Another Country

The unspeakable can finally be spoken. It is now a matter of public record (thanks to the Bank of China and the Hurun Report): people who have big bucks want out. And who can blame them? There are a lot of awfully nice places in the world. Take Monaco. Or even little Luxemburg. Hell, why not buy a condo in Guam or a casa in Guatemala! Play geography for real.

I’m not so flush with cash, but hardly a day goes by without Brazil calling out my name; the girl from Impanema summoning me to her sensual shores. Buenos Aires also tugs at the imagination – the phantom aroma of grilled Argentine beefsteaks teasing me awake in the middle of the night. Several times a week the idea of laying down roots on the Japanese island of Hokkaido takes hold and won’t let go until I take a cold shower. An ashram in Goa pops up once a month and arrests all other thoughts; as does a silent, snow-caked Siberian forest – any place that’s quiet and new and not here will do.

This is a nice enough city. The architecture sure is nifty. There are business opportunities galore. Romantic possibilities aplenty. No shortage of seasons. An abundance of convenience stores. Yet, the desire to strike out for new territory is strong. It may have something to do with car horns. Car horns and job stress. Car horns and job stress and the myriad contradictions of life under commucapitalism.

Is there someone out there, anyone over the age of 30, who goes to bed at night without wondering what life might be like in Malta or Dubrovnick? I seriously doubt it. If one was extended an invitation to move to Lithuania, would one, could one, should one? How much would the rent be for a small flat in Vilnius? Not much, I’d imagine, but it doesn’t have a very nice ring to it. (For several months I practiced saying “I live in Vilnius” just to confirm how not nice the ring is. “I live in Shanghai” sounds better, but is it?)

Then the mind wanders to some medieval European village, with a cathedral anchored on a lush green rise, flying buttresses running up its side, and a quaint café nearby that doesn’t accept credit cards, and I’m googling cost-of-living websites and airlines and getting all excited about moving.

It’s just an exercise. I’m not going anywhere. I’d miss the ladies at Lawsons, the way they harangue me for buying one roll of toilet paper at a time.

That said, Thailand might be the ticket. Buddhist core values might seem strange after years hanging with socialist core values, but there is a lot to be said for the Land of Smiles, especially if you’ve been toiling in the Land of Calculus for a very long stretch. 

I imagine my local brethren, those fellows with bulging bank balances and Bentleys, will opt for highly civilized addresses, like Cambridge or Las Vegas. Perhaps they will build castles there, with moats, and serve on local school boards. I once saw an extremely well-dressed mainland couple sipping red wine at a café on the banks of Lake Zurich. I’ll never forget the look of utter contentment radiating off their fresh-from-the-spa, carefree faces. They certainly didn’t appear homesick.

For the great majority of us – expat and local alike – pulling up stakes and moving to another country is not so easily executed. There are countless logistical details and immigration restrictions and financial obligations that, without tremendous sums at the ready, keep regular working folks pinned to the spot. My US passport can get me to Tahiti, but I can’t collateralise a mortgage with it. And the last I heard, essayists were not in great demand there (or in Vilnius, for that matter).

Nota bene: All told, the writer has spent more than a decade here, yet maintains a wardrobe and library that can easily fit in two large suitcases – always prepared to depart. He has moved away on three occasions, only to return, almost happily. At the end of the day, wherever one goes in this world, there’s no escaping oneself.