discomfiting.

But sticky saliva and other such cultural conundrums aren’t unique to Cuba – every country has them – and when things get really bad, I set to thinking about those western women living in Liberia or Syria and the tremendous daily challenges they must face. Surely my burden pales next to theirs.

Still, in the end, I think anyone considering a life in a culture not their own, existing between one home and another, has to be ready for bouts of isolation and loneliness no matter how incomparable and exciting the experience may otherwise promise to be.

Welcome to my world.

Photo: Desmond Kavanagh Feature Photo: space cowboy

When my flat manager in Dhaka finally arrived and asked if I was well, I responded, “No, I’m not at all happy,” furious that it took him a full day to check our water pumps.

We hadn’t been receiving consistent water pressure out of our faucets for over a day now, making it hard to bathe and cook. He said a worker would come “sometime tonight,” just after my roommates and I planned a celebratory dinner out. I worried we might have to cancel our dinner to wait for him, and judging by Bangladeshi lack of punctuality, he might not even come at all. Things just move impossibly slow here.

I suppose both my response and attitude towards the nuisance would clearly define me as the “ugly American.” Frustrated that it took me three hours to get enough water to bathe, I couldn’t muster up any cultural sensitivity and not act like a spoiled brat. An American friend once told me, “Sometimes, you have to be the ‘ugly American’ if you want to get anything done.”

Is this true?

Photo: Nir Nussbaum

At first, I was grateful to have this excuse, but then I thought further about the situation. In my work and personal life abroad, I’d like to think I represent my country outside the stereotypes: ugly, arrogant, ignorant, imperialist. Living in Bangladesh on a US government scholarship, I try to listen to people’s experiences, asking questions about individual and community identity and culture in order to form a reasonable impression of this foreign land.

However, while those conscious sympathies are active, I must be careful not to be misinformed or deceived. As a foreigner, I am likely to receive the “tourist tax” and have the price of my goods jacked up, or be given false information in an attempt to persuade me to do something I normally wouldn’t. By always being a passive listener, I have a very likely chance of getting walked over. This can happen in any country, to citizens or travelers, but looking blatantly different physically makes me a marked target. A balance must be struck between cultural exchange and self-protection.

I think this is what my friend meant when he said we have to act “ugly” in order to get things done. Ugliness is easily confused with aggression. Americans are culturally more aggressive, with values centering around self-reliance, directness, and task orientation. Think about our idioms: time is money, don’t beat around the bush, keep your eye on the ball, if you want something done right… It should be forgivable if we pass back and forth between being conscious sympathizers and demanding “aggressors” while living abroad, especially depending on circumstance. Maybe “aggressive” America is as misunderstood as much as “submissive” Asian cultures.

Photo: RL Hyde

The term “ugly American” derives from the 1958 political novel of the same title by Eugene Burdick and William Lederer. “The Ugly American”is fiction based on reality, alluding to Americans losing political presence in Southeast Asia because of their failure to understand local culture. The novel quotes a Burmese character as saying,

For some reason, the [American] people I meet in my country are not the same as the ones I knew in the United States. A mysterious change seems to come over Americans when they go to a foreign land. They isolate themselves socially. They live pretentiously. They’re loud and ostentatious.

I think most Americans today would agree that this sentiment of imperialism existed during the Vietnam War, and any critically thinking traveler could easily witnesses this in many ex-pats today, especially government funded ones.

But interestingly, the title is a double entendre. The “Ugly American” also refers to the novel’s unattractive hero, Homer Atkins. According to a New York Times article appraising the novel, Homer, an engineer with black, calloused hands, lived in a dirt hut and collaborated with villagers on community empowerment projects, like the construction of a bicycle-powered irrigation pump. The article asserts that “Homer is the very model of the enlightened ambassador the authors thought America should send into the world.”

“Ugly” is an ironic play on words, describing an admirable hero who was “unattractive” due to the nature of his work: helping others.

Photo: Islip Flyer

Why did the negative title stick? Both kinds of “ugly Americans” exist abroad: the ones who are ugly from arrogant attitudes, and the ones who are physically ugly from giving up on hygienic luxuries for humanitarian goals. We more often lean to the negative rather than the positive. But according to the original definition, being an “ugly American” is what you make of it.

I thought about my manager and my aggressive tone: should I have been the “ugly American” and pouted until my water was fixed—or should I have been culturally sensitive and given up on water for a few days, as well as my personal hygiene, becoming the other “ugly American?”

We can’t always control other people’s perceptions of us. But what I could do is, firmly put my foot down to get what I needed, then be culturally sensitive and invite him for a cup of chai.

Photos: author

The vice principle walks carefully up the steps to the stage. At the top he stops and bows to the Japanese flag that hangs above. I can’t tell if it’s a bow of reverence or resigned routine. He approaches the podium, stops and bows to us. The gesture is returned.

“The closing ceremony of the second semester, 2009, will now begin,” he announces. My heart sinks. Another ceremony.

Group and ceremony. Two words that resonate throughout Japan. Twin pillars of social order and well being. You don’t have to be in a formal institution like a school to see it. Take football. The Japanese national team is technically proficient, fit and well drilled, but they can’t score goals. At the business end of things nobody wants the ball. It gets passed around like a hot potato.

“Just hit the thing!” I scream at the TV.

But to do so would require a degree of selfishness that is hard to reach when the group is so important. It would be a disaster to miss.

Regard the fans at a Sumo match. See how the two giants hold them captive with a thrilling pre-fight ceremony where the stomping of feet and slapping of thighs draw rapturous applause. My first time watching I was tensed with anticipation that this was going to lead to a titanic battle. The fight was over in 30 seconds. What was all that about, I thought. Well, the ceremony, as it turns out.

Group and ceremony. They have been the hardest part of adjusting to life in Japan. The other stuff has all fallen into place comfortably: the food, the chopsticks, the careful choice of socks because I know my shoes will be taken off regularly in public. All of these differences I’ve met with wide eyed enthusiasm.

Photos: Sarah Menkedick

I adhere to the group and the ceremony, too, but it’s merely a physical display. Internally I’m still at odds with it. This is perhaps because it’s only recently that I’ve come to give it serious thought; my early days in Japan were spent enraptured with so many other aspects of place and culture.

At times it feels like my life is put on hold and my individual instincts and desires suppressed. My reactions to this are kept bottled up. Internally, they run the gauntlet from a head full of angry expletives to a simple resignation whereupon I want to fall to my knees and weep.

These values conflict with some key western values. The individual, restrained here, is encouraged in England where it’s good to be different. “Be all you can be.” “Do what you want when you want.” Just try not to tread on too many toes along the way. There is no standing on ceremony either; if something needs doing, get on and do it.

Here in Japan, though, even the simplest tasks can be wrapped in ceremony. Group observed ceremony: a cathartic experience in which we finish with one thing and move on to the other, collectively.

Of course I enjoy the benefits. I live in Tokyo, one of the world’s largest urban areas and also one of its safest. Group mentality helps to keep it that way. So it is that I walk the streets freely and confidently, anywhere, anytime.

The group may also serve to promote me as an individual. Here I can be, with relative ease, all of the things that I would have to fight for back home – a maverick, left field, original and funny.

But this freedom is a reflection of the truth that I am yet to be truly accepted here. Why should I be? I imagine most Japanese people I know expect me to return home sooner or later. But what if I don’t leave and more foreigners come to stay? How will the group react? How will new arrivals react? These are interesting questions as Japan increasingly looks to the international community for ideas and support.

A maverick! I like the sound of that. The other day I arrived at work to the big eighties sounds of a song from the movie Top Gun. It was playing out of the school’s loudspeakers in an attempt to liven us up. I chuckled and thought of Tom Cruise’s ‘Maverick’ character fighting against the strictures of the US air force. I wondered how he would fare in Japan.

Photos: author

Whenever I meet someone who has been to Japan for any amount of time a superficial bond is instantly formed. The script begins: Where were you living? How long were you there? Were you teaching English? What company were you with? These conversations eventually turn into personal experiences about the struggles of daily life for a foreigner in Japan, and what it was like in the first few weeks after arriving (or surviving).

I moved from Montreal to Tokyo excited about discovering new food, learning a new language, and seeing old temples. All of which I did. But no one told me I would also find Caribbean themed restaurants, girls wearing bomber jackets with ‘respect the black woman’, or ‘black for life’ written on the back and guys hanging out in old Cadillacs they converted into low riders. In my naivete I wondered where the ancient land of the mysterious orient I had envisioned was. I was experiencing my very own version of culture shock.

To see aspects of my own culture in Japan was, to say the least, surprising. I didn’t quite know what to make of Jamaican food and music festivals, Japanese reggae artists or clubs named Harlem or Bootie which played the newest Hip hop and R and B music. Seeing this apparent fascination by some Japanese people with all things black, my mind went from wow to why?

“Kokujin kakkoii!” is what I was often told whenever I asked what was behind the admiration of black people. Basically, I was cool, simply for being black. I admit it was a bit of an ego boost hearing it whispered behind me as I walked down the narrow yet crowded Takeshita –Dori in trendy Harajuku or while getting down on the dance floor till 5am in Shibuya. Sometimes people would come right up to me and say it. To which I would smile and say a simple thank you.

But soon I started to feel like a celebrity without all the perks. People didn’t know me, yet they thought they knew what I was about. I got tired of conversations that started with ‘Where are you from? New York?’ ‘Are you a DJ? ‘ ‘What sports team do you play for?’ I’m from Canada, and I came here to teach English. Sorry to disappoint you.

I was mistaken for both a band member from The Roots and Tiger Woods (who I look nothing like) and asked to sign an autograph by a high school girl while at Tokyo Disney. I was asked to pose for pictures while holding a newborn, and complimented by a group of small town teens on certain parts of my, ehrm, anatomy at a Tanabata festival. One guy even went out of his way to buy his train ticket at the counter next to me only so he could say ‘what’s up my brotha?’ then left with a satisfied grin. I guess I made his day.

Then there were the countless number of 20 somethings I saw wandering around, who payed 50, 000 yen (roughly 500 US dollars) at some chic salon to make it look like they had natural dread locks for a month or two. Or the guys dressed like they come from ‘the hood’ trying to have the speech to match. In reality there is no hood in Japan and their language is built around self effacing pleasantries and kindness instead of tactless blunt directness.

People often say that imitation is the biggest form of flattery. But is it really? Just what they were getting out of perming their hair to get an afro then sticking an afro pick in it? So much of it seemed disingenuous. For one thing, I knew today’s b-boys, popping and locking in the hallways of train stations (with extra effort as I walked by it always seemed), dancehall divas, and rent-a-dreads were tomorrow’s salarimen and OLs (salary men and office ladies, colloquial Japanese for corporate business men and secretaries). They would eventually grow up, conform and consider their former passions and pastimes as just kid stuff.

A black male colleague of mine who also lived in Japan offered another perspective. He found it refreshing to see a new take on music, fashion and food we both grew up with. I wasn’t so easily convinced. Playing with culture the way you play with the latest gadget could hardly be a positive thing, especially if you don’t know the culture well enough. There seemed to be no concern at all about whether their actions, dress, comments or hairstyle might cause offence.

Over time, I realized for Japanese youth, being into black culture is a form of rebellion, and therein lay the attraction. Young people like to be different in one way or another and stand out as individuals. Hard to do in a country where conformity is encouraged. Live the same, think the same, look the same, BE the same. To purposefully stand out is asking for trouble. As a well known Japanese proverb says: The nail that sticks out must be hammered down.

Maybe it’s just a form of admiration and shouldn’t be considered anything more. So much of hip hop culture today has now become youth culture it’s sometimes hard to distinguish between the two. But my colleague had a point. Japanese people put their own twist on things. Whatever subculture they adopt, they become masters, collectors and Aficionados.

You need look no further than Mighty Crown Sound Crew, who are internationally known and won multiple awards for their reggae remix and DJ skills. Not to mention Junko, a dancer who won the dancehall queen competition in Jamaica in 2002 and now teaches kids in Japan how to dance like her. I’ve met Japanese dudes that speak better Jamaican patois than even I could imitate and owners of soul R&B and hip hop vinyl collections that must have cost a small fortune.

Back in Canada now for a few years, I often find myself day dreaming about my time spent in Japan. Having lived in several areas of Saitama and Tokyo over three and a half years, pulled me out of my Canadian comfort zone and tested the limits of my Westerner patience. It challenged my way of thinking making me aware of the difference between group mentality and individual. Japan and Japanese people always kept me guessing. Just when I thought I had them all figured out, they threw me another cultural curve ball.

The presence of black culture in Japan still leaves me with ambivalent feelings. What is clear however, is despite the fact their own language and culture keep them apart there is a young generation of nihonjin who seek more than ever to be closer to the rest of the world, to feel somehow connected, and are still in the processes of figuring out how.

Want more? Check out Matador’s resource page for travel in Japan.

Photo: author Feature Photo: Zainub

“Sardar ji, Memsahib has arrived.”

I suppress a cringe at being identified as the “white foreign woman.” Memsahib is my least favorite Urdu label. I’ve gotten somewhat used to the staring, the whispering of “Dekho! Ghori larki hai!” (Look! It’s a white girl!), and constantly being referred to as Angrez or British. I often surprise my admirers by cheekily responding to them in Urdu that I am not British, but am in fact American.

When someone refers to me as memsahib, I know they’re doing it to be polite, but it evokes an entire history of well to do British army officers’ wives palling around in exquisite drawing rooms in the mid 19th century. I don’t want to be called memsahib or ghori; I’d rather be referred to as a teacher or a writer or anything else that identifies me aside from the color of my skin.

I smile at the guard who called me memsahib while I count out change for the rickshaw driver. The guard raises his hand to his wrinkled forehead and offers me a salute. His hand is stiff to attention at his drab olive-colored felt beret, yet his eyes glisten with kindness. I offer a wave and a greeting in return as I make my way toward the college’s main building.

Photo: kash_if

It is in Pakistan that I have had to come to grips with the inherent advantages and disadvantages of historical and cultural white privilege. Fair and Lovely beauty cream can be purchased at almost any roadside beauty shop, and every ladies’ beauty parlor offers multiple ways to whiten and lighten your skin tone.

For weddings, women use white powder and foundation to make themselves look lighter; the ones who overdo it end up looking like ghostly waifs in full bridal array. More than once when I asked an older woman about her daughter-in-law, the first thing she responded was, “She is very fair, not wheatish or dark-skinned.”

Because I am light-skinned, less educated locals often assume a lot of things about me. At first glance many see me as rich, educated, American and simultaneously a Christian and a loose woman.

A gaggle of men will surround me within seconds of emerging from a train, bus, taxi or rickshaw. “Ji, you want to buy carpets?” “How about some gold jewelry for a pretty lady?” “Taxi service to my brother’s hotel?” In addition to the typical touts, men try to grab me or brush up against me.

Photo: *_*

White women tend to be equated with prostitutes since most local men’s experience with white women is limited to pornography and Hollywood movies. “Eve-teasing,” as the Indian press terms it, is certainly not limited to white women; white women are just more likely to be targets of this popular pastime than local women.

Although being melanin deprived certainly has its disadvantages on the Indian subcontinent, there are also many privileges, or at least what are perceived to be privileges, granted to those who are fair skinned. Many times when a white person visits a local church in the Punjab, the ghora or ghori is garlanded with flowers and asked to stand in front of the congregation and greet everyone. The pastor may ask the foreigners to sit in the best seats, or even on the stage. Sometimes the white guest will be asked to preach with no prior notice consideration of whether said guest is a Christian or not.

I was offered several jobs just because of my foreignness, even though I was completely unqualified for the positions. Once I was asked to interview for a school principal job, even though I only had one year experience teaching in a K-12 school. Another time I was brought along to an advertising meeting. I thought I was going to meet up with some friends, and then suddenly I was being presented as a “foreign consultant.” My Portuguese husband was offered a position to teach college-level Spanish. He doesn’t even speak Spanish.

Photo: author

More often than not, we had to explain to locals why we were NOT the best people for the job. I spent an entire week persistently telling a local publisher in Lahore that I was not the person to write a complete K-8 English curriculum for Pakistani schools. The publisher’s response: “It’s okay, we just want your name on the front of the book, and a nice picture on the book cover. Find two or three other foreigners in America, and we can put their names on the cover as well. That’s the new trend; they don’t need to contribute. It just looks… nice.”

When I first arrived in Pakistan I was impressed with the hospitality of the locals, and I still am, although I am now wary of unsolicited hospitality and invitations. Being a memsahib can be tiring, especially during wedding season.

“Hello, Heather, are you free tonight?”

“Um, I’m at home. What’s up?”

“It is the marriage ceremony of my second cousin from my uncle’s village. You must dress smart and come to the barat with me. Thik hai?”

When people I barely knew started inviting me to three-day wedding ceremonies of a distant cousin, I started to get the gist that certain individuals wanted the company of my skin color more than me.

I turn on the lights in the classroom and take out the teeming folder of papers to pass back during my creative writing seminar. Today is the last day of class, and I have not failed to dress smartly in a fashionable shalwar kameez. I know my students will have their cameras. Most have never taken a class with a foreigner before, and they’ll want photographic proof for their families and friends.

I know I’m white. I know people who see those pictures will refer to me as the ghori or the memsahib or the Angrez. I put on a fresh coat of lipstick and give in to being a novelty.

Map : author

The U.S. is one of only three nations in the world (the other two being Liberia and Burma) which clings to its outmoded system of measurement, failing to get on board with the rest of the world and use the metric system.

We don’t even use the British Imperial system (that the British don’t even use anymore) – we use some bastard child of the Imperial system called “the United States customary system.” Ask any American how many ounces are in a gallon or feet are in a mile and you’re almost sure not to get a correct answer.

What does this mean for you as an American? It means that when you travel you look like an idiot. When someone asks you for directions, you are suddenly at a loss, unable to estimate distance in kilometers. If one of your South American friends asks you how cold it is, you have no idea what to say. Is 30 degrees hot? Is it cold?

There are more communist countries than there are countries not using the metric system. Everyone else has come to the conclusion that it just makes for sense to use the system everyone else in the world is using in which all units are divisible by ten.

Just try to pass the right wrench to someone and you’ll see how stupid this system is. “I need the five sixteenths hex wrench. No! I said the five sixteenths!” Of course you did.

OK. Maybe it wouldn’t be cost effective to tear down all those mile markers, but just imagine the jobs it would create to start adding kilometer markers to every highway in the U.S. of A.

Photos: Conveyor belt sushi

Jun-Japanese. Or “pure Japanese” girl. Apparently, they are what all the Japanese men are into. The only ones they’re into.

So says Cherie, a blogger born and partially raised in Japan, partially raised in New York. After attending college and working in Boston for several years, she was placed in her firm’s Tokyo branch. Now, she is following the love trends of the young and hip in Japan’s largest city.

About the preference for Jun-Japanese woman, she notes:

Recently, the hot topic among my friends are the unpopularity of fashionable, successful, intelligent, beautiful Kikokushijo (returnees) among Japanese men…whether the guy is a Kikokushijo or a jun-japanese, they seem to prefer the typical demure, proper, cute Japanese girls to outspoken, adventurous, successful Japanese girls.

Ok, interesting. I can’t say I’m necessarily surprised, with the culture of tradition which still prevails in Japan. But in Tokyo? Even with the young and hip?

Young, Hip and Traditional

Cherie essentially blames it on ‘men being men,’ saying, “Yes, yes, I know. At the end of the day, men prefer to be praised and admired by women then have a great partner of his match, challenging him and stimulating his intelligence.” Oh, lordy…really?

I guess even the Japanese guys raised outside of Japan still prefer the Jun-Japanese ladies:

Destinations

Community Connection to Japan

There is the successful banker guy who was BORN in the UK and spent all his life in London…nothing should intimidate him, for someone with great education and status! But yet, immediately arriving in Tokyo, he starts dating a Jun-Japanese girl who praises him and admires him but not share anything of his experience in the UK, never mind about dancing to Chemical brothers or sing “Champaign Supernova.”

I can’t help but think of some of the situations faced by one of my best friends, who is of Taiwanese and Irish descent (yeah, she’s gorgeous).

For some reason, she has always tended to be into Korean guys. You can see them almost salivating over her, and yet more often than not, they won’t date her because they “want” a Korean girl. The whole concept of tradition outweighing love has always astounded me.

But I guess it’s something the Kikokushijo women are forced to face as reality. I wonder if that means more of them will end up dating/being in a relationship/marrying non-Japanese men.

And if so, how long will the Jun-Japanese last?

Anyone who has lived in Japan agree or disagree with Cherie’s take? Share your thoughts below.

Photos: author

1.

You get resentful when you actually have to work.

2.

You use your hazard lights more than your indicators.

3.

You don’t consider the table fully set until there’s a box of Kleenex on it.

4.

You think that double and triple parking is ok when you can’t find a spot right next to the door.

5.

You say ‘inshallah’ even when referring to events that are actually happening.

6.

You leave the plastic on your car seats until it falls off.

7.

You think that ‘hellohowareyoufine?’ is an appropriate greeting.

8.

You consider eating with a fork or spoon, ostentatious.

9.

You accept one word answers like ‘haram,’ ‘Muscat’ or ‘change’ as legitimate responses to the question of ‘why?’

10.

You’ve stopped asking why.

11.

You think men in dresses look stylish.

12.

You don’t find any sexual connotation in ‘girl passage.’

13.

You have wasta.

14.

When you see ‘haram’ behavior in a film, you ‘tisk’ the actors.

15.

Doing nothing all day makes you tired.

Photo: author

I’m looking for stories about expats exploring the complicated terrain of cultural differences, attempting to come into some sort of a mutual understanding.

I’d like to hear about how you navigated the ups, downs, sudden about-faces and gradual revelations of attempting to integrate yourself into another culture. Your stories could take place in the classroom, on the street from your perspective as a man or a woman newly aware of your gender in another culture, in a restaurant or a smoky kitchen, in wellies knee-deep in the mud, in a board conference room at a meeting with inscrutable colleagues, smoking a pipe around a campfire.

The point is, give us a sense of place and a sense of movement, internal as much as external. Move us through your changing perceptions as you adapt to life abroad. Please, please, avoid the maudlin and the cliché. Avoid a pretty little realization wrapped up like a Christmas gift with no tape snaking round the edges of the gift wrap. Show us the tape: the process. What cultural assumptions have you confronted? How? Where? What cultural differences have you bumped up against, have surprised you, interested you?

Please send your submissions (under 1,200 words) to sarah@matadornetwork.

Photos: Fotos Oaxaca

There is, of course, a long tradition of the expatriate artist. Fitzgerald and Hemingway left a trail of expat glamour along the left bank that still beckons smitten American intellectuals today, and artists from Gauguin to Kerouac have fled the confining norms and lifestyles of their home countries to search for inspiration abroad.

The New York Times recently ran a piece about expat artists in China, profiling several of these artists and exploring their reasons for heading East. Among them are familiar expat justifications for leaving home: lowered costs, the escape from gentrification and market-and-money driven societies, and the creativity that emerges from the challenges and constant stimulation of immersion in a foreign culture.

China, with its relentless blind march into modernity coupled with its low cost of living, has a particular appeal for expat artists. Living in Beijing I remember being stupefied by the size and scale of the art in the Dashanzi art district, the way it rambled boldly this way and that drunk on sheer exuberance. There were giant boobs. Massive installations in old factory spaces. Life-size Maoist soldiers and rooms full of TV’s. Dashanzi didn’t have the stale, postured pretension of other art districts in major Western cities. It was giddy and taken with its own life force.

It is this type of energy that expat artists seek, and China provides it (along with a fat heap of frustrations, cultural differences and political threats which are stimulating when not maddening). But the same energy can also be found in many other places, particularly developing countries where artists don’t have to obsess as much over striking the balance between earning and creating, and where daily life serves up a chaos of encounters that get the creative brain off and running.

The uncertainties; the need for constant observation and awareness; the thrill in detail and novelty; the conscious and unconscious struggles to dig in deeper; the search for local stories and puzzle pieces to put together; all of these components of expat life are also keys to the creative process. So it seems that living overseas and creating are natural compliments.

Then there’s the sense of creative abandon abroad, the liberation from whatever aesthetic, social, cultural norms might reign in the artist in at home. To put it very simply: you’ve just got to pay more attention living overseas. And that’s what artists do – pay close attention to the world, and then remake it.

I live in Oaxaca for a host of reasons – my husband’s Oaxacan, I can’t imagine living in the States after five years abroad, I can survive off of a meager salary and still treat myself to beers and good food from time to time. But living here also keeps me sharp. There is always something to study, intellectually or aesthetically, from the smell of the air to the old man carving spoons outside the market. There’s always a new puzzle, be it one that makes me want to scream and bemoan the loss of cheddar cheese and an easy sense of belonging or one that delivers me once more to that childlike state of awe.

So expat life, for many artists, is a way of tapping into and enhancing the creative flow, even if it means at times you get bowled over by a river you can’t control. It allows artists the freedom and stimulation to create. And to take breaks from such creation to eat fresh, warm, hand-rolled tortillas at the market, as I’m going to do right now.

