Not all chains are legal… some are paved, fenced, or require a receipt. These places showed me what liberty can really look like.

In Strasbourg, I sat on a park bench for two hours without buying a coffee, fending off a security guard, or needing a “reason” to be there. 

No one stared. No one moved me along. No laminated sign reminded me of the 30-minute seating limit. 

And shockingly… no one tried to sell me anything. I just sat. Did nothing. 

Watched the world stroll by. 

And in that nothingness, it hit me:

This is freedom.

Not the bumper-sticker version wrapped in red, white, and blue cable news.

Not the “freedom” that comes with a co-working space, a receipt, a lease agreement, or a subscription plan.

But a quieter, deeper kind… one built into the spaces we all share, or should share.

See, I grew up thinking freedom meant options.

• Big box stores open 24/7.
• Drive-thrus for coffee, bank deposits, and pharmacy pickups.
•  The “freedom” to choose from 96 types of toothpaste, 6,000 podcasts, or 14 political opinions… on one network alone.

But after living and traveling across places like Ukraine, France, Georgia, Albania, Spain, and more, I’ve started to think we’ve got it backwards.

Maybe real freedom isn’t the ability to buy more stuff faster… it’s the ability to exist in a space without having to earn your place there first.

From car-free plazas in Tirana to playgrounds in Madrid where no one checks wristbands or waivers, I kept bumping into these little pockets of public life that made me question everything I thought I knew about liberty.

So here are 7 public spaces that flipped my idea of what freedom really looks like… and why, despite all our patriotic slogans back home, we just might be doing it all wrong.

The Car-Free City Center in Strasbourg, France 

The first time I got stranded in Strasbourg, I wasn’t panicked. I was annoyed.

My train from Strasbourg to Frankfurt had been delayed thanks to a convention or some European Parliament session, that had the whole city booked solid.

So I did what any semi-jetlagged traveler would do…

I wandered.

No agenda, no Uber, no panic… just me and my stubborn rolling suitcase clacking on cobblestone streets and along the canal.

What I discovered instead?

Actual peace and contentment.

The streets in that part of town were closed to cars but open to everything else: street performers, couples holding hands, kids chasing pigeons, and cafés that spilled into the street like they owned the place (because they kinda did).

And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like I was in the way.

I felt part of it.

Liberty Lesson: Freedom isn’t a fast lane. Sometimes it’s a closed-off road that gives you back your place in the world.

2. Free Public Healthcare Clinics in Tbilisi, Georgia 

I woke up in Tbilisi with a throat that felt like I had swallowed sandpaper dipped in battery acid.

Back in the States, that would’ve meant an hour of Googling in-network providers, calling three clinics, and eventually deciding the copay wasn’t worth it.

But in Georgia? I asked a local friend where to go, walked into a neighborhood clinic, saw a doctor, got a diagnosis, walked out with prescription meds to take to the pharmacy next door…

And as a non-citizen I did pay, but no, I didn’t have to sell a kidney to finance it.

There were no platinum-level insurance tiers, no mysterious billing codes, and no lecture about deductibles. Just care.

Liberty Lesson: When healthcare is a right, not a business model, it stops feeling like a gamble.

3. Open Playgrounds and Childcare Spaces in Spain

In Barcelona, I found myself watching a local playground like it was performance art.

• No wristbands.
• No admission fees.

Just kids being kids. Laughing. Screaming. Negotiating swings like tiny diplomats.

What really got me, though, were the parents.

They weren’t helicoptering. They were relaxing. Chatting. Sipping espresso like it was normal to trust your environment.

Back in the U.S., childcare often feels like a private luxury.

You either pay for safety or cross your fingers.

In Spain, it felt like the city itself co-parented.

Liberty Lesson: If kids are only safe when money changes hands, maybe freedom’s already been sold.

4. Neighborhood Parks Without Gates in Poland and North Macedonia 

I remember walking through a leafy neighborhood park in Skopje and thinking: “Why does this feel… weird?”

It took me a second to realize, it was open.

No gates. No signs threatening fines or reminding me the park “closes at dusk.”

I wasn’t breaking any rules. There were no rules.

Just grass, benches, grandmothers with shopping bags, and teens playing guitar badly, but confidently wooing the girls nearby.

In Krakow, same deal. Parks didn’t feel like something you entered.

They were just there, part of the neighborhood like sidewalks or air.

Liberty Lesson: Freedom isn’t just about access, it’s about not being told when to leave.

5. Pedestrian Zones in Tirana, Albania

In Tirana, what started as a post-COVID experiment, “temporary” car bans, turned out to be permanent and became the soul of the city.

I walked down boulevards where cars once roared and found musicians, families, couples arm in arm.

People weren’t rushing, they were being.

A friend who’d lived there for years told me the vibe shift was real. People started staying out later, walking more, knowing their streets belonged to them, not some angry guy in a Mercedes.

Liberty Lesson: Take away the traffic, and sometimes you rediscover your neighbors.

6. Public Transit Systems in Ukraine and Bulgaria

Kyiv’s metro system is like stepping into a Cold War time capsule, except it still works better than most modern setups I’ve seen.

Built during the Soviet era with the kind of paranoid precision only the Cold War could inspire, these underground stations were designed to double as bomb shelters.

And now, thanks to history’s cruel sense of irony, they’re doing exactly that as civilians use them for refuge during Russian attacks.

Prophetic planning or just really thorough paranoia? 

Either way, those Communist-era engineers did not mess around.

Escalators so deep you could finish a Dostoevsky novel.

And trains? So punctual, you could set your watch to them.

Coming from the land of car culture and eternal traffic jams, stepping into Kyiv’s metro felt like entering an alternate universe… one where public transit actually works.

In Sofia, same deal. I paid less than a cup of coffee and got more dignity than any U.S. Greyhound, I’ve ever taken.

And don’t get me started on New York City’s overpriced nightmare they try to call a Subway…

Liberty Lesson: Freedom isn’t owning a car, it’s not needing one.

7. Community Markets in Romania and Mexico

In Cluj and in Oaxaca, I found the same thing: markets that didn’t just sell goods… they sold connection.

You could wander for hours, chat with vendors, sample cheese, sniff unfamiliar herbs, and no one gave you the side-eye if you didn’t buy.

No pressure. No neon SALE signs.

Just humans being human.

A fellow traveler I met in Oaxaca once told me, “I come here just to feel like I exist.” I knew exactly what she meant.

I found the same community markets in Italy, from the smallest of villages to neighborhoods in its biggest cities.

Liberty Lesson: When markets serve people, not profits, you don’t need to buy to belong.

Rethinking Freedom 

I used to think freedom meant choices. As many sugary cereal brands as I could cram into a cart.

The “right” to sit in traffic in my own personal metal cage.

But now?

I think freedom means access.

To exist without being monitored. To rest without buying something. To move without swiping a card or signing a waiver.

Where in the world did you feel the most free, and why? 

It’s time to rethink freedom together.

The post 7 Public Spaces Abroad That Define My Idea Of Freedom! Why America Gets It So Wrong… appeared first on Expats Planet.

From Grandma Insults to Police Run-Ins! Here’s what every traveler needs to know before humiliating themselves overseas

I once told my girlfriend’s grandmother I was “sexually finished.” I basically forgot to say the prefix before the word, “finished”, which means something totally awkward in Russian. 

At dinner. 

After a second helping of stuffed cabbage. 

The silence that followed could have frozen the Dnipro.

She didn’t say a word, just gave me that look Ukrainian grandmothers have perfected over centuries, the one that makes you instantly regret every decision that brought you to this moment.

Nobody warns you about this stuff.

When you pack up your life and move to another country, whether it’s Ukraine, Georgia, or Albania, you imagine cultural enlightenment, spontaneous friendships, and maybe a rustic wine-fueled weekend in the countryside.

You don’t picture miming “explosive diarrhea” at a pharmacy in Tbilisi, or handing your date’s mom a funeral bouquet because you didn’t know even numbers are for the dead.

And those glossy Instagram reels?

They never show you getting shaken down by a cop in Kyiv for not registering your visa on time.

In 1999, my first year abroad, I made every embarrassing mistake you can imagine, and a few you probably can’t. 

Some were linguistic landmines.

Others were cultural tripwires.

All of them were mortifying.

But each one taught me something.

About the world.

About humility.

And mostly, about how not to make a total ass of yourself on foreign soil.

So, in the spirit of full-frontal humiliation, and hopefully sparing you from repeating any of these disasters, here are 6 of my most painfully awkward expat screw-ups and what they taught me.

1. The Language Fail That Still Keeps Me Up at Night

It was a cozy dinner in Ukraine, and I was doing my best to impress my girlfriend’s family with my newly acquired Russian vocabulary.

I had just polished off a mountain of vareniki when her grandmother asked if I wanted more.

With a confident smile, I said, “я кончил.” “Ya Konchal”

Everyone at the table froze.

The only sound was the slow drip of sour cream off my fork.

What I meant to say was “I’m full.”

But the closest phrase I knew was “I’m finished.”

What I actually said was something closer to “I’m sexually satisfied.”

At the dinner table.

To a Soviet-era babushka.

The worst part? I didn’t realize my mistake until later that night, when my girlfriend broke it down with that uniquely Slavic blend of “are you actually this stupid?” layered under a giggle that slowly morphed into a sigh of pity… for herself, not me.

