In Search of a Life Less Ordinary

The Land of the Three-Week Visit

2012-02-03T17:36:00.003+11:00

There's the Land of the Rising Sun, the Land of the Long White Cloud, the Land of the Giants, even the Land of the Free. But what about the Land of the Three-Week Visit?

I have a theory. Anyone who visits us here in Australia generally stays for three weeks, which got me wondering why that is.

We recently met up with friends of the family from 'way back'. They were here to spend Christmas in Sydney and Melbourne, and they were here for three weeks. This week we've been 'hanging out' with my wife's English relatives who are here for a little over three weeks. My own parents have visited Australia twice now. And, each time, for approximately three weeks.

In the land of perpetual sunshine and skimmed milk lattes to die for, it seems that three weeks is a timeframe of choice for holidaymakers and family members on a trip to the land down under.

Long distance travel.
Image: Tim Beach / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Distance is obviously a determining factor for the Three-Week Visit.

After travelling to the other side of the world, you'd be a fool to only allow a week or two to vacation here (the infamous jet lag alone will take a week to recover from, then there's the necessary heat acclimatisation, followed by the required time for traversing some of this vast landmass).

The same applies in reverse. I wouldn't dream of jet setting 17,000km to the UK unless I'd planned a lengthy stay there. In other words, no less than three weeks.

Ensuring a decent amount of time with loved ones is therefore the other reason for the Three-Week Visit.

For those of us who live in Australia and for family and/or friends arriving in Australia, three weeks is a satisfying chunk of time to spend together. It's long enough, but not overly lengthy. It is ample time to re-connect and repulse (if needs must). It allows for places of interest to be visited, sightseeing boxes to be ticked, and lashings of sun to be soaked up. Three weeks also happens to be a good marker for experiencing every known emotion to man.

Week One goes something like this.

The overwhelming anticipation of seeing familiar faces after more than twelve months of separation reaches its emotional climax at the airport's arrival lounge. Sheer joy is accompanied by dire uncertainty and worry. Did they make the arduous journey in one piece? Will they be permanently scarred by the effects of 24 hours in transit? Is the house going to be clean enough? Did I mow the lawn to those high English standards? And please don't let a cockroach crawl across their cotton bedsheets in the night.

Holidays in the sun.
Image: Darren Robertson / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The first week passes smoothly enough, although opposing sides are on tenderhooks - some unwilling to verbalise what's really on their minds; others tiptoeing around each other minding their P's and Q's; each person trying to take it all in. Politeness is the order of the day.

Positive words abound, from the quality of cooking skills, to the choice of bathroom towels, and of course how wonderful the local environment is. All parties try to bond in record speed. Although it's really not unlike a room full of strangers, each carrying a bag full of secrets, with the carry handles about to break and spew forth the bag's contents.

Week Two takes a slight turn for the worse.

Familiarity takes hold as life confined under one small roof gets cozier. Old jokes are remembered and childhood memories are shared. Life seems to be getting back to the way it was before you had to go and upset the apple cart and leave the Motherland. But the emotional bubble that's been swelling since your guests' arrival is about to burst open with catastrophic results. Tensions simmer dangerously high and those pent-up frustrations, unresolved arguments, and off-hand remarks from the past year lived apart soon boil over in a series of stormy outbursts.

"This isn't your true home." "Your friends and family miss you." "When are you planning to return?" "And who's going to look after us in our old age?"

The accusations fly and the anger burns yet, as suddenly as it started, the drama is over. Opponents retreat to their respective corners. After all, the show must go on.

Week Three is less eventful but tinged with sadness.

Regret and remorse are rife as the reality of the situation sets in. This is the last week of the visit and we'll soon be back to living separate lives on separate continents. Thoughts turn to leaving and every moment in each other's company is a precious commodity to be jealously guarded.

The visitors consume themselves with thoughts of the mind-bogglingly boring journey home that awaits them. The thoughts of the 'visited' turn to cleaning the house, fumigating, burning off, de-cluttering, and getting back to the gym again.

Before long, tear-laden farewells will be said at the airport's departure lounge, a flurry of text messages will be exchanged before the plane leaves the gate, and acceptance will kick in that you won't see each other again for what could be a very long time. A quick cry on the drive home, wondering why and how you ever got yourself into this situation. Then the steely resolve returns. This is an adventure of course and the last things adventurers have are doubts. Emotions are buried deep and life goes on.

Three weeks in Australia. Why, of course!
Image: dan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

All this in a brief Three-Week Visit.

I sometimes wonder if it's all really worth it. Whether it wouldn't be easier to just do away with the Three-Week Visit, avoid the roller coaster ride of emotions, and save myself a lot of heartache in the process. But you and I know that's not going to happen.

The thing about living in Australia, in this sandy outpost in the middle of the Pacific, is that you can't help but feel the isolation set in as bags are packed and visitors say their goodbyes. There's always that nagging feeling of being left behind that comes with living so far away from the 'rest of the world'.

Fortunately, that same feeling of isolation has it's upside. A feeling that isolation in the current global climate has its pros, as well as its cons.

Have you experienced the Three-Week Visit? Did you watch the emotional bubble burst?

5 Ways to Change My Life in 2012

2012-01-25T14:58:00.003+11:00

This week marked the start of the 'Chinese' New Year - the Year of the Dragon no less - while Australia Day will take place on Thursday.

A Chinese tiger. In other words, moi.

Now I'm no water dragon (I'm a wood tiger according to those that know these things and confirm that I am courageous of heart). And I only recently took on Australian citizenship (but remain a dual national despite attempts by the powers-that-be to drain me of my blessed English roots). But with so much celebrating of national pride and the year ahead in this far flung corner of the world, what better time to reflect on my own outlook for 2012.

I'm not the greatest fan of New Year's Resolutions but I do believe in starting the year anew, clearing out unwanted habits from the past twelve months, and focusing on creating a fresh start and prosperous year to come.

Last week, on Expatria, Baby, I revealed one of the key things I'm planning to change this year as part of a series of NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches guest posts on expat 'new beginnings'. My resolution was to procrastinate less and finish more.

I soon realised there wasn't just one thing I wanted to change this year but a number. And not the bog standard resolutions: "I'm going to lose ten kilos" or "I will stop smoking"; but the less tangible, harder to measure goals that might bring about more meaningful changes to the way I lead my life in 2012.

With this in mind, here is my 'call to action' for the coming year. My 'manifesto for change', if you like. The 5 ways I plan to change my life in 2012:

1. Dream less and finish more. - As I wrote in Dare to Dream but Commit to Action, this year will be about dreaming less and doing more. I won't think I'm not ready, I'll stop aiming for perfection, I'll face those fears of making mistakes, stop following the path of least resistance, and banish idleness to the sidelines. This year, I’ll consider less and act on more. I'll live life more fully with realistic results. I'll dare to dream but commit to action.

Positivity works.
Image: photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

2. Prove that positive thinking works. – Unfortunately, positivity and being British don't always go hand-in-hand. Sometimes it's easier to regard that cup as half empty when it really should be half full. Whilst that's no reason to start with the 'Whinging Pom' jokes, in 2012 I plan to focus on what I really want to happen. And in a positive way. Positive thinking is behind every good success story and starting each day with the thought that something good will happen in my life today, and paying close attention to see if it happens, will likely prove I'm right. Because I'm happy for the most part with this life by the beaches and I'm going to make damn sure I believe it. The cost of living may be high here but I'll focus on the plus side of Sydney living. I may not like every word or comment I come across in the Lucky Country, but it's not all bad. I promise.

3. Be more grateful for what I have. – No matter how much the day-to-day routine of life might try to wear us down, waking up each day thankful for what you have instead of thinking about what you don't have is the key. Being grateful for the way of life I lead in Sydney, being thankful for the family I'm creating around me, remembering to celebrate the good health and bright prospects we have here is something I plan to embrace regularly and wholeheartedly.

4. Appreciate the beauty of those smaller moments. – It's essential to enjoy the little things in life because, when I look back, those little things were actually the bigger things in my life. Those small moments I spend with loved ones that often pass me by all too quickly - holding hands with my wife as we walk along the beach, spending time with my dog by the water, enjoying the company of good friends on a warm summer's evening or going for a light work-out close to the sand - these are arguably the best portions of this life I've created and should be appreciated for what they truly are, not how insignificant they seemed at the time.

5. No longer settle for less. - Too many times I've tried to create happiness out of a particular situation that just doesn't stack up. That doesn't feel right. I'm not prepared to tolerate this any more. I'm going to stop acting as if everything is okay when it's not. It's not about being strong or proving I'm capable or a success when I'm not. It's about being honest and saying "Enough's enough. This isn't working. It's time to quit". The sooner I do, the sooner I'll be able to smile again. And smile honestly.

2012 is going to be about recalibrating this life. Moving forward with passion and purpose. Making improvements for the future, not just the here and now.

These are the ways I plan to change my life in 2012. This is my manifesto for change.

It's time to begin.

Do you have your own 'manifesto for change' for 2012? How do you intend to improve your life this year?

Expat Jeopardy: New Beginnings for 100

2012-01-19T06:00:00.037+11:00

NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches

With 2012 still fresh and new, this month's NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches examines beginnings from the four corners of the globe.

Here at In Search of a Life Less Ordinary, Linda of Adventures in Expat Land (North) explores the moment an expat's new life starts. As for yours truly usually found blogging here at In Search of a Life Less Ordinary (South), I'm dreaming big, and taking an even bigger bite out of 2012. Erica of Expatria, Baby (East) writes of her love beginnings. And Maria of I Was An Expat Wife (West) remembers the first time she felt at home in Singapore.

So, get comfortable, pour yourself a glass, and join us in saluting 2012. Many new and wonderful beginnings to all of you. Here's Linda's post.

Expat Jeopardy: New Beginnings for 100

By Linda Janssen

I'd like to change things up a bit, so today we're going to do things differently.

And the answer is...

Think 'game show,' only without the cameras, fancy television stage or slick, velvety-voiced host.

If you'd like to think of me as velvety-voiced, I won't object. Although let's be clear: unlike Alex Trebek, I have no mustache. None whatsoever.

The game we'll be playing is a bit like the US game show Jeopardy, with a few alterations.

The rules are simple. We'll select a category, in this case, New Beginnings. Then I'll read you several potential answers.

Well, I really won't be reading them to you. You'll be doing the reading, but just pretend I'm announcing the responses to you in a game show host sort of voice.

After I've read you the list of possible answers, you will select the one that you believe best represents the moment when the average expat truly starts to feel that they are at a new beginning point in their life. You know, that point when you realize that you're Dorothy and you aren't in Kansas anymore.

Pay attention and read carefully because I'm going to give you lots of options. But remember, you can only pick one.

Here we go.

1. You first hear the language of your new country spoken by everyone around you, and realize that you can't understand a single word being said.

2. Your spouse/partner/significant other/Antonio Banderas/Angelina Jolie comes home and says 'Guess what? I've got this fantastic job offer, but it's in (fill in the blank)'.

3. You're hugging family and close friends, trying not to sob as you say your goodbyes.

4. You receive your residency card or visa, as applicable.

5. You can look around at most intersections in a four-block radius and realize that you could find your way home without resorting to a phone call to Antonio (or Angelina) or having to ask someone on the street for directions.

6. Sitting in a welcome session for recent arrivals at your children' new school.

7. You arrive at the airport or border and have to go through customs and immigration, and you realize that this time you're not a visitor.

8. You watch the contents of your home being packed up, loaded onto a container truck and driven away.

9. The first time your child turns and says to you 'I want to go home' and you realize that they are referring to your new country.

10. You are stopped for directions and realize that you understand three out of every five words being said to you and can point, pantomime and summon sufficient words to make yourself understood in response.

11. It's 2:00 am, your normally reliable teenager is well overdue for their curfew and you're not sure who to call.

12. The first time someone greets you with a welcoming voice and warm smile saying 'Hello, I'm so-and-so. You're new, aren't you? Let's grab a coffee and chat. There are some folks I'd like to introduce you to.'

13. You're served a new food or beverage about which you haven't a clue, it looks and/or smells strangely, and you're not entirely sure whether it's edible or even how to eat it.

14. In the taxi, car, van, small truck, bus, rickshaw, carriage, water taxi, sleigh, motorcycle or sea plane delivering you to your new front door.

15. You make your first embarrassingly public cultural faux pas and are concerned that you've sparked an international incident.

16. You arrive in country with high hopes and big dreams but no job or place to live, thinking 'now what??'

17. It's 11:30 pm and your youngest child has a raging fever, you haven't been in country long enough to have arranged for a doctor.

18. You understand your first joke in your new language (and are secretly relieved that you're not the butt of it).

19. You've been revived after fainting upon hearing the words 'Our next assignment is in (fill in the blank)'.

20. You return from vacation or a business trip and realize that this is home.

21. Your household goods shipment finally arrives in your new country.

22. Mr/Ms Right turns out to be Mr/Ms Wrong, leaving you on your own in the country you recently chose to move to together.