Community Connection

And you, Matadorians? Have you considered living overseas? Are you currently an expat? What were your motivations for going?

Feature Photo: darcyinKoreaPhoto:zoutedrop

I am a 23 year old, a year out of college, who desired a nomad life, a life of extraordinary ordinariness.

So I moved to Thailand. I’m learning how to live like a Thai. Instead of trips, I hit the road for lengthy “stays”. I like to live, not visit. I find being a temporary tourist is just not as satisfying.

My day begins with the breaking sun at six am. The heat is enough to get me out of bed without much difficulty. Living in a tropical climate with one fan means you wake up flushed and damp. It’s a good thing that a cold shower in the morning feels good because that is the only temperature available.

I tune into streaming NPR podcasts, usually “All Things Considered” or “Talk of the Nation.” It helps me feel connected to the outside world when home can seem so far away. During this part of the morning I laze around in my room, listening to the radio and hanging up laundry to dry in the sun.

Photo: jessicarabbit

I find that it’s easier to do laundry little by little. Laundry is overwhelming when you are forced to hand wash a huge pile all at once. I’ll cut up papaya I bought for 30 baht from the local fruit stand and mix it with yogurt and muesli for breakfast. I try and ration out the muesli, as it can be quite expensive.

I head to school around 8:30 am. I’ll hop on a motorbike to take me the two miles to school for 10 baht. I head into my office, organize my lessons for the day and wait for assembly to start. Everyday they play a patriotic hymn to signal that assembly is going to start shortly.

We make our way down and stand with the 700 students as they sing the Thai National Anthem and list off announcements in Thai. We can’t understand what is going on but making the effort to be a part of assembly is a significant part of ingratiating ourselves amongst the other Thai teachers.

I head over to Adubon, which is the kindergarten building to teach classes in the morning. My methods consist of singing songs and corresponding dances to help the kids learn. For kindergarteners it is all about play and through that play, with high hopes, they will retain a portion of what I am trying to teach them.

Class begins and ends with the kids piling on top of me trying to hug a piece of me. The Head of Adubon, Teacher Oo, is usually eying me disapprovingly. I just ignore her sneer. I love that the kids are so much more comfortable with me, that they feel safe with me, and humored by me.

When lunch rolls around I am crossing my fingers for my favorite dishes. Lunch is always a surprise. Some days’ lunch can be rather unfortunate, such as fish cakes. The fishiness overwhelms the canteen; and on those days it is the first smell upon entering school.

Most of the time, however, the canteen serves delicious traditional Thai food with Thai desserts. I eat with a couple of the Thai teachers. They talk in their best English and I talk in my best Thai. We have somewhat stilted conversations that always seem to find their way to a solid middle ground.

After lunch, I’m usually exhausted from the heat and having eaten my biggest meal of the day. I always have the hour after lunch free so I cozy up in my office, turn on the fan, lean back in the chair and put my feet up. I see the Thai teacher’s doing it, so I assume I can get away with it. I can pass out within seconds listening to the din of the kids playing in the courtyard, the feel of the stale heat as I breathe in and out and the fan breeze blowing the hair out of my eyes.

Photo: flydime

Once I finished up my classes for the day I normally feel in need of another nap. Afternoons are more difficult to teach; the kids are tired from the starchy heat and lunch always inspires a more talkative mood. After the first twenty minutes of trying to settle them down end up fruitless, I have to resign myself to accepting my efforts are futile. Since our school is a private institution, it is much more laid back than others in Thailand.

In the late afternoon I drop by the Olympic size pool in the back of the school. It’s nice to jump in the pool after a long hot day and swim out any frustrations through laps. It is also highly meditative and allows me to organize my thoughts. In regards to bathing suits, I do have to cover up my shoulders and stomach with a rash guard. As an ajarn I am expected to act and dress much more conservatively than anyone else.

I tend to enjoy the walk home after a swim. It’s only two miles and it’s nice at sunset. I stop by Pi Jiep’s and buy a coconut smoothie freshly made for 15 baht (about 40 cents). For dinner, oftentimes I will cook at home on the hot plate. I’ll mix up some veggies such as fresh eggplant, beans, cabbage, tomatoes with garlic and onions and make some sweet green curry, known as gaeng kaeo wan. I’ll make rice in the cooker.

Other evenings I visit the cottage vendors and have dinner with some of the teachers. The cottage vendors are people in the community who want to make some supplemental income by selling various deep-fried snacks or often serving full meals.

I make my way back through the neighborhood , while trying to avoid the packs of dogs that follow me home biting at my heels.

I take a cold shower so I can fall asleep in the heat and get ready to do it all over again.

Feature and Above Photo: Fotos Oaxaca

We piled on the bus like a group of awkward middle-aged kindergarteners, fumbling around and smacking our heads against the plastic TV’s. My mom, sister and I, the slightly skeptical cool kids, formed a little grouplet in the back of the bus. There must’ve been around thirty of us altogether, masses of white flesh, sandals, and outdoor wear. The Spanish teacher proceeded to make very slow, meticulous announcements about where we were going and how long it would take to get there, and the middle-aged gringos shuffled around in their seats, chatting.

The bus pulled out of the city and glided onto the highway into the valley. Gringo murmurs filled the cool bus air and the valley opened up into greens, yellows, and rocky buttes, long squares of corn and grass stretching up to dry peaks. Half-built tin houses and orange-green mezcalerías with small maguey fields hinted vaguely, half-heartedly, at the presence of people.

The journey to Mitla was uneventful, all those gringo bodies carted around in a big clean gringo bus that bumbled through ramshackle Mexican pueblos, towering above the moto-taxis and pedestrians and squat Ford stick-shifts, us with our white faces stuck to the windows looking out onto hot, brown-green Mexico.

Photo: author

It felt bizarre. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a tour bus. I’m skeptical of the ol’ backpacker standard affirming the inauthenticity of the tour bus vs. the authentic quest of the “traveler” but damn, I must say that being on one of the things does throw one’s perspective for a loop. Even for someone who thinks she’s cynical enough to grasp and honor the postmodern lack of authenticity behind just about any travel experience, the organized tour can be a bit jarring.

In the beginning, I couldn’t get over the stark inside/outside divide. We sat on our big blue seats in our big white bus looking out on the jumbled cubist scenes below, disarray in various shapes, colors, and sizes, foreignness sprawled out there before us like a movie set we could venture into and shrink from when it got to be too much, and eventually wrap up neatly into a few trinkets and photos so we could say, proudly,

“One time, in Mexico…” or “In Mexico, they do this…” with that satisfied smack of the captured experience.

We got out of the bus in Mitla, blinking, stumbling, little swirls of dust rising around our feet, plunk, plunk, plunk, one gringo after another plunking out of the bus like penguins wandering dazed out of a cave under the watchful eyes of zoo-goers. The sun was high and hot at 10 a.m. and we were standing on the side of the road in a dusty pueblo.

Photo: author

The Spanish teacher guide shooed us this way and that, speaking very carefully as if one of us might dumbly wander over to the other side of the road and get lost, a scenario that I had to admit wasn’t terribly unlikely. Her Spanish came in the cadence of the kindergarten teacher who has spent years explaining how not to hit one’s neighbors and why one shouldn’t eat the glue.

We filed into a family home. One gringo after another, looking this way and that, smiling politely and trying, in all earnestness, to squeeze poignancy and insights and deeply meaningful authenticity out of everything from flowers to dog to grandma. We just kept coming in, one after another, until the simple living room, with its old faded couches in the corners and its pretty altar adorned with photos and flowers, was packed full of gringos.

The Spanish teacher admonished us to make room for the new arrivals and we kept packing in, squeezing into corners and crowding round the couches, the never-ending gringo parade. When we were all relatively settled and quiet, our gringo minder presented the house’s grandma, an older woman with gray-white hair and a gray dress, whom the gringos actually applauded, with no sense of irony or absurdity, in an outburst of gratefulness – A Mexican! A real one! And she’s old! And folkloric! And representative of everything we want to feel and experience and care about before we go back to work on Monday!

Eager and primed on all sorts of travel lit and the spiritual necessity to squeeze every ounce of Culture out of the experience, it’s hard to fight the urge to applaud Grandma Mexico.

The grandma talked about the altar and why she’d built it, and maybe half of the gringos understood, but everyone nodded because they knew she was talking about Culture and whatever it was was deeply moving and emotional and poignant and something they should talk about in hushed, contemplative tones with their friends and co-workers in a few weeks. So they nodded. The grandma finished explaining and took her leave under the mixed gazes of pity and admiration and perhaps, caught up somewhere in there, a tame form of envy.

Then they served the mezcal. We partook – five tiny plastic cups, five people sipping and laughing. We had one foot out of the experience and one foot in, but for all we tried to look at it on a meta-level our gringoness and the inherent absurdity of our presence in that house in Mitla was exposed and handed to us on a platter.

Tourism, that ugly condition “travelers” like myself try to hide, was branded on our foreheads. A gringo stepped in the flower pot containing zempasuchitl, the flower of the dead, and flowers and water went everywhere. The gringo tried to extract himself, ready the pot, tidy up the flowers, and a swarm of Mexicans surrounded him and removed him from the situation. Everyone was milling around drinking mezcal, turning red, swapping travel stories.

We went to the cemetery slightly buzzed and fully immersed in the absurdity, blinking into the sun, stepping gingerly over the speed bumps and rocks and discarded gravel of the pueblo road, the gringo parade now on full display for the town.

“I feel like we should be singing the national anthem or something,” I whispered to my friend. To complete the full-on gringo show, to make the consumption of pre-fabricated cultural assumptions a little more mutual. We were, I felt, tall and fat and white and nearly all in sneakers or sandals and professional outdoor wear bought from some glass-walled shop in the parking lot of a giant shopping complex somewhere in America.

The blue sky exposed us, the people of Mitla cast bemused passing glances at us and hurried on, and we sipped our little plastic cups of mezcal and soaked up the nearby mountains rising, the white, hot, yellow dryness of Mitla.

The cemetery was a jolt back into reality. Not the reality of the gringo imagination, but the reality of the Day of the Dead in Mitla, of Mexicans going through a ritual that was actual and felt and present and, dare I say it, genuine in that moment. A reality that would exist with or without the presence of the needy wandering gringo-child.

Photo: author

Flowers were everywhere and on everything, calla lilies, marigolds, vibrant purple masses of furry flowers on white-gray graves. The flowers, the sun, the blue sky, made a kaleidscope of color. People bustled in the unhurried way Mexicans bustle, stepping around graves, lighting incense, sorting flowers, carrying babies, sweeping.

There were babies and old people and couples and people laughing and señoras with twin braids with silken fabric woven into them. There was an old, rusted bike I focused on for a minute, narrowing my vision down to one thing. I could start to pick out the tourists after a few minutes, but they were irrelevant, all caught up just as I was.

We walked around for awhile, dazed, looking at graves and at people sweeping and dressing them in flowers, taken aback by the reality of it.

The Spanish teacher tried to keep the order of the cultural lesson in tact, instructing in the same careful tones how the family kept up the grave of the maternal grandparents and then the paternal grandparents, but the neatly packaged and constructed pseudo-authenticity of the experience had briefly disintegrated as people dispersed into different corners of the graveyard, some still chatting about travels through Sweden and only barely catching a glimpse of the spectacle of here and now in Mitla Mexico (would they even remember the town’s name? I doubted it. But it wasn’t really necessary for “one time in Mexico I went to…”) but others absorbing, sorting through that confusing mental stew of outsiderness and insiderness, of wanting to understand and almost understanding, of experiential learning where reflection and experience go side by side, jostling each other.

Then we left. It was back on the street, a little quieter, fireworks going off everywhere around the town now. The little, poppy, jolt-you-out-of-your-skin fireworks they set off every minute of every day around Mexico. Smoke trails lingered in the sky against the blue. People were “bringing back their dead” according to a friend of mine, who managed to walk through the whole experience – bus tour, family home, cemetery, mezcal – with calm grace and humility. A drunk, brown, round nut of a man in a white straw hat weaved towards and away from our gringo parade.

“I live in U.S.,” he slurred in broken English, weaving. “Atlanta.”

Only my teaching experience could help pick out the words. Other gringos shied away from him, wary. I, stupidly, caught his eye and gave a “buenos tardes,” which he latched on to instantly. I spoke in Spanish, he responded in English.

“Trabajas en los estados unidos?” I asked politely.

“I live there,” he slurred, “I’m a resident.” He was half-looking at me and half weaving.

“Ok,” I said, “y qué haces aquí?”

“Vacation,” he said, “I’m on vacation!” There was something much more doomed than enthusiastic about it.

My mom attempted to join the conversation but couldn’t understand a word the man said. We reached the house and started filing through the door again, and the man knew his vacation was ending there. There would be no authentic Mitla and mezcal sipping for him, not there, anyway. He took advantage of one last try and took my mom by the hand, pulled her aside, and attempted a gallant kiss on the cheek.

“Beautiful, very beautiful woman!” he said.

We went inside, laughing, but I felt a little sickened by the interaction with the man, jutting into the tidy cultural experience of our gringo parade. There wasn’t time for sociological analysis or guilt, though, as we were all soon crowded back around the altar and the family was crying and fireworks were going off outside and my family was crying over the death of my grandparents and then we were drinking beers and eating mole around a table on folding chairs, and a gringo was bragging about how he bought a belt off a peasant in Guatemala for “more money than that guy had ever seen in his life” and when my friend asked how the peasant held his pants up, the gringo shrugged and said, “pins or something.”

I couldn’t really deal with that without making everyone slightly uncomfortable, so I had to stand up and go hover around the baby, who was almost as exciting a gringo attraction as grandma. Being at a susceptible biological moment in my life, I couldn’t resist the baby pull.

She was a little girl called Carlita, oblivious to the oddness of the beaming white faces staring down at her, giving little coos and bubbly smiles to her adoring foreign audience. I let her clasp my finger for a bit and then wandered outside, to where my sister had escaped from the increasingly suffocating swapping of travel tales (“you’ve been to that place in the highlands of Guatemala, too? Almost no one goes there…”)

There was a yard out back, a scrappy little dog, and the quiet sense of life going on as it usually does off down the dusty roads.

The Spanish teacher instructed us that the señoras in this house hicieron trabajos artísticos muy bonitos and we should consider buying scarves porque esta familia nos dio todo gratís y son muy amables, muy amables. It was like having a National Geographic for Kids voiceover distilling the experience for us, dictating where our emotions and priorities and attention should be at any given time. Most people complied with the voiceover’s instructions and bought scarves, lots of them, and soon the gringos were bedecked in bright greens and pinks and blues, beaming over their purchases.

I stood back and observed, and I saw in their faces – trying in broken Spanish to talk with the Mexican grandma, trying on scarves, fondling the material – the desperate need for connection. Something, anything spiritual, anything “real” would do, they just wanted to be a part of it.

If they could buy it for twenty pesos it was an enormous relief, mission accomplished, and if they could give that money directly to this Mexican grandma it was like some big, sweet gulp of water in the parched spiritual desert of the American marketplace, of daily American life.

It was the brief relief from some sort of long detachment and disconnect, and maybe it was all they needed, maybe it was just a vain construct in a world gone so postmodern that even relief from commodification fed back into greater commodification, but it could also have been the spark, the indication, of something much greater. An indication of yearning for a certain connectedness between people, traditions, and beliefs outside of the realm of what could be commodified, bought and sold.

How many of those Columbia boots and jackets and t-shirts had been made in Cambodia somewhere, by a five-year old, and yet their wearers were so desperate to get a little bit of connection here, to feel like this act of buying was noble and was helping to preserve and respect something they honored and even, perhaps, envied.

Instead of seeing that paradox as ironic, I wanted to see it as hopeful – the desire to participate in and respect this culture and its people, to show gratitude for it, and to be respected by it, overlapping the blind, disconnected and detached decisions that go into buying a pair of pants at Target. Maybe the former would usurp the latter, or at least question it.

So perhaps it was the mezcal, but I felt hope there. Of course we then piled back onto the bus, with people already formulating their anecdotes to tell on next year’s trip to Belize, and promptly stopped at a sprawling tourist market full of Mexican souvenirs made in China.

Everyone plodded out and plodded on again, but hardly anyone bought anything. Perhaps that was simply an anomaly, an indication that they were all too tired and sunburned to care. But I like to think it was because they’d gotten a taste of a certain connectedness, and they were still wrapped up in it. And perhaps, the rest of it felt false. Who knew how long it’d last, who knew if it was all a figment of what I wanted to believe. Twenty minutes later we stepped back onto the colonial streets of Oaxaca and parted ways, so I suppose I’ll never know.

Feature Photo: joopdorresteijn Photo: zemoko

08:00

A beautiful Saturday morning in Osaka. What to do … a day-trip to historic Kyoto? An abandoned railroad hike in Hyogo? If only. Saturday mornings in Japan often mean work so I stretch once more on my futon before beginning my day.

08:30

Breakfast is shokopan toast and a carton of aloe yogurt. I throw a couple of wrapped negitoro onigiri – tuna and scallion rice balls – into my purse for lunch.

9:00

Photo: antijeverena

I ride my bike to the Abikocho JR Hanwa train station and chain it near a restaurant – never near at the station itself, where it’s prey for the Osaka bike police. At Tennoji Station, I switch to the Loop Line. On board, there are obaa-chans in kimono and salary men in their traditional black suits, white shirts, and black ties.

We pass shopping arcades, convenience stores, and gray Japanese homes roofed with tiles that curve like ruffled bird feathers. It’s autumn, so trees aflame with red maple leaves dot the landscape. Blue mountains and the heron-winged Osaka Castle loom in the distance.

10:00

At work. Like most expats in Japan, I teach English. I work for one of the big conversation school chains; we wear suits and the customer is always right. Today, I’m early – no need to fill out a Lateness Explanation form.

10:15

Photo: akahige

My morning classes start.

I quiz the kids: “How are you?”

“Five,” they answer.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Fine.”

I try to start a game. Miyabi complains. Chio and Sara gab loudly. Yuki throws a book at me. I lose my temper and scold them in Japanese; a no-no at my company. Did I mention I’m a writer, not a teacher? My subconscious whisks me away to my happy place – Yudanaka onsen overlooking the Nagano Mountains. Rocks. Petals falling on still water. Steam. Bliss!

These Saturday kids are nothing like the ones I teach the rest of the week. Those sweethearts run into school shouting, “Where’s Eba-sensei?” They love learning and I leave class feeling proud.

Teaching in any country is the best of times and the worst of times.

12:30

Lunch. We don’t get meal breaks at my school so food must be eaten in the ten-minute gaps between classes, hunched over a shared desk. At lunch, the other teachers and I catch up:

“How’s the karate?”

“Great – how’s the Japanese study coming?”

“It’s coming. I’ve started ikebana lessons, too.”

“Nice!”

“… I wish I didn’t have to teach. I only do it for the Visa because I’ve never been as creative as I am here in Japan.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

13:00

Afternoon classes. Adults ask me if I can use chopsticks; children hide my flashcards.

16:05

Photo: sakura_chihaya

Quitting time. I punch out and head to a nearby takoyaki stand. Takoyaki – a quintessential Osaka snack – are delicious ball-shaped octopus fritters. I’m too hungry to wait for them to cool and immediately burn my tongue on the creamy but volcanic batter.

16:45

On the train home, I study Japanese passive verbs. As I’m studying, my keitai throbs with texts from my friends. It’s Jeff’s’s birthday and everyone wants to know when we’re meeting. I tell them what Chisato, Jeff’s girlfriend, told me; we’ll meet at 7:30 in Namba. From there, the usual: izakaya and karaoke.

17:15

My bike is still parked where I left it – phew.

17:25.

Home. My boyfriend, Sean, is watching a TV cooking show where women are making nabe, a traditional cold weather stew. They slice daikon and brew dashi while the host watches. He takes a sip and blinks in shock at its deliciousness before shouting: “Umai!!!” Delicious. Commercial break: “comedian” Kojima Yoshio prances out in his Speedo to hawk AU cell phones. We change the channel.

19:45

Namba. Everyone’s here – five Japanese girls and eight expats with accents from all over the English Speaking World map.

“Otanjoubi omedetou!” we shout at the birthday boy. As we head to the neon cacophony of Dotombori street, we pass pulsing pachinko parlors and otaku kids dressed like goth Strawberry Shortcakes. As we reach the famous giant Dotombori crab, I see a Dachsund dressed as a cheerleader. Several meters on, a Chihuahua dressed as a sailor.

20:30

In the smoke-filled izakaya. I order plum wine, sashimi, and several kinds of barbecued yakitori skewers including roast beef and tasty chicken heart. Had you asked me two years ago if I’d ever voluntarily eat organ meat I’d have said, “As if.” Ask me today? “Pass the tongue.”

21:30

Photo: 416style

Karaoke! We rent a private room for an hour. Inside, we order fruity chuhai cocktails, beer, and sing “Happy Birthday” to Jeff. Tomoko sings something by Bump of Chicken, I go for old-school Iruka, and Martin rocks Men at Work.

22:30

Oh, what the heck, make it two hours. More chuhai, beer, and J-pop.

23:30

In a standing-room-only shot bar for the countdown to Last Train. A typical Osaka dilemma: leave at midnight or stay out until 6 a.m. Cabs? Not at 3500 yen to get to Abiko. Sean has his Japanese calligraphy class tomorrow and I’d like to get some writing done so we decide to make the last train. But first, shots. We toast: otsukaresamadesu.

00:15

Made the last train – yosh! It’s filled with red-faced salary men slumping on the seats.

Sarariman why/

do you slump on the train seats?/

are you tired or drunk?/

00:45

Home again. Tipsy internet check. It’s noon back home in New York City and my friends are online.

“Come home,” they type.

“Soon.” I reply. As usual.

Feature and Above Photo: alex_s

The other day on the subway, I saw two suitcase-laden travelers thumbing through a Lonely Planet Turkey. One caught my eye immediately and gave me The Nod. Oh, you know the nod; the silent exchange between two tourists that says “…sooo…traveling, huh?”

As a blue-eyed, large-nosed, pink-skinned white girl, there are few countries in which I could pass for a local. Even here in Turkey, where blue eyes aren’t a total rarity and some blondes are natural. Every day I get called out as a foreigner, and as a result, I’m no stranger to The Nod.

This exchange can vary greatly on the amiability scale. I’ve ranked them below, from most hostile to most friendly.

Dead Eyes

Photo: rich115

This is when your fellow tourist sees you and looks right through you. Who, me? Their eyes say in that split-second connection. You think I’m like you? Sucker, I blend into this culture like [local uncommon spice] into [local uncommon dish]. Just to prove it, I’m going to tell a joke to this chestnut vendor in the local language. Yeah, just TRY and laugh along, tourist!

A variation to Dead Eyes is outright, unconcealed disappointment. This occurs when a tourist fancies themselves to be a trailblazer off the guidebook path, and hates the thought of another foreigner doing the same. Once, in a tiny alley in Beijing, a backpacker actually groaned in disappointment when she saw me.

The Sympathizer

It’s like the “shucks, small world!” nod you would give in a coffee shop to someone reading the same novel as you. I once rode a 20-minute subway in Korea, seated across from a white guy who didn’t once speak to me. Instead, he glanced at me throughout the ride with co-conspiratorial gestures and faces. Whoa, look at that guy’s pink jeans! Those schoolgirls giggle loudly, huh? Whoo, this foreign currency is confusing!

It was an oddly nice experience; a shared joke between two strangers. It’s an attitude of unity. “What surprises me surely surprises you too, so let’s get a kick out of it together.”

Photo: Smart Destinations

The Weak Chit-Chat

Sometimes you’ll meet the hyper-social, hyper-friendly traveler who is thrilled with the opportunity to relate to someone. Once they spot a fellow foreigner, they’ll sprint across a crowded museum or park to come and chat. About what? About being fellow tourists.

“Where are you from?”

“Are you here on holiday?”

“What have you seen so far?”

“Oh yeah, we saw that. Wasn’t that great?”

…it usually flatlines when you realize there’s little common ground beyond both being foreign. So it ends, awkwardly, around here.

The Burning Ears

Another form of the foreigner nod occurs in travel when you realize that the people beside you are chatting in English. Aha! Fellow tourists! You glance at one another, exchange some form of The Nod, and then your conversation is finished. Why? Obviously, the other English-speaking party will eavesdrop, and vice-versa. It’s almost impossible to tune out your native language when it’s spoken in a foreign country.

Community Connection

And you, Matadorians? Does this resonate with your experiences abroad? Share your encounters with foreigners below.

Feature Photo: roland Photo: jensen_chua

Coming to Korea as a vegetarian is a little like going to Nashville if you hate country music. There’s not a lot that’s going to interest you. More omnivorous folk will enjoy Korean barbecue (galbi) and an astounding array of seafood. But vegetarians (in particular vegans) will have a much harder time of it.

For those who can compromise a bit (by, say, picking the pork out of their rice ball) Korea won’t be so daunting. But if you’re more committed to your salad diet, it’s not going to be easy. There are three main problems for vegetarians in South Korea.

Ignorance.