How Not to Be That Foreigner: Don’t just learn vocabulary, learn context.

“Konchal” might technically mean “finished,” but when you leave out the prefix “Za” along with a very animated “patting of your belly”, you might end up sounding like a pervert at a potluck.

Always sanity-check your new phrases with a native speaker before using them in polite company.

2. The Gesture That Got Me the Death Stare

Greece. Igoumenitsa. Small family restaurant. I’d just devoured a plate of souvlaki that nearly made me weep with satisfaction.

The cold white wine on that hot summer’s day also helped lubricate my enthusiasm of finishing such a great meal.

Feeling chummy, I looked at the owner (an older gentleman) and gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

His smile disappeared like someone had hit a switch. He narrowed his eyes, nodded stiffly, and walked away without another word.

Confused, I watched him retreat, and that’s when someone from the next table leaned over and whispered in English, “Yeah… in Greece, that means something a little closer to ‘up yours.’ Especially to older generations..”.

Nice.

How Not to Be That Foreigner: Hand gestures don’t travel well.

The peace sign? Not so peaceful in the UK if your palm’s facing the wrong way.

Thumbs up? A different kind of “salute” in some countries.

Before you go all gestural IRL, do a quick Google search on what your hands are actually saying.

3. The Dress Code Disaster at a Serious Event

Beaujolais Nouveau night in rural France. I was invited by some new acquaintances for a “tasting”, and was told it would be a casual evening celebrating the new wine release.

So I showed up “casual”, jeans, sneakers, and my best hoodie (really, my only hoodie).

Big mistake.

Turns out, in France, “casual” doesn’t mean “just rolled out of a hostel bunk bed.”

It means you don’t wear a tux, but you do wear something ironed.

I was the only one who looked like I’d wandered in off a late-night pizza run.

How Not to Be That Foreigner: When attending anything that ends in “night,” “ceremony,” or “tasting” in France, assume a blazer won’t hurt.

Worst case, you’re overdressed.

Best case, you don’t look like someone’s American cousin who got lost on the way to the laundromat.

4. The Bureaucratic Blunder That Nearly Got Me Deported

My first year in Kyiv 1999, I treated my visa like a novelty sticker and my registration paperwork like optional reading.

Big mistake.

One winter evening, while going out with my girlfriend to pick up a few beers and snacks for a “get-together”, a pair of police officers overheard us speaking English and stopped us on the street.

Routine check. They asked for documents.

She was fine.

I had nothing but a Metro chip and a pack of chewing gum.

Cue the questions. Cue the suspicion.

Cue the “come with us” moment.

Luckily, my girlfriend handled it in Ukrainian while looking-annoyed-but-polite.

I got away with a warning, but I was two steps from learning what a post-Soviet holding cell looked like.

How Not to Be That Foreigner: Visas, registrations, and official stamps matter, a lot. This isn’t TSA PreCheck. It’s “prove you belong here or enjoy our concrete hospitality suite.” Make copies.

Keep your passport handy.

Know the rules, even if no one told you them.

5. The “Innocent” Comment That Was Actually Offensive

At a birthday party in Kyiv, surrounded by friendly strangers and too many shots of vodka, I leaned in to chat with a guy next to me and asked, “So, what do you do?”

He stared at me like I’d asked for his ATM PIN.

“Business,” he replied flatly.

“Oh, cool! What kind?”

He leaned closer. “None of your business.”

Lesson learned.

In post-Soviet cultures (at least in 1999), asking someone what they “do” can come off as nosy at best, or suspicious at worst.

You’re not networking at a LinkedIn mixer. You’re poking into private territory.

How Not to Be That Foreigner: Swap the career question for something safer.

• Ask what they enjoy doing on weekends.
• Ask about travel.

Just don’t treat the conversation like a job interview in a place where privacy is armor.

6. The Time I Refused Help… and Got Completely Lost

North Macedonia. The hills outside Ohrid. I’d rented a bike to explore some monastery ruins and promptly got myself thoroughly lost.

But I was determined. Independent. A rugged expat with a Google Map that hadn’t loaded since I lost my mobile network signal at breakfast.

After nearly an hour of circling the same flock of goats, a 10-year-old boy approached on foot, pointed at my bike, and then at a dirt path.

I nodded politely, thanked him, and biked in the opposite direction, because clearly I knew better.

Twenty minutes later, I found myself back in front of the same goats, who looked increasingly judgmental.

Eventually, I gave in, followed the boy’s original path, and “surprise” it led me straight to my village destination.

How Not to Be That Foreigner: Ask for help. Then take it.

The expat ego is strong, but humility will save you time, embarrassment, and potentially a night sleeping next to livestock.

Cringe Now, Laugh Later… Or At Least Learn From Me

If you’re not cringing at your past self, are you really growing?

In the moment, each one felt like the world was ending. The kind of cringe that clings to your soul and replays on a loop every time you’re alone in the shower.

But now?

They’re the stories I tell first at parties, and the ones that taught me more than any Rick Steves guidebook ever could.

So go ahead. Mangle the grammar. Misread the menu.

Get lost in the North Macedonian countryside and hang out with some goats.

Just promise me you’ll learn something… and that you’ll laugh about it later.

Now it’s your turn 

What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve done abroad?

The post 6 Cringe-Worthy Mistakes I Made Abroad That Still Haunt Me! appeared first on Expats Planet.

From free concerts to stress-free healthcare! Here’s what made me rethink what a “rich life” really means.

I once had a 45-minute doctor’s visit in Tbilisi, followed by a strong espresso in a café where no one shoved me out the door, and still made it around the corner for a hot, fresh puri (bread) from a guy who actually smiled. 

All before 10am!

Try pulling that off in LA without losing half your paycheck or your sanity stuck in traffic.

Total cost?

About what you’d tip your DoorDash driver back home… assuming you weren’t guilted into 25%.

Now, imagine trying to do the same thing in the U.S.

First, you’d need to schedule the doctor’s visit three weeks in advance, dodge a surprise $300 co-pay, then sprint across town to a Starbucks where your name gets misspelled on a lukewarm drink that tastes like burnt ambition.

And bread? 

Sure, if by “fresh” you mean par-baked, wrapped in plastic, and $5.99 at Whole Foods.

I didn’t realize how rich everyday life could feel, until I left the States.

Places like Ukraine, France, North Macedonia, even down backstreets in Georgia, showed me a different kind of wealth.

Not the kind with Teslas and Pelotons, but the kind where simple things are treated like they matter.

So, here are 10 things I discovered abroad.

Things that cost little to nothing, but feel like five-star luxuries when you come from a country where sitting on a park bench might get you side-eyed if you’re not holding a $7 smoothie.

1. Seeing a Doctor Without Emptying Your Wallet

Back when I was living in Georgia, I caught a nasty sinus infection that left my head feeling like it was about to explode.

The pressure was so intense, I could barely talk without wincing.

I figured I’d just tough it out, but a friend insisted I go to a nearby clinic. I braced myself for a financial gut punch, American-style.

Instead, I got a real appointment with a real doctor, who sat with me, asked actual questions, didn’t rush me, prescribed medicine, and charged the equivalent of $10.

In the U.S., you’d be lucky to even get an appointment without navigating a Kafkaesque voicemail system and playing insurance roulette.

By the time you finally get in, you’re paying $150 to be told to “get rest and drink fluids.”

Abroad, seeing a doctor felt human.

In America, it feels like applying for a mortgage with chest pain.

2. Outdoor Markets That Feel Like a Daily Festival

In Tbilisi, outdoor markets aren’t just where you buy food… they’re where life happens.

People chat, barter, sample cheese, gossip about politics.

In Albania, I once watched a guy play the accordion while a little girl danced between the stalls.

In France, I practically lived off market stalls in Strasbourg… fresh berries, cheese, still-warm pastries.

Compare that to the U.S., where a “farmer’s market” often means overpriced kale, $9 jars of “artisan” jam, and a woman in Lululemon trying to convince you that her gluten-free dog treats are life-changing.

Markets abroad nourish the soul.

At home, they mostly drain your checking account.

3. Warm Bread for a Buck

I don’t care how many apps you have. There’s no luxury like biting into a warm baguette in France that costs a euro and was baked less than an hour ago.

In Spain, I’d buy crusty pan gallego that weighed more than my carry-on and cost less than a soda.

Meanwhile, back in the States, you can get a loaf that’s been hermetically sealed in plastic and chemically stabilized for shelf life… for $5.

And somehow it still tastes like despair.

Bread shouldn’t require a budget meeting.

4. Streets Made for Walking, Not Just Driving

In Hungary, I once spent an entire week getting around Budapest on foot. I didn’t need a car, an Uber, or a battle plan.

The sidewalks actually connected.

In Greece, strolling through Ioannina felt like a pastime, not a punishment.

In Italy, walking is culture… literally. The passeggiata and a gelato are the social scene.

No one’s honking at you like you’re a deer in traffic.

Contrast that with the U.S., where even crossing the street can feel like an act of civil disobedience.

Want to walk to the store? 

Good luck dodging traffic, surviving the shoulder without getting yelled at, and finding a grocery store within an hour’s drive.

In most of Europe, your legs are respected.

In America, they’re seen as a liability.

