—"And likewise, we also learned the much harder lesson that there is no such thing as going home, for the home that we carried in our hearts stopped existing the moment we left it behind"—
Loved this piece. Thank you. Even for my shorter stint of 5 years in Switzerland (Zurich but most of it in Basel), it permanently changes you in ways you can’t predict.
My favorite line: how after "acclimat[ing] to the reality of aging in a home away from home...," we learn "that the life we live becomes us, until it is indistinguishable from the environment in which we have settled, that is, until it becomes home, replacing the memory of home we had nearly forgotten. And likewise, we also learned the much harder lesson that there is no such thing as going home, for the home that we carried in our hearts stopped existing the moment we left it behind." As someone who has lived for almost 20 years in Seville, Spain, I can relate.
I'm beyond flattered. That I've been published at all is a celebration, but the fact that you have a favorite line and took the time to quote it is a dream come true.
Great piece, Daniel... and of a piece of my own long-lost SE Asian life. Except I left when I felt, as you say, it had become normal, but also to come home and see out my aging parents.
Singapore had become my home after visiting, then living and working there on and off for a few years legally and not, then for a full six as a self-employed expat resident, all of it spanning ages 29 to 40. By the time I settled there, I'd become a somewhat functional speaker of Indonesian, Malay, Lao and Thai, plus I knew the best Hokkien dialect swear words, which made the Asia experience doubly sweet.
I'd started out with a fat travel fund and no plans, other than stay the hell out of Toronto, and office furniture sales -- as long as possible, and forever respectively. I didn't care where I went as long as it was tropical or desert. I'd jump on yachts, ships, trucks, motorbikes, trains, etc. going anywhere, just to assuage an addiction to the new. But also to see how tough and adaptable I could become, a self-induced hair-shirt trial, with debauch thrown in where possible.
As you say, as an expat resident of a faraway place, you begin to see tropes in others and then yourself. In Singapore at 35, I got into advertising as a copywriter with zero experience, no education beyond grade 12, but some great mentors and praise-singers who welcomed me into their rarefied world. I began to meet these incredibly bright, funny, successful white guys, commonly 40 and up, but some very young, making crazy money, $20-30k+/month, often from the UK and Aussie, who nevertheless went through each day angry and bitter, forever complaining about locals and their ways -- just these miserable cynical, racist twats with way too much dosh kindly given them by the adopted nation that needed their expertise.
They burned through their big lives lubed by hard boozing, local girls, dizzying career mobility, a succession of incredible restaurants and parties with a fierce passion, but never seemed to be enjoying it unless at someone else's, usually a local's, expense. So many big spoiled babies with unsavoury ways and tastes.
I avoided that scene, unless work demanded it, hanging with more youthful Euro and American optimistic types. I also had plenty of local Chinese, Malay and Indian friends and Asian expat pals from Japan, India, Korea, Canada, etc. This kept me level headed enough, along with tons of extreme sports to cleanse the mind and body of any bad juju that might be finding purchase.
But after while I realized that living on an island -- even a fun, super-connected, multi-cultural one like Singapore -- was still living on an island, and that it was indeed making me a little nuts. Well that and watching all these white guys afflicted with the tackiest versions of yellow fever, with me at first not getting that whole thing at all, but then myself falling for a local girl with sophisticated and devious qualities from whom I had the hardest time pulling myself away... she was a vivid dream that never got stale, only emotionally very dangerous, and I eventually cut the septic umbilical cord that connected us.
I left in Nov '98, as the Asian monetary crisis was in full fever, even though I had lucrative work through it all. My dad was ailing, wanted to see me in case he suddenly keeled over. So I sold everything and came home to Toronto...
...immediately regretting it, and for years, but still feeling duty-bound to my parents. They took another 20 years to pass! Curiously, I met an Indonesian woman back here, eventually making her my wife. I'd said to myself on my first day in Indonesia that I would one day marry an Indonesian woman. I couldn't resist their straight-up hilarity, love of silliness and high sarcasm, but also loyalty to family and friends -- the ancientness and primacy of their values was so vital and important to me, born a Canadian, of a culture barely begun.
We just celebrated our 21st year together. I yearn to escape this rat race, retire back there and write, surf, ride mountain bikes and dirt bikes till I drop. But she has her own successful business and likes it here.
So I believe exciting new chapters are yet to be written.
Thank you Paul. And thank you for sharing your experience. We do wild things when we're young. Hopefully our pasts inform our future selves and we keep a bit of the wild spirit in our lives.
And since you lived in Singapore, I'll share my favorite memory of the city. On a recent holiday, I had the first taste of the best coconut ice cream in the world. The one scoop made me want to live there. I still can't get it out of my head.
Testify, brother! I miss so much of the insanely good food there -- especially my go-to nasi padang stalls, the old lady in Changi Village who made the best fried carrot (turnip) cake hangover cure, the fish head soup from Racecourse Rd, onion roti prata with flaming spicy goat curry dip, Samy's chicken byriani and chili crab with a mug of icy Tiger beer on Pulau Ubin. Not to mention the tom yam seafood at the shabby old Golden Mile, aka Little Thailand. Must return in short order.
Not sure why this article has a portrait pic of Theroux to mislead you into thinking you are going to read something about him or his writing. Clickbait I suppose.