Photo: anja_johnson

There is no word in Korean for vegetarian and the concept is often quite foreign to Koreans. Even my employer, who lived abroad for years and knows what a vegetarian is, will cheerfully offer me fish, chicken, spam, or tuna and is always quite surprised and sad when I turn it down.

Restaurants rarely make provisions for vegetarians, and special orders are not accepted. This is different in foreign friendly and ethnic restaurants, but the vast majority of restaurants here feature the same menu, the same interior, and seemingly the same adjumma (married woman) waiting at the door.

The Sheer Prevalence of Meat.

Every meal here, nearly, features some part of an animal. (Often a part of an animal that is quite surprising to Westerners). Even Kimchi, fermented cabbage, is so frequently made with shrimp or fish sauce that it’s off-limits. Soups and broths will have everything from chicken stock to floating fish heads.

Photo: anja_johnson

You can apparently find vegetarian kimbap, (sushi) but it’s not easy (I haven’t actually found it in 10 months). Even rice isn’t quite so safe–it too is often enhanced with small shrimp. The one true veggie-friendly dish is bibimbap, a mixture of rice, vegetables, and chili sauce. Vegans though will have to ditch the egg and sometimes it has ground beef.

Culture.

The language barrier is, if not insurmountable, a real challenge. Koreans are not as used to hearing broken Korean, and communication can be haphazard at best. Harder still is the Korean custom that you eat what is given to you. There is no such thing as “hold the onions” or “can I get tofu instead of cheese?”

This is by and large not culturally permissible here, most particularly in Korean restaurants.

Photo: anja_johnson

Those three challenges are foreboding, to be sure. But there are also three corresponding things you can do to surmount these obstacles.

Cook.

Cooking for yourself is fun, and the pluses are obvious. It’s cheaper, you get exactly what you want, and you know what you’re eating. Find an E-Mart or Homeplus and you can stock up on staples like rice, pasta, produce, marinara, chips, salsa, peanut butter and jelly, soy milk, and baked beans.

A problem with this is that you can’t read the ingredients on anything, and so things like instant noodles or really any pre-packaged food are out. Something else to keep in mind is that there is a high probability that you will not have an oven, so be prepared to take a year off from baking.

Photo: anja_johnson

Also, make sure you check the expiration date–they will sell things a year or two past here. Nonetheless, it’s quite easy, affordable, and pleasant here to cook up some pasta or stir fries.

Explore.

Ever so slowly, the numbers of veggie friendly places are increasing. You can get really good soy cream at a scattering of Soy Delicious outlets throughout Seoul. The artsy district of Insadong has vegetarian restaurants, though I find them to be expensive and not all that nice.

Also in Seoul, there’s a vegan bakery in Mok-dong and a vegan restaurant in Sinchon that sells everything from veggie burgers to mandu (Korean Dumplings). The restaurant also sells mock-meats, vegan bread, vegan ramen, and other goods that you can take home. Itaewon, famous for its rowdy nightlife, has half a dozen Indian buffets and a foreign food market where you can find lentils, chickpeas, oatmeal, and extremely frostbitten tempeh.

Embrace Pringles.

To be honest, you will probably be hungry a lot. If not either at home or one of the foreigner friendly zones, finding something you know is vegetarian is often not possible. You can usually find fruit for sale on roadside trucks, and occasionally 7-11 will sell yubu (Korea’s answer to inari) but often you may end up with a best-case scenario of snickers or potato chips.

If you can plan ahead and bring food, this will be best, but it’s often difficult to always be prepared.

Finding food you can eat as a vegetarian may be one of the biggest challenges of your time in Korea. But there are options out there if you’re willing to put in the extra effort.

Separate spheres. All photos by Irargerich

Last week my section of Cathay Pacific flight 882 from Hong Kong to Los Angeles was full of refugees from Myanmar, a nervous group of 39 men, women and children bundled up in winter coats, each clutching a plastic bag emblazoned with the logo of the International Organization for Migration.

During the long flight, the man next to me – an ethnic Chin – struggled with his in-flight entertainment system. Finally, he got a movie to play – a Beverly Hills 90210 sort of film, featuring wide-eyed blonds flirting with country club pool-boys and shopping on Rodeo Drive.

Fractured clouds

Watching the man watch an idealized vision of America as we cruised over the Aleutians, I thought about the the transition he would face adapting to life in the real America. How would he reconcile the gaps between expectations and reality?

He didn’t speak any English. He was going to the state of Washington.

No matter how well this particular Chin refugee dealt with the transition to life in America, he would have to adjust to being a foreigner in an unrelentingly foreign culture and environment.

The concept of ‘being foreign’ is central to the experience of travel, but mainstream travel media rarely seems to address it head on. The British magazine The Economist recently published a thoughtful meditation on being foreign. One line was especially resonant for me, as I thought about the refugees, exiles in a foreign land:

For the real exile, foreignness is not an adventure but a test of endurance.

We voluntary travelers are so fortunate, in so many ways.

Community Connection

For a look at the challenges the refugees overcame before getting on the plane to America, check out the article Waiting For Life to Begin in a Burmese Refugee Camp.

Clearly, refugees need a lot of support here in the States. Does anyone know how to help out? What nationalities are being resettled in your area? Please leave a comment below!

Photos: author

The first sound I hear most mornings in the springtime is chirpity birds with their own version of the piropo, a pseou-pseou chirrrp.

Then comes the fffft fffft of someone sweeping the sidewalk six stories below, and the squeeeeeeal of my across-the-hall neighbor’s stovetop teakettle, an oddity in the land of electric ones that turn themselves off automatically.

Later, as my neighbors wake up, I hear the whrrrr of the elevator and the old school wooden gate that you must pull shut before moving down. A floor-mate or two commutes by bike and I hear the clickclickclick as they wheel their steeds down the hall.

Then the building is ours, the work-at-homes, stay-at-homes and one crotchety elderly shut-in, a foreigner like me who came to live in Chile when she was young and able-bodied. She’s angry now, which is either the cause of or result of her bad relationship with her grown children.

The day plods on. I scoop precious fine ground coffee into the espresso maker and wait for the sputter to let me know it’s done. I have maybe some yogurt and fruit or toast and cheese for breakfast, and my day gets underway.

Depending on what I have scheduled for that day, I’ll get to work. I’m a writer, translator, teacher, editor, blogger, photographer and community outreach ninja for Matador. Some of that requires attention every day, some only sporadically. I’ll spend from eight to about noon working on sundry projects or drumming up more if I can see an empty space looming in my schedule.

If I hear a protest from my house or see reports of one on any of my local news sites or Twitter (which I bounce back and forth between in between sentences, phone calls, etc), I’ll usually stop what I’m doing and go get a better look, and maybe some snaps. At around 12:30 I’ll check to make sure I don’t have any outstanding invoices to send or follow-up on, and start to get ready for the gym.

I’ll click and slide and whirr downstairs, bike in hand, and head off to the gym, where I’ll either go indie or let a very tiny piston-legged man we affectionately refer to as “el pitufo” (smurf) urge me to ACCELERA! And with MAS CARGA! I’ll do some weights, cool down, shower and if I’m lucky, meet a friend for lunch around Paris Londres, a quirky little cobblestoned neighborhood that’s suddenly safe and hip, or maybe downtown to El Naturista on the pedestrian street Huerfanos for a fresh vegetarian lunch with carrot juice.

If not, it’s home for nibbles, which I will do while catching up on whatever happened since I was last here. Emails and back to writing, fanning the flames under more work, translating, occasionally hunting down an event to shoot (photo) in the afternoon, and hopefully making plans with a friend to meet up later. If it’s an especially free day, I’ll turn my attention to some writing projects I have that are long-term, and as yet, unpaid.

In the later afternoon, around 7, if work permits, I might head out and take pictures of the skateboarders at Parque de Los Reyes. The kids know me, and call me tía, (auntie), a testament to my age, not our family affiliation. We exchange kisses on the cheek and they show me their latest skate-acquisition, hats and t-shirts, shoes and boards. I duck past the cuchuflí vendor and do not buy any of his cream-caramel-filled wafers, focusing on flailing arms, big air and stern looks of concentration on the (mostly) boys’ faces.

By sunset I head out of there, and either head up to Bellas Artes or Providencia to meet up with friends, or maybe cajole someone to coming down to Barrio Brasil, where I live to check out the newly-opened Le Garage, a gothic-interiored building with leaded glass windows and way more space than tables. We’ll nibble and yammer, maybe take a walk around town, and if there’s an outdoor concert or performance on, as there often is during summer months, check that out. Or we might go to Per Piacere, a pizza place with a good selection of artesenal Chilean beers, including my new favorite, Los Volcanes Rojo, which is flavored with cinnamon.

I’ll get home usually between 11 and 2, and at that point make sure there are no fires to put out re: work, make a list of what needs to be done tomorrow (admitting that sometimes items drift across the week without ever getting done), read some nonfiction (usually), and drift off to sueñolandia (dreamland), awaiting tomorrow’s pseou-pseou chirrrp.

Above Photo: Sarah Menkedick Photos: Jorge Santiago

There are cultures, then there are cultures within cultures, and then there are more cultures within those cultures. Cultures within cultures within cultures. Yes, I’m repeating this that many times to make you feel like you’re watching a spinning top, because that’s what culture starts to look like if you peer at it too closely – all the lines blur together and your head starts to spin and whir. Just when you think you’ve got it and you start to say:

“Mexico is…” some cultural entity pops up and smacks you in the face. Scratch that, you think. I don’t know. Don’t know what this culture is, and don’t know how I feel about it.

That’s why it seems to me that culture shock is the real constant in all of the exploration and exchange that happens traveling. It happens on the first day of your first trip overseas in a foreign country. It also happens on a regular basis in your eleventh year of living abroad. It’s ubiquitous and inevitable and it creeps up at the most unexpected moments.

Even after several years in Mexico, there are still little things that jolt me, sometimes positively, sometimes negatively, most of the time in a confusing gray zone between the two.

Why is it that so many men riding in cars feel the need to bark at my dog? At first I thought it was just the street sweepers in a pathetic, bored, macho pick-up attempt. But then it happened again, and again, and I realized, men notice the dog, they pay attention to the dog and…they bark.

I could make attempts to analyze this through the lens of machismo, which wouldn’t be too hard (man sees big dog, man sees girl walking big dog, man feels slightly less manly, man barks) but I actually think it goes further than that. I think it’s about contact.

If you establish some sort of connection to a person, paying attention to their kid or their dog or something about them, you’ve got to follow through with it. I think it harks back to a time when Oaxaca was still a pueblo, and social norms called for a “buenos tardes, señorita,” or its equivalent for everyone you passed. Now those times have (mostly) gone, but still, passing people on the street, I feel a strange obligation to take them into account like I don’t feel anywhere else.

There’s less of a personal space barrier here overall, and when you’ve made eye contact, you’ve made contact. There’s this pressing, suppressed need for acknowledgment. I feel that a lot, and the dog barking incidents are the most recent manifestation.

So when I came across this gorgeous, bone-deep photo essay on culture shock, I immediately related to it. Yep. As a traveler, this is a familiar feeling, sometimes jarring and unpleasant, sometimes thrilling, but indispensable to that experience of being outside one’s comfort zone.

Thus in all of that squirming around you’ve done trying to get comfortable in other cultures, what sorts of shocks and surprises have you had? What have you found traumatic, exhilarating, or both? Please share your culture shock stories below.

Feature Photo: Nurpax Photo: Damon Garrett

Expat life in one of the world’s most popular teaching destinations.

Morning

Most mornings, my alarm clock rouses me from sleep, but at least a couple days a week, I’m awakened early by the fruit propagandist. Today is one of those days.

From dawn until noon, the fruit propagandist yells out the day’s deals on pears and persimmons, his rhythmic, authoritarian voice booming through the PA speakers strapped to the top of his fruit-laden truck. I imagine his pitch: East Asia has the best persimmons, better than Oceania. East Asia has always had the best persimmons.

Listening to him, I boil water for instant coffee. As the water boils, I look out the window to check the air pollution. Today it’s so bad the nearby mountains look silver. On the rare days the air is clear, I like to go running. I still want to get outside, so I decide to hike to the temple before work.

Photo: nagyman

Breakfast is a smoothie, fried eggs, and coffee.

I write from nine until early afternoon. As I work, I look out my fourth-floor window at the beige and off-white apartment buildings lined up like dominoes and wonder about the lives lived inside.

My wife likes to sleep late. I try not to rouse her.

Early Afternoon

When I finish my writing for the day, I leave the apartment for my hike. Every day, my guitar-playing neighbor leaves his door open. Today is no different. His riffs fill the gray concrete hallway like smoke as I wait for the elevator.

On the ground floor, I pass the lady in the flower shop. Because of her, my window sill is filled with wilting plants and my Korean vocabulary includes the words for orchid, cactus and violet. Now, though, I don’t need any more plants. I wave to her and continue towards the mountain.

At the base of the mountain, I stop to fill an empty water bottle from the fountain. The fountain is a giant concrete turtle with a spigot coming out its mouth. The water comes from a spring inside the mountain. The icy water washes the taste of instant coffee from my mouth.

I follow the steep trail a kilometer up the hill to the temple. The temple is really a small red and green pagoda with an altar in the middle. A sign tells me villagers from the valley below used to leave sacrifices of food and livestock to appease the mountain spirit and ensure a good harvest.

Even here in the forest I can still hear the drone of the traffic from the highway that rolls over the hills like a spool of wire.

Back down the hill and on to work.

Late Afternoon

Photo: watchsmart

My school is a private English academy in a building with four other English schools, a music school, a dentist, and a raw fish restaurant. The front of the building is lined with bubbling tanks filled with shrimp, squid, and croaker.

I work from three to nine. The kids are young but not babies, between eight and fifteen. Many of them attend public school and two or three after-school academies, but even after a twelve-hour day, they are still bouncing with energy as I teach them Yankee English. Their enthusiasm is contagious. Sometimes ten-year-old girls in pigtails and purple glasses tell me to die.

I drink a lot of instant coffee between classes.

Evening

After a full day of classes, my brain turns to red bean paste. Since the weather has turned colder, I like to stay home and read a novel for a couple hours. Sometimes I’ll dust off my guitar and sing a couple songs for my wife. Evening is the time we spend together, the concerns of the day behind us.

If we want to get out of the apartment, we’ll go ‘downtown,’ an eight-square-block area around the train station. Seoul is an hour away, so we only go there on weekends.

Attached to every eight-story building are vertical signs advertising pubs, restaurants, retail stores, and PC rooms. Their flashing neon lights illuminate the pedestrian streets below.

Stuck in Seoul

My wife and I frequent two restaurants. One is a galbi place. We sit on the floor while pieces of marinated beef cook over a bucket of glowing coals set in the middle of our table. The other is a Chinese pub, complete with red fabric lanterns, bamboo lattice work, and a replica of a soldier from the terracotta army. My favorite dish is described in the menu as ‘happy spicy chicken parts, fried.’

Not so much since I quit smoking, but some nights we’ll meet other teachers for drinks at one of the two popular expat bars in town. At one place, you get your beer in a frozen ice mug. After you finish, you throw the ice at a target in the hopes of winning a free beer. The other place features bartenders who juggle and breathe fire.

Some nights we’ll go with our English-speaking acquaintances to the singing room. There, we don multi-colored wigs and sing Bohemian Rhapsody until our vocal chords ache.

On our way home, we ignore the crosswalk signs and lean on each other for support against the waning night. We know we’ve stayed out too late when we see the fruit propagandist setting up for another day’s work.

]]> http://matadorabroad.com/a-day-in-the-life-of-an-expat-in-gunpo-city-south-korea/feed/ 4 http://matadorabroad.com/hiking-in-korea-is-like-raving-only-better/ http://matadorabroad.com/hiking-in-korea-is-like-raving-only-better/#comments Wed, 09 Dec 2009 01:25:43 +0000 John Eperjesi http://matadorabroad.com/?p=2658

Feature photo: Jrwooley6 Photo: Nagyman

Now that I’ve been in Korea for a while, I’ve come to understand that hiking here is like raving, only better.

Koreans are the most stylish hikers on the planet. Forget high-fashion: K-hikers rock high-altitude style. Back in the mid-nineties in the U.S., we called them techno preppies or gangster ravers: high-performance sports gear, vests, plaid shirts, polar fleece, cargo pants, visors, backpacks (minus the pacifiers, glowsticks and sparkles). Instead of the Running Man, they do the Hiking Man for 8 hours straight and still look like they just came out of the shower.

jlfacine

Koreans hike for 6 to 8 hours, then head to small tents for the after-party. But instead of doing drugs, they do shots of soju and magkeolli (a milky rice wine) in joyous constellations of friends, family, and random dharma bums. Drinking several bowls of pure, uncut magkeolli after hiking all day is one of the best highs in the world. Hiking creates surrogate families, postmodern mountain tribes, linked not by biology, but by the mountain spirits, or San-shin.

Seventy-five percent of the Korean peninsula is covered in mountains. As David Mason points out in his survey of the spiritual landscape of Korea, Spirit of the Mountains, this is one of the few places in there world where mountain-worship, a hybrid of Shamanism, Buddhism, Daoism, and Confucianism, is still practiced. The mountains of Korea have been serenely multicultural for thousands of years, waiting for the rest of the country to catch up.

JCT(Loves)Streisand*

When you approach the mountain, you see various tribes merge, combine, and then split off on different trails. As you climb a bit, you begin to smell incense and hear trance music in the distance. But instead of Nag Champa and Sasha and Digweed, it’s Buddhist chanting, gongs, drums drifting out of one of the 2000 temples that punctuate the mountainsides.

The chanting and incense blend with the pine-infused mountain air (much healthier than a surgical mask coated in Vics), piercing your lungs and mind, and suddenly you feel alert in a way you never do in they city. Problems and anxieties dissolve.

jlfacine

You become mindful of leaves and trees and clouds and horizons and rocks and smiles and annyeongs. Your mouth tastes clean, your sweat feels warm, you feel connected. People spend a lot of money and waste a lot of time trying to feel this way, and all you’re doing is walking up a mountain with friends or in a densely populated solitude.

At its best, rave culture hoped to tap into something primordial, deep spiritual beats that have migrated from Africa and Asia through Euro-America and back again. Rave culture is alive in Korea, not in the nightclubs, but in the mountains. While there is a desperate shortage of PLUR on the streets of Seoul, there is an abundance of peace, love, unity and respect on the mountains.

Riding the subway home from the mountain reminds me of the bus-ride home from one of those renegade parties back in the day. Some hikers are exhausted and passed out on their backpacks, some still high and chatting and joking and flirting with their friends, some are just dazed and just staring out the window.

Like a good party, coming back from the mountain leaves you refreshed, and a bit cracked out, ready to deal with work, school, or whatever. And after a good long sleep, you wake up, and the first thought that pops in your head is doing it again next weekend.

Feature Photo: fleno Photo: TheAlieness Gisela Giardino

I saw them before I set foot in the pharmacy. They had the bunched up foreheads and overly neat appearance of lost tourists in Mexico, and they were stopped in the middle of the street, staring vaguely off in opposite directions. I gave them a sidelong glance and stepped into the pharmacy to use the ATM. It was broken.

I tried again and again to jam my card in while the man stepped gingerly inside the pharmacy and said in French, “Banque? Banque? La banque?” It was the standard technique of repeating something over and over in the hopes that the person who doesn’t speak your language will spontaneously understand. The girl at the counter shook her head and the man walked out shrugging.

I am sometimes skeptical of offering help to tourists because half the time they look at me as if I’m insane, or as if I’m one of those know-it-all expats who says smugly, “Oh, you don’t know where the bank is, you poor things? Well, I speak fluent Spanish and have lived here for years, so let me just share my expertise with you.”

But I know I am always so grateful when I’m standing on a street corner in some distant country and someone, anyone, steps up with a little guidance.

“Vous allez à la banque?” I asked in French, using my rusty French skills for the first time in four years.
The woman’s eyes lit up. “Oui!” she replied quickly.

“Follow me,” I continued, “I’m going there too.”

They fell into line behind me on the narrow Oaxacan streets, and I slowed my serious dog-walking pace a bit for the two blocks it took to get to the bank. We paused at the light across from the bank entrance and chatted a bit. They were from Paris, on vacation for a week in Mexico. I told them that I’d studied in France seven years ago and that my husband was Mexican and I lived in Oaxaca now.

It was one of those brief, street-side exchanges that is sometimes so much more illuminating the the long regular conversations you have with people you see everyday. One of those little exchanges that seems to reaffirm who you are in two minutes.

When I said goodbye to them outside the bank, I heard the woman say, “C’est une américaine très gentile”: she’s a very kind American. It reminded me that for as absurd as it may be to think one person can represent a country, at least these small interactions and gestures can do something to alleviate resentment against the U.S and perhaps sow affection where once there was scorn.

Walking home that old why-I-travel question nudged itself to the forefront, and I thought, as usual, it’s about the little things. Two-walk blocks to the bank. Brief swaps of who-are-you? And perhaps little seeds of curiosity and compassion, planted.

Community Connection

What do you think, Matadorians? Do you feel the responsibility to represent your country when you’re traveling? What are your stories of brief encounters from the road? If you’ve got a good story of such an encounter, send it along to sarah@matadornetwork.com with “brief encounter” in the subject line. And please sound off below about the little moments and interactions that have changed you on the road.

Feature Photo: atilla1000Photo: author

4:30am

The first call to prayer of the day. The nearest mosque is one block away, and on nights of restless sleep, it wakes me up. It’s a reminder that slowly, slowly, the city is waking up too.

7:00am

I leave the apartment to catch the service bus that will take me to work. The private high school where I teach English should be a twenty minute drive away. With Istanbul traffic, it can take up to an hour.

At the bus stop, I chat sleepily with the physics teacher. She tells me about her boyfriend who is in his compulsory two years of army service. Her stories are on the lighter side; how she hates his regulation haircut, how he couldn’t even wash a dish in his pre-army days. She misses him.

8:00 a.m

Once at school, the teachers crowd into the neighboring bakery, Bum, whose name always has me giggling like an 8-year-old boy. Turks are highly social folk, and though the teachers are all still sleepy, they flock to the cafe tables to plan lessons and chat over tea and breakfast. The pastry is inexpensive and fresh from the oven. I buy a warm, buttery peynirli poagca (a bun with white cheese) and orange juice.

9:00

In the school, students are buzzing about. Their uniforms are maroon and blue, the colors (so it’s said) of the principal’s favorite football team. Between lessons, the pop English of TV and music trumps the classroom stuff any day, and I’ll hear the odd catchphrase of, “legendary!” or “it’s all good.”

A group of girls are singing “come on Barbie, let’s go party,” and they see me cracking a grin. “Miss Anne, do you know Barbie Girl?” I find myself starting a sentence with “when I was your age…” It’s something I’ve never said before, but these students have an odd interest in 90s music.

Here, if the importance of English is stressed, it’s being done lightly. The students seem to pursue English for their own motives. Some are dying to learn English in order to study abroad, work for international companies, or marry Robert Pattinson. Some are slackers whose obsession with pop culture has them turning up to my class just to chat about Lady Gaga lyrics.

In my beginners class, we talk about home vocabulary. “How many rooms are in your house?” I ask. One student puts up her hand. “I talk about my apartment or my house, or my villa?” she asks. Hoo boy.

12:10

Lunchtime in the cafeteria. On my meal tray, the white carbs are bountiful and the meat is unidentifiable. Here, spaghetti is served with a great dollop of yogurt. Lemon juice is as common a table condiment as salt. The juice boxes contain apricot or black cherry nectar. It seems no one has ever heard of a nut allergy. We’re not in Ontario anymore.

4:50

The homeward commute goes by in a haze, and I’m happy to breathe some clean air as I walk home from the bus stop. I pass the mosque whose garden is always full of cats. Even in the cool autumn, the vendors on my street will set up plastic tables and chairs on the sidewalk, between parked cars, anywhere they can squeeze a few seats.

They’ll sit and chat over tea and cigarettes, jumping up when a customer enters their store. I wave hellos to the Turkcell clerk, the brothers who run the greengrocer stand, the bored salesman in the camera shop. The always-cheery deli vendor waves me in to sample a new batch of olives; green ones stuffed with white cheese, floating in oil with chili flakes and lemon slices. I buy an enormous bagful. The cost? Just under three lira ($2USD).

7:00

My boyfriend and I get dinner at the restaurant known amongst our friends as “the homecooked place.” It has a name, but none of us know it. A small buffet of creamy desserts and vegetable-heavy dishes are displayed, and we point and choose our favorites.

The restaurant is run by a chatty family, but the dining room is cozy and always quiet. The mother-daughter team in the open kitchen always pause from their cooking to say a warm hello and bring us bread. Our plates are piled high with tangy potato salad, spinach pastry, bulgur patties and eggplant stew.

8:30

After dinner, we pop into the convenience store beside our building for beer. We buy an Efes and Efes Dark, one of each, and the clerk patiently engages in our Turkish textbook small talk. I’m told that locals refer to a basic grasp of the language as “Tarzan Turkish.”

It’s an apt description for our simple sentences; “Me go cinema today.” “You happy?” “What is your girl-child name?” It’s probably painful to the ears, but our clerk kindly plays along as he packages the beer in a black plastic bag.