5. Sitting Down Without Financial Anxiety

In France, I once spent nearly two hours at a café in Strasbourg nursing a single espresso.

No one glared.

No one hinted I should order more.

In Italy, I shared a table with an old man who didn’t even have a drink. He was just there. Being.

In the U.S., sitting too long without ordering feels like shoplifting.

A server inevitably circles like a hawk, and the vibe slowly shifts from “welcome” to “pay rent or leave.”

The privilege of simply existing in public shouldn’t come with a price tag.

6. No Tipping Math Gymnastics

Tipping abroad is refreshingly straightforward.

In France or Spain, it’s optional.

In Ukraine, you round up the bill if you’re feeling generous.

There’s no emotional calculus.

No trying to figure out if 18% is insulting or if 25% still makes you a cheapskate.

Back in the U.S., every transaction now comes with a screen prompting you to tip… at fast food joints, coffee counters, even self-checkouts.

Tipping has mutated into a guilt-fueled performance.

Sometimes, I just want a sandwich.

Not a math test and a moral dilemma.

7. Free Cultural Events and Concerts

In Kraków, I stumbled into a free jazz concert in a park.

In Hungary, I once watched an open-air Shakespeare play where the guy next to me shared his flask like we were lifelong friends.

In Spain, town squares host orchestras, festivals, flamenco, film nights — you name it.

In the U.S., “free” events usually mean a $20 parking fee, $12 hot dogs, and a lawn chair fight for decent seating.

Culture is available, sure, but it’s often hidden behind ticketing apps, VIP sections, and overpriced merch tables.

Abroad, art belongs to the people. At home, it belongs to the sponsors.

8. Simple, Streamlined Bureaucracy

This one shocked me the most. In North Macedonia, my Airbnb host had to register me with local authorities.

I expected Soviet-style chaos. Instead? 

One form, online, and it took him five minutes.

In Ukraine, even in the ’90s, I managed to handle residence paperwork without needing therapy afterward.

Now compare that to renewing your driver’s license in the U.S. Bring a book. Actually, bring a series of books.

You’re going to be there a while. And don’t forget the six different proofs of address, a blood sample, and your firstborn child.

Turns out, bureaucracy doesn’t have to feel like a punishment.

9. Time to Just Be

This might be the most priceless luxury of all.

In Spain, I watched elderly couples sit on benches for hours, just… existing.

In North Macedonia, long café conversations drifted into evening without anyone checking a clock.

In France, meals weren’t eaten, they were savored.

Nobody was rushing to the next task.

Time was treated with reverence, not as a race.

Back in the U.S., slowing down is practically suspicious. If you’re not “hustling,” people assume something’s wrong with you.

Or worse, you’re lazy.

But life isn’t meant to be a treadmill with bills stapled to your back.

What Real Luxury Actually Looks Like

We keep getting sold this idea that luxury is about quartz countertops, streaming subscriptions, or that ridiculous $6 water called “Liquid Death” that comes in an aluminum can.

But I’ve found more peace and dignity in a loaf of fresh bread or a conversation on a bench than in any Black Friday sale.

Maybe the real flex isn’t stuff… it’s space.

Space to breathe, time to think, freedom to just “be” without the constant financial transaction hanging over every moment.

So let me ask you this:

What’s something you experienced abroad that felt like a luxury, but turned out to be totally normal there?

And if you’re currently somewhere that lets you sit for two hours without tipping, enjoy it for the rest of us.

The post 9 Everyday Pleasures Abroad That Feel Like Luxuries In The USA! appeared first on Expats Planet.

You can memorize every visa law and still get it wrong! These are the social codes that really matter…

When I first moved to Ukraine in the late ’90s, I thought I had a handle on the basics: 

Don’t drink the tap water!

Learn some damn Russian!

And for the love of all things holy, don’t forget to register your visa!

What I didn’t know? 

That flashing my big, friendly American smile at a stranger on the metro would make them recoil like I’d just offered them a used tissue.

In America, smiling is practically a reflex.

We smile at cashiers, at neighbors, at dogs passing on the street.

In Kyiv?

I smiled at a woman on the escalator and she gripped her purse like I was about to mug her using nothing but optimism.

No guidebook warned me about this.

Rick Steves didn’t pull me aside and whisper, “Hey, tone down the cheery optimism, you’re not in the USA anymore.”

And that’s the thing, nobody tells you about the rules that actually matter until you’ve already broken them and spent the rest of the day wondering what the hell just happened.

So, if you’re an American planning to live abroad, or just hoping not to mortally offend someone by saying “How are you?”, this is for you.

These are the real rules. 

The ones you won’t find in any Rick Steves tourist guide, packet or embassy pamphlet.

The rules I learned the hard way, usually after an awkward silence, a judgmental stare, or a dinner party where I was definitely not invited back.

1. Don’t Smile So Much… It Freaks People Out

The first time I smiled at a stranger in a Kyiv metro station, she clutched her bag like I’d just asked for her PIN number.

I wasn’t being creepy, at least not intentionally, I was just being friendly.

The same way we smile at dogs, babies, baristas, and even mildly annoying neighbors back in the States.

But abroad? In places like Ukraine, Germany, Georgia and even parts of France, a smile isn’t a friendly icebreaker, it’s a social contract.

Smiling without a reason makes people think you’re either selling something, scamming them, or slightly unhinged.

Expat tip: Save the grin. Use a polite nod or neutral expression.

Once someone earns your smile, it actually means something.

2. Skip the Small Talk… You’ll Come Off as Shallow

I once asked a guy in Kyiv what he did for a living. He leaned in, stared me down, and gave me a flat, “Business.”

Curious, I followed up, “What kind of business?”
His reply? “None of your business.”

That was the last time I used American-style small talk as an icebreaker in Eastern Europe.

In the U.S., we love small talk. It’s how we warm up a conversation.

But in countries like Ukraine, Poland, or Georgia, jumping into personal questions like “What do you do?” or “How are you?” feels nosy and disingenuous.

People there aren’t being rude, they just prefer real conversations over filler fluff.

Try this instead: Talk about food, the city, or something observational.

You’ll be surprised how fast you get to the real stuff once you skip the surface-level chitchat.

3. Shoes Off… Or Prepare to Be Judged Silently

Walk into a home in Spain or Ukraine with your shoes on and you might as well have tracked in a live goat.

I learned this lesson after stepping into a friend’s apartment in Ferrol, Spain.

Everyone else had neatly placed their shoes near the door. Me?

I strolled in like I was modeling for Foot Locker.

Her mother didn’t say a word.

She just glanced at my sneakers and then at me, like I’d just insulted the Virgin Mary.

Here’s the rule: If there’s a shoe rack near the door or a pile of slippers laid out like a buffet, take the hint.

If you’re not sure, ask.

But don’t assume your “indoor shoes” are doing anyone a favor.

4. Keep Your Voice Down… Public Space Means Private Vibes

Ever been on the metro in Kyiv and realized you were the loudest sound in the entire car? I have.

And I wasn’t even saying anything outrageous, just chatting with a fellow colleague about where to go have a few beers and a bite to eat after a long week.

Meanwhile, the entire train car sat in a kind of silent meditation.

No one was making phone calls, there were no TikTok videos blaring from speakers.

Just me and my booming American voice echoing through the carriage like I was giving a TED Talk no one asked for.

In much of Europe and Asia, public spaces are treated with quiet respect.

If you’re loud, you’re not charming, you’re disruptive.

The fix: Take your cues from the locals.

Match their tone, pace, and energy.

When in doubt, pretend you’re trying to talk without waking a sleeping baby.

5. Hands Off the Produce… Seriously

Back in Georgia, I reached out to check the ripeness of a tomato and was met with a gasp so sharp I thought I’d accidentally knocked over a sacred statue.

The vendor snatched the tomato back like I’d just coughed on it and politely (but firmly) waved me away.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but in many Eastern European and Mediterranean markets, only the vendor touches the produce.

It’s not just about hygiene, it’s tradition, trust, and a system that works just fine without your fingerprints all over their peaches.

Bottom line: Point, gesture, or just say what you want. Let them do the picking.

You’re not at Trader Joe’s anymore.

6. Wait for the Invite… Offering Can Be Rude

In North Macedonia, I once offered to help clean up after dinner at my Airbnb host’s home.

You’d think I’d offered to rearrange their furniture or inspect their plumbing.

Everyone looked at me like I was trying to take over the house.

Turns out, in many cultures, especially in the Balkans and parts of Southern Europe, being a guest means being a guest.

Offering to help can come off as awkward, or worse, as if you think they can’t handle things on their own.

What to do: Wait to be invited to help. If it doesn’t come, sit back, relax, and let them play host.

It’s not laziness, it’s respect.

7. Don’t Expect American-Style “Thank Yous”

In Spain, I once held a door open for an older gentleman.

No nod, no smile, no thank you.

He just walked through like he was royalty and I was the hired doorman.

At first, I was borderline offended.

But after a few more days, I noticed a pattern.

People there show gratitude differently.

They’ll repay kindness with action, not words. 

• A favor returned.
• A coffee paid for later.
• A sudden invite to a family barbecue.

The American “thank you, thank you so much, oh my gosh, thank you again” style just isn’t universal.

