Why We Will Leave Portugal, Eventually.
During a delightful chat with my buddy from Denmark, he shared his plans to globe-trot with his kiddos, inspired by none other than yours truly. Yet, when the inevitable question about us returning “home” came up, I had to reluctantly nod. “I knew it!” he exclaimed. “It’s the healthcare, right? And education? Correct?” He was almost excited.
Sadly, I had to burst his bubble because, you see, it’s none of those. I mean, come on, only Danes who’ve never ventured out get excited about Danish healthcare (and if you need proof, just dip your toes into an expat group in CPH and indulge in their riveting medical sagas — it’s a tragicomedy featuring mainly Paracetamol and Coca-Cola…). Education? Well, it’s a longer topic we’ll have to return to later. You see I hail from one of Denmark’s more affluent regions, and attended both Russian and French private schools, shaping my distinct perspectives. So I guess my views on that are a bit different than your regular Dane. However, both my daughters were listed in Copenhagen’s best private schools from birth (this is a regular thing there).
So back to Portugal. Don’t get me wrong, Portugal has its charm. It’s like the “wild west,” as my local friend put it — especially if you’re escaping from the regimented lands of Denmark or Canada. Portugal attracts a diverse crowd these days — DJs from Bahrain, crypto big shots, yoga gurus doing their kundalini thing, and, of course, your average Joe (or Steve) from the US, desperately seeking a place where gun drills aren’t part of the local school curriculum. Because, yes, that’s a thing.
Now, Portugal is practically bursting at the seams with “expats” and “nomads,” from the golden Algarve to the silver shores near Lisbon, all the way up to the charming cities like Braga and Castelo Branco. You can’t swing a cat without hitting a foreigner. I once stumbled upon some Danes who struck it rich in crypto, bought a mansion, and decided to settle in Tomar. Random? You bet. Descriptive of the current state of affairs? Absolutely.
But, let me paint you a more nuanced picture. Picture San Francisco. Got it? Great. Now, imagine driving through the city, marveling at the tech utopia, and then suddenly, bam! Reality check — the ghettos and the struggles of the local population. That’s Portugal for you.
It’s a financially challenged country. The locals are grappling with living costs and the minimum wage? A whopping €665 per month in 2022. You might find a small room for rent at that price in our not-so-fancy fisherman village. In contrast, my American friends were searching for a rental house in Sintra (an area in Portugal) with a budget ranging from 5,000 to 10,000 euros. This, my friends, is the crude reality Portugal faces — a bit like San Francisco, where the locals are waving goodbye to their homeland because, well, they simply can’t afford to stay. Cheers to budget-friendly nomad life!
Speaking about “nomads” and the delightful labels we bestow upon ourselves — “nomads” and “traveling expats.” Portugal, Bali, and the like are teeming with them. But let’s dissect the term “expat,” shall we? Rooted in Latin — “ex” (out of) and “patria” (country, homeland) — historically, it referred to someone sent abroad for a specific task, job opportunity, or the pursuit of a different cultural experience. Fast forward to today, and it’s a bit of a stretch, considering most folks I encounter in Portugal aren’t exactly working in the local job market — the pay isn’t exactly a motivator, let’s be real. Remote work, my friend, that’s the name of the game.
Then there’s the “nomad” — once reserved for traditional or indigenous communities leading a mobile, transient lifestyle. Now, it’s a badge worn by jet-setters, with picturesque IG profiles, often grappling with intricate tax matters and maintaining a charmingly tenuous connection with the locales they grace. As I soak in the Portuguese sun, I can’t help but find the whole “expat” and “nomad” concept a tad peculiar. Many of the folks around here barely have any Portuguese friends. Funny enough, the community I find myself in is essentially a parallel universe with minimal entanglements with the locals. We’ve got our own little haven with expat gatherings, workouts, markets, festivals, culinary escapades — you name it. It’s like we’ve created a microcosm of familiarity within these foreign lands. Who needs local ties when you’ve got your expat bubble, right? An American friend here is truly inspired by Balaji and his vision of network states. He finds merit in the idea of decentralized, internet-based communities that could potentially offer services traditionally associated with governments. His commitment extends to community empowerment, with a focus on regenerative practices to make the world more green and sustainable. He’s actively fundraising for this cause, investing in land, and empowering farmers to engage in regenerative activities. However, when I inquired about his direct involvement with the local farmers, the response was a straightforward “No.”. So far he has not worked with those at all. The focus is on gaining financial momentum, and the grassroots connection is a bridge yet to be fully crossed. Having had the chance to meet some of the local farmers here, I can’t help but ponder whether they are eagerly anticipating my friend’s arrival to rescue them and impart his wisdom on how to cultivate their land?