At home, we sip our beers on the couch and chat. I’ll write, he’ll play music, or we’ll watch a movie together. When it’s warm, we move our chairs onto the balcony, where the breeze is refreshing and the view of the mosque is perfect. At half past ten, we hear the final call to prayer, usually as we’re brushing our teeth or washing dishes, or else lying in bed with our books in hand. Slowly, slowly, the day is ending.

Community Connection

If you like these windows into expat lives, take a look at A Day in the Life of An Expat in Copenhagen, Denmark, A Day in the Life of A Writer in Zagreb, Croatia and A Day in the Life of An Expat in Oaxaca, Mexico.

And remember, Matador Abroad is still accepting submissions for the Day in the Life of An Expat series – if you’re interested in submitting a day in the life story, send it with “A Day In The Life of An Expat in….” in the subject line to sarah@matadornetwork.com.

Feature Photo: gúnna Photo: joi

What do you dream about when you’re far from home?

After volunteering for two years in Togo, I was ready to come home. Yet as my departure approached, the anxieties set in – with whom would I practice my French? Where would I eat plantains with rice and peanut sauce? Who would express as much excitement about my daily front door exit as the Togolese children?

I had no desire to extend my time, but the thought of malls, Fox News and the job search almost made me want to run screaming back to village.

Then I arrived and rediscovered some of the joys that I’ll probably start taking for granted in two months. But for now, I’ll continue reveling in:

1. Cheese

At home, there’s cheese on everything! Cheesy fries, extra cheese on pizza and a Parmesan shaker on the table, cheese fondue, free cheese at art openings, cheese enchiladas – how I missed you, cheese.

And while I’m on the topic of food, let’s talk about fruit. Apples are available for sale in the streets of big West African cities, but one costs the same price as two hard-boiled eggs or four small bags of plantain chips. I’ll sorely miss the mangos and pineapples of West Africa, but try finding fresh berries or peaches at an open-air market in Togo.

2. Seasons

Photo: *micky

Togo’s hot season, rainy season, and the windy season, called harmattan, are not the same as the standard winter, spring, summer, fall cycle. I usually run from cold weather, but now that I’ve experienced heat rash and hot season,

I’m ready to watch the leaves change, snuggle under a down comforter, don a scarf and make a snowman. Or at least watch the snow fall while drinking hot tea inside a heated house.

3. Extended daylight hours

Living near the equator means nightfall comes around 6 PM all year long. Sure, the day isn’t really longer at home, but when the sun sets at 9, it feels like I just got a gift certificate for extra hours. I’ll use my extra hours to go for an after-dinner walk, or read at an outdoor café until I have to start squinting around 8:45.

4. Hot showers

Photo: avancini

After two years of bathing from buckets and cold showers, I get excited every time it’s shower time. In Africa, I planned to save water when I returned by keeping my showers short, but my deep appreciation for hot water constantly flowing from the shower head has made this challenging.

Is there more waste in running the water or turning it on and off between shampooing and conditioning? Until I know for certain, I’ll have to let the hot water run.

5. Flush toilets (with toilet paper!)

Great for running to when the cheese, fresh berries and Wendy’s Frosty with fries give you digestion difficulties. In Togo, you can go just about anywhere if nature’s call is too loud and you’re not shy. If you’re well-prepared, you’ll have remembered to pack your paper handkerchiefs (for sale almost everywhere for about 20 cents).

Not so in the States. I haven’t tried it, but I think dropping my pants in the park or in an alley would get me arrested. But losing the freedom to go outside has been replaced with the knowledge that no matter where I am – on a road trip, in the park, at the store – a toilet is nearby. A flush toilet with toilet paper, a sink and paper towels or a hand drier. But I’ll take my paper handkerchiefs, just in case.

Community Connection

Expat life is a complicated mixture of emotions and experiences. Check out some of the the little things that make it worthwhile and read up on the expat conundrum and expat/tourist relationships.

]]> http://matadorabroad.com/what-do-you-miss-most-oversea/feed/ 22 http://matadorabroad.com/a-day-in-the-life-of-an-expat-in-copenhagen-denmark/ http://matadorabroad.com/a-day-in-the-life-of-an-expat-in-copenhagen-denmark/#comments Fri, 20 Nov 2009 18:27:46 +0000 Susan Overcash Walker http://matadorabroad.com/?p=2569 hygge: the art of cozying up with your significant other (or friends and family) to ward off winter.]]>

Photos: author

I’ve lived in Copenhagen long enough to know punctuality is the cardinal rule of Danish etiquette, and yet my day somehow still goes like this:

Eight(ish) :

Waking up early in Copenhagen is surprisingly complicated. Today, with one foot planted in the Scandinavian winter, sunrise is just before eight and hidden behind the patter of rain. My husband tries to roust me before leaving for work, but even then, with the casual work-life balance here, he’s barely out the door by nine.

After pillaging our carbohydrate stash for breakfast – dark bread called rugbrød and real butter – I dash down the four flights from our walk-up and head for the gym. Between October and March, we get, at best, six to eight hours of grayish daylight, so cycling, the gym and running at leafy Fælledparken keep the winter D’s – vitamin D deficiency, depression and drinking – at bay.

Ten(ish)

And… I’m late. Today it’s for coffee with a Danish friend at the Royal Library café downtown, so after the gym I hurry through the corner market where a tiny Egyptian stocks hummus, flatbread and veggies. Normally he practices his English on me – we’ve gotten up to “Have a nice day!” – but I’m trying to avoid an impending punctuality disaster, so I snack fast, clean up and choose the bus over biking downtown.

There’s a rumor here that bus drivers worsen exponentially through the winter, and today’s ride is proof. The driver plays chicken with cyclists and cars while out the window, crumbling yellow buildings and green copper spires punctuate the gloomy sky.

Noon(ish)

Finally at the café, I sip a ten dollar latte and chat about babies and maternity leave (one year, fully paid – just one of the many social services supported by high Danish taxes). Outside, the reflection of the library’s streamlined façade in the Øresund is an interesting juxtaposition with the 17th century apartment buildings across the water.

It’s easy to hate on the Danish winter (and I do, often), but the weather can also be a catalyst to see new parts of the city, like the library, or old parts through a new lens.

Three(ish)

After coffee, I make a quick trip to the supermarket, ignoring the ridiculous prices while loading my basket – the only way to stay sane while shopping. After, I poke around local boutiques until a random Dane pops out of a chocolate shop and offers me a piece of candy.

I’m so shocked at a gregarious (while sober) Dane popping out of anywhere, I accept without a second thought. That’s a fun part of living here; at first the Danes seem very reserved, but then little surprises make me remember how friendly and funny they are just under the surface. It’s also great not to have to worry about the whole candy/strangers issue.

The city is so safe mothers leave babies in prams on the sidewalk while shopping or eating in cafés. So, munching on my chocolate, I set off down the crowded sidewalk towards home and am rewarded with another treat: the setting sun peeking out of the clouds in a patch of ethereal blue. Less than an hour later, it’s night.

Dark.

My husband arrives home at eight to find me wrapped in a blanket, writing, reading email and planning our next trip. We light a few candles, lounge on the couch and snack on smoked salmon. The Danes call this hygge: the art of cozying up with your significant other (or friends and family) to ward off winter, while outside, the night settles over the city like a blanket. The dark, at least, is punctual.

Community Connection

If you like peeking into a day in the life of an expat, check out A Day in the life of An Expat in Oaxaca, Mexico, A Day in the life of A Writer in Zagreb, Croatia and A Day in the Life of An Au Pair in Breukelen, The Netherlands.

Feature and article photos: author Photo: thms.nl

7:15am:

Wake up. Huddle under the covers as long as possible. Hear the DeBruijn family downstairs getting ready for the day. Senseo coffee is brewing and dull light stretches through the windows. Throw on jeans and black sweater from the day before.

Mr. and Mrs. DeBruijn depart for work, leaving me and their two kids, Lotje (7) and Meno (4), to get ready for the school day. A ritual commences: snack pack, lemonade, shoes, scarves, jackets, gloves, hats. We each get our own bikes out of the garage.

8am:

Drop off Lotje and Meno at preschool and primary school. Greet neighbors with “Goedemorgen!” Make my breakfast of bread and eggs. Catch up on e-mail to friends and family back in North Carolina. Shower and straighten the kitchen, living room, and kids’ rooms.

9:30am:

Practice piano. Today: scales, Schumann’s “Aufschwung” from Fantasiestücke, Bach “Prelude and Fugue in C# Minor”, from Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I.

Possession of a piano was an important criterion in selecting an au pair family. When I return to the US I will resume my piano performance degree. Mrs. DeMaat, the next door neighbor, waves through the window; she’s told me she loves hearing Bach.

12pm:

Pick the kids up from school for their lunch break. Prepare fresh bread, butter, and hagelslag (chocolate sprinkles), a typical lunch. We eat and converse in mangled Dutch and English.

1pm:

Lotje, Meno, and I ride our bikes back to school. I head to the market to buy groceries for dinner. Tonight I’ll cook shoarma (shawarma). I buy meat, pita bread, lettuce, cucumber, and toum (garlic sauce). The cashier, an older woman, smiles silently as we load my cloth bag. She knows my Dutch ends after “I’m doing well, thanks.”

1:30pm:

I drop off the groceries and pedal ten minutes north to see Magda. She makes more money working as an au pair than she would back in Poland with her Masters in psychology. We drink tea and discuss philosophy and boyfriends.

2:30pm:

Pick the kids up from school. Take them to swimming lessons or back home. In the warmer months we take snacks and blankets to the backyard. More often the coldness keeps us inside and we draw or play games. The kids aren’t allowed to watch tv. I help Lotje with her piano practice and think it would be so much easier to help if I spoke better Dutch.

4:30pm:

Mrs. DeBruijn returns home and I return to my attic bedroom to catch the latter half of Oprah, a connection to the US. The sun sets and the darkness inspires reflection.

5:30pm:

I cook shoarma for the family, although Mr. DeBruijn is rarely home in time for dinner. I converse with the mom in English about her day. The kids talk to the mother in rapid Dutch.

6:30pm:

Salad plates from dinner are left for Mr. DeBruijn to clean. I bundle up and head to teach a voice lesson to a teenage girl nearby. She speaks fluent English and wants to learn songs from American Idol. We talk about more than voice as she confides the career dreams her mother disapproves of.

7:30pm:

After our lesson I stop by the village pub to meet Magda and other au pairs. We drink a Dommelsch pilsener, commiserating about our days. I am the only American, the only au pair choosing to work in the Netherlands for enrichment versus necessity. This makes me feel guilty and grateful.

9:30pm:

Bike home. The night is mysterious and soft. Burning firewood scents the air. I reflect on tomorrow as the wind cuffs my face. I wonder if the kids are asleep and how parents do what they do. Even my part-time parenting demands energy and patience.

10:30 pm:

I wave goodnight to Mr. and Mrs. DeBruijn downstairs. The attic feels comfortable, almost like home. Elliott Smith plays on my ipod and I journal in my moleskine. The day is done.

Photo: shiokaze_k

The smoking volcano Sakurajima is the first thing I see each morning, assuming the summer winds decide to offer a break from its showers of ash. I awake on the molded brown futon in my apartment in the heart of Yoshino, just north of Kagoshima city.

This has the fortune of allowing me easy access to my shigoto (company) on foot, by bike, or via the private bus, but makes it a little difficult to stay downtown after 10 PM, when the buses decide to take a break and let the taxi drivers make a living.

Running to the lookout point of Terayama Park every day almost guarantees me a great view of the sunrise over Kinko Bay. Nearly every local Japanese knows “that crazy foreigner who jogs uphill”… not quite half marathon distance, and I don’t even get to come home to a banana pancake breakfast, but fresh mutsu apples and insanely thick toast usually suffice.

Photo: laverrue

Unlike many foreigners in Japan, I do not teach English as a second language with the JET Program or with private companies like AEON, GEOS, and ECC. I was lucky to get assigned to Shin Nippon Biomedical Laboratories as a technical editor and international liaison, as my Japanese skills are sub-par and I was sneezing throughout the interview.

Life in a real Japanese corporation (but far from Tokyo) drew me to this position in Kagoshima, especially after teaching English my first year of residency.

My first order of business for the day of this prestigious assignment? Sneak up to the deserted 7th floor for a nap before the official start of work; I am such a lazy foreigner.

The daily grind. My job keeps me staring at a computer screen 90% of the time, checking over translated pharmaceutical reports and consulting with study directors over the best use of their English… fun fun.

Photo: author

I always make time to play catchup with my Matador articles and plan vacations to southern islands in Kagoshima prefecture like Ioujima, and Tanegashima.

The familiar song being broadcast over the intercom has the same effect as a man ringing a bell to call his dog: all employees drop their paperwork and scramble for the nearest food source. Hiruyasumi desu or, in layman’s terms, lunch.

Our office has a great cafeteria offering Japanese dishes, but on occasion, I brown bag it western-style from 2-3 import stores around the city; just try to find a turkey sandwich and a soft chocolate chip cookie outside of Tokyo, I challenge you!
If time remains and my head isn’t spinning from all that rice, I’ll head to the company hot springs (onsen), to soak my feet and avoid giant spiders that enjoy crawling around the bath.

Photo: kevin (iapetus)

In the winter months, it’s dark by the time the bus returns to take us home; I try to stare out the window at the green landscape surrounding the office and thank god I don’t work in the gray world of Tokyo. En route to town, I think of new exciting blog entries and more weekend plans… maybe catch up on my language studies with flash cards and read about current issues regarding racial discrimination in Japan.

The bus stops just north of the main shopping district, Tenmonkan (”heavenly building”). After a ritual 15-20 minute walk to Kagoshima Chuo Station, home of the shinkansen train line, the only movie theater in town, and the best gym in the prefecture, Seika, the sights are so commonplace I almost forget how amazing this country is: 100 yen stores, 8-year-old boys catching the bus home by themselves, no non-Japanese in sight (unless I catch my reflection), the essence of ramen spilling out behind curtained doors, the Buddhist monk extending his alms bowl…

Photo: David McKelvey

All that sitting at a desk and pent-up aggression is hammered out with an hour or two at the bench press. Maybe working out will increase my chances of meeting some nice Japanese lady folk… or maybe my foreignness is already enough for them. I’m certainly already well known around city of 700,000, as I can’t go a day in the gym without someone walking up to me and mentioning he or she saw me running/at the store/at the festival/on the bus. Strangely enough, encounters with with other expats are few and far between.

My stomach has been patient after a full day and extended workout, I always reward it western style at an adjacent restaurant, Pirouette. 1500 yen dinner set for soup, salad, meat, pasta, dessert, and a drink. Oishiyo! The waitstaff know me so well at this point they gave me a free round when my parents visited Japan, and if I sense that one particularly friendly waitress is in a good mood, I use the opportunity to practice a few Japanese phrases I had been reviewing on the bus and welcome her corrections in pronunciation.

The bus back to Yoshino is one of the oldest in service, with faded red interior and no digital signs. If I hadn’t gone to get buff, I’d probably just be toweling off after a long relaxing soak in Yoshino Onsen, a hot springs only five minutes’ walk from my apartment; this was especially welcome therapy after I broke my wrist. Maybe follow it up with some sushi from the rotating restaurant en route.

Photo: Nemo’s great uncle

My nights vary, but I’m usually back in my tiny apartment chilling the latest Daily Show and Colbert Report via high-speed internet by 10, blogging my latest thoughts, pitching new articles to Matador, and finalizing any weekend plans. I dream of all-you-can-drink specials and Shidax karaoke in Fukuoka, and plans to visit Amami Oshima during Golden Week holiday. I’m in Japan, the land of comfort and convenience.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/maynard/123711875/

Feature Photo: Roberat Photos: author

My day starts on the balcony with a hot mug of coffee. I watch the leaves falling (or filling in, depending on the season). It’s quiet. The coffee is bitter.

Later, I head back in, fix some breakfast, and sit at the computer reading e-papers, blogs and following cricket scores. Sometimes my husband, whose day starts much earlier than mine, leaves me links and videos; again, mostly cricket related.

Between breakfast and the reading, I run through a number of chores; the juggling keeps me from getting lazy. For a very long time I believed that once I grew up, I’d automatically do grown up things (read clean, mop, dust, etc.). The bubble burst violently.

Now, between how-to articles and op-ed pieces I dry out the damp towel, plump cushions and clear the kitchen counter. I also try writing for at least two hours every morning (usually between nine and eleven). It’s not so much writing as scribbling. And there’s a lot of staring (at the computer, outside the window at the seven dwarfs guarding the neighbour’s garden, at nowhere in particular). Sometimes I just watch episodes of The Office.

A quick lunch and a bit of eye-liner later, I head to the town centre. It’s a ten minute walk that takes me across a park, through a tree lined residential street and up to a square named after Britain (this is where I buy my flowers).

The main road is busy, trams and cars squeeze between two tight lanes. At times cars are left parked in the middle of the street (with the blinkers on) while drivers get a pack of smokes or run to the ATM, creating impromptu jams.

Zagreb isn’t a cosmopolitan city, and people of colour tend to stand out. I stand out. It used to unnerve me at first these curious glances. But that’s all they really are. Curious. And never anything harsh. The children of course are thrilled. Their excitement is almost amusing. They whisper. I smile. They blush.

I stop at my favourite cafe (I have one each for warm weather and cold) and order in my uncomfortable Croatian. English is widely spoken here and it makes me lazy; I tend to slip back into English at the first hint of a road block.

The cafes, of course, are always busy (Always!) and most of the tables are taken. Life here is very laid-back. A bit too laid back for a city. No one rushes and eventually everything gets done. It’s taken a bit of time to adjust to this nema problema attitude. I’m still learning. I read. I write. I watch the people around me – chestnut vendors (in warm weather they roast corn), people staring out of passing trams, the musician at the street corner and clusters of teens smoking (clones if I didn’t know better).

The rest of the afternoon I tend to whatever comes up – Croatian lessons, coffee dates, ironing, research and writing, preparing for dinner, which is usually around seven; if the weather’s good we eat on the balcony. If it’s bad we eat in front of the TV (watching Spin City re-runs). When we get lazy, we head out for a meal, a toss-up between Italian, Thai or Greek food, but always with Croatian wine.

The day finally ends in a novel (currently Vikram Chandra’s Sacred Games), bookmarked on the nightstand till the next day.

Feature and Above Photo: fukagawa

8 am

Shouts, giggles, and the rhythmic thud of a ball kicked against the wall grow louder while I fight to remain asleep. After a hollered conversation with their mother, followed by much slamming of doors, the kids next door leave for school. Adi watches their silhouettes dart across our fogged window. Her tail thumps a few times before she lowers her head.

9 am

“Good mor–ning…dum dum dum…”

I shut off my cell phone before the alarm can reach the chorus of “It’s a beautiful day!” Through the window I can hear the woman next to us cleaning dishes.

Our own breakfast is cooked millet with apples and bananas. I stand at the stove while Josh and Adi head out for a short walk. Breakfast is followed by a discussion about how we shouldn’t go out for coffee.

10 am

We go out for coffee.

Our neighborhood is small, old, and very traditional. Gardens are crammed in between apartment buildings, filled with greens and kimchi urns awaiting burial. Older women peeling garlic lean against the brick walls surrounded by piles of dirt-caked roots.

There aren’t many cafes here. But the subway station is a fifteen minute walk away, in another neighborhood that looks as if someone cut a tiny slice of Seoul out and plopped it down here like a piece of decadent gâteau on a plate of rice. There are dozens of cafes, nearly half of them open and all but empty.

Even on a late weekday morning, the shops draw a large crowd of eager shoppers, but coffee drinking is more of an afternoon social activity than a morning necessity.

Sometimes we sit and watch the crowds pass, other times we bring our laptops and get started on the emails that were sent from the other side of the world while we slept. If we sit outside, we might see a still-drunk ajuma stumble by, ranting or laughing, sometimes both.

11am

Feature and Above Photo: avlxyz

Back in our neighborhood, I head out to pick up ingredients for lunch. A few blocks away, our street morphs into a long, crowded market, lined with grains, produce, and a wide variety of pickled things. The man who sells the millet chats with me, interpreting my occasional “neh” and “kam-sa-ham-ni-da” as fluency. The woman at my produce booth says nothing, just watches and smiles as I point out garlic, zucchini, and carrots to add to my sack.

12 pm

I prepare lunch, which is nearly always sticky rice or soba noodles topped with stir-fried veggies and tofu, soy sauce or red pepper paste, and the ubiquitous fried egg. Or we walk to our favorite kimbap restaurant, where I typically get dolsot bibimbap; similar to what I make at home, but masterfully prepared.

Lunch is followed by a quick round of floor cleaning that is vital when one shares a tiny apartment with a labrador that sheds in defiance of seasonal rules.

1 pm – 3 pm

I set up my steel drum and practice. Sometimes it’s in preparation for upcoming gigs, sometimes I work on the type of nitty-gritty things that I learned in college, forgot, and now miss desperately. No matter what I play, I’ve got back-up. Adi sits on the bed with perfect choral posture, head back, mouth round in song.

When I take the headphones off she stops immediately, but I can hear the near and distant howls of her friends passing on the word. Music truly is the universal language, even with dogs.

4 pm – 6 pm

I write. Usually I pack up my laptop and head to a cafe, or sometimes I head to the PC Bang if it isn’t crawling with kids. I try to split my time between my articles and fiction, although some days one dominates the other.

6 pm

Photo: davidsethp

Adi and I head out for our afternoon walk. Not far from the train station is a beautiful park surrounding a lake, with walking trails all the way around. We pass the recreation area filled with tai chi classes and ellipticals and join the clusters of people, mostly older, out for their late afternoon stroll around the water.

7 pm

More writing. Admittedly, this time it’s accompanied by a bit of blog browsing, forum chatting, and other wonderful means of procrastination the Internet offers.

8 pm

More practice. Adi is still too spent from the walk to join the chorus, and I play as quietly as possible. Through the window, I can hear the woman back in the kitchen preparing dinner. We both know by the sounds of a tinny melody that her children have abandoned their homework for hand phone games.

9 pm

Dinner is take-out from the kimbap restaurant, or from the lady selling dumplings down the street if she’s open. Whatever we have, it’s followed by fruit (strawberries, if we’re lucky) and yogurt. If they’re in season I might juice a few pears; perfectly round, brown, and roughly the size of a baby’s head, these are nothing like the pears I grew up eating. Juiced with a bit of ginger, they make an amazing drink.

10 pm

One more stroll, this time sans dog. We walk all the way down our street to the market, which is closed and empty. There are no lights, and water drips from the enormous black canopy that hangs overhead, even if it hasn’t rained in days. We step around puddles of water and pickle juice.

I think about how in any other place I’ve ever lived, a walk at this time on an alley that looks like this would be daring, if not outright stupid. But the shadows of this dark, wet street hide nothing more sinister than a cat looking for scraps.

11 pm

One last email check as most everyone we know wakes up and starts the day we’ve finished. We are completely surrounded by apartments, and although it is never noisy, the light shuffling noises and creaking doors remind me of sleeping in a house crowded with family for the holidays.

Feature and article photos: author Above photo: vandelizer

Live sports over breakfast, coffee shop communities and green spaces – all part of a day in the life in Sydney.

I currently come from the Land Down Under, and sure enough I often feel like my daily schedule is rather upside down. Each morning I go out to our balcony to take in the sun and pinch myself; it really is 70-odd degrees and sunny nearly every day here, even in the winter.

Next I’ll check the live scores of American sports games. I’m a diehard Boston fan, but I’ll happily watch any baseball or football game airing on one of the 10 sports channels in this insanely sporty country. Aussies prefer rugby, soccer, cricket, surfing, swimming, more rugby, lawn bowling, and field hockey over our national pastimes, but there are a guaranteed five baseball games on per week and when I’m lucky at least one will feature the Red Sox.

It’s always strange to watch a live night game while I’m eating my cereal and still rubbing the sand from my eyes.

Around 11am I head to the café across the street to write and catch up on news. I’ve traveled to France, Italy and Austria – places I once considered coffee capitals of the world – but none held a candle to the coffee-crazed culture of Australians. In the U.S. we’re led to believe Aussies mainline Fosters, but cafes are ubiquitous here. This hit home when I attended a rugby match and the line for espresso stretched longer that the beer queue.

There are five cafes within a minute of our doorstep, each teeming with locals eager to cough up four bucks for a cup of rich caffeination. Aussies have their own terms for coffee; a “flat white” is espresso layered with steamed milk and topped with froth. It’s far richer and more velvety than the best latte you ever had at Starbucks. A “long black” is espresso with water added, but it, too, is richer (and much stronger!) than American drip coffee, and topped with a delicate layer of foamy crema.

The only thing Australian cafes lack is real iced coffee (like any Bostonian, I’m a Dunkin Donuts junkie); here it’s a pre-fabricated, creamy confection that’s topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Besides the caffeine fix and free Wi-Fi (a luxury in this country, where the Internet companies cap our monthly downloads), I love my local café for its sense of community. Every cheerful staff member greets me by name – it took two months to get used to the typical Aussie query, “How you going, Kate?” (never “How’s IT going” or “How are you DOING?) – and I genuinely look forward to our daily exchanges.