23. The first time you are invited into the home of a local resident.

24. You have your first (and hopefully only) encounter with local police.

25. The time difference is such that you can only find a one-hour window in which to call or Skype with friends and family 'back home' (and someone still has to get up early or stay up late to do so).

Okay, you've heard each of the contenders, so go ahead and select your answer. Keep your eyes on your own screen. No peaking at each others' choices.

While you're deciding on which answer to write down, I'll just stand over here and hum the Jeopardy one-minute countdown song.

All right then, let's get straight to the results. Which one will it be? Which of the selections above best typifies the light bulb moment when an expat thinks 'aha, this is the beginning of my new life'?

And the answer is...

Yes.

Okay, that's not exactly fair. The answer is actually 'all of the above'. Or 'none of the above'. Or 'other'.

There is no such thing as an 'average' expat any more than there is one occurrence that signifies a new beginning to everybody.

Some of us experience one defining moment, others will be reminded repeatedly by a series of events that a new life has begun. Still others will resist acknowledging any 'beginning' in their life change, instead living in a holding pattern and biding time until they can get back 'home'.

The truth is, new beginnings abound in expat life. You just have to be open to seeing them, and seeing them for what they are.

[Image Credit: Master isolated images / FreeDigitalPhotos.net]

So which selection did you choose? What was your last light bulb moment when you realised this is the beginning of your new life?

NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches
Image: digitalart portfolio 2280 freedigitalphotos.net

An Interview with Jack Scott, Published Expat Writer

2012-01-10T09:08:00.008+11:00

I had the pleasure of meeting Jack Scott through In Search of a Life Less Ordinary and the wider expat community in 2011. Jack is a regular visitor to this blog and a faithful advocate of pursuing a less ordinary life.

Jack Scott, Published Writer

Jack writes a successful blog which has quickly became one of the most popular English language blogs in Turkey. As the blog grew, Jack made the decision to develop the story of his expat life in Turkey into a memoir, Perking the Pansies, which was published just before Christmas.

Perking the Pansies is an intriguing and often hilarious tale of a gay couple from London carving out an exciting and completely different life in Turkey. Jack's writing is a breath of fresh air, his vocabulary is delightful, and I wore a permanent grin on my face over Christmas as I read (on my newly acquired Kindle) how he describes, in his own inimitable way, the people he and Liam meet along the way. But it's not all smooth sailing for the fearsome duo as Jack reveals a number of less than happy moments during their time in Yalikavak then Bodrum, which simply add to the depth of the book and the interest of the overall journey.

Perking the Pansies is first and foremost a heart-warming account of a very human set of stories and I was fortunate enough to interview the author of this lovely - and currently bestselling - book as part of the current Perking the Pansies world tour...

So Jack, with a growing number of expat books being published, what makes Perking the Pansies a must-read for 2012?

Many expat books about Turkey (and elsewhere) are about building the dream in a foreign field set against a magnificent backdrop of history, culture and landscape. Many are beautifully written and deserve their place on the bookshelf while others are worthy but a little dull. I wanted to write something completely different. Perking the Pansies provides an alternative version of the expat experience from the perspective of a British gay couple in a Muslim land. It’s something no one has done before, and why would they? There aren’t many of us here.

Perking the Pansies is an often funny but always quite personal story of yours and Liam's unique journey. Were you at all concerned about putting your lives out there in such a public way through this book?

I have tried to lace the book with the same brand of satire and humour as my blog, but I also wanted depth, personality and a convincing plot. To do this, I think you must reveal something of yourself and that’s why I’ve included aspects of our lives which I’ve never written about before. I’m a bit of an open book anyway, so writing about my life and feelings, past and present, isn’t difficult for me (or for Liam).

As two openly gay men, the book follows your 'escape from the liberal sanctuary of anonymous London to relocate to a Muslim country' and this was surely no small decision to make. Just how difficult a decision was it and do you think other potential expats can learn something from your decision and subsequent journey?

We really wanted to take time out from the world of the waged, so we had to move somewhere affordable; living in a cardboard box wasn’t our idea of fun. I’d like to say that we moved to Turkey because it’s a land of swarthy men, a place where sexual ambivalence reigns supreme and stolen glances meet you at every corner. The truth is more prosaic. We had to settle somewhere within easy commute of Blighty for trips home to see our folks. The Eurozone was off the agenda because the Pound to Euro exchange rate conspired against us. That meant the usual nations of choice for sun-starved Brits – Spain, Portugal and Greece – were out. Quite simply, we get more bang for our bucks in Turkey. Also, we’d been dipping our toes this side of the Aegean for years and knew the amazing country quite well. With the current crisis in the Eurozone, I think we (quite accidentally) made a wise choice.

The biggest lesson we’ve learned is that the neither the journey nor the destination is the be all and end all. It’s what you do afterwards that really counts. The real challenge to able-bodied emigreys (as I call retired expats) is to find a gainful occupation that doesn’t involve propping up the bar in a sad, insular expat dive to Blighty-bash and complain ad nauseum of all things local. That’s why I started the blog.

Perking the Pansies, the book

You cover a lot of ground in the book and recount in some detail the many characters you've met and conversations you've had along the way. How did you go about recording and remembering so many different encounters?

The blog has helped with much of the subject matter and narrative. Many of the events were so extraordinary that they’ll be etched into my memory for a very, very long time. Suburban life in London was never this eventful. Our first year in Turkey was like living in Midsomer without the murders. And then came the horrible murder. All events in the book are based on what actually happened, but some of the characters and their characteristics have been merged or altered to protect the privacy of the innocent and the guilty. I have also tweaked the timeline a little for the purposes of dramatic tension and narrative clarity.

And where to next for Jack Scott, Published Writer? Will we see Jack and Liam remain in Bodrum or head off on a new leg of the Perking the Pansies adventure?

Turkey is a magical land. The people are warm, welcoming and hospitable. Whether you are a culture-vulture needing a fix, a beach bum wanting rest and relaxation, an adventurer seeking an adrenalin rush or a rambler who gets off on meandering through magnificent countryside, Turkey has it all. We’re lucky enough to live here while we’re young enough to savour it and we’re very happy to stay in Turkey for now. Much depends on how happy we remain here, whether the book sells and where that might lead. I’m hopeful of a sequel and a prequel but this may just be wishful thinking. The chances are, we’ll head back to Blighty for our dotage. Home, as they say, is where the heart is – and where the health care is free.

Perking the Pansies is available to buy in paperback or on Kindle from Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com. If you order through Jack's website, http://www.jackscott.info/, he makes a few extra pennies from it. No pressure.

Thanks Jack.

The Best of In Search of a Life Less Ordinary 2011

2012-01-03T16:04:00.006+11:00

A New Year. Image: Idea go / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

In the time honoured tradition of looking back at the highlights of the year that was, I thought I'd round out the year with a look back at the best of In Search of a Life Less Ordinary for 2011.

A year of extremes

It was an extreme year in Australia - from extraordinarily high temperatures in January and February to an unusually wet and windy start to the current summer in December. When Australia was hit with insanely hot summer temps early on in the year, I asked just How hot is too hot?

Not long after, appalling bush fires, mass flooding and wild cyclones ravaged areas of Queensland and Western Australia as I put pen to paper for the UK Telegraph for the first time in 2011 with First floods, then cyclones, now bushfires: what next for Australia?

The year also showed us extreme attitudes and behaviour when London lost the plot and the UK rioted from north to south. Having lived in a number of cities that had experienced riots such as these, I found myself making comparisons as I watched My London burning.

An extreme issue of a different kind was the rising cost of living in Sydney. Living in the lucky country doesn't come cheap looked at the true cost of life in the harbour city and the emerging phenomenon of the ping pong Pom.

Understanding the locals

It was also a year for getting to know my neighbours, the friendly 'locals', and understanding - and accepting - how things work here in the land down under. Of course, it wasn't ever going to be easy trying to fit in.

In Winter, what winter?, I asked whether Australians believe winter exists in this fair land and, if so, why am I the only one who seems aware of the ever-present cold and dark at this time of year. Not long after, in What happened to Halloween?, I made that most serious of claims: is it me or is Halloween non-existent in Australia?

Coffee's Up! Image: nuchylee / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

More contentiously, I posted on my occasional experiences of racist behaviour in Australia in No place for ugly attitudes in Australia and this continues to be one of my most read and commented-on blog posts on ISOALLO.

You also learned about my love of the coffee culture in Sydney and my surprise at just how good the black liquid gold really is when I guest posted for Why Go Australia in Coffee's up in Sydney! And I got to grips with local tipping practices, which have always bemused me wherever I've called home, when I deciphered the local customs for the Expat Explorer blog in To tip or not to tip?

Learning about myself

2011 was also a defining point in my expat life. I reached the '8 years away from the UK' threshold and I started to better understand my sense of living a more permanent life overseas.

I explored issues of separation guilt and emotional anxiety at being such a long distance away from loved ones in Facing my fears, whilst in When the going gets tough, should I get going? I considered the type of expat I am (if I still am one) and whether it was time to move on as a result of issues causing me concern.

Me, myself and I - living with my nationalities was about my decision to become an Australian citizen and dealing with those initial feelings of guilt in taking on the nationality of my new home, whilst in Defining home I tried to tease out the true definition of 'home' for an expat. In the end, I decided that home is where a person feels happiest and, as with love itself, when you find the one that is right for you, you'll know where your home is too.

Love home. Image: Sura Nualpradid / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I learned a lot about the language I've developed along this journey from the UK to Canada and on to Australia in Lessons in language when I realised I'm now speaking a mix of languages, thinking and speaking with a hodge-podge of words and phrases from my current and previous homes. I also learned that most of the personal stuff I brought with me to Australia is exactly that, Just stuff, even if I do cherish that record collection which will always come along for the ride...

I eventually came to the conclusion that life by the beach isn't all that bad in Life's a beach - what is there to complain about when a typical morning is spent watching humpback whales breach and pods of dolphins swim by?

Looking back, moving forward

2011 was a year of opportunity in which I wrote regularly for the Telegraph's Expat section, filmed my search for this new life on a major US television show, helped launch our monthly NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches initiative with three very talented expat writers from the far flung corners of the globe (who could forget my naked sauna?), and was fortunate enough to be able to bring more of my life here in Australia to you in your own home, wherever that may be.

2012 hopefully holds more of the same in store for In Search of a Life Less Ordinary. You will see a few changes in the blog's direction over the coming months and our search for a different life will perhaps take on its own change of course in 2012 (for the better, I'm sure).

We like-minded expats/nomads/travellers/adventurers/restless souls often like to quote the great Mark Twain when he once said:

"Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do, than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."

Join me as I do.

Have a fantastic 2012.

Sydney fireworks.

Living in the Lucky Country Doesn't Come Cheap

2011-12-20T11:45:00.000+11:00

I recently wrote for the UK Telegraph on the rising cost of expat life in the land down under. This is a contentious issue and one which is stirring up opinion on both sides of the fence - those who agree and those who emphatically do not.

I've posted the article below and encourage you to join in the discussion at the end and share your own views on this polarising subject.

The cost of expat living is on the rise here. Image: martinhoward

Only a few days ago, I went to the local supermarket searching out some chilli peppers for the week ahead. At nearly 43 Australian dollars per kilo (£28), I chose to walk out empty-handed as, once again, prices in the food shops were spiralling out of control. A week before, banana prices had been rocketing.

This capped off a week in which it cost me more than $90 to fill my car (up from $60 several months ago), over $25 to buy a reasonable bottle of red wine (up from $15 not long ago), about $350 to pay an extraordinarily high electricity bill for the last quarter, and a little under $6,000 to pay an excessive monthly mortgage payment on a fairly regular size house.

All of the basic commodities – bread, fruit, milk – are more expensive than I can previously remember, the cost of petrol has risen, house prices continue to climb, and the only saving grace is that interest rates seem to be dropping whilst salaries remain high, even if I feel constantly penniless and barely scraping by.

Perhaps I’m just whinging, as all British expats here allegedly do, but expat life in Sydney has grown far less affordable over the past five years, which make it far more appealing to be some place else.

We’re often told that Europe is sinking in a quagmire of recession and economic turmoil, whilst Australians enjoy the benefits of a booming recession-free economy combined with a superior quality of life lived under a perpetual sun and in the great outdoors. Thousands of Brits continue to make their way to Australia and Sydney each year safe in this knowledge, and there is no shortage in the number of surveys and reports touting Sydney’s obvious desirability.

Iconic but expensive Sydney. Image: Robert van Dijk

The Mercer 2011 Quality of Living Survey, for example, which compares 221 cities based on 39 criteria, ranked Sydney as the 11th most liveable city in the world, whilst the Economist Intelligence Unit’s Global Liveability Report rated Sydney as the sixth most liveable city in the world. This contrasts starkly with another recent survey in The Guardian which named the UK as having the worst quality of life in Europe.