—"And likewise, we also learned the much harder lesson that there is no such thing as going home, for the home that we carried in our hearts stopped existing the moment we left it behind"—
Loved this piece. Thank you. Even for my shorter stint of 5 years in Switzerland (Zurich but most of it in Basel), it permanently changes you in ways you can’t predict.
My favorite line: how after "acclimat[ing] to the reality of aging in a home away from home...," we learn "that the life we live becomes us, until it is indistinguishable from the environment in which we have settled, that is, until it becomes home, replacing the memory of home we had nearly forgotten. And likewise, we also learned the much harder lesson that there is no such thing as going home, for the home that we carried in our hearts stopped existing the moment we left it behind." As someone who has lived for almost 20 years in Seville, Spain, I can relate.
I'm beyond flattered. That I've been published at all is a celebration, but the fact that you have a favorite line and took the time to quote it is a dream come true.
Great piece, Daniel... and of a piece of my own long-lost SE Asian life. Except I left when I felt, as you say, it had become normal, but also to come home and see out my aging parents.
Singapore had become my home after visiting, then living and working there on and off for a few years legally and not, then for a full six as a self-employed expat resident, all of it spanning ages 29 to 40. By the time I settled there, I'd become a somewhat functional speaker of Indonesian, Malay, Lao and Thai, plus I knew the best Hokkien dialect swear words, which made the Asia experience doubly sweet.
I'd started out with a fat travel fund and no plans, other than stay the hell out of Toronto, and office furniture sales -- as long as possible, and forever respectively. I didn't care where I went as long as it was tropical or desert. I'd jump on yachts, ships, trucks, motorbikes, trains, etc. going anywhere, just to assuage an addiction to the new. But also to see how tough and adaptable I could become, a self-induced hair-shirt trial, with debauch thrown in where possible.
As you say, as an expat resident of a faraway place, you begin to see tropes in others and then yourself. In Singapore at 35, I got into advertising as a copywriter with zero experience, no education beyond grade 12, but some great mentors and praise-singers who welcomed me into their rarefied world. I began to meet these incredibly bright, funny, successful white guys, commonly 40 and up, but some very young, making crazy money, $20-30k+/month, often from the UK and Aussie, who nevertheless went through each day angry and bitter, forever complaining about locals and their ways -- just these miserable cynical, racist twats with way too much dosh kindly given them by the adopted nation that needed their expertise.
They burned through their big lives lubed by hard boozing, local girls, dizzying career mobility, a succession of incredible restaurants and parties with a fierce passion, but never seemed to be enjoying it unless at someone else's, usually a local's, expense. So many big spoiled babies with unsavoury ways and tastes.
I avoided that scene, unless work demanded it, hanging with more youthful Euro and American optimistic types. I also had plenty of local Chinese, Malay and Indian friends and Asian expat pals from Japan, India, Korea, Canada, etc. This kept me level headed enough, along with tons of extreme sports to cleanse the mind and body of any bad juju that might be finding purchase.
But after while I realized that living on an island -- even a fun, super-connected, multi-cultural one like Singapore -- was still living on an island, and that it was indeed making me a little nuts. Well that and watching all these white guys afflicted with the tackiest versions of yellow fever, with me at first not getting that whole thing at all, but then myself falling for a local girl with sophisticated and devious qualities from whom I had the hardest time pulling myself away... she was a vivid dream that never got stale, only emotionally very dangerous, and I eventually cut the septic umbilical cord that connected us.
I left in Nov '98, as the Asian monetary crisis was in full fever, even though I had lucrative work through it all. My dad was ailing, wanted to see me in case he suddenly keeled over. So I sold everything and came home to Toronto...
...immediately regretting it, and for years, but still feeling duty-bound to my parents. They took another 20 years to pass! Curiously, I met an Indonesian woman back here, eventually making her my wife. I'd said to myself on my first day in Indonesia that I would one day marry an Indonesian woman. I couldn't resist their straight-up hilarity, love of silliness and high sarcasm, but also loyalty to family and friends -- the ancientness and primacy of their values was so vital and important to me, born a Canadian, of a culture barely begun.
We just celebrated our 21st year together. I yearn to escape this rat race, retire back there and write, surf, ride mountain bikes and dirt bikes till I drop. But she has her own successful business and likes it here.
So I believe exciting new chapters are yet to be written.
Thank you Paul. And thank you for sharing your experience. We do wild things when we're young. Hopefully our pasts inform our future selves and we keep a bit of the wild spirit in our lives.
And since you lived in Singapore, I'll share my favorite memory of the city. On a recent holiday, I had the first taste of the best coconut ice cream in the world. The one scoop made me want to live there. I still can't get it out of my head.
Testify, brother! I miss so much of the insanely good food there -- especially my go-to nasi padang stalls, the old lady in Changi Village who made the best fried carrot (turnip) cake hangover cure, the fish head soup from Racecourse Rd, onion roti prata with flaming spicy goat curry dip, Samy's chicken byriani and chili crab with a mug of icy Tiger beer on Pulau Ubin. Not to mention the tom yam seafood at the shabby old Golden Mile, aka Little Thailand. Must return in short order.
I had a plate of the carrot cake as well. I was surprised to say the least.
Not sure why this article has a portrait pic of Theroux to mislead you into thinking you are going to read something about him or his writing. Clickbait I suppose.
Because Theroux figures prominently in the piece