How to Quit Your Day Job and Expatriate

“Things are tough all over and they ain’t getting any better,” a guitar-slinging, locomotive-surfing, fascist-assailing hobo once rapped. A hobo, lest we get muddled, is a traveling worker, an opportunist in every sense, and a contributing member—not to be confused with a tramp, who travels but generally avoids toil, nor a bum, who neither wanders nor works. And a rapper, while we’re on definitions, is a person who speaks rhythmically, often of universal truths, and usually over music.

Or maybe things are not so rough for you, yourself, and/or yours, but regardless of your finances and your politics, we might at least agree that things are unpleasant, tenuous, if not downright untenable.

So where does one fix their world-weary, wary gaze and steer their brethren? Is there a quivering finger steering us in the right direction? Well, who should be arrogant enough to say? Sure, there’s no dearth of eager candidates in power, even in the best of times—whenever those might be. In any case, that is a pile of pixels best reserved for another URL, and I digress.

But while the world may not be getting any bigger in one sense, it’s not necessarily getting any smaller or less wave-rich in another, last I checked with our increasingly lonesome friends of science and meteorology.

And in that vein, my miniscule domicile has made the collective decision to mobilize. We have resigned from, rented out, and otherwise rid ourselves of most everything that won’t fly or float. It’s a ritual that has become almost catechismal to my dearly betrothed and me, though somewhat less so to our three-and-change-year-old son. Fortunately, and in spite of his mercurial nature aboard aircraft, he glides right through it all, mostly.

With confidence in that much, we’re leaving our somewhat swell-starved pocket and its cataclysmically increasing cost of being for another, slightly more surf-nourished, significantly less expensive little blip on this big blue marble.

Indeed, there are still such places in our orbit where the rent is not too damned high and where the lineups are not too damned crowded. Granted, potable sweet water is often found at a higher premium than rum—or simply not at all. But there are always concessions to be made; what matters is that we make them ourselves before they’re made for us.

Farbeit from me or anyone else to suggest what those concessions might be for you, but in my case, we’ll cut our subsistence costs to a quarter of what they are in this Big, endlessly sprawling, ever more pestilent Apple in favor of fresher air and freer lineups, even if it means drinking a little too much grog for our own good. (The little tyke will stick to Vittel for now.)

Depending on your own views, lifestyle(s), choices, habits, etc., it may seem that we’ve foregone a lot of societal pleasures, comforts, conveniences, and otherwise preferable conditions to arrive at this juncture, though, again, that’s all relative. Decide on your criteria first and your own Shangri La or next-best place will show itself on the map soon enough.

Ah, but how to keep the clan clad in Patagucci? For most of us, that is the real conundrum.

If you don’t already have an occupation or prospective vocation that you might perform or otherwise fulfill remotely, more careful decisions and concessions are probably in order. No, this requisite planning is not for the faint of heart. All I can say to this end is that it’s good to have an administratively-minded soul in the household, if not an accountant.

I also take comfort in having contingency plans B, C, D, E, and so on. Digital- and print- nomading can suffice, particularly if you don’t mind living off dribs in drabs. Entertainment and hospitality can often keep people afloat abroad when they otherwise might not stateside. The same goes for teaching English as a second language. And if you happen to (still) be reading this, chances are that your English alone will go a long way in many places, as, in addition, does even cursory prowess with a musical instrument and a voice. Again, dribs and drabs. Perhaps less fanciful but in much higher and more constant demand the world over is handiness. Technical trades don’t translate well in most cases as they require fresh certifications, licenses, or even entirely new degrees. My maritime captain’s license, issued by the USCG, is useless where I’m headed. The same goes for a divemaster’s certification. Those accreditations will, however, fly in other locales. Or maybe just rob a bank. You would become part of a surprisingly large if not so distinguished list of fellow expatriates.

All things considered, it pays to shop around. This forthcoming decampment will make my number of foreign residencies reach nearly double digits, and I’ve done a couple of doozies and turned away from a handful of others. Of course, these are simply ways to survive with which I’m familiar. The more open your mind, the more open your options. That goes for location, twofold if not exponentially. Not dead-set on the tropics after all? The poles are your Fiji, your Bali, your Puerto Escondido, your antipodean oysters.

One ocean-bound humanoid’s tropics is another’s Arctic. My “down there” might just be your “way up yonder.”

Just where is my “down there?” you might be wondering. What else can I say without risk of mariticide but come and find us. We may not be so far as you think.