It’s therefore no great surprise that Brits continue to flock to Sydney in large numbers, but what I’m curious to know is whether the true financial cost of living a new life in the land down under is understood by these new immigrants and whether economics, rather than emotional reasons, might eventually drive them back home.

A spate of media commentary in recent weeks has focused on those Brits leaving Australia and returning to the homeland. Even the Mayor of London, addressing a lunch gathering of Australian business executives, mentioned the ping-pong Poms who are turning their backs on Australia because, despite the endless sunshine and chance to live by the coast, life is generally dull, they miss friends and family, lack any real sense of belonging, would prefer a less macho culture, and want more of the history commonly found in Europe.

What the commentary doesn’t focus on is the exorbitant cost of living in Australia, particularly in Sydney, compared to prices in Britain, which immigration analysts suggest is the likely factor fuelling the trend for expats to return home.

So what are the options for expats like myself, struggling with the high cost of life in the sun but reluctant to give up this improved way of living for purely financial reasons? Do I move to another Australian city where the prices might be cheaper but the quality of life might also be less? Perhaps return to the Old Dart where the cost of living might be reduced but where I might give up so much more in the process? Or remain in Sydney where I can live close to the beach but pay dearly for it in the long run?

Where would you rather be? Image: Robert van Dijk

After almost nine years away, I still experience a profound pull back to the UK, to be near my family and friends, to witness the distinct change in seasons, enjoy polite conversation, green fields, and of course the quality TV. I suppose I could always head back for a short while, keeping my Australian citizenship as a back-up, leaving me free to return one day if, and when, the sky-high living costs subside.

Yet, in a recent interview with the BBC News Magazine, the radio DJ and ping-pong Pom himself, Jono Coleman, summed it up best for me. He posed the question that when you’re broke, hard up and cash strapped, where would you rather be? Sitting in a park in the rain in London or in a park in a sunny Sydney looking out at the ocean?

Although financially tougher, the latter option still seems infinitely better to me.

This article originally appeared in the Telegraph's Finance section on 8 December 2011 - http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/personalfinance/offshorefinance/8942489/The-true-cost-of-expat-living-in-Australia.html

Are you a Sydneysider experiencing the rising cost of living? Do you live elsewhere in the wider world and are encountering similar issues? Or are you in the UK and very glad to be there right now?

No Bubble Wrap, Thank You

2011-12-15T06:00:00.047+11:00

NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches

It's fast approaching the end of the year which means we have time for just one more Expat Dispatches for 2011. As always, your faithful expat dispatchers from the four corners of the globe are:

North: Linda in The Netherlands (http://www.adventuresinexpatland.com/)
South: Russell in Australia (http://www.insearchofalifelessordinary.com/)
East: Erica in Japan (http://www.expatriababy.com/)
West: Maria in Canada (http://www.iwasanexpatwife.com/)

The December edition of NorthSouthEastWest is something very dear to our hearts. It’s that thing or things that drive us crazy as expats. This month’s theme is therefore an open invitation to have a good ole fashioned rant and is called It’s driving me round the bend!

Here at In Search of a Life Less Ordinary, Erica shares her love (or absolute lack of) for packaging in Japan.

At Adventures in Expat Land, I’m wondering why it’s always so flamin’ hard to get any sleep round here;

At I Was an Expat Wife, Linda examines the discomfort of discomfort;

And at Expatria, Baby, Maria is breathing a sigh of relief to be free of the Expat Hierarchy.

So sit back, enjoy these four no-holds-barred posts, and have a wonderful festive season wherever in the world you and yours may be!

Image: Naypong / FreeDigitialPhotos.net

I'm slightly nervous about this month's theme. You see, the list of things that drive me ‘round the bend' is long. Very long. I could write a tome entitled, "All Of The Things About Japan That Make Me Totally Bonkers And Also A Bit Stabby." It would meander from the trivial (tiny, sockless baby feet, naked to the winter elements) to the inane (dogs dressed up as elves, or bumble bees, or ballerinas or tiny Von Trap singers being pushed around the park in canine sized strollers) to the annoying (an impenetrable address system that renders me hopelessly and utterly lost about 75 percent of the time), to the serious (a cultural tradition of sexism so entrenched that married women with children have almost no hope of any sort of meaningful career).

But to write such an opus would certainly not be prudent. It would not win me any friends, nor the respect of my blogging comrades and would only serve to kindle my righteous indignation. And I’m really trying to be less righteous . And less indignant. After all, not everything is so doomy.

And so, in the spirit of this season of wrapping paper, presents, and parcels, I give you..da da da da!...PACKAGING!!!! And why it drives me batty.

You see, I was raised with a healthy fear of overflowing landfills and human provoked environmental ruin. As a child, my mother sent me off to school with sandwiches packed in repurposed milk bags and leftovers scooped into old yoghurt containers. Reuse. Reduce. Recycle. As I've moved across the globe, I’ve carried this mantra with me. I may occasionally leave the lights on in the hallway, and take a shower that's a little too hot and a little too long, but I'll always bring my reusable shopping bag to the grocery store.

And so I did, the first time I went grocery shopping in Japan. I passed my shopping bags over to the cashier while I nervously fumbled with my wallet full of unfamiliar currency (so many zeros!!) When I returned home with my provisions, I was vexed to discover that my jars of jam, containers of soy sauce, and bottles of beer were carefully swaddled up in bubble wrap. The French cheese, for which I had combed the city (and paid a small fortune), was bundled first in a layer of saran wrap and them vacuum packed in thick plastic so that it sweated and slimed all it's delicious Frenchness away. My steaks were wrapped in polystyrene trays, then sealed with plastic wrap. A duo of ice packs was added before the whole package was encased in a final layer of plastic. Apples were wrapped individually in Styrofoam mesh lest that they suffer the indecency of a slight bruise. I unpacked my groceries and huffed around, cursing the pointless waste.

Later, as I explored the city on a rainy day, I saw shoppers carefully slide their umbrellas into plastic bags provided at store entrances. And paper bags filled with newly acquired treasures were shrouded in plastic. A disposable raincoat kept the shopping bag, the outer packaging announcing status and luxury, pristinely drip-free. I rolled my eyes and sighed.

It's not just inanimate objects that are packaged just so. People, too, sport a uniform of perfection. Men in perfect dark suits and perfect blue ties. Hipsters clad in perfectly mis-matched patterns and perfectly oversized glasses. Ladies perfectly quaffed with high heals and fake lashes, perfectly attired for a quick trip to the grocery store. And then there’s me, always slightly disheveled and marked with the invariable smear of baby goo. My hair willfully escapes the constricts of it's hair tie, and my eye makeup is slightly smudged. I carry a hit of hint of vagabondery. And in Japan, I am a sore thumb.

And so, it is like this that I show up at the grocery store. Standing in line behind a perfectly manicured woman who pulls out a designer wallet from her designer bag and completes her transaction elegantly and without incident. I follow, rooting through my purse (with its requisite splotch of unknown provenance on the front) to extract my reusable bags. I stretch to hold onto my daughter with one hand at the same time as I try to mime "no bubble wrap" and "hold the ice packs". I decline the prestigious shopping bags emblazoned with fancy grocery store branding and hand over my rumpled eco-bags while I shrink from side-eyes from the my fellow shoppers, real or imagined.

You see, this is just who I am: a slightly disheveled, semi-tree hugging, rebellious, and perpetually disorganized eschewer of convention. And in this way, I'll always be annoyed by the excessive packaging in Japan, just as the Japanese will always be annoyed at my inability to package myself appropriately. Still, with a Christmas gift exchange to shop for this week, you can bet that I’ll be asking for a gift box. And wrapping. And throw on a little plastic shopping bag raincoat to keep everything looking good, arigato gozaimasu.

Tis the season for sharing so why not tell us some of your own gripes, irritations and downright annoyances from life lived abroad. Don't be shy. Let it all out.

NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches
Image: digitalart portfolio 2280 freedigitalphotos.net

No Place for Ugly Attitudes In Australia

2011-12-07T11:51:00.009+11:00

I read something shortly after returning from my trip along the New South Wales coast that got me thinking about the first time I visited a dentist in Sydney.

I was laid out horizontally waiting for the man himself to get to work on my pearly whites. I don't mind going to the dentist's - as a rule of thumb, he/she is usually the chatty sort, makes me feel comfortable, and I'm not particularly averse to the fact they'll shortly be rummaging around in my mouth looking for any signs of badly behaving teeth.

As the dentist leaned over to begin his business, he asked me if I was house hunting yet and, if so, how it was going.

"Pretty good," I replied. "We're looking at a few options but we're thinking the North Shore might be a good place to call home."

"You should look at houses in the west of Sydney," he said. "Lots of big, grand houses out near Penrith way. Built for wogs. Depends if you like your woggy houses. Lots of concrete and ornate metal railings. Not my thing but some people love those woggy places."

I was floored. Did I hear him right? Did he just say what I thought he said? If so, should I have said anything back? Reprimanded him for blatantly saying something so racist and unprofessional?

In the end, I smiled awkwardly and said nothing, unsure of the territory I was in and concerned that I might be in danger of over-reacting (or under-reacting). With the conversation grinding to a halt, he got on with my check-up.

Are racial icebreakers found across Sydney? Image: Jiaren Lau

The visit to this dentist took place not long after I arrived in Australia, more than five years ago. I soon found out that a 'wog' in fact was a person of Greek or Italian descent, not quite the definition it was given back in the UK. That said, it wasn't used in a positive way so I remained slightly troubled by what I'd heard.

It wasn't the only such occurrence over the years but, more often than not, I put these incidents down to the Aussie sense of humour or credited it to the way things were done and said here.

'Wogs' and 'Lebbos' (those of Lebanese descent) were the obvious terms I would regularly hear. I witnessed various jokes about the 'Abos' (Aborigines) and increasingly came across negative comments about people from other cities and countries (us Brits top of the list of course, closely followed by the Yanks, the Kiwis,and so on). This was heard from a relatively small percentage of the people I came across so, in those early weeks and months, I realised I should probably 'put up' and 'shut up' if I wanted to fit in.

It was therefore no real surprise when I read Lauren Fritsky's article in the UK Telegraph a few days ago, Seeing in black and white in Australia, highlighting her unease and often embarrassment at hearing what she perceived as racial 'icebreakers' in public. She notes her struggles with the apparent lack of political correctness in Australia and the ease with which some of these terms are used by the local population.

What I realised, when I read Lauren's article, is that I've got far too used to these casual, throw-away remarks when they do occur. In fact, I often brush them off as unintentional slurs or said without bad feeling. I mean, what's wrong with giving the Kiwis and Yanks a bit of stick? And the Poms have been ridiculed for years much as the Lebos and Westies have been.

The problem is that, although most of these words are as much a part of the light-hearted Aussie vernacular as the 'barbie' or the 'ute', they sometimes come very close to crossing the line and often, as Lauren reminds us with reference to the use of 'Chocko' or Abo', they do.

Australia no place for ugly attitudes. Image: maHidoodi

It's important to understand the psyche here, the fact that the culture is based on the premise that "anything goes" and "anyone is fair game". From the camaraderie at the bar to the casual BBQ setting, the light-hearted work environment to the jovial yet die hard sports rivalries, all combine to create a “no worries, mate” attitude, inspired by a society that goes with the flow without giving a damn what you might think of them.

Yet sometimes, just sometimes, I get tiny flashbacks to my former university days spent in the heart of the multicultural British Midlands where racist taunts and cultural insensitivities were often the norm rather than the exception.

I previously posted on my experiences in Canada and Australia, and how the two countries are separated by more than just water. My view was that Australia preaches tolerance, where as Canada believes in accepting a person, wherever they're from or whoever and whatever they are. The question is whether this basic attitude of tolerance in Australia is good enough to carry forward in the modern many-cultured world.

There's quite simply no place in this beautiful land for ugly attitudes and ignorant opinions. I only hope that the odd experience or encounter I've had along the way isn't held by the many but by the few.

What are your views? What have been your experiences here, either as an Australian or as a visitor to the land down under?

Fingal Bay Fun

2011-12-02T12:40:00.002+11:00

We're currently holidaying along the beautiful eastern coastline of Australia, not three hours north of Sydney in an area called Port Stephens so I wanted to share some photos of the neighbourhood with you.

The peninsula is home to a number of pristine bays that circle around Port Stephens from Nelson Bay through to Anna Bay. We're vacationing with Milo in the Shoal Bay and Fingal Bay areas, which are two stunning examples of the Australian coastline with long deserted beaches backed by high rising sand dunes and turquoise blue waters lapping at the shore.

We plan to snorkel around the reefs, swim with Milo at his own 'dog beach', watch the dolphins play in the ocean, and get stuck into some of the local cuisine.

Back in a week's time...

