This academic year, I begin my ninth year leaving as an expatriate. I have chosen this life for many reasons: disillusionment with the American lifestyle, travel opportunities, and career advancement among the many.
But lately, I must admit, there’s one part of ex-pat life that really gets me down.
It’s the good-byes.
As I look at the photos I keep on my fridge, I realize that most of the people there have left this country within the last several months. Flying Monk. Dee. Classic Beauty. Mr. Morocco. A N'Ice Bitch. Strong Enough to Carry Me. Only Child. Aussie Geek. Ms. Germany. And many, many more. I’m sure I’m forgetting a few.
Tonight it’s Friday, I head to the S., but the regular gang won't be there. Turd and Ms. Picasso are off to Romania and the UK, and Longi Books to Poland. And the worst part of all: Ms. Sicily leaves in a few days. And then the "Boy, He Can Dance!" and "What a Gentleman!" pilots are off to greener pastures in South Africa, and what, pray tell, will we do without all the DRAMA????
So, I will go to happy hour tonight, but I’m not too happy about it.
I hear there’s new blood in town, but to be quite honest, I’m not that interested.
Give me time to grieve the loss of some really great people.
I think I’ll drown my sorrows in a karaoke-fest. Getting tipsy and singing loud, nostalgic songs into a mike can be…. um…er…. healing? Feel the pain, folks. Feel the pain.