Pitfall Expats

Before You Move Abroad, Learn From My 5 Most Expensive Mistakes

How to protect your money, your furniture, and your current girlfriend

Photo by Vitaly Gariev on Unsplash

Moving is never easy, especially when your real estate agent is your ex’s uncle, who insists on “keeping the friendship going.”

Back when I had no money, moving was easy. I just signed the papers, dropped my bag in the corner of a stale room, then went out for beer and pizza.

God, I was happy then.

Now, thanks to my wife, there’s an ungodly checklist of things she insists we need.

A sofa, washing machine, fridge, bed, closets, chairs, windows, and a door.

It’s the bed that gets to me most.

“Have you ever tried sleeping on concrete?” I once asked while we nibbled on ice cream in the park. “The best sleep I ever had was on concrete.”

“You were younger then,” she quipped.

Fucking hell. Harsh.

My wife does not know that the lessons I have learned over my years as a broke travelling nomad are the reason this move has been so seamless. Although by the time it was time to buy a sofa, I had run out of money.

Here are some of those wise lessons.

Number 1: It’s not always the landlord's fault, but…

In a previous life, I was in deep with a Western Asian she-wolf named Elif. She hated me, and I am convinced she spent the last two years of our love affair plotting her escape.

She was also claustrophobic.

In the apartment we had rented from a villager who got rich by allowing the government to run a highway through his land, the door handles sometimes fell off.

I brought this up with him on many occasions, to little satisfaction.

One night, as I drank myself into oblivion in our cosy kitchen, Elif locked herself in the toilet and wouldn’t come out.

I figured she was trapped.

I knocked, and sure enough, Elif whimpered, “Let me out, idiot!”

So I broke down the door, much to her anger.

I could never win with her.

“Why?” she roared, as though I hadn’t just saved her life.

“You’re claustrophobic,” I slurred.

“But the handle on the outside works!”

Women.

Number 2: Never go on holiday when you’re being sued

I informed the landlord, telling him I would compensate him for the door.

He requested only that I replace it.

Honourable man.

I went to the nearest DIY store and purchased the cheapest door I could.

I installed it promptly and properly. The lime green did not match the white walls or the other doors, but I figured it added a certain panache to the dwelling.

He was not happy and insisted on money.

I informed the scammer that I had done what he asked and that it was not my fault he hadn’t specified the dynamics of the door.

“This is good wood,” I said.

He shouted something foreign and fled in his BMW.

Things were getting tense between Elif and me, so I suggested a holiday.

I found a hostel by the lake, where we sat drinking and trying to rekindle our love.

When we arrived home, a solicitor’s letter was waiting by the door.

We took it to the local administrator, who told us that because we had not replied to the letter on time, it was seen as an admission of guilt, and we now owed the landlord ten thousand dollars.

Elif wished me luck and disappeared.

I followed suit and now live in a different country.

Number 3: Label everything

There is a reason professional movers put stickers on things.

I learned this while living above a funeral home in a small Welsh town.

My landlord’s nephews ran both the funeral home and a removals company using the same van. This struck me as efficient. People are always either entering houses or leaving them permanently.

Why purchase two vehicles?

Normally, I’d do it myself, but due to my girlfriend at the time’s insistence, I employed the brothers.

On the morning of my move, they arrived late and loaded my belongings along with several wreaths and a long pine box.

When the van arrived at my new apartment, the brothers carried a large rectangular object into the bedroom, collected their money and sped away towards the church.

I opened a beer and began unpacking.

The kitchenware was intact. Thank God. The books had survived. Someone had placed my portrait inside one of my shoes, but that was the sort of innovation I had come to expect from the Welsh.

Then I opened what I believed to be the wardrobe.

My girlfriend at the time cried for weeks before seeking therapy.

I asked for my money back.

I now live in another country.

Number 4: Change the locks

I once rented a small apartment from a man named Sergei in Russia.

The previous tenant, he explained, had gone to Siberia for further education.

My girlfriend wanted me to change the locks.

“Why?” I asked. “He’s in Siberia.”

“It’s a normal thing people do, Peter.”

“Russian people?”

She had a clear bias against her fellow countrymen.

A locksmith wanted eighty dollars.

I decided we could live dangerously, although I did not tell Nadia.

Three weeks later, I woke to the sound of a key turning in the front door.

A huge man entered carrying a frozen fish and screaming in Russian.

He had, apparently, completed his education.

My girlfriend hid behind the sofa while he marched through the apartment, opening drawers, kicking furniture, and demanding to know where his wife and children were.

I attempted to calm him.

“Put down the fish,” I demanded. “I am Irish and have paid good money for this dwelling.”

It didn’t work.

He continued to destroy the apartment before finding a framed picture of his wife and children. Then he collapsed to the floor, clutching it. Whimpering. Tearful. Pathetic.

Nadia and I fled.

I now live in a different country.

Nadia is in therapy.

Number 5: Only pay rent if it’s unavoidable

I was once asked to leave an apartment on Réunion Island.

This was unfair because I had been living there for almost a month without causing the landlord any trouble whatsoever.

The previous tenants were friends of ours and had paid until the end of the month. I therefore assumed the landlord did not need to know they had left or that my girlfriend and I had replaced them.

My girlfriend at the time disagreed.

“We need to pay rent,” she said.

“He doesn’t even know we’re here.”

“He owns the apartment.”

Women always find a technicality.

The truth was, I had no money.

One afternoon, the landlord burst through the door and discovered us sitting in his living room.

Suzette immediately paid her half of the rent.

Then everyone looked at me.

“Go on, Peter,” she said. “Pay the man.”

I went downstairs and called an old friend, who transferred me one thousand euros after I explained that I was moments away from homelessness.

I thanked him for saving my life, withdrew the money, and began walking back towards the apartment.

Halfway there, I had an apostrophe.

Why give a landlord one thousand euros for a few more weeks indoors when the same money could keep me alive on the beach for three months?

I turned around and walked to the beach, where I found a suitable place beside the showers and public toilets.

I never saw Suzette again.

I did, however, spend the next two years living on a beach.

Better investment.

If you enjoy my stories, consider helping my wife — the real one — and me purchase a sofa. We have just moved and are loving taking this next step together.

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