Fingal Bay, Port Stephens

More Fingal Bay, New South Wales

A stormy looking Shoal Bay, Port Stephens

Pristine bays, turquoise blue waters


Milo surveying the scene at Port Stephens

Driftwood

Some local Fingal Bay fun!

Sydney Vacations

Lessons in Language

2011-11-25T18:25:00.004+11:00

Our English language is funny - a fat chance and slim chance are the same thing. ~J. Gustav White.

The English language is even funnier when you've forgotten how to speak it.

I was in a meeting at work this week (not a very interesting one at that). At this meeting, we were talking 'data'. Now I'm no technical genius and at school I was admittedly bad at maths, but somehow I've been roped into a fairly significant data-based project. So I'm in a meeting listening to non-stop talk about data and not understanding very much in the process.

I opened my mouth to contribute to the discussion and remembered I'd forgotten how to say the word 'data'. It may sound stupid but it's been a recurring issue for me lately. Is it day-ta or is it dar-ta? Somehow, somewhere, I've lost the ability to pronounce this ridiculously simple word.

I found myself having numerous conversations in my head over the past few weeks, questioning whether day-ta is the Australian English pronunciation and dar-ta the British English. I thought I'd worked it out.

Day-ta is so obviously Australian. It sounds kind of American (think the 1983 movie, War Games) and my Aussie compatriots do like to embrace the American language. It follows that dar-ta is the true-blue British way of pronouncing the word. So when my Australian colleague then asked me how my dar-ta project was coming along, my theory was blown right out of the water.

Language Love. Image: woodleywonderworks

This expat's use of the English language is proving more challenging and confused the longer I live abroad.

Aside from the ominous changes to my accent (an Aussie lilt is starting to become a regular feature), I'm acquiring a strange new vocabulary containing a selection of words from the Canadian and Australian dictionaries sprinkled in amongst my own British lexicon. It's almost as if I'm creating a distinct pidgin English language over here - and one that only I seem able to understand.

I can only assume that this sort of thing happens to anyone who spends long periods of time away from the homeland. A strange pronunciation here, a uniquely foreign word there. A mongrel of a language as a result.

I now think and speak with an unusual mix of words and phrases. Alien terminology invades my repertoire and I'll sit up wondering where exactly that phrase or saying came from. Aussie friends at a bar might wonder why I've told them I'm heading off to the 'washroom' and it's not unusual to see an English relative wondering what on earth a 'boofhead' is.

There's probably only one cure for this language inadequacy mine. I'll need to book in a quick trip to the Motherland to sort things out and fix things up. Five minutes with a couple of pals in the Old Dart will have me back to my former ways speaking the language of my forefathers with relative ease and in that most beautiful of dialects, the Basingstoke drawl.

Until I return, you'll find me in a corner, perplexed as always, asking that most important question of questions: is it pah-sta or par-sta? I honestly no longer know.

Do tell me about your own language inadequacies. Any unusual foreign words creeping into daily conversations with the locals?

Have Passport, Will Travel

2011-11-18T06:00:00.016+11:00

NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches

It's the middle of November so you know what that means: it's time for our monthly virtual four-way blogfest. We are:

North: Linda in The Netherlands (http://www.adventuresinexpatland.com/)
South: Russell in Australia (http://www.insearchofalifelessordinary.com/)
East: Erica in Japan (http://www.expatriababy.com/)
West: Maria in Canada (http://www.iwasanexpatwife.com/)

This month's theme? What is the one item each of us can't imagine living expat life without.

So have a seat, get comfortable and come around the world with us as we explore four different items from four different perspectives:

Here at In Search of a Life Less Ordinary, Maria shares what matters most to her;

At Adventures in Expat Land, Erica demonstrates why paper beats rock and scissors every time;

At I Was an Expat Wife, I ponder whether it's possible to be too attached to my chosen item;

And at Expatria, Baby, Linda's all for throwing off the bowlines.

Without further ado, here's Maria's post, Have Passport, Will Travel...

I’m madly in love with my passport. It’s a very attractive navy blue, with a very unattractive photo of me on the first page. But what a treasure trove of memories lies within its covers: stamps and visas to wonderful places that I never thought I’d be lucky enough to visit. The few remaining blank pages — which seem so naked and vulnerable next to their more robust neighbours — are calling out to me, each one bursting with possibility.

Becoming an expatriate means figuring out how to turn a foreign country into a home. Of course we spend a great deal of time in our host country, deciphering the unspoken rules of behaviour, struggling to master the language, and generally going about the business of building a life. But one of the biggest perks of expat life is discovering a hitherto unknown corner of the world — just begging to be explored — right outside your new front door.

When I lived in Singapore, I couldn’t wait to dive into Asia. In the beginning, we didn’t stray too far from home: a weekend in Bintan, a drive across the Causeway to Malaysia. It only whetted our appetite. We started to venture further afield: Bangkok, Phuket, Bali. Then Hanoi, Saigon, Sydney, Beijing.We became travel junkies, constantly searching for our next fix.

Moving to France put the glories of Budapest, London, Istanbul and Barcelona right at my fingertips. With each stamp I collected in my passport, I also collected experiences that would thrill, awe, and change me forever.

The stamps themselves are utilitarian in appearance, clearly designed to expedite, not delight the senses. Yet somehow my pages became the canvas for a dizzying collage of colour and shape. Each stamp is just different enough to let a little sliver of personality shine through. The hues vary from sombre black to delicate lavender. A bright green Indonesian stamp shares space with a cobalt blue beauty from Chiang Mai. The Chinese stamp is so aggressive in its red fluorescence that it makes my eyes hurt.

Shapes, too, differ. The Australian entry stamp is elegantly rectangular in shape, while the exit stamp is round with curved text. The triangular exit stamp from Thailand sits atop its squarish counterpart, forming a tidy little house. The stamps from the EU are disappointingly similar: minimalistic boxes featuring a line drawing of an airplane (First the Euro took away the fun of shopping with exotic currencies such as the lira and franc; now half the pages in my passport exhibit a mind-numbing sameness). And here’s a delicious taste of irony for you: the American stamp has no borders.

The humble stamp pales in comparison to its flashier cousin: the visa. Visas are passport rocks stars. The English and Chinese characters of the staid Chinese visa are printed in a muted green ink. There is a faint watermark of the Great Wall in the middle, which elevates it from merely an official document to a cultural work of art. The Vietnamese visa is vaguely intimidating, the Indonesian one is disappointing in its absence of Bahasa, and the Turkish one looks like a groovy watercolour painting.

Mingling with the joy in these pages is regret for the stamps that aren’t there: the family vacation in India and the house-building trip to Cambodia that never materialized because our time in Asia ran out before we could make them happen. A weekend jaunt to Venice was likewise abandoned when we left France to return to our home in Canada.

There is sadness here, too: my Singaporean Dependant’s Pass has been cruelly defaced by the single word — CANCELLED — stamped across it.

Last weekend, my daughters and I drove to Niagara Falls and across the border into the United States. Our old passports expired a couple of years ago, and we had our new passports with us, pristine and unsullied by the familiar tangle of stamps we’d grown to love. These passports aren’t dog-eared and worn around the edges from years of handling; their pages aren’t smudged and scribbled on by immigration officers in dozens of countries. It pains me to say that they have no visas between their shiny new covers.

The photo, however, is still unattractive.

I couldn’t imagine living expat life without my beloved passport. But I’m not an expat anymore. My scuffed and tattered former passport sits like a relic in a drawer, its corners roughly clipped (If you’d like to draw an analogy involving birds’ wings at this point, knock yourself out. I don’t have the heart to do it myself).

This new passport is like a stranger to me, but there’s one thing that hasn’t changed from my old expat life: the empty pages are calling to me with their siren song. I think it’s high time I did something about it.

[Image Credit: iStockphoto.com/kislev]

Is there anything you can't imagine living expat life without? Like Maria, is your passport more than just a document to get you from A to B? Share your comments with us below.

NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches
Image: digitalart portfolio 2280 freedigitalphotos.net

Life's a Beach

2011-11-10T16:42:00.008+11:00

I had a 'need to pinch myself' moment this week.

I'd finished a training session on one of the local beaches, Bilgola, and sat recovering on the sand. Gazing out at the ocean, taking in the views, I spied a pod of humpback whales playing in the water not 500 metres from where I sat.

Humpback Breaching. Image: omakakki

At first I could only see the tell-tale plumes of spray blowing skywards from the top of the humpbacks. Then, as the pod swam closer, the distinctive tail flukes appeared as these majestic creatures flipped entirely out of the water, twisted in midair, and landed loudly on their sides. It was breathtaking to witness.

Watching those gentle giants roll around in their ocean playground, less than a kilometre from my spot on the sand, I was reminded that very few people in the world get to appreciate anything close to this natural beauty on any given day. It was a revelatory moment that reinforced my reasons for living here.

Whether it be admiring the humpback whales, watching lightening storms roll in from the east or sharing great food and drink at a beach BBQ, the variety and quality of life by the ocean is something I would struggle to ever give up. On paper, my daily routine is quite ordinary. I walk my dog, go to work, train with friends in the early evening, watch a little TV. Yet when you peel back the surface layers, my life has fundamentally changed underneath.

Beach Surf. Image: Nina Matthews Photography

I no longer try to avoid the daily walks with my dog, previously reduced to dragging him around the block, hurrying home before it got dark, with cold hands buried deep in coat pockets.

Spending time with my Milo has become one of life's great pleasures and our trips to the dog-friendly lagoons and strolls together through the undulating sand dunes have become the highlights of my week. At the weekend, we swim together in the mild inlets near Bayview, him chasing the tennis ball I'm pulling along beside me as I strike out into deeper water. Milo was born to this life of ocean adventure and I indulge him whenever I can.

A few months ago, I quit the gym. I literally said "no more". I didn't move to the other side of the world, and to a home by the ocean, to spend weekends locked away in a sweaty, claustrophobic box with large numbers of other tortured souls. I've lived my free time in the gym since I was 18 so my decision to quit was both bold and a touch unnerving.

Bilgola Beach Pool. Image: anniemullinsuk

Upon leaving, I felt a huge sense of relief at turning my back on what had been such a large part of my life, but which could be no more. I turned to the beach for my salvation and began to train in the soft sand, on the stairs, through the surrounding parkland, and practice drills in the beach pools (a personal favourite of mine).

I've never felt more invigorated with my training and in tune with the environment. Feeling the sand between my toes and the sea breeze in my hair, I feel in my element. Working-out has become fun again and I count down the days until my training buddies and I next meet.

During the day, I work in an office like any other, but increasingly I work from home allowing me time for a relaxing walk at lunch and the ability to work on my deck with the laptop, whilst others stress out in the close confines of a shared office.

Living By The Ocean. Image: StephEvaPhoto

In this life, work has suddenly become the smaller part of a bigger picture. Where my career was once my everything, home life and my family have become my passion. The well-known saying that you should 'work to live rather than live to work' has never been truer and more meaningful than at this stage of my life.

And when I drive home from work at the end of my day, I glimpse the ocean on the horizon and feel all my worries and stresses drift away. The sight of that wide, blue expanse of water never fails to excite and inspire. The possibilities always seem endless.

I'm lucky and I know it.

My life isn't perfect but I'm fortunate to have what I have and be where I choose to be.

Beach Life. Image: Marco Estrella

When I think about the point of this post, the reason for sharing this aspect of my life, I realise it's simple. I want to show you what's possible if you change things up, if you follow a dream. I want to show you a different side of life, a life unexpected, a life less ordinary. So if you're considering a move like mine or you fancy a change, do me one small favour.

Follow your dream. Follow it now. Get out there. Enjoy it. Love it. But, most importantly, live it.

Travel Tips
Sydney

Celebrating Different Styles

2011-11-04T17:48:00.000+11:00

Something a bit different today on ISOALLO.

The lovely Linda Janssen of Adventures in Expatland, who you will know and enjoy from our monthly NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches posts, joins us as part of her virtual blog tour. A blog tour for what, I hear you ask? Well, Linda has contributed to a wonderful new book called Turning Points: 25 Inspiring Stories From Women Entrepreneurs Who Have Turned Their Lives Around and she's here to let you know more about it.

I won't steal her thunder by revealing any more of the book other than to say that Linda's own personal story is quite special for many reasons. She is a talented writer and supportive friend in expat land - and her place in this book is well deserved. Here's Linda with more on Turning Points...

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A few days ago our new book, Turning Points: 25 Inspiring Stories From Women Entrepreneurs Who Have Turned Their Careers and Their Lives Around (business and executive coach Kate Cobb, editor www.movingforwardyourway.com and Jo Parfitt, Summertime Publishing, publisher www.joparfitt.com) was launched and it's been crazy ever since! The response and outpouring of support have been so wonderful, you can't help but be both grateful and humbled.

The book's concept is straightforward and simple: a group of entrepreneurial women from around the world each share the pivotal moment or series of events that made them realize the immediate and absolute need to implement radical change in their personal and professional lives.