A lesson in gratitude: Don’t assume rudeness. In many places, appreciation is baked into behavior, not verbalized.

And hey, if they hand you homemade jam a week later, that’s their way of saying thanks.

The Real Rules Are the Ones Nobody Tells You

Forget the embassy website and your Lonely Planet or Rick Steves “Backdoor” guides. The real rules abroad aren’t about paperwork, they’re about presence.

They’re the silent expectations, the subtle customs, the awkward pauses you only learn to read after you’ve royally messed them up.

Trust me, I’ve committed enough cultural faux pas to fill a trilogy. (Note to self. Book idea!)

But here’s the beauty of it:

Every mistake is a lesson.

Every cringe moment is a step closer to fluency, not just in language, but in life abroad.

So the next time you find yourself standing barefoot in someone’s living room, unsure if you’ve offended them or not, just smile (sparingly), nod, and keep learning.

What about you? 

What’s one unwritten rule you learned the hard way while living abroad? 

I’ve got a feeling I’m not the only one who’s stepped in it.

The post 7 Unwritten Rules Americans Only Learn After Embarrassing Themselves Abroad! appeared first on Expats Planet.

You think you’re just changing your address. Swapping Kansas for Kraków, or Connecticut for Kyiv. 

You pack your favorite hoodie, give away your furniture and the bike that’s been your main form of transport to work for the last 6 months (in the USA, no small feat I might add). 

You figure the hardest part ahead is cracking the local marshrutka schedule or ordering coffee without accidentally proposing marriage.

But no one tells you the truth: you’re not just changing where you sleep.

You’re stepping into a reality that quietly rewires your brain.

One where your reflection speaks Russian with a French accent, answers to three different names, and gets emotional at airport goodbyes like they’re the end of some cheesy romcom.

When I moved to Ukraine in the late ’90s (back when Nokia ringtones were the height of technology), I thought the hardest part would be learning the Cyrillic alphabet.

I didn’t realize that a much deeper transformation was quietly happening under the surface.

It’s like digital software updating while you’re busy trying to figure out how to use a Soviet-era “plastic washing machine” (yeah, you read that right, “a plastic washing machine!”).

The culture shocks, the linguistic fails, the odd friendships with strangers you meet in a local/expat bar called the Baraban, and those were just the appetizers.

The main course? 

An identity shift so subtle you don’t notice it happening, until one day, you can’t remember who you were before.

Sure, most blogs love to talk about visas, cost of living, and where to get the best tacos in Tbilisi.

But those are just surface-level stuff.

Living abroad does something sneakier.

It chips away at everything you thought you knew about the world and about yourself.

And by the time you realize what’s happening, you’re too far in.

You’ve already swapped comfort for curiosity, certainty for chaos, and your cozy suburban supermarket for a wild outdoor bazaar in a outer district of Kyiv called Obolon.

Your new “Whole Foods” is a now an outdoor bizarre that sells dried fish and “fresh” beer from the Obolon brewery down the road in plastic old soda bottles.

Your new supermarket also sells socks, and SIM cards all from the same row of stalls scattered among the puddles after a Fall rain.

It’s chaotic and smells faintly of vodka, cigarette smoke and freshly caught mackerel from the Dnieper, a ten minute walk away.

But hey, who needs a self-checkout line when you’ve got a babushka yelling prices in a language you don’t understand and zero patience?

These are the 8 invisible but irreversible changes that no one warned me about.

But now that they’ve happened, I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Not even a slice of real New Haven pizza… okay, maybe for that.

1. You Question Everything… Especially Yourself

In America, I never once questioned why we tip baristas 20% for handing us a muffin we picked out ourselves.

It was just “normal.”

Then I moved to Ukraine.

Suddenly, I was in a place where asking someone what they did for a living got me a death glare and a curt “Just Business.”

That’s when it hit me. 

The stuff I thought was universal: manners, priorities, small talk, life goals… was just cultural programming.

Being abroad peeled that back like sunburned skin.

You start to wonder, Do I really like this? 

Or was I just told to?

Living overseas doesn’t just introduce you to new cultures.

It introduces you to yourself, stripped of autopilot.

How It Rewires Your Identity: Get ready to doubt everything, your beliefs, your habits, even your fashion sense.

Especially your fashion sense if you’re still wearing flip-flops in a restaurant.

2. You Get Comfortable Being Uncomfortable

If you’ve never stood in a post office in Georgia, surrounded by a crowd of shouting locals and absolutely no discernible line, you haven’t lived.

Or sweated.

Early on, discomfort is your new roommate.

You fumble through menus you can’t read, decipher washing machines that look like Cold War prototypes, and pray that what you just ordered isn’t pickled pig’s ear (again).

But somewhere between the awkward metro rides and the 12th form you filled out in triplicate, you stop flinching.

You build resilience by necessity.

How It Rewires Your Identity: The sooner you stop expecting ease, the faster you’ll grow.

It’s like emotional CrossFit, but without the overpriced smoothies.

3. Your Definition of “Normal” Implodes 

Back home, we refrigerate eggs, avoid mayonnaise on pizza, and don’t drink vodka before noon (usually).

Then came Vlore, Albania.

Suddenly, I was eating dinner at 10 p.m., walking through smoke-filled cafés like it was 1994, and watching grannies yell across balconies like it was a neighborhood opera.

And guess what? It made sense there. 

That’s the beauty, and the brain-bender, of living abroad.

Normal is fluid.

You’ll catch yourself defending things you used to think were weird.

Like putting ketchup on spaghetti in Ukraine.

Or paying your rent in cash and in person, to a guy named Roman who may or may not own the building.

How It Rewires Your Identity: “Normal” isn’t real.

Once you see that, you’re free.

4. You Start Listening More Than You Speak

My Russian, in the early days, was the verbal equivalent of a toddler on stilts.

So in Ukraine, I did a lot of nodding. Listening. Guessing. Sometimes wildly.

But being linguistically outgunned does something magical: you slow down.

You notice tone, body language, and that very specific look someone gives when they’re about to sell you the “foreigner price.”

You learn to read a room without ever opening your mouth.

How It Rewires Your Identity: When words fail, awareness kicks in.

Fluency starts with observation.

5. You Carry Two (or More) Versions of Yourself 

There’s “you” at home, confident, chatty, efficient.

And then there’s “abroad you”, quiet, awkward, and weirdly obsessed with finding decent peanut butter.

In France, I was more laid-back. In Ukraine, I learned to side-eye bureaucracy like a local. 

Each country gives you a different lens, and slowly, you begin to wonder:

Which version is really me?

Answer: all of them. 

Living abroad multiplies you.

How It Rewires Your Identity: You don’t just grow, you split.

And for once, it’s a good thing.

6. You Learn to Love Silence 

In France, I once sat at a café for 45 minutes with a friend from Strasbourg.

We barely spoke, just sipped espresso and watched the world slouch by.

At first, I thought something was wrong. Back home, silence is suspicious. But abroad, it can be comforting, even profound.

When small talk is a linguistic challenge and deep talk is too much for your second language, silence becomes a shared language of its own.

How It Rewires Your Identity: Embrace the quiet.

Sometimes it says more than your vocabulary ever could.

7. You Say Goodbye Better (But It Still Hurts)

You meet incredible people… over beers in Strasbourg, on buses going to Macedonia, in visa lines in Krakow.

And then… they’re gone.

Off to their next country, job, romance…

Saying goodbye becomes a skill. 

You learn to savor the now, knowing it’s fleeting.

It doesn’t make it hurt less.

But you stop clinging and start appreciating.

How It Rewires Your Identity: People abroad come and go like seasons sometimes.

Learn to embrace them anyway.

8. You Become Harder to Impress… And Easier to Satisfy

After years abroad, luxury looks different.

I’ve had a $10 Georgian meal of Khachapuri Adjarian and Shashleek (meat skewers) with a whole liter of Saperavi (and no, I couldn’t finish it) that blew Michelin-starred meals and some French wines out of the water.

I’ve lived without dryers, dishwashers, and personal space… and somehow been happier.

You become less dazzled by shiny things and more grateful for simple pleasures.

Like when a friend who understands you, a train that runs on time, an outdoor café that knows how to make a shandy on a hot summer’s day.

How It Rewires Your Identity: Living with less shows you how much you already have.

Who You Were Is Just the Beginning 

I used to think moving abroad was about exploring the world.

But it’s really about exploring yourself.

Each place you live peels back a layer you didn’t know was there.

Some parts of you grow louder. 

Others, quieter.

And somewhere between border crossings, lost luggage, and street food hangovers, you realize something.

You’re not the same person anymore…

And that’s exactly the point.

How has living abroad changed you in ways you didn’t expect? 

The post 8 Invisible Ways Living Abroad Rewires Your Identity Forever! appeared first on Expats Planet.

Here’s what no one tells you about long-term travel and why that useless item in your bag says more about you than you think…

I once packed a linen shirt for Albania thinking I’d suddenly develop a Mediterranean glow and an effortless sense of style.

Instead, I spent the summer sweating through it in a Greek bus terminal, looking less like a coastal fashion icon and more like a tourist who lost his tour group.

And yet, I packed it again for my return trip to Albania. Twice.

After years of living out of suitcases across Ukraine, Georgia, Bulgaria, Romania, Albania and North Macedonia, and a few deeply regrettable Airbnbs in Greece, you’d think I’d have mastered the fine art of packing.

