Expat Trouble

Here she was, a lapsed Lutheran female in a smelly animal market trying to buy a sheep from a long-robed male Muslim trader. Oh, the things you learn!

I stare at my funky self in the mirror. What to do? Screaming is hard work, so I decide to be Zen about it.

Culinary crisis in an elegant restaurant in Rome: Not even a free lobster the size of a small dog could appease this miserable couple.

Should we worry? We found the doctor in the labyrinthine alleys of a tiny Asian village. He wore a Micky Mouse T-shirt and was half-asleep.

My store of expat life patience is exhausted. It’s not only the chicken, the water, the electricity, the tiny fridge, the heat, the dull knife, the lack of kitchen drawers, the dead rat in the garden this morning, but . . .