Each woman shares her own background, the situation she was in by the time she recognized her turning point, what she decided to do and how she it, and the resources she took strength from along the way. One of my favorite parts in each chapter is reading the lessons learned that each person came away with.

When I planned my virtual book tour, I knew that I wanted to stop by here at In Search of a Life Less Ordinary, and I knew what I wanted to write. I've been following Russell's great storytelling here for quite some time. I love that he is a young married guy writing about life as he has experienced it in his native England, Canada and now Australia. I'm a (slightly) older married American gal writing about the twists and turns of living in The Netherlands with a husband and two teens in tow.

That is what is so wonderful about blogs and bloggers: you can find talented writers sharing anecdotes, opinions and life's snippets on just about any topic you can imagine. Like you, I've got a lot of things going on in daily life so I struggle to keep blog-surfing to a minimum. Yet I have found many amazing blogs from all around the world, and follow many of them. Every one is different, and I've laughed with and learned from each of them. In fact, it was the joy of checking in with different people around the globe that led me to ask Russell to help create our four-way monthly virtual blog NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches with Maria and Erica.

What I have enjoyed most about participating in the Turning Points book project is that the contributors are a lot like bloggers. Each comes to the table with a different set of experiences and a different perspective. While each story is interesting and unique, the strength of their impact is that the whole is even greater than the sum of the individual parts. Andre Maurois expressed it in this manner:

'Style is the hallmark of a temperament stamped upon the material at hand'

As authors, writers and bloggers, we may all have different styles and temperaments, and work with different genres, but at the core we are telling our stories. And that is the beauty of storytelling.

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If you'd like to find out more about our book, please take a look at the website www.theturningpointsbook.com or follow along on Facebook's The Turning Points Book page or on Twitter @Turning_Points. A portion of all sales will benefit the inspirational charity www.seedsfordevelopment.org.

What Happened to Halloween?

2011-11-02T12:08:00.007+11:00

Can someone please tell me what happened to Halloween?

You see I don't think I saw one bedsheet-wearing ghost glide down my street, no mischievous trick or treater on the hunt for a bag of sweets or two, not even a carefully carved pumpkin or tacky witch's wand in sight. Did Halloween bewitch itself into non-existence or did it eerily pass me by in the dead of night?

I'm a big fan of Halloween. I love the idea of it. Ghosts and ghouls, witches and warlocks, banshees and beelzebubs. It's a night when the imagination is free to run wild, when adults and children alike dress up and run ragged around the streets (or, in my case, on the dance floor at the Halloween party). Maybe it's the part of me that refuses to grow up but, with the cold and dark nights setting in, Halloween can be a devilishly eery time of year and one in which our deep and dark pagan sides reveal themselves (I think).

Pumpkin patches. Image: Arvind Balaraman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

When we lived in Canada, Halloween was a major event. Children spent days on end waiting in eager anticipation of 'fright night' and folks would go all-out in decorating their ginormous homes, covering them in every bit of creepy paraphernalia under the sun (or full moon). Pumpkin patches were a favourite of mine where you'd pick your pumpkin of choice ready for the messy carving session to come. Halloween was activity-laden during the day culminating in the costume wearing and trick-or-treating later that night.

I spent one such Halloween walking the Canadian streets arm-in-arm with my girlfriend (an intelligent woman, she is now my wife) as we considered each house in our neighbourhood and acknowledged the hours of effort and detail that had gone into the decorations. At one such house, a small rancher-style shack, I stopped and admired the owner's handiwork.

"Just look at the effort this guy has gone to. It must have taken hours to do all this."

The front of the bungalow had been made to look run-down, old car parts and bits of white goods dumped in the yard, broken lights dangling from the porch roof, and dirty windows criss-crossed with pieces of broken timber. There were garish splashes of paint daubed up and down the front walls and across the garage door.

Halloween. Image: diamanti / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

"This house is truly creepy," I said, as I started taking photos of the house for my growing Canadian Halloween collection. "What have they painted over there on the garage?"

From her spot at the end of the driveway, my other half peered closer at the garage door.

"I think it says '**** off, we won't be evicted' and 'stay off our property or we'll shoot", she replied, grabbing me by the arm and hurrying me away.

No Halloween prop after all.

Mistaken observations aside, Halloween in Canada was like it always appeared in the movies - cute kids dressed up to look like scary little monsters, invites-a-plenty to fancy dress parties, and a time of year that felt wholesome and generally good fun.

Which makes it all the more confusing as to what happened to Halloween in Australia this week. Where did the good times and festive frolics go?

In pursuit of the truth, a conversation in my office yesterday went something like this:

Me: "Do Australians not celebrate Halloween then?"

Colleague: "No, it's a Yank tradition. We don't like Halloween".

Me: "I think it's actually an English tradition. All Hallow's Eve or something. Burning witches at the stake. That sort of thing".

Colleague: "Yeah, well we've taken the American version where kids get fat from eating too many sweets and I get my house egged if I don't give them anything".

Me: "Are you sure you don't just need to lighten up and get into the spirit of it? Halloween is a lot of fun. It's all about the kids dressing up and scaring each other".

Colleague: "I hate Halloween and I hate greedy kids. It's not Australian and I don't want my house getting egged".

Me: "I'd egg your house".

Colleague: "What?"

Me: "Nothing".

And that was the end of that.

Boo. Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

So did my co-worker accurately capture the entire mood of a nation? Have the Halloween fun police taken over the asylum?

Maybe Halloween is something Australians just aren't sure how to come to terms with. Whilst the Americans and Brits are out carving pumpkins, dressing up, and lighting bonfires as winter beckons, Aussies seem happier to whinge and whine. Sure it doesn't seem right to be starting fires at a time when bushfire season is upon us and Halloween is a tradition with its roots overseas, but I get the feeling that beating up on Halloween is just a small part of a bigger favourite Australian pastime.

Sooner or later the folks here must decide whether they're in or out. Do they celebrate Halloween or don't they? Do they open the door to the trick or treaters... or pretend that no-one's home?

'Witch'-ever way they do decide to go, I know I'll be waiting with my stash of eggs ready to pelt the first non-believing bah humbug I find.

So how did you spend Halloween night? And do you know what happened to it in the land down under?

Where to Wear the Thong

2011-10-24T16:23:00.010+11:00

I have an ugly big toe. In fact, it's not just ugly, it's downright scary. It's bruised, it's broken and it's very, very ugly.

A tyre landed on this ugly big toe a few month's back. It was a very big black tyre, not unlike most big black tyres, and it meant business as it crushed my ugly big toe.

Some young buck at the weekly training session (remember the Warrior?) flipped this big black tyre onto my ugly big toe. It wasn't intentional but the result was something I'd rather keep hidden for the summer. Unfortunately that's not going to happen because summer has just arrived which heralds the annual arrival of the thong. And the arrival of the thong signals a very public display of my ugly big toe.

The summer thong. Image: Flickr Creative Commons CeresB

Here in Australia, the thong is not a small item of lady's lingerie (although it can be). Other nationalities prefer to call it a sandal or the flip flop or even a beach shoe. Here it is simply called a thong or thongs. Like water and air, Australians can't - and won't - live without them. In the land down under, the thong could very well be more prevalent and invasive than the cane toad or brown snake.

The familiar thwack-thwack of the thong as it meets the floor, the squeak of rubber on tile, is as unforgettable as a dose of the clap. Thongs are worn in the supermarket, at the mall, down the pub and when walking the dog. There are man-thongs with bottle-openers on the base. There are she-thongs that are stylish and petite. There are mini-thongs that the tiny toddler might adorn or his or her tiny feet. I'm yet to see a pair of thongs for my pup but I'm sure there's some curious shop out there that sells such a variety.

Yet forget talk of why thongs are worn and for what purpose as there is a more important conversation taking place on Sydney's radio airwaves at the moment. Debate is raging as to where the thong should and shouldn't be worn.

The city thong. Image: Flickr Creative Commons eflon

Australian culture may be casual and relaxed, but some pundits believe there is a time and a place for the thong - thongs worn at a wedding by the blushing bride are an abomination and bare toes on display in the city's workplaces are a huge office "don't". That said, these occurences regularly take place and are not as uncommon as you might think.

Many a time a young lady is spied walking to work, Gucci handbag under one arm and a pair of cut-price Havaianas worn beneath painstakingly manicured feet. Is this a case of high fashion or just a terrible faux-pas?

So where should you wear those thongs of yours? Here's my view, for what it's worth:

Thongs are always okay in the summer months (October to March) but please keep them packed away in the middle of winter. Nothing looks as bad as a pair of shrivelled toes prematurely coming out of what should be a long, drawn-out winter's hibernation.
If in doubt, remember that thongs are always good for vacations. Also wear them on the beach and around the house, but try to keep the little fellers away from weddings and other formal occasions, particularly funerals and wakes.
If you're a diehard thong fanatic, fill your boots so to speak. Wear whatever brand of thongs you like but try to stay away from those things they call Crocs. A pair of over sized plastic green clogs on those dainty feet is not a great look.
Finally, try to refrain from wearing those thongs in the office. I'm a tad particular about the proximity of my co-workers in general and I'd prefer not to spend my day smelling the heady aromas of those same co-workers' feet.

Whatever your penchance, Australia is a country where the thong rules supreme and where the thong is as much a part of the landscape as a game of cricket or a stubby on the beach.

So where do you wear yours???

The beach thong. Image: Flickr Creative Commons certified su

Travel Tips
Sydney

The More I Learn

2011-10-14T06:00:00.041+11:00

NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches

We’re back - four intrepid souls who swap guests posts each month from the far corners of the globe. We are:

North: Linda in the Netherlands (http://www.adventuresinexpatland.com/)
South: Russell in Australia (http://www.insearchofalifelessordinary.com/)
East: Erica in Japan (http://www.expatriababy.com/)
West: Maria in Canada (http://www.iwasanexpatwife.com/)

The great philosopher Socrates said that the unexamined life is not worth living. Let the examinations begin! Our theme this month is self-knowledge - or what expat life has taught us about ourselves.

At Expatria, Baby, I learned to trust my gut and remain true to my values in my search for a fulfilling expat life.

At I Was An Expat Wife, Erica learned that tolerance is much harder in practice than it is in theory.

Here, at In Search of a Life Less Ordinary, Linda learned that the more she actually learns about expat life, the less she knows.

At Adventures in Expatland, Maria learned that within her timid exterior - deep, deep within - beats the brave heart of a gambler.

Please do read our stories and share some of your own in our comments sections. We’d love to hear what expat life has taught you about yourself. And remember I'm over at Erica's site in Japan - http://www.expatriababy.com/2011/10/believing-in-my-values.html. Here's Linda's post, titled The More I Learn...

Self-knowledge is a beautiful thing.

It takes time and effort and patience to learn this simple truth. Some of us never quite do. But for most of us, as the clock ticks and the days pass, we find ourselves thinking more and more about where we've been and where we're going.

Some of us are blessed with an innate need to sift through and ponder and analyse and decipher. Then there are those of us who soldier on in life, rarely taking a moment to consider our path or our fate (or our role in either) until blindsided by a life lesson too big to be ignored. Humbled by Mother Nature, Father Time or both.

The better you understand yourself, the more you recognise patterns in your own behaviour, the deeper you delve into the reasons why you think and feel and act as you do...

then the greater the chances that you can silence negative thoughts when they rear their ugly heads.

Or bite your tongue when irritated or frustrated.

Or speak out on behalf of someone not able to do so.

Or choose tolerance over taking offense and forgiveness over holding a grudge.

Or channel your energies into making improvements to the world within your four walls, as well as the world outside your door.

Beetje bij beetje.

In Nederlands that means 'little bit by little bit'.

I use the phrase all the time, usually in conjunction with explaining that despite my Dutch language skills being average, I keep trying anyway. Lately I've been employing it as my mantra to maintain calm and restore equilibrium.

I wrote an article for publication the other day in which I shared some insights about what I've learned living in a different country and culture. I was making the point that 'culture shock' is a very real phenomenon and isn't necessarily linear.

[Due to different experiences, backgrounds and situations, no two people are affected by culture shock in the same manner, but essentially the phases most of us tend to go through while learning to adapt to a new culture work out something like this: the honeymoon (seeing things for the first time, excitement about what's new and different); frustration and disillusionment (our cultural adjustment starts to unconsciously overwhelm us, or we realise we're still carrying the same old issues with us despite a change in locale); bottoming out in a period of loneliness, alienation, feeling out of sync (and for some, sadness and even depression); and finally coming to terms with where we are, accepting it and getting on with our lives.]

I mentioned that despite truly enjoying the life I live here in The Netherlands, one of the nuggets of self-knowledge I've come to appreciate is that on any given day it may only take two or three frustrating or unsettling encounters and wham! I'm reeling, suddenly feeling like an outsider.