But somehow, I still manage to drag around two scarves I never wear, a bulky paperback novel that mocks me from the bottom of my bag, and a pair of leather dress shoes that have seen fewer dinner parties than a monk in a monastery.

The truth is, packing for long-term travel is never just about the stuff.

It’s about the fantasy of who we think we’ll become in a new place.

That we’ll start journaling by candlelight in a French café, take up spontaneous tango in a Spanish plaza, or, I don’t know, hike up a volcano called Duvalo in North Macedonia despite getting winded climbing the stairs to our Airbnb in Saranda.

And even after years abroad and a dozen or so countries, I still make the same ridiculous mistakes, some out of habit, others out of hope.

So, here they are!

The eight dumb packing mistakes I keep making, and the ones I’ve should have learned by now to stop repeating.

1. Packing Too Many Shoes (That All Do the Same Thing)

I once packed five pairs of shoes for a month-long stint in Bulgaria.

Five! 

As if I’d suddenly develop a personality that switches between salsa dancing, trail running, and rooftop bar-hopping in Sofia.

Instead, I wore the same beige suede flat tops every day, which were not waterproof, but semi-breathable, and a little stylish (if I do say so myself).

But hey, they were already on my feet, and that counts for something when your Airbnb’s three flights up and there’s no elevator.

What I Should Have Learned by Now: Unless your feet are planning a solo trip with their own itinerary, keep it to two pairs, max!

One for walking everywhere, and one that can pass as “nice” if you squint.

2. Bringing “Maybe” Outfits for Imaginary Versions of Yourself

Somewhere between packing and boarding, I convince myself I’ll become a whole new person overseas.

The kind of person who wears crisp linen shirts in Greece and looks breezy, not like a sweaty lost American melting into a park bench in Athens.

Or the guy who brings a blazer to North Macedonia “just in case” there’s a jazz bar that requires one.

There never is.

What I Should Have Learned by Now: If you didn’t wear it at home, you won’t wear it abroad.

Pack for the you that gets “hangry” and lost, not the you that exists only in a romantic montage set to European café music.

3. Forgetting a Power Strip (Every. Single. Time.)

I don’t know how many times I’ve stared at one lonely outlet in a crumbling studio in Craiova, Romania trying to decide whether my laptop or phone deserves to live.

Once, I plugged my power bank into a socket that buzzed like a dying bee and sparked every time I touched it.

Meanwhile, my travel adapter sat useless in my bag, because I forgot the extension cord that would’ve saved me.

What I Should Have Learned by Now: Always pack a compact power strip.

It’s the cheapest solution to the eastern bloc epidemic of crappy Airbnb outlets in crumbling post-communist apartment blocks.

4. Skipping Rain Gear Because ‘It’s Summer’

The logic: “It’s July, I’m going to Thailand. What could go wrong?”

The answer: Everything!

In Chiang Mai, I got caught in a rainstorm so intense, my clothes clung to me like they owed me money.

Locals passed by in perfectly dry ponchos while I stood under a palm tree, using my passport wallet as a sad little umbrella.

What I Should Have Learned by Now: Rain doesn’t care what season it is.

A compact poncho or umbrella takes up almost no space, but your dignity will take up plenty of room if you don’t have one.

5. Ignoring Local Dress Norms (Until It’s Too Late)

It was my second week in Tbilisi, and I figured I’d blend right in.

So I spent a Saturday night wandering the Old Town, popping into wine bars, checking out the local restaurant scene and soaking up the vibe.

And oh, I got the vibe… just not the one I was going for.

There I was, dressed like I’d taken a wrong turn on the way to a hiking trail: cargo shorts, scuffed-up hiking boots, a sun-faded t-shirt, and a baseball cap that screamed, “lost his tour group.”

Didn’t think much of it… until I started catching the looks.

Locals strolled by in jeans, button-downs, actual outfits.

I, on the other hand, looked like the star of a low-budget travel doc called “Americans Abroad: What Not to Wear.”

Or the time I visited a church in Mtskheta, Georgia with bare shoulders and got handed a light see through scarf by a stern-faced woman who looked like she had personally wrestled saints.

What I Should Have Learned by Now: Check the cultural dress norms before you land. Especially for religious or rural areas.

Better to cover up than get called out.

6. Bringing Real Books… Because Apparently, I Hate Myself

There’s something romantic about reading a physical book on a train, right? 

Until that book becomes dead weight in your bag and you end up sleeping on it because your hostel ran out of disposable pillows.

I brought a 1300-page Count of Monte Cristo on my second Camino de Santiago trek through Spain.

I ended up reading just 20 pages!

But I still lugged it around in my backpack for 3 more weeks, refusing to admit defeat.

I finally surrendered and left it at a Pilgrim’s hostel in León with a passive-aggressive note that just said: “The movie’s better!”

What I Should Have Learned by Now: Kindle. Library apps. PDFs.

Anything but the hardcover or softcover bricks you think you’ll read.

7. Skipping the Laundry Essentials (Then Overpacking Instead) 

I’ve packed 6 pairs of socks just to avoid doing laundry.

Not 5. Not 4.

“Six”!

As if I were trekking across the Sahara, and not Spain with no access to water, or soap, or shame.

However, while in Spain, I did find myself crouched over a hostel sink, trying to wash my underwear with some leftover shampoo I “borrowed” from the shower shelf.

No sink stopper, of course, so I let the water run like I was baptizing each pair individually.

Another traveler handed me a single clothespin with the gravity of someone handing over state secrets.

What I Should Have Learned by Now: A basic laundry kit takes up less space than your emotional baggage.

Toss in a sink stopper, a few detergent sheets, and a portable clothesline (you know the one that doesn’t need separate clothes pins).

Unless, of course, you’re into paying strangers to fondle your t-shirts while you sit in a café pretending you’re writing a novel.

8. Packing Based on Emotions, Not Logic

Every item in my bag is a negotiation between practicality and irrational sentiment.

A hoodie from my first year in Kyiv? Doesn’t fit anymore, but it reminds me of a snowy December and a young woman named Anya. 

A t-shirt from a Legends of Rock festival I picked up on a trip back to the USA? Still smells like cheap beer and freedom… and now looks as old as the legends themselves.

A 100% Irish wool newsboy cap I picked up in Ireland? I still wear it! I don’t care what anyone says, I think it’s stylish and I love it!

What I Should Have Learned by Now: It’s okay to bring one or two sentimental items.

But if your backpack starts to look like a scrapbook, it’s time to make some emotional cuts.

Packing Isn’t Just Packing… It’s Self-Sabotage in a Carry-On

Let’s face it: packing is less about logic and more about the lies we tell ourselves. 

That we’ll become someone different abroad.

That we’ll need six outfit changes in Bulgaria, three scarves in Spain, and a classic novel that we’ll definitely finish this time so we can say we’re well read.

We won’t. But we’ll keep trying.

So, is the anything you, “Should Have Learned by Now”?

The post 8 Packing Disasters This American Still Makes After Years Of Living Abroad! appeared first on Expats Planet.

From Guns to Smiles, Here’s How I Handle Each One Without Causing an International Incident…

“Do you own a gun?”

That was the very first thing the daughter of a couple sitting next to me on the train from Vidin, Bulgaria to Timișoara, Romania asked me after I told her I was American.

No small talk, no “Welcome to Romania,” not even a half-smile.

Just straight to the point like I’d rolled in strapped and ready to reenact a scene from a Tarantino film.

I laughed.

She didn’t.

I looked around, half expecting a hidden camera.

But nope, she was dead serious.

And that was just the opening act.

After years bouncing between Ukraine, Georgia, Albania, France, Spain, and collecting enough passport stamps to make customs agents blink twice, one thing’s clear…

People have questions. Lots of them.

Sometimes it’s genuine curiosity.

Sometimes it’s just, “Are you okay?”

Either way, I’ve got stories. Lots of them!

But it always seems to be the same questions. Like clockwork.

It doesn’t matter if I’m sipping homemade rakija with my Airbnb host in Skopje or dodging small talk on a train in Romania, once they find out I’m American, the interrogation begins.

Some are genuinely curious.

Others are bold enough to make TSA agents look subtle.

And a few, well… let’s just say I’ve gotten real good at answering without causing an international incident, or at least avoiding being chased out of a café with a kebab skewer.

So it you think Americans abroad just get asked about burgers and Hollywood movies?

Think again.

These are the 10 most bizarre, awkward, and sometimes just plain weird questions I’ve actually been asked overseas.

And yes, I’ve learned (the hard way) how to answer them… without accidentally starting a new Cold War in a café.

1. “Do you really own a gun?”

This is always the opener. The icebreaker. The cultural litmus test that kicks off countless conversations in bars, cafés, and late-night Ubers.

The first time I heard it was in a Hungarian dive bar, halfway through a local beer I couldn’t pronounce.

The bartender leaned in and asked like I was some Duck Dynasty extra.

I told him no, I didn’t own a gun, never had, never shot one.

He looked genuinely disappointed. “But…you’re American.”

That’s the real kicker… 

In places like Georgia or Ukraine, being “American” still comes with a carry-on of clichés:

Guns, fast food, and reality TV.

American Abroad Takeaway: Don’t take it personally. It’s less an accusation and more a curious fascination.