I’m happy to be here yet still feel pangs of loneliness; this one daily constant definitely ameliorates my homesickness. Especially the bubbly manager/surrogate mom who plies me with (free!) fresh brownies and famous Australian meat pies.

In the afternoon I try to combine errands with walks through one of Sydney’s many green spaces. Rushcutters Bay Park, Centennial Park, Hyde Park, and the amazing Royal Botanic Gardens are all within strolling distance, but even the narrow streets are lined with sweet-smelling eucalyptus trees and other flowers. I’ve received strange looks more than once for pausing at a bus stop or a nondescript corner to inhale a particularly fragrant pocket of air; I wish I could explain to people the novelty of this after living in New York.

I run errands to the butcher, the baker, and independent greengrocers because supermarkets here carry limited, subpar product compared to the fresh meat and produce that Australia is known for (and quite proud of). I’m mostly vegetarian, and sometimes wonder if I favor “avos” (avocadoes), “rocket” (Mesclun greens), “ba-NAH-nuhs” and “capsicums” (green peppers) simply because their Aussie names are so fun to say.

My husband marvels at the fresh pork and beef here that he’d need to procure from a pricey boutique butcher in New York. And of course he enjoys the novelty of grilling kangaroo meat (don’t worry, kangaroos are like deer in the U.S., they’re common to the point of being a road nuisance).

I run errands in the afternoon because almost every shop closes by 6pm, and many aren’t open on weekends. At least our local supermarket stays open till midnight, which is fortunate since I’ve made many a late-night run to pick up cereal (an exorbitant $7/box) or addictive chocolate treats like Tim Tams and Lamingtons. I maintain that Tim Tams – two layers of malted chocolate cookie wrapped around a light cream filling, then coated in more chocolate – are Australia’s greatest export.

At dusk I like to enjoy a glass of wine on our balcony. Again, coming from New York, the space and fresh air are a daily joy for me. I particularly love watching and listening to the shocking variety of birds that streak across the pink sky, even here in the inner-city.

Cockatoos’ shrieks are like nails on a chalkboard, but they get a pass because they’re just so damn cool-looking! Magpies chirp, mynas coo uncannily like babies, and lorikeets look like flying rainbows. I never thought I’d become such a bird enthusiast.

We’ll often have dinner on Victoria Street, from which we’re lucky to live around the corner. Sydneysiders say it has more Thai restaurants per square meter than anywhere else in the world…even Bangkok. And in fact I usually get Thai food about three times a week. When we first got here I tried a new curry every day: chuu chee, massaman, jungle…the kaffir lime and coconut flavors dance on my tongue here like they never did in New York.

When the weather’s nice we like to barbecue on the balcony. That stereotype is not untrue, Australians LOVE their barbies. There are BBQ superstores, BBQ tv shows, BBQ accessory sections at the supermarket…and with great weather and an abundance of locally-produced meat and veggies, why not? We arrived here jaded New Yorkers, but it didn’t take long to understand Aussies’ easy affability and exuberance. Life here is inescapably good.

Community Connection

Interested in submitting your expat story? Send it to sarah@matadornetwork.com with “A Day in the Life of an Expat in…” in the subject line.

]]> http://matadorabroad.com/a-day-in-the-life-of-an-expat-in-sydney-australia/feed/ 7 http://matadorabroad.com/a-day-in-the-life-of-an-expat-in-salta-argentina/ http://matadorabroad.com/a-day-in-the-life-of-an-expat-in-salta-argentina/#comments Mon, 26 Oct 2009 13:59:37 +0000 Leigh Shulman http://matadorabroad.com/?p=2410

Feature Photo: morrissey Photo: Emi

I’m a very new expat, only a few months living here in Salta, so for me, much of my day entails getting used to how things work. It’s a lot of little details.

I get up in the morning, get my daughter Lila ready for school. She wears a uniform, so that makes it much easier. No choices of clothing to worry about. The city has been doing work on our street lately, so often we wake up to an apartment — a temporary one until we find a more permanent place to live – without electricity or water.

Today, my internet isn’t working, so I’ll have to pack up my stuff soon and find a café with Wifi. They’re lovely. Lots of tables, plenty of places to plug in, coffee always comes with a cookie and glass of water. This is easy.

Other things, not so much. Going to the gym. Supermarket. Finding a house or apartment to rent. Even the smell of the cleaner in the bathroom is different. Speaking Spanish, too, I’m usually a sentence or two behind in comprehension. While I enjoy the feeling of strange, especially when traveling, it can be exhausting on a day to day basis. I often feel like I’m moving underwater.

By lunchtime, I’ll stop work when Lila comes home for lunch and siesta. It’s been surprisingly difficult getting used to this. You’d think a relaxing lunch with the family and then a nap would be enjoyable, and one day I hope it will be. Mostly, though, I find it frustrating because I can’t get anything done.

No one rushes here for anything. Again, a really lovely thing, in theory, but when you come from a get-it, buy-it, do-it-now culture, it’s hard to slow down.

Community Connection

And you? Where do you live? What’s your daily routine? We’re looking for submissions about A Day in the Life of An Expat in …. For more days in the life, check out A Day in the Life of An Expat in Oaxaca, Mexico.

Photos: author

When we first go abroad, it’s often for the sheer plunge; the fear and thrill of falling. But when we stay, I think it’s for the little things.

Musculation.

A sense of smell.

The game of language.

Small, brilliant absurdities.

Walks (even better with dogs).

A refined ear for accents.

Getting to know the neighborhood.

There are so many others. For me:

Popsicles. Real popsicles with real coconut.

Light. The way the light changes from late afternoon to evening. I’ve never found a light like that anywhere but Oaxaca.

Graffiti. Bizarre, fantastic, local. Pedro Infante with an enormous sombrero. Dancing grinning orange skeletons.

The memela lady. The way the tortillas puff up on the comal.

The young dudes singing unabashedly to their iPods, walking down the street with a full-on groove going on.

The 5 o’clock coffee.

And you? Keep adding your own, below.

Photos: author

7:30 a.m. :

Wake up. Take the dog out, stroll down our cobblestone street that rises up slightly from the city, allowing a view of early morning clouds rising over churches. It’s chilly. The light is subdued shades of whale white and blue, sometimes a faint orange edging its way in at the horizon.

Come back inside, make coffee. Write. Try to ignore my email as long as possible.

9 a.m. :

Take the dog running. Up the brutal arching back of the Cerro Fortin to the dirt road that winds around the mountainside and up and up with a view of the pine-coated Sierra Norte to the north and the expansive yellow-green valley to the south.

There’s nobody up here at this hour. Let the dog off of the leash, think about how crucial running is to writing, how it’s this necessary physical and mental release.

10 a.m. :

Go to the market for juice. “Amigocha!” shouts the juice guy, “how’s the Stella?” Stella is panting on the market floor. He blends fresh orange and mandarin juice, sometimes with strawberries. People shuffle in and out of the market, in and out of the rising sun and the shade filled with smells and heaps of food; huitlacoche, chicozapotes, epazote, yierbasanta, things you can’t find in the U.S.

I buy avocados from the same woman everyday. She’s curt but sometimes she gives me a fourth for the price of three.

11 a.m :

Huevos con chipotle, our current brunch of choice. Brunch is the best meal of the day and I try to make it extravagant. Oftentimes it’s a big scramble of squash flowers, chile poblano, chipotle, huevos, red onion, tomatoes and avocado, complimented by red pepper bread from the German bakery.

We eat and watch the hummingbird, Fred, who we dubbed Fred at a party a long time ago and somehow can’t un-dub Fred despite the fact that she now has three babies, feed her children. We peek out the windowsill very carefully after she takes off to watch the blind babies maw at the air. We look for Fred up in the bougainvillas.

12 – 5 p.m. :

Write, read, research, catch up on emails and blogs and Matador, swap ideas back and forth over my shoulder with Jorge, look out in procrastination at the blue amphitheater of sky which shows no trace of the morning’s softness, coolness, ambiguity.

3 -4 p.m.

Popsicle man comes. One coconut, one walnut, with real coconut and walnut chunks packed in. We chat for a bit about the heat and he always says, “que te vaya bien, guera,” a Mexican goodbye I love, meaning, “may you go well,” with the implication that you’re always going somewhere.

5 p.m. :

Take the dog out for a walk. The city is relaxing now, easing into evening, and I get a coffee and stroll up the andador. Tourists, usually big groups of pastel-and-visor-wearing Europeans, are taking photos of Santo Domingo, and sometimes their guide ventures forth to pet the Stella.

The Germans love Stella. They come up and speak to her in what I can only guess is German baby talk. I never really associated German Shepherds with Germany, always figured it was one of those things like French fries that had roots in a place but had long since lost them, but it seems Germans and the Stella have a thing for each other.

We keep up the andador and pass the pirate CD stands where Lila Downs or Vicente Fernandez is playing, or sometimes a bizarre Mexican Bob Dylan cover, and hippie viajeros sell their leather bracelets and beaded jewelry. They have drums and dreads.

We pass the fruit man selling mangos, oranges, cucumbers, jicamas in chile. He looks embarrassed every time I say hello even though I do it every day.

We do a tour around the Conzatti park and the Llano park where kids stop riding their bikes and stare at the dog in awe, and where one day, only one day in all of our walks, a little girl came running up and said,

“Yo soy Angela Gloria Martinez Gonazales y amo los perros” and proceeded to grab the dog’s head and hug her. Stella is a sweetheart and loves affection but parents used to seeing dogs foaming at the mouth and hurling themselves against fences don’t assume this, and I thought her father was going to faint on the spot. But Stella and Angela Gloria Martinez Gonazales bonded, and the dad stepped back for a bit, cautious and curious.

6 p.m. :

Go the Miscelanea for beers. Carry a big green woven bag like the señoras carry to the market full of envases, the empty bottles you have to bring back to the store to exchange. If you don’t bring the envases you’ve gotta pay 5 or 10 pesos more per bottle. This is a lot for a young writer scraping bits and pieces together to get by.

I hand over the envases and the man brings a couple of Bohemias out of the big freezer and puts them in the bag. Sometimes I cave and buy garlic peanuts and jalapeño kettle chips.

7 p.m.:

Jorge and I have beers. Talk. Plan. Dream up road trips around the Oaxacan Coast and houses we’d build deep in the Sierra. Start cooking a big mix of local veggies and heating tortillas, or:

8 p.m. :

Go for tlayudas. The place is an old house with a big square courtyard bordered by the rooms and the kitchen where the family lives.

Grandma shuffles in and out of the kitchen in a woven dress, socks, and an apron while the middle-aged couple who run the tlayuda business spread the big tortillas with bean paste, cheese, sliced onions, and lettuce, and stick our chorizo wrapped in aluminum foil underneath the charcoal.

The kids meander in and out of their rooms and the kitchen, sometimes coming over to put salsa or napkins on our table. The tlayudas come twenty or so minutes later, the giant grilled tortilla crispy, the chorizo sizzling hot, the beans and cheese and onions with a poignancy you just don’t find outside of Mexico.

9 p.m. :

Walk back home. The lights on the hillsides glimmer against an enveloping midnight blue and always remind me of the first overnight bus I took to get here when I had no idea where or how anything was. I can still feel that initial surge of mystery and adrenaline walking home, even when I walk the same streets everyday.

10 p.m:

Firecrackers pop, the sound of horns from distant fiestas drifts over the house, and we fade off into sleep.

And you? I’m putting out a call for submissions for “A Day in the Life of an Expat in…” Where are you living? What’s a typical day there like for you? I’d like to explore the kinds of routines we develop living abroad; the ways in which the exotic becomes routine but also maintains a vividness, a foreignness, perhaps a trace of mystery.

Do not send thrilling tales of adventure on the high seas. Plunk us down into an average day in your life – sights, smells, sounds, experiences, popsicle men, bus drivers, neighbors, students. Send submissions, under 1000 words, to Sarah(at)Matadornetwork.com with “A Day in the Life of an Expat in ….” In the subject line.

Feature Photo: worak Photo: Just Taken Pic’s

Things are a little different in Mexico than in, say, the U.S or Europe. Here, the gas truck blares its jingle out of a gigantic static-y loudspeaker every morning; here, the term “ahorita” (right now) refers to an occasion 3-6 hours down the road (or maybe mañana).

It may seem pathetically obvious that yes, when one lives in Mexico, things—like time and noise and customer service—are a little different. But believe me, the longer the expat is away from home, the more shocking and abrasive this concept is. It’s a travel paradox.

You see, a pattern I’ve noticed with expats – and I’m referring here to expats who’ve chosen to settle in developing countries – is that the longer they actually live overseas, the more the differences get to them, until expats start referring to the locals with a condescending “they” as if they were an alien race that had somehow invaded the streets of the quaint, pretty little Mexican town or the upscale Beijing neighborhood where these expats had previously lived in much deserved tranquility.

I am terrified of becoming one of these they-sayers. It is a very easy trap to fall into. I think the longer expats stick around a place like Mexico, the more a sense of entitlement starts to creep over them (ok, fine, I’m including myself in the “them”) and the more they start to feel indignant if they’re not greeted with a smile and served their coffee within the allotted corporate three minute time slot.

This is scary for the following reasons:

A) because it reeks of imperialism

B) because it makes expats into hypocritical assholes

Why do many expats move to developing countries? I think for many, the answer is one of the following:

a) I’m tired of capitalist-consumer U.S workaholic culture

b) I want something more “real”: all sorts of problematic ideologies behind this but hey, I can identify with it. Some sort of relationship with people that feels more natural than, “And would you like a blueberry nut bar with that, sir?”

c) I like colorful walls/coffee/the laid-back pace of life/the challenge of another culture/the insanity of a big foreign city/the freedom to enjoy things like blue sky and learning another language and a sense of community

d) I want to be more aware of everything around me and want that jolt of travel and excitement that comes from sipping a 10 peso beer in a darkened Mexican cantina on Friday afternoon

e) Life where I’m from is boring, is a given, is simply too routine, and/or I don’t fit in

Great. So a second home abroad gives one or all of these experiences to expats, and also – many times – gives them an incredibly reduced cost of living and the freedom, in my case, to live as a starving artist without quite starving and with the ability to even afford a whole liter (!) jug of Corona from time to time. Cool.

So why all the bitching? And why does it increase the longer one is away from home, when one should supposedly, be increasingly tolerant of cultural differences?

I remember a fellow teacher at the language school where I taught in Oaxaca going on a rampage about a BranFruit bar. BranFruit bars, for your information, are nasty, mangy little turds of granola bars cemented together with neon-colored “jam.” They are mass-produced by Bimbo, your friendly neighborhood junk food corporation. Why in the world it occurred to this girl that BranFruits would be a healthy local breakfast, I don’t know. Is Mexico known for specializing in fibrous granola bars? No.

But these are the kinds of things that, after awhile, get to expats. She was ranting and raving about how unhealthy the food was here and how they couldn’t even make a frickin’ granola bar right. And the thing was, I sympathized with her. I was irritated because people walk veerrrrrrryyyy slowly and I walk with the rapid, every-second-of-my-day-is-filled-with-purpose stride of the Busy American. I’d zoomed around who knows how many meandering grandmas and school kids on my way to work (after leaving home, as usual, with exactly 16 minutes for a 30 minute walk.)

So I could identify with the BranFruit rage. But at the same time identify it as disturbing. This is my Number One Fear as an expat: the creeping sense of entitlement, the outrage, the sense of being offended by the very same things—cultural differences—that caused me to come here in the first place.

Of course, I should insert a disclaimer here saying that some things, of course, merit complaining—serious racial or sexual discrimination, being harmed or mugged, being manipulated or taken advantage of… But I think the average expat has the intellectual capacity to distinguish between basic cultural differences and these other, more individual or wider societal issues.

So what is an expat like myself, worried about falling prey to the expat conundrum, to do? Remember why I came in the first place—because I can spend Saturday afternoons playing Scrabble in old railway stations surrounded by palm trees, because I like the way “ay, cabron!!” can have ten different meanings, because people are honest and funny and straightforward and because really, there is nothing better than a sizzling clay pot of chilaquiles after a long night on the town.

Community Connection

Is travel really just consumption, anyway? Add your thoughts at Travel Torture: Personal Implications of Cultural Consumption. Are you an expat with animosity towards tourists? Take a look at Tourists, Expats, and That Fragile Sense of Belonging. Seasoned expat? Do you know the six characters you’ll meet at every expat bar?

Photos: author

Normally “routine” – at least in my world – has negative connotations. It invokes a dread of dull, grinding monotony. There is no more depressing expression than “day in, day out:” as if life was just going through the turnstiles, again and again.

But routine has entirely different meanings traveling. It’s a new learning curve, it’s paradoxically novel. I think sometimes you can learn more from establishing a routine than from jumping from here to there on a frenetic traveling binge. And the process of settling into a routine is one of the most gratifying and revealing processes that unfolds after moving to a new place.

In Japan I loved the morning subway ride to work. There were the blank-faced salarymen hanging onto the loops dangling from the ceiling. The perfectly made up girls in sheer pantyhose and heels, fast asleep, lolling ever so slightly side to side in some restless underground dream. The school kids in uniforms staring into space, staring down at their feet.

I never thought I’d work 9-6, and three months was probably the threshold for how long I could stand it without becoming one of those blank-faced types walking in circles in the subway station whispering to herself. But while they lasted, those three months were brilliant – I loved the feeling of being done at six and coming out of the Sakae station into a bustling evening, feeling exhausted and relieved and still somewhat alert since everything, even after months there, was still so new.

Eventually that newness was paired with familiarity – a paradoxical combo that creates, for me, the greatest traveling feeling.

Weekends captured this like nothing else in Japan. After so many strange teaching schedules and a year of freelancing, weekends were unexpected gifts this new routine had coughed up.

Saturdays were precious. In the summer in Japan it gets light around 5, and I always seemed to get up around this time, despite the debauchery of the night before. I suppose this has always been a Sarah curse/blessing. Mornings are my time of day.

The city felt so quiet. I’d to the Circle K to get milk, or roam a bit in the Osu Kannon area, waiting for the supermarket to open. An occasional bike would breeze by, the sun would do its morning thing, coming out and disappearing behind clouds, and I’d get this detached, luxurious feeling of freedom.

There are lots of ways to define the passing of time, and weekdays vs. weekends has never been my preferred method. But I must say that in this routine, weekends were sweeter than a fat persimmon. Than a beer after six straight hours of classes. Than finding black sesame at the 100 yen shop. They were the crème de la crème of luxury.

But now, back in Mexico, weekends have faded into a wider swath of time. It’s not necessarily a bad thing – just another routine that’s petered out and become part of the nostalgia for a particular place from the past.

Transitory routine. A travel paradox. At some point I’ll have to reconcile the love of getting settled with the love of leaving, the love of routine with the love of novelty, the desire for newness with the desire for familiarity. Or not.

Standing atop Cerro Tunari, Cochabamba / Photo: foxtwo

It’s pronounced “Bs.”

We’re talking currency here—the Boliviano—and every English-speaking foreigner you meet is gonna use the term.

Photo: jaytkendall

You might think it sounds pretentious at first. You might even take a silent vow: “There’s no way I’m jumping on that bandwagon.”

So you’ll struggle by with the clunky “Boliviano” for a bit. Or do as many locals and call it a peso.

But before long you’ll come around—they all do—chiming in with the rest: “I just bought a bag of 25 oranges for only 4 Bs!”

Every outlet sparks.

“Yikes!” I said the first time I plugged in my laptop, meeting a loud pop and two very large, very golden sparks.

“Don’t worry,” a roommate returned. “They all do that.” And it’s true.

So, no, you haven’t fried your MacBook. You’re just in Bolivia.

Bus rides can get hairy.

This may go without saying in a country that’s home to the World’s Most Dangerous Road, but for a while I was fooled.

Some major highways are paved, and the buses running them could even be mistaken for luxurious once in a while.

Photo: zaturno

But venture off the primary trucking routes and things get ugly fast.

Before you know it, you’ll be having your own “Bolivian bus experience”—the one where you can’t tell if your teeth are chattering from the crap road or the drafty window, the chola who took up residence in the aisle three hours ago has fallen asleep with her bowler-hatted head on your thigh, and the bus breaks down—right on cue—in the middle of a frigid Altiplano night.

Fun stories afterwards—not so fun while you’re there.

Spanish isn’t just your second language.

In many parts of South America’s most “indigenous” nation, the long arm of castellano has yet to reach—or maybe was amputated due to frostbite.

If you’re heading deep into the jungle or off the beaten path on the Altiplano, your halting Spanish isn’t going to be the biggest language barrier you face.

Aymara and Quechua are two native tongues that, along with Spanish, are recognized as official, but there are about 35 others in varying degrees of use.

Photo: Aya Padron

Prepare to get high.

Even if you don’t stop into the cocaine bar.

La Paz is at 3,660 meters (12,000 feet) above sea level. If you take on the Southwest Circuit, you’ll be even higher.

It’s easy to brush off the potential effects of soroche before you arrive, but it hits the majority of visitors in one way or another.

Remember to follow the local advice: “Camina lentito, come poquito, duerme solito.” (Walk slowly, eat lightly, sleep by your lonesome.)

Sometimes, Internet lines “blow up.”

“Why’s the Internet down?” I asked the director of my volunteer program one day.

“I just called the company,” he replied. “They said a broadband transmission line somewhere in the Amazon blew up.”

“…Oh.”

The story wasn’t confirmed, and probably never happened. But the fact is, in Bolivia, it could have been true.

There are no McDonald’s. No Starbucks.

Photo: RastaChango

If all of the above has transpired and you’re longing for a taste of home—too bad. There are no golden arches, no green…whatevers, to provide the fix. Maybe a Burger King if you’re lucky.

But hey, suck it up. Run down the street to the market, pick up a handful of paltas to make guacamole, some llama steaks for the grill, and a few liters of Taquiña to wash it down. Come on, it’ll run ya like 30 Bs.

Life is good. You’re in Bolivia.

Community Connection

For more news out of Bolivia, check out these Matador titles:

Big Bolivian Sunsets: Interview with Photographer Ron Dubin

Bolivia to Become World Battery Capital?

The Bolivian Referendum: Watershed Moment or Politics as Usual?

Feature Photo: Jen SFO BCN Photo: sethw

Living abroad is the act of cultivating a sense of superiority to “the tourists.”

Travelers (who often consider themselves the cultured half of the supposed traveler/tourist dichotomy) try to pull off this superiority to tourists as well, but at the end of the day they have to admit that they have no idea what the price of tomatoes per kilo is or how to pronounce zempoalxochitl.

It’s those who are quasi-local, who have plants, cook and have managed the general grid layout of the town, who really perfect their scorn for tourists.

Expat treatment of tourists ranges from gentle condescension, as if the tourists were dense, pitiful, overweight children, to outright contempt, as if the tourists were an invasion of parasites sucking all the authenticity out of local culture. But in very rare cases does the expat actually see a reflection of him/herself in a tourist.

Photo: Ed Yourdon

Ah, but the reality is, folks, that at some point in time even the most seasoned expat was standing on some street corner looking dumbly in each direction and being silently condemned by Those Who Got There Earlier. Yet expats seem particularly quick to throw together a hierarchy, and they defend it like dogs defending the pack order.

The eager study abroad student is at the bottom of the ladder. Then come the English teachers, then the newer retired people, then the older retired people, then the newer retired artists, then the older retired artists. You can jump a few rungs in the hierarchy by virtue of participation in revolutionary politics or marriage to a local.

So what’s the purpose of all this if, at the end of the day, the study abroad student, the artist with his eco-hacienda, and the group of straw-hatted retired folks who’ve been here for twenty years are all foreigners?

I think it has something to do with a sense of vulnerability inherent to the experience of living in another country, in another culture. For as much as you may dress in huipiles and explain the subtle differences between mezcales, you’re still an outsider. Even the huarache-wearing down-with-the-people revolutionary living in the barrios outside of town is, at the end of the day, foreign.

Photo: another sergio

And while, in my experience, Mexico’s got nothing on Asia as far as making foreigners feel foreign is concerned, there are still walls—economic, social, cultural. And occasionally, foreigners bristle at the presence of those walls.

Hence, the vulnerability—who knows when that occasion will come, just when you feel that you’re in the intimate little cave of culture, huddled round the campfire with everybody else, when suddenly BOOM a wall goes up and you realize that nope, you’re actually outside looking in.

I don’t want to give the impression here that expats can never truly belong to or be part of a local culture. No, not at all. But belonging is a precarious and fluctuating state of being, not a constant.

And perhaps feeling that, consciously or unconsciously, expats throw up an extra wall between themselves and tourists. So that at least if the wall gets thrown up between them and Mexicans, well, they’re still not outside the moat yet. There’s a big ol’ wall between them and the tourists in white tube socks and sandals.

And an even bigger wall, expats are quick to point out, between them and the big dude in the San Diego T-shirt drinking Negra Modelo out of a can in front of Santo Domingo at 3 p.m. and shouting “Honey! Take me a picture!”

Photo: Garry Knight

All those tourists are reminders, sometimes subtle, sometimes painful, of the essential expat vulnerability.