Recently I hit one of those difficult patches. Taken individually, none of the examples was particularly off-putting:

learning under varying circumstances from no less than three people, all from different countries, how unattractive they find American accented English;

arriving at a veterinary appointment at the proper time only to be told that it was an hour earlier, complete with knowing glances between the two administrative assistants that of course I was mistaken because clearly my Dutch isn't that good (despite my having made the appointment at the later time because of a prior engagement earlier in the day, my repeating the time twice in Dutch and once in English to confirm, and yes, I do know the difference between twee and drie, thank you very much);

being interrogated for the umpteenth time on American domestic and foreign policy by people less interested in trying to understand and more interested in informing me how ignorant/unintelligent/immature these policies are. And no, I'm not going to waste my breath defending popular culture coming out of the US either except to say that, as is usually the case elsewhere, it's neither as popular or representative as one might be led to believe (heavy sigh);

being yelled at by a Dutch woman who lives down the street for supposedly taking her garbage can after the garbage collectors left it sitting in front of my house. She's lived here far too long to not have noticed the weekly traipsing of neighbours up and down the street trying to figure out where their garbage cans have ended up this time;

being corrected on my Dutch yet again, in a highly dismissive tone, by someone I consider to be a friend, when she overheard me speaking to someone else. [Seriously, she might consider the patient and encouraging approach of so many others I interact with on a daily basis.]

Bundle them up in a three-day period and they can irritate the heck out of you, rattle your self-confidence, and remind you that this isn't what you're used to.

And the cold truth hits you: sometimes you just want to go back (in time and place) to where you don't have to think twice when conversing, you intuitively understand the cultural nuances, and your behaviour is generally in line with that of everyone else.

Where you aren't 'other'. Where you belong.

Then the second wave of reality crashes in: there is no such place.

You can't go back. Nor would you really want to, given the chance. People change, places change, situations change. You change.

The only way is forward.

When it all gets to be een beetje too much, I do what I need to do. I retreat and withdraw from the outside world for a little while. I soothe my ruffled feathers and bruised ego, regroup and let it go.

Then I move on.

So what to make of all of this? What great insights do I take away?

In learning about others, we tend to learn far more about ourselves: our boundaries, our limits, our 'tipping points'.

As I seek to learn more about the world we live in, I'm prepared for people thinking and feeling in ways I might not expect. No surprise there, since we all come to the table with different historical, political, cultural, social, economic, religious, psychological and emotional backgrounds and experiences.

In coming face to face with how others view you and your own culture, sometimes what we learn isn't particularly pleasant. Yet in experiencing and acknowledging that, it stretches us. We learn to let go.

I can't change someone else's behaviour or mindset; only they can do so. I can only control my own behaviour and actions, reflect on my own perceptions, consider the views of others and adjust my own attitudes if need be.

Self-knowledge is a beautiful thing.

Sometimes it seems that the more I learn, the less I know.

And that's okay. I'm learning to live with that.

[Image credit: alvimann, MorgueFile.com]

What has expatriation taught you about yourself? Can you relate to Linda's situation?

NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches
Image: digitalart portfolio 2280 freedigitalphotos.net

Facing my fears

2011-10-04T20:27:00.007+11:00

Ever done a deal with the devil?

Seeking out a new life isn't really that different from shaking hands with the bad man himself. I mean, sure, you're set for some pretty good times ahead, but at what expense? You're letting yourself in for a generous dose of heartbreak, hurt and regret that you've created through your own selfish pursuit. You'll anger family, upset friends, annoy employers, even confuse the poor cat and dog. And you, yourself, are about to face a world of fears that could have been avoided if you'd just stayed home and towed the line.

So, in the single-bloody-minded pursuit of this dream of yours, you'll take Beelzebub's hand, shake it firmly, and head off into the unknown to face a whole host of other unknowns. You'll face the fear of an unknown culture, fear of a new job, fear of learning alien customs and traditions, and perhaps the greatest fear of all: not even succeeding in this exciting adventure of yours.

Image: Flickr Creative Commons dryhead

For me, my greatest fear was none of the above. It wasn't even a good ole Englishman's fear of the Australian snake, the terrifying white pointer or those fat, tender spiders that call the underneath of my antipodean house 'home'. My greatest fear when I decided to set out upon this adventure of ours was the perceived distance I'd place myself from my parents and sibling, friends and long-time acquaintances, both physically and emotionally.

I knew that packing up my life and moving to a new country would be rife with unknowns. Yet, however unfounded, the thought of leaving my immediate family behind left me tossing and turning in the night. It was my worst nightmare of sorts. It was the lone thing I'd dreaded from the point I put in my visa application. What would I do if my parents or sister got sick? How would I cope with the bad news? Who would I turn to in a strange new country? How could I ever hope to get home quickly enough?

It wasn't just the distance in kilometres that provided my increasing anxiety but also the effect of distance on the quality of my relationships with friends and family left behind. As the years passed, would I become a stranger to my own family? Would I struggle to connect with friends as the visits home grew less frequent and the space and awkwardness between us grew ever more?

I imagined all sorts of outcomes. I predicted the worst possible happenings. My fears manifested themselves via situations running through my head where my parents were left alone and unable to care for themselves while I gallivanted around the world. My sibling would grow angry and disappointed at my exciting new lifestyle, now full of abandon and little regret, while she dutifully looked after my mother and father as a son or daughter always should.

Image: Flickr Creative Commons durera_toujours

Guilt regularly knocked at my door to become an ever-present force in my daily life. I often held back in those early expat years, preferring to spend any free time on the telephone or email to people back home always justifying my reasons for being in a new country and forever apologising for my continuing absence. Initially I became withdrawn, outwardly pretending to enjoy the experiences around me, but silently suffering from this fear of being so far from my home. I daydreamed often, thinking of my past life and contemplating at what point I should return.

Call it separation guilt or just plain nonsense, I found the immense distance from loved ones unsettling and unnatural. In Canada, we were located far from the UK but it wasn't an impossible, insurmountable distance, just a single non-stop flight back. However, Australia was an altogether different proposition. Australia was the other side of the world. Timezone differences were vast. The distance from the UK was absurd. We were that far away that the seasons were in reverse. How would I cope with facing my long held fear of the distance from family and friends?

It's been five years in Australia now. Five years of life on the other side of the planet. Five years of life lived a 24-hour plane ride from my family home. Five years of distance between my new life here and my old life there. Have I faced my fear and dealt with it? Is there a happy ending to my issues with distance and accompanying feelings of guilt?

Of course I still fear the day when I might receive bad news from afar and I'm not best pleased with a one or two-day journey to see loved ones, but I've learned to deal as best I can with the vast physical distance. There's not much more I can do and it is what it is. I focus on the positives and remind myself that, wherever I live my expat life, I will always be at least a plane ride away so I cross my fingers and touch my toes and hope that I'll never need to put that fast and frantic plane ride home to the test.

The emotional distance from families and friendships is more difficult to gauge but has grown over the years as 'out of sight, out of mind' rings ever truer. I fear the disconnect to my homeland and feel old relationships slipping from my grasp. I am that guy who left a long time ago and didn't come back. The emails have since dried up, even though true friends revealed themselves whilst poor friendships failed the test early on. Yet distance is a part of who I am and where I am, even though it might not always be this way.

Distance is a funny thing. I craved the chance to travel far afield but, when faced with its unnerving implications, my first instinct was to run right back. I've overcome this obstacle but I will always need to face my fear, reaffirming deep down the reasons for our remarkable journey. Because, through this amazing adventure, we have embraced a new life, an unexpected life, a wonderful life, and our life alone... and we must never forget this achievement, no matter how far and wide the distance may be.

Have you had to face any fears in pursuit of a new life? If so, how did you overcome them - or didn't you?

Just stuff

2011-09-21T13:40:00.001+10:00

I didn't need this stuff and I couldn't take it with me, I remember thinking, as I gathered my UK life into numerous black bin bags and poorly formed cardboard boxes. This 'stuff' would shortly be sold at a local market in town. A hoarder by nature, I didn't exactly want to dispose of my early childhood possessions and used household goods but the upcoming journey overseas dictated that I travel with the bare minimum - and I was in no position to bring along any of this excess stuff. My stuff would therefore become someone else's stuff.

Image: scottchan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

On a grey and overcast morning, I farewelled what I believed was a large part of my English identity steadily accumulated through the years of life on this island of mine but which, in reality, was not far off being junk. I detached myself from the process and proceeded to de-clutter my very self. The riddance of these familiar items was a blow to my parents and one in a series of events that crystallised the harsh reality of us leaving on a one-way voyage overseas. Inwardly, I'm sure my parents grieved for the loss of these 'things' that represented my established life in England. Outwardly, they put on a brave face and watched silently as my worldly goods sold for mere pounds and pence in a nondescript school playground in an indistinctive southern town.

I have no doubt that I left a part of me behind on that day in that playground. I sold broken bookshelves, faulty cabinets and wonky chairs, as I moved forward with my life taking a brave step into the unknown. In my mind, I was not simply giving up physical belongings, but unnecessary baggage. The part of me left behind at that marketplace was the part that refused to let go, that wanted to remain in a safe place, that needed to sit tight in its comfort zone. I left the market emotionally fatigued but all the lighter for releasing myself of this stuff. Because that was all it was. Just stuff.

In time, I grew better at purging myself of these seemingly unnecessary things. In fact, I became almost obsessed. In the lead-up to a big move, I would become maniacal in my efforts to clear every room of any effects that could hold up progress or add expense to the upcoming journey. I would discard these obstructive annoyances with relish and a lack of regard for their worth or significance, only to be reigned in by my wife when the cupboards lay bare and the packing boxes still empty.

There was one treasured possession that I could not face parting with, that I clung to with the stubbornness of a spoilt child. When the flat pack boxes arrived and we had armed ourselves with brown tape and bold marker pens, I would head straight for my beloved collection of 12-inch records. This army of battered vinyl warriors, this organised mass of plastic and paper and memories, waited patiently for a touch or a dust down, as perfect in my eyes as the day they were made.

My records were meticulously lined up in rows on the shelves of my spare bedroom. I would carefully take one by its spine, smell the damp and musty aroma as it came free, feel the well-worn edges and dog-eared corners, and flip the delicate ageing cover over in my hands as I remembered the beat, the tempo, the vocals, that baseline, the last time I'd soaked up its precious musical cargo.

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

This thing, mere stuff, had a bewitching power over me. I could suddenly be transported from my Sydney bungalow to a time and place in the past when this record revolved on a dimly lit turntable, in a darkened booth, in the corner of a dingy club, in front of a die hard crowd. The record's sounds, this most beautiful of stuff, would be lapped up by the gathered crowd, whistling and clapping, moving as one pulsating, electrified mass to the rhythm of the tune, always hungry for more. The atmosphere heightened as the song reached its climax. People thumping on the floor, jumping up on benches, cheering and revelling in the heady atmosphere. The ever-present baseline reverberating around the club's walls, pulsing through the sofas and stools, shaking exit doors and jolting mammoth speakers. I soaked up the atmosphere, sky high on the energy, electrified by the reaction to this record, this thing, this stuff.

My collection of records is so dear to my heart. My records are my prize, my trophy. They are more than just grooved discs, more than a family of sounds. They are a point in time when I studied hard by day and DJ-ed harder through the night. They were my escape from the monotony of reports and essays, of lectures and exams. They note a day, a week, a month when life was carefree, when responsibility was shirked.

Although I've tried to move on, I allow myself these brief moments to reminisce, a knowing smile stretching my face and a shoe tap tapping the floor. My battered and grimy records remind me of what was, but could never really continue to be. And this stuff has weighed heavily on the purse, being shipped from one city to the next at maddening expense. I have often caught my wife gazing out over the tightly packed boxes waiting expectantly to be carried away to our new home in some exotic locale. She will shake her head, let out a small sigh, and turn to other more pressing matters.

When moving to Sydney, I hauled more than fifteen over-sized boxes of my perfect records into the storage space beneath the house. It was a mistake of epic proportions. When a storm hit the city not long after, the accompanying downpour broke free of the overwhelmed drains to deposit soil and water in my records' new home. My beloved collection, my stuff, wallowed waist deep in muddy water until discovered several days later. I spent days and weeks in the garage peeling soggy covers from exposed vinyl backs, wiping slime off vulnerable torsos, carefully placing bruised bodies into clean paper cases.

My wife watched me one day and gave another almost imperceptible shake of the head. I sometimes wonder if she realises that this stuff is so much more than just stuff.

What stuff have you brought with you or left behind? Was it worth the effort or do you miss it?

Thanks to Kristin Bair O'Keeffe for her Expat Sat: Writer Prompts, the "culturally kooky, map nonspecific, sometimes bewildering, always fascinating intersection of expat life and writing", which helps fill my writing well of inspiration...

Blame it on the cat

2011-09-15T06:00:00.084+10:00

NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches

The expat life is one of adventure, discovery, glamour, and... bumbling social ineptitude. So, for the September edition of NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches, our ongoing guest-post project, we four expat bloggers are divulging their most embarrassing expat moments.