I use it as a chance to talk about nuance, and sometimes, to ask them about their own stereotypes… and guess what?

They have plenty.

2. “Why don’t Americans take vacations?”

In France, this one came with a look of pity, like I’d just told someone I didn’t grow up with indoor plumbing.

After explaining that two weeks off is the standard back home (and often grudgingly given), my French friend blinked at me and whispered, “C’est inhumain.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

When I told my students in Ukraine I’d once worked for a company that gave zero paid vacation days, one literally asked, “Is that even legal?”

Barely…

American Abroad Takeaway: Americans reading this, take your damn vacation days! 

To everyone else… Yes, we’re exhausted.

And no, we don’t know why we keep doing it either.

3. “Is everyone really that loud?”

Germany. A small train car. A woman reading a book.

I answered a call from a friend back in the States and before I even finished saying “Hey, what’s up?” she gave me a death stare that could’ve frozen the Rhine.

In the U.S., loud = lively. Abroad, loud = obnoxious.

American Abroad Takeaway: Tone it down a notch.

Especially in countries like France or Germany, even the Netherlands, where conversations are more controlled.

They even have no talking on mobile phone signs in many train carriages in Europe…Ooops, my bad!

So, save your enthusiastic storytelling for the bar, not public transport.

4. “What’s with your healthcare system?”

I tried explaining U.S. healthcare to a woman in France once.

She stopped me mid-sentence and said, “So… you have insurance… but still pay out of pocket?” I nodded.

She paused. “Then what’s the point?”

Great question.

I’ve gotten stitches in Ukraine for the price of a sandwich.

I’ve seen friends pay hundreds in the U.S. for prescriptions that cost $5 in Tbilisi.

And don’t even get me started on dental work.

American Abroad Takeaway: If you’re an American abroad, get good international insurance and always ask locals where they go for medical stuff, it’ll save you money and headaches.

Literally.

5. “Why do Americans tip so much?”

Spain. Small café. I left a few euros on the table. The waiter chased me down thinking I forgot my change.

When I explained it was a tip, he looked confused… then mildly insulted.

In many countries, tipping 20% makes people think you’re either rich, confused, or just trying too hard.

In the U.S., not tipping makes the waitstaff think, “you’re ripping them off”.

American Abroad Takeaway: Learn the local tipping customs.

Seriously.

In some places, leaving too much is awkward.

In others, it’s expected.

In all cases, it’s a cultural minefield.

6. “Do you all sue each other all the time?”

Once, in a bar in Georgia (the country, not the peach state), I casually mentioned someone in the U.S. suing McDonald’s over hot coffee.

My Georgian friend blinked and said, “That’s… insane.”

In countries like France or Romania, lawsuits are rare and often seen as last resorts.

In the U.S., they’re just part of the social toolkit.

• Broken chair? Lawsuit.
• Hurt feelings? Maybe a lawsuit.
• Wrong pizza topping? Possibly small claims court.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Jackpot!

American Abroad Takeaway: Abroad, people still believe in solving problems without lawyers.

Wild, I know.

7. “Why do Americans smile so much?”

Ah yes, the smile. The universal American reflex. I smiled at a grocery clerk in Ukraine once and she looked at me like I’d asked her to prom.

In many places I’ve lived or spent time in like Ukraine, Poland, Albania, Georgia even parts of France, smiles are earned.

They’re sincere, not automatic. Smiling at strangers is often met with confusion, suspicion, or a raised eyebrow that says, “What do you want from me?”

American Abroad Takeaway: Smile less, observe more.

Especially early on.

A genuine smile abroad carries more weight when it’s not handed out like candy.

8. “Is college really that expensive?”

Once, while sipping coffee with a fellow teacher in Kyiv, I mentioned my friend’s student loan debt.

The number, over six figures, stopped the conversation cold.

She thought I was joking.

I wasn’t.

In much of Europe, university costs are minimal or even free.

The idea of paying thousands just to attend a lecture sounds like a scam to most people I’ve met abroad.

American Abroad Takeaway: Don’t be surprised when people abroad look at U.S. tuition fees the way we look at black market adoption prices.

9. “Do Americans think the US is the best country?”

This one’s tricky.

People usually ask it with a smirk, like they’re trying to bait you.

I’ve gotten it in cafés in Tirana, over drinks in Lviv, and once on a beach in Greece.

The key is nuance.

I usually say: “We’re told it is, from a young age. But once you travel, you start to see the cracks.”

American Abroad Takeaway: Be honest, not defensive.

People abroad usually appreciate self-awareness more than patriotism.

10. “What do you really think of “our” country?”

This is when the tables turn. You’ve answered a dozen of their questions, and now they want to know what you think of them.

The first time I got this in Albania, I made the mistake of being too honest.

I mentioned the indoor smoking.

Big mistake.

Now I keep it positive, talk about the food, the people, the landscape.

Then, maybe I’ll slide in a light-hearted cultural observation, but only if I’ve known them more than 20 minutes.

American Abroad Takeaway: This is the test. Pass it, and you’re in.

Fail it, and you’re the “rude American” stereotype they feared.

What These Questions Really Reveal

Every one of these questions, no matter how weird, pointed, or awkward, is a doorway.

A little crack in the wall between cultures that invites you in.

Or, sometimes, exposes what we think we know about each other.

Over the years, I’ve learned to welcome these conversations.

They’re not just icebreakers, they’re invitations to connect, laugh, learn, and challenge assumptions on both sides of the table.

What’s the strangest, funniest, or most unforgettable question you’ve ever been asked abroad? 

The post 10 Questions That Stun Me Abroad Every Time Locals Find Out I’m American! appeared first on Expats Planet.

I didn’t realize how American I was… until the mayonnaise hit the pizza.

Kyiv, 1999. I’d just landed, armed with no job, one contact, a suitcase full of misguided confidence, and barely enough Russian to ask where the bathroom was.

Then came the moment: a limp slice of “pizza” drowning in swirls of mayo. I stared. It stared back.

And that’s when two things hit me, right between the taste buds:

One: I was definitely not in Kansas anymore. (Okay, Connecticut, but Kansas rolls off the tongue better.)

Two: I had absolutely no idea what it meant to be American… until I left America.

I didn’t move abroad to “find myself.”

I moved for love, a shot at European life, and how to catch a marshrutka without getting yelled at.

But somewhere between Spain, France, and Ukraine… and of course, this was post-Soviet Ukraine, where even flowers follow strict funeral math, I started noticing something.

It wasn’t my accent that gave me away. It was everything else.

The unsolicited small talk.

The baffling urge to smile at people who very much do not want to be smiled at.

Nobody pulled me aside to explain it.

I learned the hard way… from babushkas, bartenders, border guards, and fellow expats who had already survived the baptism-by-culture-shock.

These aren’t just quirks I spotted. They’re life lessons… usually delivered with a raised eyebrow and a side of judgment.

Here are 8 uncomfortable truths I never knew about being American… until I became one abroad.

1. We’re Loud… and We Don’t Even Know It 

I knew I was in trouble the first time I stepped into a small café in France and was met with actual silence.

Not “quiet,” but the kind of silence where you can hear a spoon clink three tables over and feel personally attacked by your own voice.

I wasn’t shouting.

I was just… talking. At what I thought was a normal American volume.

Within minutes, half the café had turned to look.

One older man actually removed his glasses to stare at me longer, like I was some rare bird he’d only seen in documentaries.

It happened again in Poland, and then again on a marshrutka in Ukraine, where a grandmother actually shushed me with the international sign of “zip it or die”: a raised finger and narrowed eyes.

American Lesson Abroad: If you want to blend in abroad, pretend you’re sharing a state secret every time you speak.

Whispering is the new normal.

2. Speed Over Quality Is Practically a Religion 

Back in the U.S., waiting ten minutes for a coffee is grounds for a Google Maps reviews rant.

But try that impatience in Spain? You’ll be laughed out of the café.

I learned the hard way in León that coffee isn’t just a caffeine hit, it’s a sit-down, slow burn ritual involving conversation, people-watching, and possibly a pastry you didn’t order but now mysteriously appears.

Same with food, relationships, even conversations.

Americans want the shortcut.

Abroad, the long way is the way.

American Lesson Abroad: Sometimes the best things take time.

Or in Spain’s case, at least two hours and a bottle of wine.

3. The Cult of Individualism Runs Deep

In America, we’re taught to “do it yourself,” “make it on your own,” and “be self-made.”

But in places like Albania and Georgia, there’s a quiet, unspoken code of community.

When I was sick in Tbilisi, my landlady (whom I only saw once a month to pay the rent) brought me soup, aspirin, and a gentle lecture on why my balcony plants were dying.

In the States, most people don’t even know their neighbor’s name and landlords hope they never here from you, except when the rent’s due.

I once asked a friend in Georgia about her job prospects.

Her answer: “My cousin knows someone.” That’s not nepotism, it’s survival.

It’s interdependence. It’s normal.

American Lesson Abroad: You’re not a one-man show.

Somewhere along the way, the rest of the world figured that out.

4. Patriotism Abroad Feels… Awkward

Wearing red, white, and blue in the U.S.? Festive.

Doing the same at a bar in France?

Let’s just say it draws attention… and not the “You go, you proud American!” kind.