I’m waxing on about this because yesterday was one of those days when that vulnerability came on sudden and unexpected.

I went roaming around Oaxaca’ s various libraries, searching for inspiration in old atlases and yellowing history books. Didn’t find inspiration, but definitely confronted my outsiderness.

I can’t describe exactly where the feeling comes from, but suddenly it’s there—standing in the weighted silence of a library room with a bunch of school girls giggling and whispering behind their hands, the librarian staring out of the corner of her eye, people shuffling past and casting a sideways glance…and the vulnerability becomes palpable, like a shift in the air.

It’s hard to shake once it’s there, and it throws off one’s sense of balance. The urge is to mentally shout, but no, I live here! Really! I speak Spanish! I’m not….dum da dum dum…a tourist!

But really, isn’t this vulnerability and this outsiderness part of what makes us go abroad in the first place? To see everything, the most minute details, with freshness, with exhilaration?

I ran into a group of tourists later that day on the andador in the center of town, and stood behind them as they took photos of Santo Domingo. For the first time in awhile, I stepped back and craned my neck to admire the cathedral. It was huge and imposing, glowing with late afternoon light, set against one of those impeccably blue Oaxacan skies. How could it have been so long since I’d looked at it?

Feature Photo: db*photography Photo: jakeliefer

The other morning I went to the market with the dog to buy some avocados.

There was a foreign woman buying veggies from the same stall. She cast a few glances at the dog, a big female German Shepherd, and asked,

“Amable?”

“Yes, she’s very nice, you can say hello to her,” I replied in Spanish.

The woman bent over and greeted my Stella, who responded with kisses and happy grunts and a near belly-flop. When she stood back up, I said to her in English,

“Have you tried huitlacoche?”

Then I got the look.

It’s the “why are you speaking to me in English” glare of wounded pride and condescension. The woman responded with something along the lines of “what how is?”

Photo: dionhinchcliffe

I tried to explain in Spanish about the concept of mushroom corn fungus and how to cook it, but that wasn’t going so well, so I took a risky political line and jumped back to English. The explanation got through then, but the woman was obviously insulted and we parted ways without either of us sharing any goodbyes or further info.

This got me to thinking about the politics of English overseas. Why, I wonder, are foreigners so often insulted when other foreigners speak to them in English? I’ve never understood the purpose of having a tedious conversation that one or both parties only half-understand when they both speak English and could glide on by just fine in that language.

I took a controversial stance on this in France, when I was studying abroad and it was all the rage to speak nothing but French all the time, even with a fellow group of Americans whose French sounded, at best, like a heavily accented Wisconsinte reading sentences by rote out of a grammar book and, at worst, like garbled, frustrated baby talk.

What are you learning in that encounter? I argued. How to mimic each others’ painfully flat American accents?

We’re practicing our French, they’d reply, with the same haughty and irritated look the market woman shot me.

And I’d contest, Do you really think it’s helping your French to talk about how many brothers and sisters you have with other American French students?

But still, I’d often find myself in situations in which I overheard several Americans having a brutally basic and torturous conversation like the following:

“What’s your favorite color?”

“I like blue. And you?”

“I like yellow. Yes, yellow. Yellow is be nice.”

I thought this was just the bane of overly eager study abroad students. But I’ve discovered that it’s a widespread traveler phenomena. Especially in Mexico, American tourists will get irritated if I speak to them in English, even if it’s to clarify something they don’t understand.

Once, I went to go grab a beer with a traveler who spoke basic to intermediate Spanish. There were plenty of things I wanted to talk about–Mexican politics, her perceptions and experiences, who she’d met…but she insisted from the beginning on talking solely in Spanish, and half the conversation was spent on waiting until three word sentences about what she liked and didn’t like came together.

There’s nothing wrong with speaking in Spanish or French or the local language, and certainly nothing wrong with squeezing in as much practice as possible when studying a language. And with native speakers, for sure, give all your energy to muscling up those language skills.

But what I find bizarre is the insistence of certain travelers on speaking a second language with a fellow native English speaker when the said travelers obviously don’t speak that second language well enough to hold a decent conversation or to understand their partner.

If you speak fluently or well enough to move beyond describing when you brush your teeth and what you’re doing tomorrow, great. But if you don’t, then in my opinion it’s waste of time.

Photo: William A. Franklin

Particularly if you’re passing up the opportunity to learn something or to get a useful explanation — like, for example, the other day in the coffee shop when a woman became increasingly irritated that they didn’t have eggs, and I tried to explain in English that they did have eggs but they were on another menu, and she insisted on switching back to Spanish only to get more frustrated. Why?

So I’ll draw up my Rules for the Use of English Vs. the Local Language When Speaking with Native English Speakers (RUEVLLWSNES-catchy, right?)

1. If you do not speak at the same level as your conversational partner, be aware of this when insisting on speaking in the local language.

2. If you do not understand what your partner is saying, it might be time to throw in the towel.

3. At parties or meetings or other social events where native speakers of the local language are present, by all means speak only the local language, even with other English speakers. But if it’s just you and someone who shares your native tongue, and your level is not high enough to have a worthwhile conversation, then scrap language practice time.

4. Keep in mind that for expats, speaking the local language isn’t exactly the most stimulating experience ever.

And that’s all for today, folks, from the land of rant. I’d be interested to hear your experiences on this front–are you one of these English-leery people? Why? Are you a practice-my-French-with-American-friends kind of gal/guy or does this make your skin crawl? Why? Does it drive you nuts when you try and explain something in Chinese or Italian to a tourist who obviously does not understand?

Fly on the wings of rant, travelers. Sound off below.

Feature Photo: obese seagull All other photos: author

Love happened to me while traveling.

I went to Algeria in 2008 to work on a theater project. I was determined not to have a single man hit on me. I bought fake wedding rings and made up a story of a handsome American husband named Luke (inspired by my mom’s Labrador). In my imagination he was blond, brown eyes and very athletic.

Then I went to a theater festival in Algiers and met Mohamed, an actor and director. He used to be a cyclist for the Algerian International team. He loved camping in the desert. He was an avid reader. He wrote plays. The story of my American husband named Luke evaporated.

Mohamed and I were married in Algeria in January of 2009. We thought he could come and visit Minnesota, the summer after our wedding, while I worked with a theater company in Minneapolis.

So Mohamed filled out a tourist visa application online. He bought a round trip train ticket from Oran to Algiers and took a hotel room. He arrived at the U.S consulate with $131 in hand thinking he had this in the bag. After all he is married to an American citizen.

Turns out that foreign nationals of countries such as Algeria, Taiwan, Argentina and Qatar are forced to immigrate to the United States if they want to meet their in-laws. Who knew that the U.S sometimes requires people to immigrate!

According to the Immigration and Nationality Act law 214b:

Every alien shall be presumed to be an immigrant until he establishes to the satisfaction of the consular officer, at the time of application for admission, that he is entitled to a non-immigrant status…(www.uscis.gov)

The U.S consulates around the world, in non-visa waiver countries, assume all spouses of American citizens to be ineligible of non-immigrant status. (A visa waiver country is any country that is part of the visa-waiver program. This program allows citizens of certain countries to enter the U.S without a visa.)

Our foreign spouses, the unfortunate citizens of countries that don’t have a special “in” with the U.S, are not even allowed the opportunity to prove to U.S consular officers that they have strong ties to their home country and that they will indeed return at the end of their stay.

Law 214b, as it is currently interpreted and put into practice, denies our foreign born spouses the right to visit the U.S.

In Mohamed’s case, a consular officer at the U.S Embassy in Algiers informed him that the reason for his immediate visa denial, without review of his supporting documents, is simply the law. Since his American wife can file a petition for him to immigrate he is not allowed to enter the U.S as a tourist.

“But I do not want to immigrate,” he said to the officer behind the window.

“You must immigrate,” she said.

“But I don’t want to immigrate! I want to visit.”

Perhaps some might be overjoyed at hearing those words from an official of the U.S. You must immigrate! They might not care they had lost nearly $300. They might think no sum is too large to get to the U.S.

However, in a situation like ours when you are living abroad and don’t have immediate plans to move to the U.S this is incredibly difficult. The interview at the consulate in these cases causes humiliation, loss of hard earned money, and animosity towards our country already facing strong criticism from abroad. The U.S government arrogantly assumes that everyone intends to immigrate.

How absurd, with all the talk of illegal immigration and undesired immigrants that Mohamed will be forced to immigrate in order to meet the majority of my friends and family.

He has never been denied a visa to Europe. An established actor in Algeria, teenage girls giggle at him when they cross him on the street. Why would he want to leave permanently?

Furthermore, to our chagrin, the consulate in Algiers does not state this fact on their website. The state department should inform American citizens married to foreign nationals of non-visa waiver states that our spouses are automatically ineligible simply because they are married to us.

Falling in love, marrying, and residing with an American in their home country is a major strike against them. Twisted is the only word that comes to mind.

Undertaking the immigration petition costs as much as the average monthly salary of most Algerian workers. Compounding this expense is the validity of the Green Card. Once a foreign spouse holds the Green Card they must return to the U.S every year. We live in North Africa and would rather be spending our time and money exploring the sites of the Mediterranean.

Simply put, forcing our spouses to immigrate just to visit and spend time with their family is preposterous.

Community Connection

For more stories about immigration and visa issues, check out how to move to the U.S once Obama is president and know before you go: visa and immunization problems that could leave you stranded and how to get an EU work permit.

All Photos: author

After coming down from the initial excitement, the hormones and emotions swing into overdrive, and combined with all-day morning sickness, fatigue, frequent trips to the toilet, headaches and no sleep, the first few months of pregnancy can be quite daunting for any new mother.

Put a hemisphere between you and your familiar homeland, and pregnancy can be even scarier.

Living in rural Japan, or inaka, as they say in Japanese, can be even more frightening for the newly pregnant foreigner.

Your family and close friends are on the other side of the world, your husband off at work to save for the new addition to the family, the closest neighbors are the birds that squat by the rice fields and none of those foods you crave can be found on the local supermarket shelves.

Confined to the couch during your morning sickness, you discover just how bad Japanese TV really is and that maybe you do need that electric shower sponge on the infomercials after all.

Yeah sure, pregnancy out in the sticks can be tough for foreign women in Japan, but there are ways to survive.

Here are 10 Hot Survival Tips:

1. Find a good birthing clinic.

Avoiding the big public hospitals in Japan for your pre-natal visits will do wonders for your morale. A small, friendly birthing clinic will give you all the personal attention you need.

2. Bilingual Maternity Handbook.

Register your pregnancy as early as possible at your local city office. They should provide you with a bilingual maternity handbook, and if not ask to have one sent out.

This handbook will become invaluable over the next 9 months and the bilingual content will make communication with your doctor so much easier.

3. Make the most of your surroundings.

Just think how lucky you are to be surrounded by nature during your pregnancy as opposed to the concrete fortress of a city like Tokyo.

Take daily walks, swim in the river or at the beach during the warmer months, and practice Yoga in the open air. Keeping your body and mind fit and healthy is not only great for you, but for bubs too.

4. Eat locally.

One of the great advantages of living in rural Japan is the availability of fresh, local produce. For a pregnant mother and her growing baby, the nutrients and minerals gained from consuming local foods are invaluable. Talk to the locals and ask about buying your goods direct from the farms.

5. Join a pre-natal class:

Although you can learn most of what you need to know from books and the Internet, pre-natal classes are a great way to make new friends and meet other mothers-to-be with due dates close to yours.

Good birthing clinics will offer free classes, otherwise check with the local city office.

6. Ask for parcels from home.

Ask your family and friends to send you regular parcels with those food items you just can’t find in Japan. Get them to throw in some newborn goodies too; it’s nice to be able to relate with home and know your family is supporting you.

7. Use Skype.

Being able to contact your family and friends at home is vital for the pregnant mum. When/if the famous maternity blues kicks in, being able to talk to and see your family will give you the strength you need to keep going.

Remember, the baby picks up on your feelings and emotions, so staying strong is a must.

8. Enjoy onsen (hot springs).

Usually, one of the benefits of living in inaka is the abundant onsens. Despite what you may hear, soaking in the hot waters of natural springs is a fantastic way for your body and mind to relax during pregnancy.

Pregnant women do suffer from higher blood pressure, however, so know your body and don’t stay in too long.

9. Shop on Amazon.co.jp.

When the daytime Korean dramas and the night-time game shows have you just about packed and ready for a flight back home, a good book can be your saviour.

Thanks to Amazon.co.jp, ordering books on the web in Japan can be done simply, and in English. You don’t even need a credit card; just pay at the door when your book gets delivered.

10. Shop at Nishimatsuya.

Japan’s great chain maternity/child discount store. Found all over the country, you won’t have to break the bank stocking up for your new baby.

Pregnancy abroad in the sticks doesn’t have to come with a cup of blues. Make the most of your surroundings and reap the rewards for both you and your baby.

Community Connection

Already been through all of this? Read up on seven reasons to travel with your kids. Living overseas? Check out how to raise successful kids while living overseas.

Photo: panoramas

A reader wrote to me:

I’m leaving this comment because since you have lived in Russia and know much more about what’s going on there than I do, I was wondering if you could answer a question for me. I was wondering, do you think it would even be smart at this point for a Black student to go to Russia to study? I was planning on going there after the summer for a year-long study abroad program but after hearing about all the racism I’m thinking that it might not be the right thing to do. Did you have a lot of close calls when you were over there?

This is a painful question for me.

On the one hand, I have had amazing experiences in Russia and I have been indelibly marked by the time I have spent with Russian history, literature and contemporary society. I can’t imagine my sense of the world outside of my interactions with Russia.

On the other hand, I simply don’t know if I can, in good conscience, advise people of Asian or African descent to travel to Russia in light of the continuing problem of racist violence.

In the past ten days, there have been attacks on Bangladeshi and Chinese students in Moscow, in addition to the earlier assaults this year on citizens of Cameroon and Vietnam. Last December, a nineteen-year-old African American was stabbed multiple times in Volgograd on his way home from the gym.

While these are certainly the most extreme types of violence, interviews with African students also reveal pervasive everyday racism in Russian society. If you travel to Russia, you are, quite frankly, playing a numbers game with your life and your well-being.

Photo: author

That said, you can do some things to improve your odds.

Personally, I was never attacked and I never experienced anything worse than dirty looks, stupid comments and mumbled threats. A number of factors probably account for my “luck” and I’ll share them with you, both as useful precautions and as information that might give you some insight into life in Russia for those of us of “non-Slavic appearance,” in case you are still considering your travel options even after the warning above.

First and foremost, I had the gift of genetics and a bad disposition–I am over six feet tall and, generally speaking, not of a soothing appearance; when I would hang out with African friends in Russia, they would joke that I was their bodyguard. To give you a more clear picture, a few years ago my high school students nick-named me “Mr. Buster, AKA Suge Knight.” If your friends haven’t given you a similar handle, then you should up your worry level a little.

Second, as soon as I got to Moscow, I asked other Asian and African residents about safety and took their recommendations very seriously. I rarely wandered around alone after dark. If there was a major soccer game, I avoided the subways and took a taxi instead to avoid the possibility of running into a crowd of drunken racist football hooligans.

In general, I kept an eye out for groups of sketchy-looking young men and walked away from them, even if it meant I would be late to wherever I was going. And, at the insistence of a Russian friend, I typically carried a small, easy-to-reach knife as a last resort.

Lastly, I tried to maintain a serious appearance—I wore a collared shirt and I always carried a briefcase (even when there was nothing inside of it) to look professional. This was mainly to fend off police shakedowns that tend to victimize people who the police think won’t have their papers in order and won’t want to take matters to their bosses or to court. I also worked on the assumption that skinheads targeted people that they perceived as weak, poor or unconnected.

In short, not a day went by that I didn’t consider the very real possibility of being attacked. I told myself that it was worth it to get my project done and I coped with the stress of constant worry. I also tried to focus on the positive interactions that I had with people in Russia.

Which is one reason why it hurts me to give such a negative report. Most people in Russia are not violent racists and I really love many things about Moscow: the libraries, the architecture, the museums, the street food, the random folks who chat with you at the market, the landlord who picks up the rent and stays to talk for three hours, the other migrants and foreigners who share the pain and the pleasures of being an outsider…

If you read through my posts from the year I spent in Moscow, it should give you some idea of my diverse feelings and experiences in Russia.

But can I responsibly tell a young person of color (who could presumably choose to travel to any country in the world) that it’s advisable to sign up for a year in Russia? Sadly, I just don’t think so.

The world is large and there are many options. You shouldn’t have to fear for your life every day.

UPDATE: I later learned of two more attacks on African students in Moscow; five persons were injured and three suffered stab wounds.

Community Connection

Planning on traveling to Asia? Get one traveler’s perspective about why racism in Asia might not be what you think. Matador’s Julie Schwietert has also written an excellent blog post about race, sex and economics in Cuba.

Feature photos by army.mil

Get Out of Your Room

Most people think that getting out of the room is easy: walking to work, catching a ride or eating at the dining facility. Some people hit the gym and even run on the base roads.

However, only going to a few places doesn’t allow you to appreciate being in a regular area all the time. By leaving your room, you leave where you work or live and just get out. Sitting at the library, MWR or USO areas, for example, can keep you occupied without sitting in your room.

Photo by army.mil

Take a Walk

Taking a walk is a simple idea that leads to seeing the base in a new light. Explore areas where you wouldn’t normally go, find a new spot to meet friends or stroll without your colleagues breathing down your neck.

Take a side street and get to work a new way. It’s easy and free to do, but will add to your memories as your time ends and you return stateside.

Get Off Base (if you can)

Those stationed on overseas bases can enjoy what war zone service members can not—local culture that doesn’t go boom (excluding fireworks displays).

Getting off base and enjoying the local environment adds to your killer memories overseas as you reflect on your time riding a train to Seoul or taking a bus around a foreign capital.

Explore Food Beyond the D-FAC

Photo by army.mil

Yes, the dining facility can offer free food, but try to enjoy some local cuisine. Think of it as greeting a new culture with your stomach.

Eating new foods won’t always be pleasant, as you learn your own tolerances to spices and different meats (camel, anyone?) but it’ll be a unique memory later on.

Take a Picture

Your friends and relations will want to see where you have run off to.

Point and shoot cameras today are inexpensive, and even the most modest of investments snags a great camera to take in memories and places that can wow the folks back home.

Meet New People

Meeting new people is easy to do and is wholly worthwhile.

Members of military teams are usually determined by their commanders and sergeants, but making friends is something completely up to you. Ask someone out to tea and a walk, or dinner if that’s an option.

Socializing helps you get out of your own head as you learn a new friend’s likes, dislikes and personality. You’ll also have someone beyond your coworkers to confide in without fear of the wrong person being told.

Read a Book

Reading is a simple thing that most of us take for granted or ignore completely. Any book can provide an additional viewpoint that we might never have considered, or give us a break from the day-to-day.

Learn a Language

Photo by army.mil

Another idea for something to do is to improve on a language. Be it of your host country, or one you plan to travel to someday, language learning is easy (and free on certain language learning websites).

Learning a language gives you something other than repeated duties to look forward to as the days begin to drag on.

Learn to Play or Improve Playing an Instrument

Make friends or angry neighbors by picking up any instrument and taking the time to learn it well or improve on what you know.

Music lessons come packaged on DVDs for a number of instruments, from drums to violins. These lessons are cheap and delivered from online stores.

Improve and Challenge Yourself

Beyond improving in the physical realm, set goals to improve in other aspects of your life.

Improve your mind with personal or military skills. Even spiritual goals can be met while waiting to go home; things such as learning patience with another person’s mistakes or learning to control your anger.

Focus on improving the good in your life while you have the time overseas.

Community Connection

The Matador Team wants to hear from military members stationed overseas. If you’re a service member who has stories from time in the military, please join our community today!

Feature photo: Focal Point Aid Photo: Lebeccio

Travel can be hugely beneficial for kids.

Taking your kids traveling, even for a few weeks at a time, can expose them to a whole different culture and be a fantastic learning experience.

Ex-pat kids tend to grow up with a better understanding of foreign cultures and world geography, and are often multilingual.

Photo by Clairity

But kids living ex-pat lifestyles tend to stay in one place for a year or more at a time and often have access to exclusive private international schools.

At the other end of the spectrum, kids on a two week vacation with their parents will return to their stable home and school at the end of the trip.

But what if you, and your partner if you have one, simply want to keep up the globetrotting lifestyle you had before you had kids?

Can kids fit in to this lifestyle, and is it responsible of you to expect them to?

Extended travel is possible with a family in tow, and it can even be an enriching experience for everyone involved, whether you’re traveling for a set period or embarking on a truly open-ended trip.

I’ve heard it said that kids need a routine, but I’m not entirely sure that’s true. Often it’s adults that need a routine, and usually we find one fairly quickly, even when we’re traveling.

How many of us have got into the habit of an early morning coffee in a particular café, for example, even if we are only in a specific place for a month, or even a week?

Kids will find their own mini-routines as well, or more likely, help their parents stay out of them.

Kids are always finding excitement in everyday activities. Just as you get settled into that morning coffee routine, they’ll notice that the café across the street has a giant chess set, or a gumball machine, or a pet parrot, and you’ll have to change to a new place.

Of course kids have to go to school don’t they?

Well, no actually, legally kids have to be educated, not necessarily schooled.

That’s why home schooling is a legal option in countries all over the world, and why many home schooling parents actually prefer the term home education.

Photo by Ben Zvan

Educating your kids while you travel is feasible, and easier than you might imagine.

To feel comfortable keeping your kids out of the formal education system (or taking them out if they are at an age where they’re already in school) it helps to first re-define exactly what we mean by education.

My personal definition of education is the acquisition of knowledge, preferably knowledge that will be useful in everyday life.

In my opinion it’s not necessary, or even desirable, to acquire all of this knowledge by sitting down to a classroom based set of lessons each day.

Kids on the road learn naturally.

They learn about physical and human geography, world history, religion (although not just the dominant one in their country of birth), wildlife, nature, environmental issues, campcraft, cooking, art and science.

They also learn manners, tolerance, and respect for other cultures. They learn to make friends, and say goodbye.

They learn foreign languages, and how to communicate with someone when you don’t have a single word of formal language in common.

They learn budgeting and the value of money, and that if you run out of money you may have to make base camp somewhere while mom or dad works for a while.

They learn that one of the most pleasurable and satisfying things you can do is not “acquire more stuff”, but “learn new things”.

How you choose to educate your kids while on the road will depend on your plans for the future.

Of course you want them to have the advantages of being literate and numerate, but whether they need the advantages of reading the entire works of Shakespeare and understanding advanced calculus, only you can decide.

Photo by Focal Point Aid

If they are returning to formal education at a later date I can’t guarantee your “home schooled on the road” kids will know everything their classmates do. I can only guarantee they will know an awful lot of stuff that their peers don’t.

On a planet where world leaders send troops and weapons to places they can’t find on a map, your child will at least know the layout of the world, not to mention a little about the everyday lives of people who live outside their own country, culture and political system.

If you’re cradling your new born baby, or even waving your grade schooler off onto the school bus, and you think your days of long-term travel are over, you may want to think again.

What could be irresponsible about raising informed world citizens who recognize just how interconnected we all are?

Community Connection

The Matador community believes in the educational power of engaged travel. For more, check out the following articles:

Why Travel as a Teenager is the Best Education

Youth Travel Programs are Vital to our Security

How to Raise Successful Kids While Living Overseas

To follow one family’s educational journey around the world with their kids, be sure to visit the inspiring Soul Travelers 3 website or visit their Matador profile.

If your a parent of high-school age children who believes in the educational value of travel, check out the youth travel programs offered by Where There Be Dragons.

Feature photo: Sashawolff Photo: respres

Not a day goes by without an expert of some sort telling you who you must follow on Twitter. We even did it ourselves in 23 of the Most Relevant Travel Twitterers.

But we figured you must know at least as much as us, so we asked our Twitter followers which expats on Twitter they recommend.

The response was fantastic! Thanks to everyone who reached out with a suggestion: this article belongs to you.

So here’s a list – not the list – of 20 interesting expats to follow on Twitter.

1. Ladyexpat – South Korea

“A transplanted Canadian (Halifax Nova Scotia), working, traveling and taking photos in Asia.”

Mixture of tweets, mainly travel / expat focused. Some great photos.

2. Thandelike – Istanbul, Turkey

“Expat Harem cultural author/editor/producer/salonista, Berkeley expat. Spark Summit cofounder.”

A mine of information, especially on Turkey.

3. tokyotopia – Tokyo, Japan

“A self professed UK Tokyoite with a goal – Tokyo Made Simple.”

All things Japan.

4. ExpatCoachMegan – Rome, Italy

“Help expats and international development pros worldwide build personal brands w/ social media for career and biz success AND a better world ♥ travel, espresso.”

Very engaging twitterer; author of “career by choice” blog.

5. barmadu – Caceres, Spain

“TEFL hack by day, writer when I can, gardener, drinker, walker, cyclist, traveler, reader, twanger and many more –ers.”

Colourful snippets of life in Spain.