Linda of Adventures in Expatland (North) demonstrates that a small vowel can cause big problems. Yours truly, of In Search of a Life Less Ordinary (South), discovers that wherever you are in the world, people enjoy a good laugh at the newbie’s expense. Erica of Expatria, Baby (East) writes on this blog of disastrous first impressions that last and last and last. And finally, Maria, who blogs at I Was an Expat Wife, reveals how her expat mantra of “try new things” led her astray.

I hope that you enjoy this month’s post by Erica called Blame it on the cat, and do check out all of the other posts (I'm over at Linda's site in the Netherlands, http://www.adventuresinexpatland.com/). There are many, many laughs to be had...

The rules of social engagement in Japan are complex, and my understanding of our civic obligations here are nebulous at best. Consequently, I fear that I am in a continual state of awkward social delinquency, doomed to forever achieve new heights of social shame. Polite but distant greetings from my neighbours have me worried about my latest transgression; how might I have unintentionally caused offense this time? Was it the accidental door slam as I took out the garbage? Or, perhaps the fact that I went to check the mail with a baby clad only in her diaper? Is it that I didn’t join in the Chonai Ka, or neighbourhood association?

Or, maybe the source of my neighbourly shame is our cats. Or, more specifically, Oliver Katz, or special little neurotic feline snowflake, who is perhaps responsible for my (imagined?) position of social pariah.

Oliver Katz, not so innocent

Oliver is a lovely, gentle little sweetheart of a rescue cat. He was found as a tiny kitten, eyes barely open, in a Shanghai garbage bin. His rough start in life has left him understandably terrified, hysterically petrified, of strangers. If some unknown person should happen to cross the threshold of our apartment, he will inevitably spend the next three hours cowering under the blankets on my bed. And should, heaven forbid, the stranger try to actually touch him, then he disintegrates into a quivering pile of neurotic anxiety, from which it takes days to recover. I am not kidding at all.

So. That’s our Oliver.

Cut to me, 39 weeks pregnant, about to experience one of my most embarrassing moments ever, all at the paws of my sweet boy Oliver. The cats are outside sunning themselves, taking advantage of our first-floor cat-safe balcony (chosen specifically for it’s first floor-idness after an other unfortunate incident wherein our elder feline fur-child, Mr. Finnegan, leapt out of our 20th floor window. He survived. But that’s another story for another day.) So, anyway, I’m washing the dishes, when suddenly I hear an ungodly howl.

I go outside to investigate; I hear Oliver screaming, but I can’t see him. He’s not on the balcony, he’s not in the courtyard. I follow the sound of his level nine red-alert banshee cries, and there he is. On the upstairs neighbour’s balcony. Somehow, in what still remains a mystery to me, he scaled a brick wall, jumped over a railing, Spider-Man style, and got himself stuck on a strange balcony. Of a strange apartment. That belonged to strangers. Oh Gawd. Horror show.

So, off I went, ready to offer my apologies to my neighbors, and rescue poor Oliver. But alas, the neighbours in question were not home. Of course they weren't. And I had no way of reaching my frantically screaming cat, who’s yowls were now echoing all over the building. I parked my very pregnant self in front of their door, and waited, while a the cat scream symphony continued for a good hour and a half.

When the neighbours finally returned home, I did my best to explain, using mostly sign language, and a handful of Japanese expressions, that my cat was on their balcony, would they mind, I’m so sorry for the intrusion, I’m really embarrassed, very very sorry, if I just ran inside and got him? It will only take a moment. Sorry. Sorry.

(Another thing you need to know about Japan, that I should probably mention here, is that one never ever ever invites people into one’s house. The home is at the heart of the personal sphere, and even very good friends rarely, if ever, get an invitation into the domestic sanctum. Let alone an enormously pregnant, frantic and inarticulate foreign lady.)

Finally the neighbours let me in. And wouldn’t you know it, but the balcony in question is right off their master bedroom (double shame!) They’re in a panic, trying to make the bed before this pregnant barbarian lady barges in and attempts to grab her cat, who is, at this point, totally and utterly insane with agitation.

I grab him. His claws are out. He takes one look at the terrifyingly strange strangers and does a somersault in my arms, scratches me everywhere, and then bolts. Oliver tears through their apartment, jumps up a shelf, knocks down a million knick-knacks, and (I am 100 percent not kidding) runs up a wall. UP A WALL. A vertical gyprock wall. Like almost to the ceiling. For the second time that day.

So let’s recap: I’m hugely pregnant, sweating, in imminent danger of stress-induced labour, and now I’m bleeding profusely from about ten cat scratches all over my arms, neck and belly. Oliver Katz is hurtling around a stranger’s apartment, an apartment that, even under the most congenial of circumstances, I had no right to be in. Sweat, blood and disregard of social conventions: the the perfect trifecta of social humiliation.

Somehow I manage to grab Oliver and chuck him out the neighbours front door and into the hallway before returning to apologize some more, bowing awkwardly while trying not to bleed too much all over the place. After a million sorrys, I hastily make my departure. Then I don some oven mitts and grab my still-screaming cat who was too distraught to figure out that he has been saved from the torment of being in the sightline of strangers, and actually he could walk back into our apartment on his own.

The next day, in a shoddy attempt to save some face, I returned to the scene of my shame bearing a beautifully wrapped home-baked lemon cake. Because nothing says, “I’m sorry that my cat broke into your apartment, ran up to your ceiling and caused me to bleed all over your floor” like lemon cake.

So, yeah. I do think that I’m persona non grata in my building. And Mr Katz may or may not have something to do with that fact.

Have you suffered a particularly embarrassing expat experience? If so, feel free to share it here!

NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches
Image: digitalart portfolio 2280 freedigitalphotos.net

Reading 'Expat Women: Confessions' and making some of my own

2011-09-08T08:37:00.009+10:00

I have a confession to make. In fact, I have several.

I didn't realise that large numbers of expat women struggle when assigned overseas. I didn't realise expat women made confessions about these struggles. And I didn't realise they made them at Expat Women, an online resource for helping expatriate women living overseas.

When Andrea Martins, the director and one of the founders of Expat Women, asked me to review her co-authored book, Expat Women: Confessions - 50 Answers to your Real-life Questions about Living Abroad, I wasn't entirely sure what I was letting myself in for.

You see I'm an expat, but not in the traditional sense of the word. I've moved myself around the world independent of any company or organisation. I therefore don't quite fit the typical 'expat professional' mould and my wife doesn't fit the definition of a 'trailing spouse'. Would I be able to relate to this book through my own personal expat experience?

I'm also an expat man. And this book was written for exclusively expat women. So I was keen to see whether the confessions of a struggling expat woman would be relevant to me?

Released in May 2011, Expat Women: Confessions builds on a successful and long-running series on the Expat Women website in which female expatriates (and repatriates), including those who are trailing spouses, confess their struggles to the online experts in a Q&A-type format. The book groups the issues encountered by these women under six principal categories, which makes for logical and straightforward reading.

As I made my way through the book, I felt a sense of deja vu learning about the daily struggles suffered by everyday women in adjusting to a home away from home. From concerns about transitioning into a foreign environment to struggles with unhealthy work-life balances, from suffering regular bouts of homesickness and wanting to go home to experiencing visa difficulties, Expat Women: Confessions covers it all. The range and depth of issues raised, and advice given in return, is staggering yet always approached in a sensitive and honest way.

The "so what?" question that had initially formed on my lips had disappeared. The confessions made and questions asked in the book, often secretly suffered by these expatriate women, were just as applicable to a man like myself. There were untold trepidations and everyday tensions I'd felt on many occasions, and the issues in this book easily crossed gender lines. I found myself relating with ease and familiarity to the anxiety and uncertainty suffered by these fellow expat souls.

The issues were also not unique to international assignees or professional transplants, and could as easily be experienced by a young family choosing to live a life less ordinary on the other side of the world as by a career expat relocating to a neighbouring country on a six-month assignment.

The strength of Expat Women: Confessions is not just the provision of sensible answers and practical advice for any international mover, past or present, but for bringing to light the many issues, frustrations and questions that arise when embarking on a life lived abroad. More importantly for men like myself who will read and learn about the largely unknown struggles facing expat women, the book will raise awareness and inform, which is both necessary and important.

I leave you with one final confession. If you're an expat-to-be or a current expat, you really should be reading this book. It is a significant source of guidance and support for your journey ahead.

For more information and other expat resources, ensure you visit www.expatwomen.com and support the valuable work of people like Andrea at Expat Women.

Coffee's up in Sydney!

2011-09-05T13:08:00.002+10:00

When WhyGo Australia, part of the BootsnAll Travel Network, asked me to guest post for them on an aspect of life in the land down under, I immediately thought of the increasingly sophisticated and quite delightful coffee culture in Sydney - and my surprise in finding such a deeply ingrained culture in this beautiful harbour city.

You see, I'm a bit of a coffee fanatic. I simply can't get enough of the black stuff. I'm no coffee connoisseur - I'd still quite happily accept a large cup of weakest drip coffee from Starbucks - but my eyes have been opened to the seriously high quality and range of coffee found across Sydney... and I like what I see.

Image: Stuart Miles / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

In my guest post for WhyGo Australia, I write about some of the coffee habits, types and prices, drinking establishments, and a few of the more unusual coffee variations and practices that I've noticed through working in Sydney and exploring the wider metropolitan area.

If you're a coffee lover like me, or just curious to see what all the fuss is about, please do head over to WhyGo Australia's website to read more about Sydney's fascination with, and adoration for, the liquid black velvet in my post, titled Coffee's Up In Sydney!

And if you also find yourself tragically addicted to a good cappuccino or mocha, latte or flat white, why not say 'hello' on this blog and start up a conversation on the merits of a good coffee!

That's assuming you were even aware of Sydney's coffee culture and, if so, agree that it's one of the coffee centres of the world?

Image: nuchylee / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Coffee's Up in Sydney! at WhyGo Australia - http://www.australiablog.com/food-and-beverage/coffees-sydney.html

Travel Tips
Sydney

Witnessing tragedy on the Northern Beaches

2011-09-03T20:19:00.005+10:00

Yesterday didn't turn out quite as expected.

What started out as a regular Friday morning drive to take Milo for his walk along the sand dunes at Curl Curl beach rapidly turned into a morning of local tragedy.

Police helicopter flying overhead. Image: Highway Patrol

As I drove to the beach, the radio presenter announced that a light aircraft had crashed into the ocean not far from Curl Curl beach with two possible survivors at the scene. Already en route to that particular, I was aware of a number of news helicopters buzzing immediately overhead.

Pulling in to the beach car park, it became apparent that this was more than a mere aviation mishap. Local people crowded the dunes above North Curl Curl to watch a search and rescue chopper winch an obviously injured man from the base of the rocks to the left of the beach. Television crews and paramedics gathered by the adjacent surf club and surf lifesavers powered a number of jet skis close to the scene.

Search and rescue helicopter at the scene

Talking to the people gathered around me, it seemed that the injured man had been rescued by surfers and rock fishermen shortly after the plane ditched into the ocean. Somehow he had managed to escape the rapidly sinking plane and floated in the rough water with serious spinal injuries as his rescuers paddled out to save him.

More remarkably, one of the rescuers had been working on a building site not far from the beach when the plane flew low overhead with its engine malfunctioning. As the plane lost altitude, the builder jumped into his car, drove to the beach car park and, without thinking, dived into the ocean to help rescue the man.

It quickly became apparent to those of us gathered on the dunes that the pilot had not been as fortunate as his passenger and had remained trapped in the plane as it sank into the choppy water. Watching the events unfold below us, we realised this was not just a story of heroics and good fortune but a tragic ending for the poor guy trapped less than six metres below the water's surface and not twenty metres from the shoreline.

Police looking on. Image: Highway Patrol Images

Police divers arrived on the scene care of two police boats and, within minutes, were dropping to the ocean floor to retrieve the pilot's body at the same time that his companion was being rushed to hospital injured but thankfully still alive.

I'd decided to tweet about what was happening before me. Out of the blue, a journalist from Australia's ABC identified me on Twitter as a person to interview to gauge the reaction and mood from the local community.

Shortly thereafter, I found myself interviewed by mobile phone detailing my experiences of the morning's very sad events. This interview capped off an extraordinary day.

Police boats above the plane

Tragedy had struck the Northern Beaches in the most unexpected of circumstances. An innocent life had been lost as a pilot struggled to control an engineless plane which fell into the ocean's depths. In parallel, a life had been saved when local men threw caution to the wind and cast themselves into the water to rescue a young man.

For the remainder of the day I couldn't help but dwell on the unnecessary life lost on that cold ocean floor whilst we watched helplessly from the edge of the beach.

A day that had started with sunny blue skies and positive thoughts of the approaching weekend had developed the most tragic of proportions as our little bit of paradise in this far corner of the world gave witness to a tragic and untimely end for one poor soul.