Once, during a Fourth of July get-together that the American Chamber of Commerce put together in Ukraine, a local asked why we were celebrating a country we’d all left.

Fair question.

Don’t get me wrong… patriotism is fine. But abroad, it sometimes feels like showing up to a birthday party wearing your own face on a t-shirt.

American Lesson Abroad: Love your country, but maybe tone it down when you’re a guest in someone else’s.

5. Our Customer Service Is Actually Insane (in a Good Way) 

Ever try to return a broken product in France? 

Pack a lunch.

You may be there a while.

In Kharkiv, Ukraine, I once tried to explain a problem with a hotel room. The woman at the desk listened patiently, nodded, and said, “That’s a shame,” before turning away.

That was the end of the conversation.

For all I know, the place was still State-owned, even 20 years after the Soviet Union collapsed.

Say what you will about the U.S., but the land of “the customer is always right” does make life easier when something goes wrong.

American Lesson Abroad: Next time someone hands you a receipt with a smile and a “Have a great day,” remember… it’s not like that everywhere.

6. America Has Engineered Life for Peak Convenience… Maybe Too Much

I didn’t fully appreciate Amazon Prime until I spent a sweaty August afternoon in Georgia hunting for a RAM card for my ancient MacBook Pro.

Six shops later, I ended up in a dimly lit back-alley electronics shop, halfway up a hill, where no one spoke English.

But thankfully, Russian worked.

And shockingly, they had the exact part… for a 10-year-old laptop.

Back in the U.S., we’ve got drive-thrus, curbside pickup, and groceries that arrive before you’ve even closed the app.

Everything’s built for speed.

But here’s the thing, life didn’t fall apart without all that convenience. It just slowed down.

And honestly? It kinda got better.

American Lesson Abroad: Convenience is great… until you realize it’s an addiction.

Struggle a little. It builds character… and patience.

7. We Avoid Discomfort Like the Plague 

In America, we panic if the air conditioning is two degrees off or if we have to walk more than one city block.

But after sweating through a summer metro ride in Paris, where deodorant use is… negotiable, or freezing through a winter in Ukraine because the city’s heat hadn’t been turned on yet, you start to realize: humans can survive discomfort.

Imagine that.

We medicate every ache, dodge every awkward conversation, and ghost anything that makes us feel less than perfectly at ease.

Abroad, you face it… or you stay home.

American Lesson Abroad: Stop running from discomfort.

Sometimes, the growth is on the other side of the awkward.

8. Reinvention Is Our Superpower 

If there’s one thing Americans do get right, it’s this: we’re not afraid to hit the reset button.

I’ve seen it in myself, starting over more times than I can count.

Whether it was moving to Ukraine with just a suitcase and a phrasebook, or reinventing my career on the road.

In France, a former colleague of mine from the States, in her mid-50s, quit her job, moved to Lyon, and opened a jam shop.

No experience. No plan.

Just guts.

The last I heard she was making killer fig preserves and spoke French with a Brooklyn accent, in all its glory.

American Lesson Abroad: The ability to start fresh is a gift. Use it.

Abroad or at home, reinvention is baked into the American DNA.

You Can Leave America, But It Doesn’t Always Leave You

(Trust me — I tried.) I came abroad chasing something: adventure, meaning, escape.

Maybe all three.

But what I found instead was a mirror.

A very loud, over-apologizing, convenience-obsessed mirror.

Living abroad didn’t just open my eyes to other cultures, it forced me to reckon with my own.

I saw what made America unique.

I saw what made it flawed.

And most of all, I saw how much of it lived inside me… even when I tried to leave it behind.

But maybe that’s the point.

You don’t know where you’re from until you see it from the outside.

And once you do, you can never unsee it.

Now, it’s your turn!

What did living, or even just traveling, outside your home country teach you about where you came from?

The post 8 Uncomfortable Truths I Only Realized About Americans After 25 Years Abroad! appeared first on Expats Planet.

Imagine standing in a snaking line outside the Alcázar of Seville in the dead heat of a Spanish July. 

The sun is beating down like it’s got something personal against me and my water bottle’s long since gone lukewarm.  

A nearby tourist is loudly explaining the plot of Game of Thrones to her husband, poor guy just wanted a quiet vacation and maybe a sangria. 

My shirt is clinging to me like a desperate ex, and somewhere in the distance, a street performer is hacking his way through “Let it be” on a recorder for the umpteenth time. 

This was not the European summer I had signed up for.

And it wasn’t just Spain. I’ve sweated through a summer in Paris, dodged British hen parties in Barcelona, and got trampled by selfie-stick-wielding influencers in Dubrovnik.

After years of bouncing around Europe in every season, spring in Albania, crisp autumns in Poland, even one wildly underrated February in Georgia, I’ve come to one clear conclusion.

Summer in Europe is a scam!

Sure, it’s the season you’ve been sold.

Blue skies, endless festivals, beachy Instagram shots filtered into oblivion.

But behind the filtered facade?

Price-gouging, suffocating crowds, cultural ghost towns, anti-tourist protests, tourist taxes and heatwaves that turn charming cobblestone streets into sizzling griddles.

If you’re dreaming of sipping wine under the Eiffel Tower without elbowing your way past three tour groups, keep reading.

Because I’m going to tell you exactly when you should be visiting Europe… and why summer should be your last choice with some European Trip Takeaways…

1. Sky-High Prices That Break the Bank

Summer in Europe doesn’t just drain your energy, it drains your wallet too.

I once made the mistake of booking a last-minute July stay in Paris.

Imagine snagging a charming “boutique” hotel room, overlooking the Eiffel Tower and the Seine… Ah, Paris!

What I got instead! 

A €300 per night shoebox-sized closet with a view… of the building next door.

The kind of place where you bump your elbow on the shower wall every time you exhale.

Needless to say, I only spent one night in that expensive shoebox before hightailing out of town on the next train departing Gare de l’Est…

Flash forward to October, and that same hotel was running at €90 a night, with breakfast and another room with an actual view of the Seine.

Flights followed the same pattern: a summer ticket to Madrid nearly cost me a kidney. 

The same route in late spring? 

Half the price and zero chaos.

European Trip Takeaway: If you want your money to stretch beyond just accommodations and transport, ditch summer and book shoulder or off-season.

More savings = more tapas.

2. Tourist Stampedes That Kill the Magic

I’ve stood inside the Louvre twice, once in August, once in February.

In summer, I spent 20 minutes elbow-to-elbow with a wall of people just to catch a glimpse of the Mona Lisa’s forehead… through someone else’s iPad.

In February? I walked straight up to her. Or as close as security would let me with a can of spray paint… just kidding!)

With or without the spray paint, she still wasn’t smiling.

But at least I didn’t need binoculars and a battle plan to see her.

Barcelona’s La Rambla in summer? A sea of sunburns, street performers, and pickpockets.

In November, I could actually hear myself think while sipping vermouth at an empty outdoor café in El Raval.

European Trip Takeaway: The best memories aren’t made in queues or crowds.

Visit when the rest of the world isn’t.

3. Brutal Heatwaves That No One Warns You About

If you’ve never experienced an Andalusian summer, imagine standing in a sauna while a hairdryer blasts your face, on high.

I once visited Seville in July. By 3 p.m., locals had vanished, and the only things left on the street were stray cats and melting tourists.

My Airbnb host gave me a hand fan and wished me luck.

The apartment’s AC was more “theoretical” than “functional,” and I spent most nights sleeping on the tiled floor next to an open fridge door.

European Trip Takeaway: Southern Europe isn’t “sunny and fun” in July.

It’s survival of the sweatiest. If you like your organs fully cooked, by all means, go.

4. Locals Are Gone… And So Is the Culture

Here’s what most influencers won’t tell you: in August, many European locals abandon ship. 

That’s right, they close up shop and head for the hills, or the beach…

I learned this the hard way in France when I showed up at my favorite family-run café in Montpellier, only to find the dreaded sign:

Fermé jusqu’en septembre.

In parts of Spain and Italy even small shops shut down while the owners head for the coast or the mountains.

The cities are still there, but they’re running on tourist autopilot.

European Trip Takeaway: If you’re hoping to have real, unscripted interactions with locals, don’t go when they’re gone.

In fact, if the city hasn’t closed up shop entirely, the only locals you’ll run into are the ones stuck catering to tourists.

Those smiling through gritted teeth, pretending not to hate you and counting the days ’til September.

5. Off-Season Charm You’re Missing

I once wandered through a park in Tbilisi in late October, surrounded by golden leaves and not a tourist in sight.

A nearby babooshka (sorry for the use of the Russian term, it just seems most appropriate in this part of the world…) was selling roasted chestnuts and muttering something in Georgian that I think was a compliment on my scarf.

Another time, I hit southern Spain in April, orange blossoms perfumed the air, cafés were open, and I didn’t have to play human dodgeball just to cross the Plaza Mayor.

European Trip Takeaway: Fall and Spring in Europe are the continent’s best-kept secrets.

Better weather, cheaper everything, and actual room to breathe.

6. Winter Wonders That Feel Like a Fairytale

Strasbourg in early December is the stuff holiday postcards are made of.

Twinkling lights, cozy cellar bars, the smell of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts wafting from market stalls.