Honestly, I can’t help but feel a tinge of melancholy observing the detachment of the expat community from the local tapestry. Especially noteworthy is the prevailing sentiment among many expat communities, considering the locals to be operating inefficiently and not optimized while viewing themselves as the bearers of superior power and knowledge.
As this unfolds, I wonder if the current wave of nomads and expats inadvertently perpetuates a subtle form of contemporary colonialism? Is the contemporary nomadic lifestyle any less imperialistic? Here we are, many of us hailing from economically cushier corners, swooping in, snatching up land, and crafting our own little havens, complete with rules of our liking. We build what we envision, nonchalantly raising an eyebrow at local customs, and casually tweaking them to suit our preferences — adding in some buddha bowls & cappuccinos to the mix. Lately, the village celebrated “Pao de Deus,” a tradition I earnestly inquired about from the local priest. However, when I shared it with the expat crew, my post faced a chilly reception — apparently, Catholic traditions were too Patriarchal. Halloween and Kundalini yoga, on the other hand, were embraced with open arms. On the day of the celebration (Nov 1st) I met many dressed as if they were celebrating Halloween, flatly refusing to celebrate the actual festivity — but wanting to take part in the celebration, regardless. It’s a comically absurd scenario, yet it paints a vivid picture of the expat integration scale or the lack thereof.
Some folks genuinely wish to connect with Portugal, and contribute to its positive growth — they learn the language and the traditions, and they genuinely wish to integrate. This isn’t about them. No, this is about the other bunch, the nomads and expats who stroll in, dismiss local culture and economy and naively assume they’re part of the Portuguese solution. We aren’t.
The simmering tensions between locals and expats are palpable, and one doesn’t need to venture far to sense the unease among the Portuguese. In Ericeira, where we currently reside, the clashes between these two worlds have materialized in alarming ways — from cars being set ablaze to heated verbal exchanges. During the aforementioned celebration, a subtle act of rebellion caught my attention. The elderly ladies, guardians of tradition, staunchly refused to dole out candies to those adorned in Halloween costumes. It was a silent but resolute stand against the encroachment of foreign festivities on their cherished local traditions. The divide is stark, and not every local harbors positive sentiments toward the influx of foreigners. This trend is also evident in the recent implementation of stricter laws, posing challenges for foreigners seeking visa permits and land ownership.
These days, as I reflect on the situation, I find myself wondering — can I genuinely blame them?
As the years pass and my journeys accumulate, the labels of “expat” or “nomad” lose their appeal. The alternative, then, is to be an immigrant — yet, I am one already, and I hesitate to embark on another chapter elsewhere. Immigrants, I believe, only truly grasp the essence of not quite fitting in, and that’s not a narrative I wish for my daughters.
Contemplating the meaning of “home” has consumed much of my recent years. What does it signify, especially when your place of origin no longer exists, and the once-defined borders blur away? I hail from the Soviet Union, with roots in Moldova, Poland, Russia, and Ukraine, yet I was born on an island where even the Soviets required a visa to visit. Raised in Denmark, my background often gets misconstrued as allegiance to Putin, a perception both absurd and ignorant.
Exploring my heritage, I grapple with the concept of nationalism, unable to fathom killing for land. For me, “home” transcends a piece of earth; it’s an internal state, detached from territorial claims. The notion of claiming land strikes me as repugnant, even barbaric. I find it perplexing why anyone assumes the right to assert ownership over a piece of the past. How can individuals in positions of power arbitrarily decide to allocate land to others, disregarding those who already inhabit it? I’ve felt at home in diverse places — Cairo, New York, Hangzhou, Dubai, Lyon, Singapore, Rome, and now Ericeira — not to reshape, conquer, or teach, but because I simply resonate deeply with people wherever I go, and am very curious to learn about their ways of seeing the world. In China, I mastered the art of Dai Di over casual beers with the locals. During my time in Egypt, I honed my skills in crafting smoke rings with a shisha while engaging in games of tawlah. All of these things are just regular local ways of life. Perhaps, having missed that sense of belonging in my upbringing, I naturally feel connected everywhere and nowhere simultaneously.
As I reflect on my daughters’ heritage, I’m increasingly aware of how their story of belonging diverges from mine. They are not I. I grew up in broken families and tragic homes, making it challenging to trace my family’s history, given the losses during the world wars and the subsequent life in orphanages. People often chuckle when they ask if 23&Me connected me with a cousin, not grasping the vast toll those wars took on lives. Yet, through their father, my daughters can wander through Copenhagen, pointing to buildings and exclaiming, “Look! This was drawn by my great-grandfather!” They can witness their heritage etched in the city’s key monuments, a profoundly beautiful experience. I don’t want to deprive them of this connection.
And I don’t want to raise them as nomads, expats, or immigrants. I aim to nurture them as worldly beings, deeply connected to family, exuding a profound sense of belonging, and acutely aware of their surroundings. My wish is for them to honor local traditions, be multilingual to fathom diverse perspectives, and possess roots so deep that loneliness and disconnection are foreign concepts. This journey starts with Denmark, not Portugal.