My mobile phone footage of the rescue attempt

Defining home

2011-08-30T15:44:00.004+10:00

The issue of ‘home’ is a regular topic for discussion among expats, recently raised by Telegraph Expat blogger Chris Marshall’s article on the dilemma for expats in choosing to stay in their expat ‘home’ for the holidays or head ‘home’ to one’s country of origin. I also guest posted on Expatria, Baby about being unsure of where my 'home' really is.

The dictionary definition of ‘home’ is a place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household. It is also defined as the country where one was born or has settled on a long-term basis. And this last point goes right to heart of this curious expat conundrum: Where exactly is ‘home’? Is it the country of birth, is it where one has chosen to settle longer-term, or is it both? ‘Home’ is certainly one of those loaded terms we grapple with as expatriates.

Defining home. Image: phanlop88 / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Previously the idea of home was much more simplistic. Those from an older generation may have left home for migrant countries, such as Canada or Australia, with a one-way move in mind. My wife’s grandmother was one such person, leaving the south coast of England in the late 1950s in search of opportunity and a new life in Australia. She remains here to this day. Australia was her home the moment she boarded the ship in Southampton docks and embarked on that arduous voyage. She remembers her birthplace fondly but her home firmly remains where her family are now – her children and her grandchildren, nearly all Australian by birth. Home is the country she has spent the majority of her life in. She has just one home and it is the country where she now lives.

More recent generations of expats appear to view the notion of home differently, particularly those coined as ‘transplant young professionals’ who will make a number of international moves in their lifetimes. According to Christie Cruz, a San Francisco-based career advisor and talent management professional who grew up as a Third Culture Kid and works with global young professionals, the term ‘home’ has become more complex for expats and transplant young professionals who have moved away from their families to pursue their careers.

“Young professional expats and transplants move around every few years and have several homes,” says Christie. “Home could be the current city and country whete they moved away from their families to pursue their career. It's where they go through the ups and downs, and fun but confusing years of their 20s and 30s. It's that place where they spend time with their other family - friends and colleagues - when they can't physically visit their real families during the holidays.”

“However, home can also be where they go to when they visit their parents, siblings, grandparents, nieces and nephews,” adds Christie. “Emotionally, home can be any of those cities and countries where they grew up and a constant place that they can return to."

One of many homes. Image: renjith krishnan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

So does the idea of having several different homes create issues for the typical expat or global professional?

A friend of mine who lives in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs and has been there for almost a decade may be a case in point. Born in the English Midlands and having spent a decent period of time in South America, she now calls Australia home. Or at least she does when she chooses.

The problem is that she suffers incredible bouts of homesickness at being away from her English home, even though she hasn’t lived there since the late 1990’s. Her Sydney life is where her husband’s business is, where their two children were born, and where they have an established and valued network of family and friends. She acknowledges that Sydney is a home to her family but she cannot give up the notion of England also being her home. She has one foot in and one foot out, and her life is an unsettled one as a result.

Some experts argue that the issue is not about where home is for an expat, but what it is. Gabriela Whitehead, a PhD student in Global Nomadism at the Aberdeen Business School, believes that expats are now questioning the concept of home and are redefining the idea of what a home is.

What does home look like? Image: m_bartosch / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Gabriela’s research is of ‘professional nomads’ and she is of the view that these global professionals are adopting more highly mobile lifestyles than ever before, often remaining as ‘permanent’ expatriates or professional nomads rather than returning to their homelands This is due to their increasingly 'portable’ careers and it is this changing behaviour that is challenging the traditional concepts of home.

“Home has always been a complex concept, comprising physical belongings and emotional attachments to people, places and traditions,” says Gabriela. “Nowadays, ‘cultural homelessness’ has become a desirable life project whereas, traditionally, nomadic lifestyles usually had negative connotations.” She believes that global professionals are creating homes and lifestyles according to the extent to which their professional and cultural skills can be moved from country to country. The concept of home, in the opinion of academics such as Gabriela, has become as portable as the people it applies to.

As for this expat, I consider myself fortunate to have had several homes in my lifetime – in the UK, Canada, and now in Australia. Over the years, I’ve realised that I can never give up – or want to give up - the emotional and cultural attachment to the country of my birth, the land where my parents and sibling are, and where I spent a large part of my life.

However, home for me is where I feel happiest - be it where my immediate family us, where my work is, and where good friends and cherished weekend rituals co-exist. In my opinion, home is where a person feels happiest and, as with love itself, when you find the one that is right for you, you'll know where home is too.

So where is 'home' for you? And does it keep changing?

Love home. Image: Sura Nualpradid / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Sydney's telltale signs of summer

2011-08-23T16:25:00.005+10:00

The rhythms and eddies of Sydney's seasons come and go, as regular as the tides that sweep the beaches around the harbour city.

After several years here, I think I have finally grown accustomed to the signals that a new season is approaching. Whilst the onset of spring is much less pronounced than in the flowering southern counties of my family home in England, the arrival of a Sydney summer is heralded by a number of telling signs throughout the city, the first being the start of the fun running season.

Nearly there. Image: Flick Creative Commons Calebo

Beginning in August with the world's largest fun run, the City2Surf, before moving to the Northern Beaches' Pub2Pub charity race, the amateur runner then heads back to the city for the Harbour Bridge run and half marathon in late September. These races typically occur under a late winter sun and have come to symbolise a seasonal transformation in Sydney as winter jackets are removed and lightweight running vests adorned.

The 14km City2Surf follows a tortuous route from the centre of the city to the world famous Bondi Beach. More than 60,000 runners participate and the race often starts on a cold early morning before finishing on a characteristically sunny climax next to the beach. The race typifies Sydney's farewell to winter and transition through to summer as the kilometres wind down.

The Bondi finish. Image: Flickr Creative Commons Brian Giesen

Sport reveals another telltale sign of summer's arrival in Sydney with the rugby seasons coming to a close and the sporting chatter turning to all-things cricket and watersports. With the rugby union and league finals on the near horizon, footy fever will die off in the many beach suburbs of Sydney and attention will turn to a number of ocean-based activities, from the surf ironman series to openwater kayak ocean racing plus twilight sail competitions on the harbour.

Budding frangipanis. Image: Flickr Creative Commons Swami Stream

A change of a more gentile nature and pace will also take place across the city over the coming days and weeks, and one which is a personal favourite of mine. The beautiful frangipani bushes, after lying dormant and leafless for the past few months, will begin to bud and develop the most beautiful scented flowers. As the shrub metamorphises into an irridescent beauty, the air around Sydney's streets and walkways will fill with the delicious, heady smell of these photogenic little wonders.

The jacaranda trees will also flower, first shedding their yellowing leaves before sprouting a stunning display of purple that will appear in every nook and cranny of the city for the next month before carpeting the streets with millions of little purple flowers. At this time of year, it is a perfectly pleasant surprise to look out my office window at a sea of purple trees spreading across Sydney's inner west as far as the eye can see and it is a constant reminder that summer is just around the corner.

Jacarandas in Sydney. Flickr Creative Commons Chillitpv

Before I know it the clocks will change, daylight savings will begin, and summer will be knocking at my front door. Sydneysiders will happily peel off their clothing in favour of a much smaller, more revealing attire. Meanwhile, the repetitive drone of the cicadas will commence. The spiders will make my garden their home. My pup, Milo, will hide away in a dark corner of the house. The oppressive heat will arrive and settle in for the duration.

It's not so bad. Summer, after all, is what attracts many of us to this fair land. I have enjoyed this year's brief Sydney winter and the welcome respite from that persistently hot summer sun, but now it's time to take out my trusted coconut oil, dust off those manly black Speedos, don my little straw sombrero, and head down to the local beach because, summer, here I come.

Are you ready for Sydney's summer sun? Would you like to borrow a little coconut oil?

Or are the long, desperate, drawn-out, dark and bitterly cold winter months fast approaching in your neck of the woods? ;)

Ah, summer is on its way. Image: Flickr Creative Commons Jack Parkinson

Travel Tips
Sydney

Lost in Nonverbal Translation

2011-08-17T06:00:00.004+10:00

NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches

This is the second of our four-way guest posts on NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches, where I and three other expat bloggers join together to rotate our monthly guest posts from the four corners of the world on each other's blogs. We expat bloggers are Linda at adventuresinexpatland.com (North - Netherlands), myself at insearchofalifelessordinary.com (South - Australia), Erica at expatriababy.com (East - Japan), and Maria at Iwasanexpatwife.com (West - Canada).

The theme for this month's round of guest posting is how different cultures physically interact and today's guest post is by Maria, who is a Canadian repatriate living back in Canada and guest blogging on her non-verbal experiences as an expat in Singapore and France. You also read my own NSEW guest post over at Maria's site, titled Separated by more than just water, which looks at my experiences of moving from Canada to Australia, and the differences in physical interaction that I found upon arriving in Sydney.

Without further ado, here's Maria's guest post where she gets Lost in Nonverbal Translation...

The man behind the counter glared at me as he took my money, muttering something in a language I’m glad I didn’t understand. I’d only been in Singapore a week and I’d already learned that customer service varied wildly from obsequious to nonexistent, depending on the store. This was the first time a salesperson had looked like he wanted to spit at me though.

“Nice guy,” I commented once we were outside the store.

My 6-year-old shook her head at me in despair. “Mommy,” she said sorrowfully, “you did it again.”

As a very wise man once said: “d’oh!” Despite clear instructions from my cross-cultural trainer and repeated reminders by my children, I’d once again committed the inexcusable faux pas of handing money to someone with my left hand.

Overcoming four decades of social conditioning in a week is no easy task. I’d spent my entire life using whichever hand was more convenient, blissfully unaware that in many parts of the world, the left is reserved for post-toilet hygiene. Touching people or handing them objects with the “unclean” hand is simply not done. Except, it seemed, by me.

Behaviours such as gestures, eye contact, and facial expressions are known as kinesics, and I was shocked to discover they aren’t universal. In fact, body language is greatly influenced by culture. Not knowing the norms (or in my case, knowing them but not internalising them) can lead to a whole lotta grief.

Gestures are particularly problematic, since what is commonplace in one culture can be wickedly obscene in another. I’ll give you an example that led to shocked headlines in Norway back in 2005. At the inauguration celebration of US President George W. Bush, first daughter Jenna Bush gave a shout-out to her Texan roots by flashing the University of Texas “Hook ‘em horns” sign: folding the middle two fingers into the palm and extending the thumb, index and pinkie fingers. It’s an innocent gesture in the US, but not in Norway, where it’s interpreted as the sign of Satan. But there’s more: In Italy, it’s the symbol for a cuckolded husband; in various parts of Africa, it’s a curse. Not quite the carefree gesture of collegial support Ms. Bush had intended!

When I left Singapore and moved to France, I thought learning French would be my biggest issue. I soon found out that spoken language is only part of the puzzle. The nonverbal aspects of communication tripped me up time and time again.

On my first visit to the local patisserie (pastry shop), I was overwhelmed by the wanton display of artery-clogging deliciousness for sale. The lady behind the counter good-naturedly taught me the name of each confection, and when she got to le pain chocolat (literally, “chocolate bread”), I held up my hands in surrender (Hello, my name is Maria, and I’m a chocoholic).

“That’s what I want,” I said, surreptitiously wiping away a bit of runaway drool.

“How many?” she asked. I absently held up my index and middle fingers, my attention already wandering to the tarte aux pommes that was begging me to take it home.

When I opened the bag later I was surprised to find three pains instead of two, but shrugged philosophically. We’re talking about French pastries filled with chocolate - there’s really no such thing as “too many.” Still, the next time I got my fix (and yes, it very quickly became a habit), I stopped the nice lady before she could put the third pain au chocolat in the bag. “I only want two,” I said apologetically. She gave me one of those “why didn’t you say so?” looks, which mystified me completely. I’d held up two fingers, after all.

“The third was implied,” my friend Sylvie told me when I asked her, in my halting French, why the good people of Bordeaux were unable to count. It turns out that counting - or at least, counting on one’s fingers - isn’t as straightforward as I’d assumed. In fact, it varies widely around the world. Whereas I count to five by holding up my index finger, middle finger, ring finger, pinkie, and thumb, the French begin with the thumb and end with the pinkie. In a classic case of miscommunication, the woman at the patisserie assumed I was asking for three pastries because the fingers I held up were #2 and #3 on the French finger-counting scale. My pastry order was lost in nonverbal translation.

Since repatriating four years ago, I’ve reverted to Canadian-style counting. I’d love to return to France for a visit, and if I do find myself in a French patisserie some day, I won’t bother worrying about which finger to start counting with: One look at those exquisite pains au chocolat, and you can bet all ten fingers will be standing to attention.

What differences in physical interaction have you experienced during life overseas?

NorthSouthEastWest: Expat Dispatches
Image: digitalart portfolio 2280 freedigitalphotos.net