6. emmanuelle_a – Vancouver, BC

“French expat living in Canada, helping fellow wanderers enjoy their lives abroad to the fullest. Lover of visual arts, tea drinker, cat person and language geek.”

Very interactive twittterer, with lots of general expat advice.

7. MissExpatria – Montpellier, France / Rome, Italy

“The Internet’s leading enabler of travel addiction splits her time between Italy and France.”

Prolific twitterer and blogger.

8. MyMarrakesh – Marrakech, Morocco

“A girl building a boutique hotel in a Marrakech olive grove, while penning a book on Moroccan interior design for a US publisher.”

Exotic Morocco in 140 character chunks.

9. vickybaker – Buenos Aires, Argentina

“I’m a travel writer from London, living in Argentina. I specialise in South America and travel networking. Working for the Guardian, Time Out and others.”

Author of “Going local” blog, for “travellers looking to break off track”.

10. KyleHepp– Santiago, Chile

“Kick Ass Photographer in Chile ”

Housewife and blogger … as well as kick ass photographer!

11. cburell – Seoul, South Korea

“Humanities/writing teacher. Education editor/writer. Radio newswriter/announcer. Apple Distinguished Educator. www.beyond-school.org . Geek.”

Passionate advocate of educational reform.

12. expatsguide – Israel

“Over the past 12 years I’ve moved with my family between 5 houses across three continents. You could say I’m a veteran expat.”

Tweets great advice and links for expats.

13. lori1329 – Southern Brazil

“Writer, Nutritionist, wellness advocate, traveler, dog lover, US expat living in Brazil.”

Author of “Fake Food Free” nutrition and wellness blog.

14. michellefabio – Calabria, Italy

“American freelance writer & attorney in southern Italy. Proud doggie and kid (baby goat) mamma. About.com Guide to Law School.”

Tweets about her life in Italy with a dog and a goat.

15. thewritingwell – The Netherlands

“A Brit living in the Netherlands, an expat writer, mother of a toddler, WAHM, amateur photographer.”

Mix of informative and personal tweets about the Netherlands.

16. coqui2008 – Puerto Rico

“Travel Blogger – Spreading the word about the beautiful island of Puerto Rico in the Caribbean.”

Author of informative blog on Puerto Rico.

17. emilyinchile – Santiago, Chile

“20-something Californian Brit living in Santiago.”

A personal take on living in Santiago.

18. jeffcaylor – Hong Kong

“[singer-songwriter] When I dream of flying I try to imagine what I might learn from what birds dream.”

Life of a musician in Hong Kong.

19. pittkethley – Cartagena, Spain

“Author of 21 books.I live with my chess GM husband and son in Spain. My hobbies: snorkelling, minerals, karate, music, cycling, fishing, hill-walks, food, film, cats.”

Personable, family oriented tweets about life in Spain.

20. AmiExpat – Regensburg, Germany

“American, expatriate, half-Asian, statistician, wife, mom, and blogger, living it up in Germany.”

Food and photography.

We’re bound to have missed out some of your favourites, so please help this list to grow by leaving a comment below!

Community Connection

Thinking of becoming an expat yourself sometime soon? Check out some of our picks for the best places to live overseas. Have expat fantasies about hammering away at a spy novel or whittling away the days drinking tea overseas? Have a glimpse at these potential expat paradises. If you’re already overseas and thinking of starting a family, Niamh Griffin has some great advice on how to raise successful kids while living overseas.

Photo by etoile

Despite how daunting it might be to pick up and move to a new country, especially one with the loaded history of Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh City can be a surprisingly manageable place to live.

So, why SGN?

One obvious reason to choose Southeast Asia, and Saigon in particular, is that the region offers incredible value.

Photo by augapfel

Rent, food, beer, and transportation are easily covered by an English teacher’s salary.

Even in ‘slow’ months, (like May, when school ends and summer sessions are just picking up) working 20 hours a week provides a sufficient living wage.

That’s 50% of your typical workload at a job that’s at least twice as fun as working for the man back home.

So really, the only question is: what should you do with all the free time?

Fortunately, Ho Chi Minh City is anything but boring. Whiz around the bright streets on a motorbike, check out museums and parks, admire colonial architecture, or browse one of the many overwhelmingly markets.

The city has tons of chill bars, quality restaurants and hip nightclubs to check out, with a niche for every possible taste (you can find ideas in Word HCMC magazine).

Think you’ll have trouble convincing Mom and Dad?

As my own father put it:

“When I was your age, I was doing everything I could NOT to go to Vietnam.”

However, these days HCMC is a thoroughly friendly, modern place that is probably safer than your hometown.

Photo by Tuey

Guns are illegal and crime is relatively rare and petty.

The biggest concern? Traffic.

But never fear, since the government began enforcing a mandatory helmet law (passed in 2008), the streets are significantly safer.

Another way to comfort parents, or yourself, is to volunteer or complete an English teaching certificate course in the city before looking for work.

These options provide a structure for the first weeks here and can help you get settled.

Once settled, you’ll probably need to get a job.

Teaching English is by far the most available and popular employment for young expats in HCMC.

Going through a TEFL or TESOL certification program (as I did) is a more expensive route, but provides a structure and instant network of support.

For example, check out the organizations LanguageCorps or ILA.

Teaching jobs are plentiful and higher paid than in surrounding countries.

Not a teacher? Hate teaching?

Photo by brianholsclaw

It is possible to find other types of jobs in HCMC, but you must be relatively motivated and it helps to have a working knowledge of Vietnamese.

Since HCMC is the economic hub of the country, many people find work in international banks or marketing firms.

I have friends, many of whom were originally English teachers, who now work in banks, television production companies, law firms and even MBA graduate programs and internships.

If you’ve already got a bankroll, there are many volunteer opportunities that can be very worthwhile, such as helping in orphanages, working with Habitat for Humanity, or teaching English and business skills to under-served groups (check out Sozo Café on Bui Vien Street).

Note that almost all international NGOs are based out of the post-war northern capital, Ha Noi, and so these types of jobs are less available in the south.

Finding a home, making friends, and creating a life:

Saigon real estate has gotten increasingly pricey in the past year, but the city can still be considered a major bargain when compared with comparable cities in the states.

District One and District Three are usually more expensive, but there is plenty of expat turnover so rooms in houses and apartments are often available (sometimes with cool roommates!).

Outside of downtown but still convenient are District Ten, Binh Thanh District and Phu Nhuan.

These districts are significantly less expensive than popular ex pat spots, with the added charm of being local neighborhoods that are still just a quick motorbike ride to downtown.

Apartments, classifieds, expat advice and forums can be found online via Facebook or on the website Living In Vietnam.

While teaching is a great way to make friends with both locals and foreigners, networking and becoming involved in extracurricular activities such as yoga or basketball is as simple as finding the motivation to try something new.

There’s also an active group of Couchsurfers in Saigon.

Photo by numberjuan

Still not convinced?

The Wall Street Journal interviewed recent college grads to highlight how the current economic slump is preventing young people from attaining gainful employment (or any employment whatsoever).

According to the resulting article, while going to grad school might be the best option for recent college grads struggling to get a job, another option to consider during the recession is to travel and work abroad.

Living and working in Ho Chi Minh City this past year has allowed me to pay rent, travel, and live comfortably within my own means… and isn’t that just music to every recent college grad’s ears?

COMMUNITY CONNECTION:

Saigon makes our list of the 5 Best Cities To Live In If The Economy Keeps Tanking.

Matador Trips editor Hal Amen recently gave the lowdown on cycling Highway One in Vietnam, one of Southeast Asia’s classic expeditions.

Destinations

Community Connection to Vietnam

Matador blogger Jules Atkins, one of the best backpacking writers on the planet, wrote about motorcycle madness in Saigon during her trip around Southeast Asia.

JoshyWashington is Matador’s resident expert on Saigon.

Before you go to Saigon, be sure to check out the comprehensive and accurate Saigon city guide at Travelfish.

Another great Vietnam travel resource is expert travel writer Robert Reid’s free online Vietnam guide.

Matt Gross, who is pretty much the only reason to read the New York Times travel section, recently published a terrific article about boutique comfort in Saigon, a city he knows better than most ex pats.

Editor’s Note:

Saigon, Ho Chi Minh City, HCMC, Than Po – what to call the place?

Well, most locals say Saigon, though officials from Northern Vietnam sure the heck don’t.

HCMC is an easy way to write the official post-war full name – Ho Chi Minh City. Calling the city Than Po is like saying, “The City” – which probably explains the popularity of the phrase among ex pat New Yorkers.

Guaranteed, we’ll get comments on this article from people pissed off about what we call the place. To them we say – call it whatever you want, it’s still a great city.

Seoul by TylerDurden1. Feature photo by Stinkie Pinkie

Make that liberal arts degree finally work for you! Come join the best and brightest of a generation and teach English in South Korea!

All you need is a college degree, a passport from a first-world English speaking country, the willingness to adapt to a foreign culture.. and a pulse.

Pusan monks by Ryuugakusei

In this time of economic uncertainty, teaching English as a second language abroad has suddenly become an attractive career option, or at least something to do while waiting for a dream job to materialize.

And what better place to teach ESL than South Korea – “The Land of the Morning Calm” – which is one of Asia’s strongest economies?

Koreans are crazy about learning English. They recognize that it’s the only way to economically move their country forward. And they’re willing to pay top dollar – or won – to learn.

The salaries, along with the relatively low cost of living, make Korea one of the most attractive options for teaching in Asia.

But before learning to like kimchi and jumping on that next plane to Seoul, take a look at the three main types of teaching jobs that are available to foreigners over here:

Teaching by Kai Hendry

1. Hakwons

Hakwon is the Korean word for “academy.”

You can’t throw a soju bottle without hitting a language hakwon in this country, and it’s likely the first place you’ll end up teaching.

English Hakwons mainly cater to kindergartners and elementary kids, though there are also some for adults.

The hours can be long and the erratic changes in curriculum maddening, but they’ll pay for your round trip airfare to and from your country, provide you with an apartment, and give you a contract completion bonus equal to one-month’s pay.

It’s not uncommon for someone to sock away between $10,000 and $20,000 (USD) after a one-year stint at a hakwon – perfect for paying off your student loans or financing a backpacking trip around the world.

Just know this: Hakwon’s are businesses first and educational institutes second.

The academy directors will always have their eyes on the bottom line. Start losing too many students or garnering complaints from the notoriously fickle mothers, and it could mean the end of your job.

Also, like Korean barbecue restaurants, the quality of these academies varies immensely.

Some hagwons have modern facilities and provide you with a nice, new apartment, while others are dilapidated, lacking heat and/or air conditioning.

The apartment provided by bad schools is invariably as small and nasty as the school itself.

Beware of sketchy hagwon directors!

The majority of teachers have a decent experience working in hagwons, but there are some greedy, psychotic, and downright evil directors operating on the peninsula.

Horror stories abound of teachers being paid late or not being paid at all, having to live in roach-infested hovels, being cheated out of bonuses or airfare – generally being shat upon and jerked around.

Just know that in this case Korean law IS on your side, but the best thing to do is to check out your school before you sign the contract. Talk to other teachers and read any feedback you can find on the net.

2. Public Schools

In recent years there has been a big push to place native speakers in the Korean public school system, mainly through what’s called EPIK (English Program in Korea).

Public school gigs are definitely a step up from hagwons. The hours are better, the pay’s decent, and you are usually guaranteed at least two weeks paid vacation per year, though this often translates into much more.

EPIK also gives you a housing allowance and end-of-contract bonus. There is the opportunity (or requirement, often) to work “camps” over the schools’ winter and summer vacation periods.

These are intensive English courses, for which you are paid extra, of course. It’s a good way to pad your salary.

Korean market by Giladr

Beware of boredom!

Many public schools require you to come into the office all day during their vacation periods, whether you have classes or not.

Consider this paid time to hone your writing skills or delve deeper into the raging hell mouth that is facebook.

3. Universities and Colleges

These are the holy grails of Korean ESL gigs, and also the most difficult to get.

Generally, universities want at least three solid years of English teaching experience, or both a masters degree and experience.

Jobs are often landed through reference: like the rest of the world, it’s not necessarily what you know, it’s who you know.

Universities generally like new hires to be ushered in by someone they already trust.

Why all the fuss?

University jobs usually require about 12 hours of classes each week, and provide you with at least 2 months of paid vacation a year, the dream job of a habitual traveler.

Some schools give you 3 or 4 months of vacation time. There are also plenty of opportunities to pick up extra classes which, of course, translate into more money.

Beware of complacency!

Aside from the fact that some universities don’t give you an end-of-contract bonus, you’ll find yourself so spoiled by the job conditions that the thought of returning home and actually having to work for a living might make you want to remove your own eyes with a spoon.

4. Privates

Many teachers earn a lot of extra money teaching private lessons to Koreans in their homes or by moonlighting at other schools.

Know that this practice is strictly illegal. In Korea, you are only allowed to work at the school that sponsors your visa.

If caught, you will be fined and possibly deported, though this doesn’t stop many teachers from dipping into this huge well of cash.

The best way to find any of the jobs described above is to contact a recruiter.

Good luck, and as the Koreans say: Fighting!

Teaching ESL Job Resources In South Korea

<>
ESL Recruiters List

Dave’s ESL Cafe

Pusan Web

COMMUNITY CONNECTION!

If you’re interested in teaching English in Asia, here are some Matador articles to check out:

How To Get A Job Teaching In Japan

Is The JET Program Right For You?

Teaching English In China

10 Online Resources For Finding A Job In Asia

Corporate rule? Izaak Hane

Maybe to experience another culture. Maybe to do some traveling. Maybe for work.

Maybe to escape the hordes of morons in this country who don’t know anything about the world, and yet insist on characterizing it as bug-infested, crime-ridden and moments away from a coup.

You all can slave away the rest of your lives to afford your poorly made, vinyl-sided house in a featureless subdivision, fighting it out with everyone else to prove how much you have and just how good of a consumer you are.

Buy Humans Buy! sf slim

I’ll be sitting on my porch with my feet up, a drink in hand, listening to the sounds of nature and enjoying the simple life.

I’d love this country if it weren’t populated with total idiots…

COMMUNITY CONNECTION:

This post was a comment in response to the article What Can $150k Buy In Real Estate Around The World.

Do you agree with the author?

Do you think his aggressive, insulting tone is unhelpful regardless of the quality of his arguments?

Please leave a comment below!

Photo byWhere On Earth

Yoga is all about staying healthy and slowing down to appreciate the present moment.

Travel is most fun when you feel healthy, and most profound when you take time to pay attention to detail and have space in your mind to reflect.

Here are sixteen more reasons why yoga and travel are the perfect combo.

1. Yoga Will Help You Chill.

An airline once lost my backpack when I returned home from a 6-month European jaunt. Rather than fume and pace until the luggage finally arrived, I sat in silent contemplation and focused on my breathing.

Yoga can allow you to find stillness through meditation, giving you a little more Zen when you encounter frustrations on the road.

2. Travel Requires A Few Stretches.

Photo by Kaibara87

When you travel, you need to adjust to packing and unpacking every few days.

How many times have you had to bend down and search for something under the hostel bed? Yoga’s gift of increased flexibility will make it easier for you to reach and bend.

Likewise, the equanimity instilled by yoga will make it easier for you to adjust to culture shock and other travel challenges.

3. Bus rides won’t break your back.

Hard bus rides or ill-advised zip-line maneuvers won’t hurt as much, because yoga keeps your joints and limbs supple, so that you can survive appalling travel conditions without your knees falling off.

4. You won’t die on the plane (not that you would anyway).

Deep-vein thrombosis is a condition that occurs when you sit still for too long — say, on a fourteen-hour international flight — and your body starts to form blood clots that can give you an aneurysm, a stroke, or just make your leg hurt.

Seat-bound yoga, or even some full-body stretches in the aisle, can mean the difference between life and death, or at least keep you feeling fresh when you arrive.

5. Yoga clothes are travel clothes.

Cotton and bamboo fabrics, all easy wash and dry, can also form the foundations of your backpacking wardrobe. Who doesn’t want to wear Prana all day?

6. Make New Friends.

Want to meet some friends? Go to yoga class in another country and strike up a conversation with someone before and after class! Or, practice yoga in a park or on a beach, and friendly yogis will no doubt pop out from the bushes.

7. Learn How To Say Downward Dog In 10 Languages.

Photo byWhere On Earth

Although many international yoga studios offer classes in English, consider trying a class in the local language.

While you may never need to know how to say, “Breathe deeply through your nose!” in Mandarin, you’re guaranteed to pick up useful new words and grammar structure – and make local friends outside the ex pat circle!

8. Soak Up Some Culture.

Yoga originally comes from India, but over the years it has been adopted and adapted by cultures all over the world. A yogic moment in Rishikesh might be totally different from a Bikram session in Los Angeles.

Editor’s Note:

In some unfortunate countries where strict religious conservatives exert a lot of influence, yoga might even be an illegal act. I’m talking to you, Malaysia!

Get insight about the local culture by osmosis, and by participating in the yoga studio community. A yoga class is much more rewarding than hanging around the hostel listening to windbag ex-pat experts who can only speak 3 words of the local language.

9. Exercise Always Feels Good!

When I was in Sevilla, Spain, our daily routine looked like this: sleep until 2 pm, wake up, eat, drink some sangria, nap, eat, go out.

Travel is often a luxurious experience, and even though there’s nothing wrong about lounging around in the Spanish sun, everyone needs a little workout once in while.

Yoga is a good way to jump-start your endorphins and get the blood moving, which will help you feel great and avoid a travel funk.

10. Stretch Every Day!

Everyone should do at least an hour of gentle stretching at least once a day, to keep all the tendons and joints of your body in good working order.

Even invincible young vagabonds only get two knees and one back, and months (or even years) of traipsing down wobbly cobblestone streets in crappy flip-flops could leave you wishing for orthopedic inserts.

If your body is a bicycle, yoga is like oiling the chain.

11. Find A Lucrative Side Job

Christine, Matador’s Resident Yogi

If you’re really feeling the bahv, you can consider yoga as a career path. Yoga studios around the world are looking for English speaking teachers.

After completing a teacher training course in your chosen specialty, you could find yourself with a steady part-time job. Teaching private yoga lessons, or getting hired at a spa or retreat puts even more dollars – or rupees – in your pocket.

12. Hit The Road, Find Enlightenment

All giggling aside, there’s a reason why people have flocked to ashrams in India for the past forty years. The ascetic lifestyle, the yogic principle of ahimsa (doing no harm), and the daily asanas all lead people toward a peaceful, aligned existence.

As the old proverb goes, “Dig your well before you’re thirsty.” Just because you’re not seeking peace of mind right now doesn’t mean you won’t be grateful for it someday.

13. Relaxation Is Key

Ujayyi breathing, the “ocean sounding breath” (or, more accurately, “Darth Vader breathing”), is a physically relaxing breath; it focuses the mind, takes more oxygen into your system, and allows you to release your muscles.

14. You Can Pick Up Hot Guys…Or Girls

Do yoga regularly and you’ll seem intriguingly spiritual and attractively muscular in one fell swoop. Plus, people who do yoga are hot.

15. Use Yoga As Therapy

Movement therapy is becoming increasingly popular worldwide. The theory is that people can express things through movement that they might not be able to express in words.

While the majority of therapy occurs behind closed doors with someone who has a lot of letters after their name, people consistently find that yoga (and other movement forms) can have big therapeutic benefits.

Practicing yoga can help unlock painful memories and let you deal with them. It can also guide you through a traumatic breakup, and allow you to express repressed aspects of your self.

16. Yoga Gets You Moving!

Let’s face it: yoga can make you feel utterly fantastic in both body and mind.

Best of all, yoga gets you moving, and since we’re all travelers, we know that pure, wonderful movement is worth its weight in gold.

COMMUNITY CONNECTION:

Want more bliss? We’ve got a whole page of yoga travel resources for you, right here on the Matador Network.

Feature photo by Saigon Yoga, Matador’s favorite yoga studio in SE Asia.

Your daughter is twelve years old and on her second passport. Her first passport is tattered and filled with stamps from Asia and the Middle East. This one looks set to go the same way.

Photo by broma

She was born in Boston but has only visited there during Christmas.

Her birthday parties are like a UN General Meeting. You watch in amazement as she moves between three languages while collecting her gifts .

When you took that first overseas posting, you weren’t even thinking about children. Back then, you never thought past the next contract. Then you got married, and suddenly there were diapers in your suitcase.

While your friends back home recreate their own childhood with their families, life as an expat parent is very different.

But traveling and living abroad with your family can be the most rewarding thing you’ll do together. You just need to make a few preparations and adjustments.

Who are the Expat Kids?

Some children think a nomadic life is normal; they’d put any Khao San road backpacker to shame.

Children from military, missionary and business families clock up the miles, sometimes before they’re even old enough to understand what’s happening.

Researchers working with these children call them ‘Third Culture Kids’. They discovered that children take what they know or remember from their home culture, and mix it with their host culture to make a third mixed-up bag that works just fine for them.

So, for example 90% of those recently surveyed here said they felt they understand foreigners better than the average American and 80% said they can make friends with anyone.

Photo by Cia de Foto

What do Expat Kids worry about?

Well, you need to listen to them. Your own relocation issues might seem bigger but knowing that Santa will find her little sister is a big deal for your twelve-year old.

Take the time to find out as much as you can about the new culture so you can recognize things like tasty fruit or dangerous spiders.

If your children look radically different to the people in your new home, be ready for some healthy curiosity and prepare your kids for life as a minor celebrity if you’re moving to a rural area.

Playing games is a big part of life for many kids, but ice-hockey isn’t big in the tropics and the football isn’t quite what you’re expecting. Talk to other expat parents online and find out what they do and how to join in.

What language should you speak abroad?

Sure, everyone at your workplace will speak English, and the staff provided for your home will probably do the same, but do you want your kids to continually impose English on their friends or learn some local words?

Even a six-month stay can leave them with an appreciation for the way the non-English speaking world runs.

Schooling for Expat Kids

Your choices for longer stays usually include:

• an international school
• the local school
• home schooling

The familiarity of English and the curriculum are the benefits of the international school system. Most countries have American schools and if not, then the UK system comes a close second.

Photo by LizMarie

Your kids can mix with other expat children and their local classmates are the perfect way for your kids to find out what the country is really like.

But because of the exclusive nature of most of these schools, some parents take the local option. If your kids are younger and not facing exams, then this could be a great experience for them with guaranteed local friends.

But do remember that their first weeks here will be tough. Being the new kid on the block is never easy, and if they don’t speak a word of the language, it’s even harder.

The third option is home-schooling, which is easier than ever before, with so much support online. Home-schooling is a good choice in countries where one parent can’t work because of visa restrictions.

Expat Kids at College

When your little girl grows up, you’ll be making college choices from Kuwait to Switzerland. Once again, the internet comes to the rescue. Whether your kids are seen as local or international students varies from school to school, so make sure you ask before completing the applications – are they in the smaller and coveted international pool or competing with everyone else?

Photo by Josiah MacKenzie

Give your child time to investigate colleges online, and think about whether they want to go back to their native country or not.

For some Third Culture Kids, going back to a normal life isn’t all that exciting. It might be a shock to discover that your kids are bored rigid at the thought of studying where you call home, but think of the savings in tuition fees.

Expat Kids Love Life

Don’t stress too much. Most expat kids are incredibly well-adjusted and have friends all over the globe. They get to visit worlds that most teenagers just see on television and are comfortable with traveling in a way many older people only dream about.

And it’s not just about travel; these kids tend to be more tolerant than children raised in only one culture. If you’re still not convinced, just look at the most famous Third Culture Kid in the world today: Barack Obama.

Photo: mbell1975

Business Week features photos of ordered, neat, European urban-scapes: stoic cathedrals coupled with familiar brand names, skyscrapers, all the tidiness of money and “civilization.” Buildings are clean and quaintly historic, skies are blue, rivers are strategically running past postcard-friendly architecture.

Bravo. And?

The Mercer reports essentially calculate the “quality of life” in cities where companies are thinking of sending their workers. New York is the base city for all the reports–it’s given an index score of 100 and all other cities are judged around that.

The factors considered in Mercer rankings include:

Infrastructure: electricity, water, postal services, transportation, etc…

Cost/Quality of Living: how extravagant of a lifestyle can you get on a decent budget?

Accessibility: How close is the nearest international airport? How frequent/reasonably priced are flights?

Crime rates and economic and political stability: Are you going to have to worry about getting kicked out by a coup? Pick-pocketed on the subway?

There’s nothing wrong with these calculations, and they certainly do pick out safe, highly organized and developed cities.

…but….and in this but lies, in my opinion, everything fantastic about travel…

These are places where you can get all the luxuries of the modern corporate lifestyle for relatively cheap, where it pays the most to have bought into this whole vision of globalization that judges quality of life based more on Starbucks and tidiness than on…human connections? Bustling communities? Diversity?

Call me highly impractical and romantic, but I think quality of life should be a helluva lot more than this. For as great as these cities may be–and some of them are amazing and surely wonderful places to live–I think these criteria mostly reflect an expat culture that demands imported French wines and fully furnished apartments at a steal in whatever outpost the company has most recently invaded.