It feels like stepping onto the set of a Christmas movie, minus the cheesy plotline and budget snow.

I’ve spent early December weekends not just in Strasbourg, but in tiny, tucked-away towns all across Alsace.

Picture medieval alleyways dusted with snow, the scent of fresh pretzels in the air, and a steaming cup of vin chaud warming your hands.

No crowds. No chaos.

Just pure Christmas season magic.

European Trip Takeaway: Europe’s winters are underrated.

Pack a coat and thank me later.

7. Shoulder Seasons Are the Sweet Spot

Early May in the Balkans was one of the best travel decisions I’ve ever made.

The weather was perfect, the tourists hadn’t yet arrived, and the locals were still happy to see outsiders.

I spent mornings drinking Turkish coffee in North Macedonia in late September, afternoons hiking in Albania in late fall.

I even spent my summer evenings in Győr, Hungary, glass of wine in hand, with no crowds, no chaos, and best of all, no one shewing me away with a selfie stick so they can get their Instagram shot…

Best of all. No tourist sticker shock! Just normal prices that didn’t require a deep breath before checking the bill.

European Trip Takeaway: April–May and September–October are the best months for travel in Europe.

Everything’s open, the air’s just right, and your photos won’t be photo-bombed by 40 other sunhats.

Flip the Script on Your Next Euro Trip

Here’s the truth they don’t put on travel brochures: Europe in summer is overrated. 

Unless you like overpriced hotels, heatstroke, and waiting in line to see things you can Google, skip it.

Instead, chase cherry blossoms in Spain, golden leaves in Georgia, or Christmas lights in Strasbourg in early December.

You’ll save money, meet actual locals, and come home with better stories — and way less sweat-stained laundry.

So, what’s been your best or worst season in Europe?

Ever been suckered into a peak-season trip and lived to regret it?

The post 7 Reasons Summer Is The Worst Time To Visit Europe! When To Go Instead… appeared first on Expats Planet.

The loneliest I’ve ever felt wasn’t after a breakup or at some tear-filled funeral.

It was in the middle of a sweltering Kyiv summer, sitting alone in a stuffy one-room apartment, listening to the rattle of an old fan shake like it might give out before I did… realizing I had absolutely no one to call.

Not because my phone didn’t work (though it was 1999 and that was always a possibility), but because I didn’t know a single soul in this city except her.

The same her I’d just had a blowout fight with.

The same her I had moved across the world for… just one month earlier.

I came in hot, literally and figuratively, bright-eyed, hopeful, thinking my big expat adventure was about to unfold.

Instead, I found myself alone, sweating through my shirt, wondering if I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life.

I had dreams of European café mornings and wild Ukrainian toasts with strangers who’d instantly feel like old friends.

But, what I got was silent metro rides, Cyrillic street signs I couldn’t decipher, and exactly one conversation with a Ukrainian police officer who just wanted to know if I had my passport on me. (I did. Thank God.)

This isn’t the part people post about.

You won’t find it in influencer reels or glossy “why I left America” Instagram posts.

It’s the underbelly of expat life.

Freedom felt thrilling… until it turned into isolation. 

Kyiv, Tbilisi, Strasbourg and Saranda… beautiful on the outside, gut-punches on the inside.

After a dozen cities, I’ve learned that loneliness doesn’t knock. It just walks in. 

But I’ve also learned how to deal.

If you’re abroad, or about to be, and no one mentioned this part, keep reading.

You’ll want to know.

Here are 7 soul-crushing, but honest moments when I felt completely alone abroad… and the surprising, often ridiculous things that got me through it.

1. The First Night in a City Where No One Knows Your Name

There’s a special kind of silence that settles over a place the moment your door clicks shut for the first time.

I remember my first night in Tbilisi, tiny apartment, half-zipped suitcase, and just enough Georgian to order khachapuri without insulting someone’s grandmother.

The streets outside buzzed with life, but inside, it was just me and the echo of “What the hell did I just do?”

What helped me: I didn’t need a best friend… I needed a cozy local spot to hang my proverbial hat.

And I found one in a local Georgian restaurant just two blocks from my flat and made it my own personal embassy.

Showing up 3–4, 5 nights a week, for a few glasses of Saperavi and a Khachapuri Adjarian, I managed to turn the unknown into the familiar.

I became more than a regular, I became part of their extended family…

Don’t underestimate the healing power of being recognized, even if it’s just for always ordering the same thing.

2. Holidays That Remind You Exactly What You Left Behind

There’s nothing quite like being in a foreign country on Thanksgiving and realizing no one around you even knows what stuffing is, let alone why your homesickness is peaking around dinnertime.

While friends back home were stuffing themselves and arguing over football, I was in Kyiv, alone, eating overly salted buttered pasta and watching pirated movies on an old VCR in a drafty apartment.

At some point, I layered up, braved the cold, and took the Metro to the nearest Cybercafe downtown, because I had no laptop and no Wi-Fi of course (it was 1999).

So there I was, just me and a sticky keyboard Googling “cranberry sauce Ukraine.”

Guess what? There was none!

What helped me: The next year I invited a few fellow teaching colleagues over, cobbled together a meal with ingredients that would make your Midwestern aunt weep, and made it a tradition.

It turns out, new memories can ease the sting of old ones.

Especially when there’s wine involved.

3. When Language Isn’t Just a Barrier… It’s a Wall

Nothing says “I’m thriving abroad” like standing in a pharmacy in Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria, miming the act of a possible sinus infection while holding the bridge of your nose and making sad puppy eyes at the pharmacist.

I was looking for a nasal steroid. Thankfully, she understood or I could’ve ended up with hemorrhoid cream and a hard candy.

Even in countries where I spoke some of the language, like France, Spain, or Ukraine, sometimes it wasn’t enough when nuance was needed.

Try explaining sciatica in a second language when it feels like your leg is being tasered.

What helped me: I stopped being proud and started being prepared.

Learn a few key survival phrases before arrival, a language app on standby, and Google Translate set to “speak” mode.

Expat tip: If all else fails, find a teenager.

They usually speak better English than most embassy staff.

4. Getting Sick Far from Home… and Wondering Who Will Help

The worst part of being sick abroad isn’t the illness, it’s realizing how quickly you go from independent adult to helpless foreigner.

In Kyiv, circa 2002, I threw out my back and ended up at a university polyclinic that looked like a Cold War film set.

The woman who “treated” me was built like an Olympic Soviet shot-putter and barked commands like I was late for boot camp.

And somehow? She cured me!

With a massage that bordered on physical assault… but in the most healing way.

What helped me: I learned to always find the name of a good clinic, keep cash on hand, and find at least one local contact or nowadays, expat group on Facebook in every city I travel to.

You don’t need 20 friends. You need one who knows where to find an English-speaking doctor.

5. Losing the One Local Friend Who Made You Feel Seen

In Tbilisi, I had a friend named Tamo who basically served as my translator, cultural guide, and therapist.

When she moved to Austria for grad school, I was genuinely crushed. Suddenly, everything felt unfamiliar again.

No more spontaneous invites. No more “let me help you explain that to the waiter.”

It was like being dumped by the only person who understood my “foreign-ness”.

What helped me: I forced myself to go to language exchanges and meetups, even when I totally mangled the local language.

But they were fun, and the awkwardness was part of the adventure.

It wasn’t about replacing Tamo. It was about rebuilding a net before I slipped through the social cracks.

You’ve got to plant new seeds… even if they grow weird at first.

6. Realizing No One Truly “Gets” You Anymore

Humor doesn’t always translate. I once made a perfectly innocent Seinfeld reference in a conversation in Spain during my first Camino, and my new friends blinked at me like I’d just confessed to a crime.

In another moment in a café in a small town in Alsace, I told a story that normally would’ve gotten laughs.

Instead, it got silence, and the polite kind, too.

You know, the kind that says “I’m smiling but I have no idea what just happened.”

What helped me: I stopped trying to be funny and started trying to be understood. I found people: expats, locals fluent in English, even the odd tourist… who didn’t need footnotes for my humor.

There’s no shame in needing people who just get you.

It’s not retreating into a bubble, it’s building your own little breathing space.

7. Visa Problems That Make You Feel Like an Unwanted Guest

I’ve been through enough visa dramas in Ukraine to write a mini-series.

There was one year I had to leave the country twice just to reapply. It felt less like I was living there and more like I was temporarily tolerated.

The Ukrainian Consulate in Krakow should’ve known me on a first name basis, by that point…

But, if you’ve ever been at the mercy of bureaucrats in a cramped, overheated office while someone stamps papers without making eye contact… you know that’s wishful thinking…

What helped me: I never again assumed that things would “probably work out.”

I had an old student of mine who was a lawyer on speed dial.

I also had copies of everything (plus backups), and horror stories from fellow travelers and expats as guideposts.

The more you prepare, the less you panic.

Usually.

The Loneliness You Don’t See on Instagram

Living abroad made me tougher, and more alone than I ever expected. This isn’t the glossy social media part.

But, it’s raw, it’s real, and yeah, it’s all about survival.

Connection takes time.

Belonging takes work.

But resilience? That’s built when no one’s watching.

• Ever felt that kind of alone?
• What got you through it?

The post 7 Soul-Crushing Moments Of American Isolation Abroad! And What Finally Saved Me… appeared first on Expats Planet.