Splendid Isolation

After Connie died in 2017, I was really adrift.  Apart from the bereavement, I really had no idea where or how I wanted to live.   Fortunately, any immediate problems about accommodation were taken care of by Doc Russia, who took me in immediately after I sold the Plano house, and then by Mr. Free Market, who most graciously ensconsed me in one of his spare suites at Free Market Towers.

Towards the end of my stay at the Towers, I went to Frenchland (okay, Monaco) to spend some time with Former Drummer Knob, who lives thereabouts.  While driving around that exquisite part of the world known as the Midi, I discovered that as long as I didn’t try for a sea-facing apartment, I could actually have afforded to live there.

I found a (very) small one-bed/one bath apartment just north of Antibes which fitted the bill.

(just over the blue sign)

Modest, but not a slum;  the exterior looks totally foul, but the interior was okay — sort of like a typical student’s digs.  The monthly rent was about 1,400 euro — say, $1,600 (about what I’d pay for the same thing in Dallas) — but unlike Dallas, the rent included water and electricity, and the apartment came furnished.  (There’s a caveat, in that the “free” utilities thing was for a specific amount of w&e per month;  higher and you pay quite a lot, but I would have come in under that limit quite comfortably.)

Just in passing:  at the time, my French was reasonably fluent and would have become completely so within a couple of months anyway.  My fluency and French last name would have eased my ability to get a short-term residence visa, I was assured by a local official.  My U.S. passport was no big deal because apparently quite a few Murkins do that kind of thing in that part of the world anyway, she said.

Yes, in case you’re wondering:  I did a fair amount of research into this because, as I said, I was at something of a loose end during that time, so all options were on the table.

And yes, the apartment was quite humble, but it didn’t matter because once you leave the apartment you’re in frigging France, FFS, with bistros, boulangeries, patisseries, charcuteries, estaminets and all those things that make life in France unforgettable.

All the above were brought to mind when I read this article, which purported to list the cheapest countries to live in as an expat.

Of course, when people say “cheapest” they mean just that.  If the list is topped by Vietnam… well, you get the picture.

And here’s the problem with this “expat” thing, and the reason I ended up coming back to the U.S. of A.:  what articles like this never mention is that cost isn’t the only reason to live elsewhere.  Hell, it should only be Reason #4 or #5.

The biggest reason to live somewhere else — and by this I mean in a furrin country — is that you have to adapt to the culture and lifestyle of the place.  And that’s no small thing.  It’s all very well to live somewhere cheap, but when the free TV sucks and the cable/satellite option is either limited or expensive, or both, that’s not a good thing.  And getting around and getting on with the locals can be quite a task, or even impossible.  Expats often talk about “conversation fatigue”, which is the stress you face when you’re constantly translating a foreign language mentally in order to understand what’s being said to you, or before you open your mouth to speak.  It’s fine if a lot of the locals can speak English, and are prepared to do so.  This is sometimes the case when living in one of the larger cities — which are not cheap to live in, as I can attest — but in small villages or towns, that’s not the way to bet, as I discovered in my various travels around Europe, and most especially not in France.

Once again, I had little problem reading the newspapers and books in French, and that could only have improved;  but it was still going to be a chore, experienced daily.  Now imagine doing that in, say, Vietnam, where the language is not only foreign, but the text is of the “chicken scratch” variety.

I would have been unutterably lonely;  even though Knob lived but a few miles from that apartment, seeing him would have meant catching the train to Monaco every time because forget buying a car Over There.  Oy.  And he worked, which meant he wouldn’t be available all the time.

I was in my  early sixties.  Had I been much younger and coupled with a woman willing to try the experience with me:  who knows?  But no, it was not to be.

So it was with only a little regret that I decided not to stay in France.

One thing I do know:  I was really, really glad to get back home, and only realized how glad when Doc picked me up at the airport, and casually tossed over one of my handguns in its holster with the comment:  “I thought you might want that.”