And I find that, besides being somewhat sad, incredibly boring.

My criteria for the best places to live in 2009 would be:

1) A thriving coffee culture.

2) People who still love and care about and grow their own food.

3) Public places that are alive and teeming with activity. People who meet in these places.

4) A certain degree of unpredictability– non-conformity and non-uniformity. Can you find noodle shops or clandestine Nigerian record stores somewhere? Might you stumble across something unplanned, unprecedented, spontaneous, unruly?

I could go on and on…but I’m more interested in seeing what you all would use to judge “quality of life” in a place. If you had to rate the best/worst places to live in 2009, what would your criteria be?

It was a rainy day in Japan.

Photo: Sarah Menkedick

I work a mad Monday-Friday 7-7 schedule, between the commute and a lunch “hour” that inevitably turns into a photocopying extravaganza with bites of supermarket sushi thrown in. Don’t get me wrong—I’m enjoying the job, my colleagues are great, and I seem to constantly be throwing myself into situations in which I’m over-stimulated, over-caffinated, and operating on a massive adrenaline rush.

But that said, work only leaves me Saturday and Sunday to explore Japan, and those two days seem like a giant candy store of possibilities. Orchid garden? Comic book café? Train to the countryside?

Yesterday, the candy store was closed. It rained. Poured. A friend and I tried to go out exploring, but peering at driving rain through an umbrella with wet shoes and wetter pants didn’t turn out to be an illuminating experience. So I sat in my apartment virtually all afternoon, feeling guilty for being closed off in my little bubble on my one free day, while Japan went on being Japan outside.

And then I took a bath with a cherry blossom bath bomb. Sakura is the Japanese term for cherry blossoms. The water turned a satiny pink. I sunk into the deep bathtub, the sides going up past my chin, and thought about Japan, travel guilt, and details.

It’s obvious that the best way to get to know a place is to roam around, see things, talk to people, eat things, be out and about and, in a word—immersed. And it’s natural for travelers to feel a sort of guilt for not doing so, or for not doing enough or doing it in the right way.

Yet at the same time, so much of a place seeps into a traveler through osmosis, through the slightest details that jar one’s memory years down the line.

Photo: Sarah Menkedick

I thought about this in the bath. The shower in my Japanese apartment is softly lit and perfectly designed, closed off from the rest of the apartment by folding glass doors. The bathtub is deep, like traditional Japanese baths. The room fills up with steam as the bath is filling. That day, the steam mixed with the fragile scent of sakura petals.

Japan’s in my bathtub, I thought. Yes, I’d love to be able to walk around and roam into temples and yakitori bars, but Japan is here, too. In the details. In smells and bath bombs and the depth of the tub. In the view from my balcony and the smell that hits me when I open the door and step outside—the smell of trees, with industrial overtones and hints of Asian spices.

Photo: Sarah Menkedick

All of this is part of what attaches me to this place and teaches me about it. And it’s not so much about doing what I think I should be doing—chasing the shoulds and the pressure and the guilt—as it is about creating the mental space to see.

How do you do it, travelers? What are the details, unexpected or sought out, that have etched out places for you?

Photo: Shermee

When I left for Chile, I thought I’d be gone for a short time.

That short time has turned into five years, during which my niece has aged from a tot of three to a kid of eight, and a new nephew has joined the fray. I’ve developed some great ways to keep the kids in the loop, and to make me into less of a stranger than I might be when we get back together.

1. Give the gift of you.

Print photos of you (or better yet, you and the child) and put them in an album, or order a photo book from a service such as Qoop.

Children are visual and tactile. Giving them this item before you leave helps them have a frame of reference for who you are.

2. Give them a map of where you’re going.

You can go fancy or old-school on this one; an 8.5 X 11 black and white map printed off the Internet is just as good as a real map. Even if they don’t quite get the map/geography connection, kids like to see where you are now and where you’re going.

For older kids, you might want to call and update them with your coordinates and have them follow along on paper.

3. Get them excited about your trip.

Photo: hermmermferm

Tell them you’ll see kids like them on your trip, you’ll eat weird food, and it will be the opposite season or the opposite time of day. Bend their brains a little, but keep it in line with their age and interests.

Going to southwestern Argentina and talking to an eight-year-old? Be sure to mention the Giganotosaurus cardinii (far larger than the Tyrannosaurus Rex) skeleton near Neuquén.

While you’re away:

1. Skype!

Make sure you set up a time to catch them on Skype, with video if you can. Children love an audience, and if it’s a long-distance audience, that’s okay, too.

2. Send postcards.

Photo: pink sherbet

Even if it seems laboriously slow in comparison to email, kids love getting mail, and they love seeing your pictures, handwriting, and stamps from other countries.

Postcards make great souvenirs and are fun to hang next to the map they’ve got taped on the wall. Over time, you can re-wallpaper their room if you’re prolific enough.

3. Remember Birthdays

Don’t miss birthdays and other special occasions. Kids will not be enamored of the “lost in the mail” version of their birthday goodies, and you should ensure that they get greetings from you on their important days.

Set up a way for someone else in your family to be sure they get a little gift from you on their birthday. You can also write cards before you leave and make sure they get them on their special day.

When you come back:

1. Give Presents

Bring presents that are qualitatively cool. Big winners with the kids in my family have been tiny knitted finger puppets and a carved wooden recorder that my niece brought into school to show her music teacher.

Stuff kids can touch and enjoy now work best. A special food that you liked while you were there can be interesting, too, but don’t forget that even on their own, kids play a wicked game of show and tell.

2. Break out the map

If they’ve gotten the cartography bug, show them on the map where you were, and ask them where they went while you were away.

3. Listen to them.

Chances are, they think their life has been much more interesting than yours.

Photo: Zarko Drincic

They’ve started playing soccer or developed a new magic trick. Watch in amazement and give them a big hug. To them, aurorea borealis be darned, the best part of your trip is that you’ve come back.

COMMUNITY CONNECTION:

If you need some advice about breaking the news about your long-term trip, check out this article from our archives. And if you’re taking a shorter trip, consider taking part of your family with you!

photo: luke hoagland; feature photo: iowa spirit walker

A Korean school cafeteria is a loud, abrasive, and a chaotically organized mirror of its motherland. In the cafeteria, I see threads of culture interwoven: the graceful balances of young pop culture and old traditions, modernism and traditional methods, a blend of east and west

Simply put, it’s chaos.

At one end of the room, lunch workers, better suited for chemical warfare than serving kim chi, stand by stainless steel tubs. The other end of the room is a never ending eruption of children. Adding to the pandemonium are 40 yard dashes down the lunchroom gauntlet with trays of scorching hot soup and a trail of stern teachers.

Despite all the madness, those in charge exude a sense of normalcy. This ability to function amidst chaos is common in Korea.

Take a walk down any street in a Korean city and the chaos envelops you. Snarled up spider webs of electrical cables hang precipitously overhead. Driving is a suicidal mission of speed from point A to point B, and forget about walking if you like your ankles in a working order.

Although looked upon as wild, and sometimes dangerous, this country’s waltz with disorder works like a well-oiled machine.

The Evolution of Tradition

Back in the cafeteria, tray in hand, the journey to your lunch table reveals cultural currents.

First, while rotating your tray to accept your food, you will notice the evolution of Korean traditions. Students wearing Nikes and Mickey Mouse t-shirts will bow as they shuffle along the windows. Old seamlessly meets new, Eastern traditions draped in Western clothing.

If you’ve survived the process of getting your food, you’ve got to find a seat. This is a great opportunity to peer through the window of social climate. There is an unyielding sense of pride from the people here. Each individual is accommodating to a fault, as if they personally want to be the reason you take home an appreciation for Korea.

Don’t be shocked to see a symphony of “Come here” gestures when you begin your navigation of the lunchroom.

Where To Sit?

Try to grab a seat on the appropriately gendered side of the group. Don’t be too concerned if you cross contaminate, though; you are a foreigner, after all. Just give a polite bow to the group, sit, and begin.

Slurp, Slurp, Smack

If you haven’t already noticed, anything on your tray that once had a skeleton will still have it, so think twice before you chomp down. Kimchi will most certainly grow on you. Keep an open mind.

Your neighbors will almost certainly heighten the dining experience. Koreans have been described as voracious eaters. Don’t be surprised by deafening lip smacks and other open mouthed noises you’ve never heard from dining companions.

Of all places in Korea, the lunch room is where I discovered my niche with the genuine and thoughtful people here. The enthusiastic pace of national pride and prosperity is echoed by the attitude of its citizens at the dinner table. They thrive in the frighteningly chaotic world around them, and the richness of culture and history is akin to the cuisine I find on my tray.

COMMUNITY CONNECTION:

Thinking about teaching English abroad? South Korea comes in at #2 on our list of the top 10 places to teach English. If you’re looking for other types of jobs, though, check out our top 10 resources for finding a job in Asia.

Matador’s Tokyo expert, Abram Plaut, was raised in San Francisco, but has called Japan home for the past five years.

In that time, he’s developed some serious skills “in the ways of Japanese sake, ramen, and peddling limited edition goods on ebay.”

He’s also put together a portfolio of photographs that document daily life in Tokyo–from the mundane to the just plain bizarre.

The photos are presented together in this video, which represent his five years in Japan…in three minutes:

5 Years in Japan in 3 Minutes from Abram Plaut on Vimeo.

Matador Profile:

abram

Personal Blog:

Yo! Japan.

Hometown: Corpus Christi, Texas

Currently in: Ibri, Oman

Who I’d like to meet on my travels: Sultan Qaboos, Vladimir Putin, the Brah Boys

Traveling Next: Tanzania, insh’allah

Matador Profile: Baxter Jackson

Matador Articles by Baxter: Arabian Bull Wrestling; Dreaming In Arabic, Learning In Yemen; Muslim Fear: How Teaching In Oman taught Me The Shades Of Islam

I’m fired up on showing the the world Okinawa and its unique culture through photography.

Let’s collaborate: Wildlife/Travel Photographer looking to collaborate with any publications interested in my photos from Okinawa, Japan.

Matador Profile: Ryukyu Mike

Photography Website: Mike’s Ryukyu Gallery

Travel Blog Entry: Katsuren Castle

Barfy Hamburgers in a Flow Pack

Dismay cookie

Maybe after dining on your Barfy burgers, you’re ready for some dessert. How about a Dismay cookie?

Penetrit Lubricant

This lubricant says it’s multi-use, but as far as I can tell, a lubricant called Penetrit has only one use.

Polyana Deodorant

If you didn’t get that last one, maybe it’s time you had a Polyana Moment. Teen Spirit has nothing on this deodorant.

Ades

This juice might not share the same success in the U.S. as it does here. Drink Ades, crap lightning!

The Bichy

La Bichy Ahora or “The Bichy Now.” I imagine it best helps the drinker live up to its name when mixed with tequila or gin.

All Photos by Kate Sedgwick

When I took that first step out of Australia almost four months ago I was a girl on a mission: to travel, entirely supported by couchsurfing, for as long as possible.

I wanted to see places and meet people, but most of all I wanted to immerse myself in the community and experience the life of someone who lived and breathed that city, even if for a few short days.

To date, I have been couchsurfing for approximately 105 days and counting. I have been to over 30 cities and couchsurfed with more than 20 people. There have been many occasions where I found myself invited to lunches and dinners with friends and families, or to celebrate a birthday, an event, or a holiday.

Photo by leafar.

Sleeping and living

Every experience has been unique and magnificent in its own way, so much so that my heart now beats childishly upon arriving in a new city, meeting a new host. Couches are always different, and almost always, a pleasant surprise.

Mine have ranged from sleeping on the floor cuddled up with a cat or a dog, to having my very own bedroom complete with king-sized bed, silk sheets, and marble en suite.

All the places I’ve been to have the smell of home. I love surveying the half-burnt candles resting quietly on the coffee table, the dog-eared books left on the sofa, the mix of pots and pans in the kitchen.

Expect the unexpected

There have been so many instances where my trip would not have been as enjoyable without the community of couchsurfing hosts.

In Cairo, I stayed with a generous soul who shared the services of her private chauffeur and personal maid. It made all the difference, as Cairo is not exactly a female nor pedestrian-friendly city. I was flabbergasted at being driven wherever I wanted, with a kind Egyptian driver who made sure I was not heckled or ripped off at popular tourist spots.

At the end of the day, I went back to a comfortable flat to find clean clothes, a made bed, and a friend to have a drink with.

When I was in Bilbao, I tagged along to one of many fiestas, held in a small building only locals frequented.

I was taken crab-hunting in the far reaches of the Arabian Gulf, an experience that’s not not in Lonely Planet’s list of top 10 Dubai experiences! But off I went, and had a fantastic time attempting to catch crabs and dodge crawling sea creatures. At the end of the night, we had a gigantic feast of our catch and treated ourselves to American beer.

I spent Christmas in the Basque region of France with a local family. I experienced first-hand how they celebrated, was treated like part of the family, and got to explore surroundings that I’m sure the average tourist has never set foot upon. I got to eat Basque food, drink Basque wine, and learn Basque history.

Photo by blmurch

Take a chance

Go on, do it. Couchsurfing has brought me more advantages and joy than I could possibly have ever imagined. I have seen and done so much through the kindness of strangers, who I now call my friends. I’m afraid my addiction cannot be cured. It’s an affliction that has changed my life, and I never want it to end. Are any others out there?

COMMUNITY CONNECTION

Even if you’re not traveling, you can still experience the pleasures of couchsurfing. Consider being a host after reading “Would You Let a Stranger Sleep on Your Couch?”

Feature photo by ernop. Photo above by madiko83.

Once termed the sleeping dragon, China has awoken from the sweet slumber of the depreciated yuan to find a world in financial despair. Though still labeled a third world country, China’s major cities– Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou– have surpassed the US in their creative architecture, enticing jobs, and innovative apartments.

They also offer amazing nightlife, a unique culture, plenty of drinking and dining options, and career opportunities.So, what does it cost to partake in this giant’s emergence?

The cost of living in China has declined in recent months thanks to the burst in the housing bubble. For renters, this is an opportunity, and many expats have renegotiated their rental agreements.

After the Chinese New Year holiday, many Chinese did not return to the urban centers, preferring to wait out the financial crisis in their home provinces. This has left city apartments empty, and landlords are nervous and ready to make deals.

The cost of living in China is dramatically lower than that in the US, Australia, and Western Europe. A nice two bedroom, one bath apartment with wooden floors and marble counters in the kitchen will run around 4,500 RMB a month (about $587.50 USD). Utilities are shockingly low, thanks to the government’s continued subsidy. In the aforementioned apartment, one could expect to pay an additional 300 RMB in utilities per month.

Photo by babasteve.

A cleaning lady visiting once a week will run you about 12 RMB an hour– less than $2 USD. Beijing is slightly cheaper than Shanghai, and Guangzhou is slightly cheaper than Beijing. Hong Kong’s apartments, on the other hand, are comparable to US prices.

The cost of food in China is also very low, should you choose to cook at home rather than dine out. A bag of seven apples, for example, is about 8 RMB, or $1 USD. The price of essential food is controlled in China, keeping this expense manageable.

Should you choose to dine at one of the Western or nicer Asian restaurants in any major city in China, you can expect to pay about $7-8 USD per plate, with another $7-10 USD for alcoholic beverages. Drinking in China is not a cheap pastime, but considering transportation, lodging, and food are cheap, one can afford to splurge on this recreational event.

Destinations

Community Connection to China

Surprisingly, your cost of living will increase should you be ever so slightly picky about your body care products. Shampoo, shaving cream, and other toiletries run about $8-10 USD a bottle.

Buying local supplies is cheaper, but the quality is noticeably lacking. Expect to spend about $20 USD a month on these types of products.

Should you require a doctor or dentist in China, you have two options as an expat or traveler. First, you could attempt to negotiate your way into a local hospital, though authorities will be loath to admit you without a translator.

Second, you could head to an expat clinic, where costs are enormous and the care subpar. If you are lucky enough to get into a Chinese hospital, you will not be disappointed. Doctors are quick and efficient. Chinese cities are dotted with pharmacies where you can self-medicate cheaply.

Photo by decade_null.

Expat insurance is affordable, but used primarily for major medical concerns. In all, prepare to budget between 100-200 RMB a month for healthcare. Chinese medicine stalls throughout major cities provide vitamins and other traditional remedies. You can also visit an acupuncturist or masseuse for under $15 USD per session.

While some international companies are pulling out of China in light of the global recession, a steady stream of available positions remain available for expats in most major cities; these range from executive positions paying six figures, to English teaching, which will cover a more modest lifestyle.

Your cost of living depends upon the type of lifestyle you want to have. The above range is for a lower-middle class income of about 15000 RMB a month, or around $28,000 USD a year.

COMMUNITY CONNECTION:

For more about the expat experience in China, check out Moonlighting in China and A is for Attitude Adjustment: Learning How to Teach and Live in China.

As if the perpetually sunny forecast isn’t enticing enough, doctors-to-be (and nurses, too) who choose the Caribbean for medical school often enjoy the benefits of personalized attention and a small student body typically lacking in large North American or European universities.

Small student-professor ratios permit unmatched opportunities for mentoring and research that might take years to attain at other schools. Caribbean medical schools also provide students with specialties and training opportunities that are difficult to find elsewhere.

From specializing in tropical medicine to fulfilling residency requirements in small family or community-based practices, students who graduate from Caribbean medical schools will possess extensive hands-on clinical experience in settings that will give them insight into the ways in which society and medicine intersect.

There are still more benefits to studying medicine in the Caribbean. While they may be smaller than continental medical schools and may not have the same range or easy accessibility of medical technologies, facilities are modern, and often new.

Then there’s a benefit that’s often overlooked: diverse student bodies. Universities in the Caribbean attract students from around the world.

While this is also true of continental universities, foreign students in large schools often get absorbed into their own unique cultural groups. In the Caribbean, the small admission ratio serves to keep students intermingling regardless of their background.

Saba University School Of Medicine / Photo by misscrabette

Studying in the Caribbean isn’t without its challenges or drawbacks. If you’re a foreign student, there’s the issue of securing the appropriate visa to study abroad. You’ll also want to make sure that the country (and state or province) where you want to practice upon graduation recognize the validity of the degree you’ve worked so hard to earn.

Depending on the programs you’re considering, you may need to meet a language proficiency requirement, though many programs are taught in English.

Finally, some students have difficulty adjusting to the insular nature of island life. After the initial thrill of fun and sun wear off, it might be hard to establish a satisfying social life, especially on a small island where everybody knows everybody.

And while the cost of school may be much lower than elsewhere, the cost of living on islands is often high, as so many essential items are imported, so any savings may be offset by unanticipated expenses.

If you’re considering studying medicine abroad and think the Caribbean might be right for you, here are six islands with highly ranked medical schools just waiting for your application:

1. Antigua

Founded in 2004 by U.S. physicians, American University of Antigua is a brand new campus and the student body currently numbers just around 1,000.

The curriculum is designed for students from the U.S., Canada, and the Caribbean to practice in their home countries. Though a handful of US states impose stringent accreditation standards that do not recognize degrees from medical schools in the Caribbean, AUA is one of the few schools whose graduates are accredited by New York to practice in the state.

Cayman Islands / Photo by JD Pavkovich

2. Cayman Islands

St. Matthew’s University turns 12 years old this year, and offers both research and clinical practice to students in the areas of traditional and veterinary medicine. Loans and scholarships are available for study; another benefit of St. Matthew’s is its rolling admissions policy (semesters start in September, January, and May).

3. Jamaica

University of the West Indies turned 60 years old in 2008, and offers more than 800 programs of study, medicine among them. UWI medical specialties include family, emergency, accident, internal, surgical, internal, sports, oral, and veterinary medicine. Be sure to check which of the university’s four campuses offer the program that interests you.

Photo by Wagner T. Cassimiro “Aranha”

4. St. Kitts Ross University

Since its inception in 1978, more than 9,000 students have graduated from Ross in medicine or veterinary medicine. Ross is a stand-out among Caribbean medical school programs because its graduates are accredited to practice in all 50 US states and 10 Canadian provinces.

5. Dominican Republic Universidad Autonoma de Santo Domingo

One of the Caribbean’s oldest universities (founded in 1538), the Universidad Autonoma de Santo Domingo offers courses of study in medicine, nursing, radiology, and pharmacy. The medical school’s course of study consists of 11 semesters, terminating with a residency that includes pediatrics, ob-gyn, psychiatry, and traumatology rounds, among others.

Universidad de la Habana / Photo by Wagner T. Cassimiro “Aranha”

6. Cuba

Not the first or obvious choice for American citizens, the Universidad de La Habana’s medical school is a highly competitive option for citizens of other countries.

Cuba, despite the economic embargo that has kept the country and its people without much needed resources, is admired around the world for its advanced health care and pioneering medical research, including in the areas of cancer, meningitis, cholera, and HIV/AIDS.

Students who are accepted to this program will enjoy unparalleled research opportunities: more than 52 scientific research institutes are in the capital alone, and researchers around the world come to Cuba to collaborate with colleagues.

COMMUNITY CONNECTION

Thinking of heading overseas for post-graduate education? Check out these 7 Countries Where Graduate School is a Fraction of US Costs.

A storm rapidly approaches on the eleventh day of January. According to local folklore, the brewing clouds foretell a rainy eleventh month this year. . . gotta build as much as possible before the dry season’s over.

Erica sits cross-legged, balanced on the railing as she looks off to the mountains. We watch her husband, Matt, talk to a group of locals below. They surround him as he meticulously flips through a book, explaining with pictures and diagrams what the community is and what it will become.

One scratches his chin. “Treehouses? Well, how do you get concrete up into the trees?” The teak and bamboo homes in the rain forest canopy are triumphs of design, as is the Skytrail network spans the property without plowing through the jungle.

Questions abound. How did this all happen? How did two Americans manage to leave their lives behind in order to develop a community in the jungle powered with solar and hydroelectricity? They make ice with the sun, grow their food, and travel around 350 acres on a carbon-neutral zip line superhighway.

“You really have to understand the kind of people we are.” Erica’s hands talk in wide circles. “I’m the dreamer and Matt’s the doer.”

She wraps her arms around her knees and gazes back out to the mountain horizon. “It wasn’t easy. A year ago, I was thinking we made the worst mistake of our lives. We quit our jobs and put all our chips on the table and had nothing to show for it.

“I couldn’t speak Spanish and was working and camping with all men.” She glances back at me and sighs. “The way the culture is here, they couldn’t understand why a woman wasn’t cooking and cleaning! They couldn’t comprehend that I was networking and getting the word out about the project.”

“We didn’t want to seem like asshole gringos when we first came,” Matt’s voice booms as he returns to the sky lounge. “We didn’t come to cut down trees and build McMansions with a view.”

“This is our home.” His hand chops the air with each articulated thought. “Sometimes we go down and play soccer with the local kids,” he continues. “The whole town comes to watch the gringos get destroyed by their children!”

His erupting laughter is interrupted as scarlet rumped tanagers tear through the air, ricocheting off toward a tree. Matt grabs a book detailing the 900 species of birds found in Costa Rica.

“I used to think bird watching was boring, a hobby for old people. But here I am with this book every evening,” confesses the avid surfer and snowboarder.

Although they came down to build a sustainable paradise for themselves and the rest of the Bellavista community, the couple has also made extensive efforts to develop a sustainable relationship with the local towns surrounding the Finca, fighting hard against the entrenched stereotype of opportunism that stigmatizes the gringo community.

Shocked at how under-funded the local school was, the couple donated enough supplies to keep the kids learning for the entire school year. Matt has even volunteered in the classroom, teaching English lessons and “getting up on his sustainability soapbox,” inspiring students to live in harmony with their environment rather than exploiting it for short-term gain.

Despite how far they’ve come with the project, they still cringe at the word developer. “I don’t want anybody to call us that,” snaps Matt. “We’re just two kids with an idea that took root. We’re not rape-and-pillage real estate companies; we have to sleep at night.”

“When people meet us,” Erica interrupts, “they’re not expecting two young punks, so it’s hard for people to take us seriously.” She playfully rocks back and forth on her ledge. “We’re not overly serious ourselves. . .we had the right people at the right time and have just been brutally honest and completely transparent with our clients.”

I have to ask: “Has all this been hard on your relationship?”

They give each other a knowing grin. Matt carefully proceeds. “Well, we actually met… in an ecosystem management class, and here we are, managing our ecosystem together. But, as with all human beings, when you spend 24 hours a day together, when you play, work, and love together, it gets stressful.”

Erica nods. “There’s just no time for us. It’s all about the project, and there’s always someone in your face and in your place. We don’t want this to be a Matt and Erica show forever, but right now it is.

When we don’t have so many people dependent on us, we can finally get down to the coast and surf together, which is actually the reason we came to Costa Rica in the first place!”

“But at this point,” Matt continues, “after overcoming so many difficulties, we have no doubt that Bellavista will succeed.” As he trails off, he makes sincere eye contact with me, and for that moment I’m convinced.

COMMUNITY CONNECTION:

To read more about Finca Bellavista, check out this article on MatadorChange. To learn about organizations in Costa Rica in need of volunteers, visit Matador’s member organizations here.