After having worked for years with post-conflict social entrepreneurship, a crucial lesson surfaced — systematic societal change springs from the locals, not foreigners. While travel broadens horizons, the real impact comes from applying knowledge in one’s realm. I acknowledge that altering Portugal isn’t my mission, but Denmark is a canvas for change. My partner, my girls, and I can shape things there through family, community, or work. The potential impact dwarfs what we can achieve in our current bubble.
Sure, Denmark lacks the allure of Buddha bowls, opt-in governance, and cloud networks, but I’m grasping a truth akin to Dorothy’s in Kansas: “If it isn’t in the house, then we haven’t got it.” The essence of importance lies within our home and immediate surroundings. I’ll be honest with you though — for years, Denmark instilled in me a fear of feeling little and unwanted. Yet, I’m gradually realizing that evading it won’t resolve the matter, will it? Perhaps I’m just getting a bit wiser with age. I do wish that more Danes would heed the advice of their illustrious author, H.C. Andersen, and explore the world a bit,.. and I dread the conversations I have to engage in on Aula. Nevertheless, it’s all “hyggeligt” in its own way.
A few days back, I found myself in conversation with a fellow globe-trotter who had just snagged a flat in Chamonix. Stunning locale, picturesque and all, yet, as he pondered, it dawned on him that this might not be the elusive “it.” So, what is “it”? We concurred that “it” is the haven for our main library, a treasury of collected gems over time. A place where we could both return and feel.. welcome. Home. Through our banter, the realization struck both of us — neither he nor I currently reside in the “right place.”. We’re both immigrants on a quest for that elusive “home.” A home that we have to find within ourselves though. As for me, my guiding star has now become my family, my girls. I wonder what he’ll use to navigate his way home?
So, why the decision to leave? Our arrival in Portugal wasn’t driven by a deep yearning for the country itself. Besides having a close friend from this place and having previously worked under the guidance of Jorge Sampaio, the former president of Portugal, in New York City, I harbored no specific ambitions of working here or immersing myself further in Portuguese society. There’s no particular desire for my daughters to grow up or pursue their studies here. Become “local” here. Our journey to Portugal was a family’s quest to mend, to rediscover each other in a time of fragility. Portugal, in that context, has served as a remarkable backdrop for our healing. We’ve gained invaluable lessons during our time here. However, the labels of expats, nomads, or immigrants don’t fit us. We have a home to return to, and we desire our children to have a place where they truly belong. Our time in Portugal has been enlightening, teaching us about the power of community and new thought models. Of a different lifestyle. There’s still plenty for us to discover in this aspect. The girls are delving into capoeira, surfing, and the mysteries of the ocean, while I’m forging connections with the local residents, gaining insights into their unique ways of life.
But as I take a step back, it’s time for a shift in focus — less spotlight on Portugal’s shortcomings, more on introspection. Acknowledging my own imperfections, tidying up my mess, and striving to bring positive change to my immediate surroundings. It’s about refraining from thrusting my mess onto others or assuming superiority in problem-solving.
That approach can be reserved for the colonials out there.
And so ends the tale of why we shall leave Portugal, eventually.
NOTE: After sharing this post, it’s clear I’ve stirred up some criticism, and I understand the sentiment. Who doesn’t love being labeled a new-age colonialist? Certainly not on anyone’s bucket list. The intention here isn’t to point fingers but to spark awareness and initiate a conversation. Let’s kick off this dialogue by collectively defining and taking ownership of these dynamics. If we shy away from using these words, how can we hope to understand and address the issues at hand?
A friend from the expat bubble here raised an interesting perspective, highlighting the desire to secure a safe future for their children amidst a capitalistic system and the challenges posed by greedy landlords, cleaning ladies, and nannies — not to mention the corrupted Portuguese. They feel compelled to overpay, work tirelessly, and therefore struggle to integrate or learn the language. If the primary goal is securing a haven for your children, does it necessarily dictate settling in Ericeira, Sintra, or Cascais? Safety, after all, can be provided anywhere in Portugal. Is it a question of safety and a bright future if one feels the need to settle in these expat bubbles? Cleaning and nanny services, aren’t these merely emblematic of industries built on inexpensive labor? Just another facet of the capitalist system? After all, the immigrant often does not have the luxury to choose where to go — the colonialist, on the other hand, chooses to go to the most lucrative places. As much as many of us want to escape capitalism — we need to realize that we often carry its influences within ourselves.
If you’ve sought refuge from the clutches of the capitalist world order, maybe the remedy lies in dwelling somewhere within your means, enrolling the kids in neighborhood establishments, contributing to the local environment, and genuinely immersing yourself in the local culture. Just a thought. Perhaps again an unpopular one.
