Former Expat Confessions: Life Beyond My Homeland’s Porch

Intro

Hey everyone! I’m hitting pause on the daily grind to plunge into my treasure trove of expat memories — before I packed up for Canada and flipped the switch from “expat” to “immigrant.” Why now? This chapter is the glittering crown jewel of my career, and after 4.5 years dedicated to parenting, my professional mojo craves a nostalgic boost from those glory days. Maybe someday I’ll spill the immigrant tales too. My creative soul is starving for something raw and real, a break from the endless hustle of pitching my services as an independent contractor, sweet-talking internet strangers into buying what I’m selling. 

Prologue

It’s been bubbling in my brain for a while, ignited by a couple of dear friends and family—massive thanks for the push, you’re my legends. They said: write it down, share those wild anecdotes. So here I am. Not sure if I’m birthing a full-blown book, but I’m shattering my routine of stitching endlessly my business leads. And damn, it’s a gasp of fresh air. It’s nearly as electric as when I used to paint years ago. Let’s see if it grabs you. Hemingway said: “The first draft of anything is shit.” Here’s hoping mine’s the kind of one that’s too fun to put down now.

My firm belief: humans are wired for stories. We spin them, swap them, carve them into eternity just to catch those wide-eyed stares or jaw-drops from listeners. Crazy, huh? From ancient myths and fireside tales to literary epics and binge-worthy podcasts — opposite ends of the spectrum, but the same electric pulse: we’re addicted to hearing or hurling our own. I’m no exception. Got the guts (or sheer lunacy) to fling mine into the digital abyss and pray it lands. The mighty Internet gods will decree my destiny—silencing the unlucky, rocketing others to the summit of Everest. Me? Just here for the fun. Hoping it ignites sparks for expat-curious souls, stirs sweet nostalgia in fellow nomads, or pumps up my global friends who are still hunting those expat horizons. Cheers to you all. 

I’ll drop these gems as bite-sized articles—long-form’s brutal for today’s sapiens. We’re all slammed with day-to-day tasks.

Part One – Evolve

“I was a caterpillar, wrapped in my warm cocoon of routine. Then I broke open—and became a traveler.” Adapted from a metaphor by Elizabeth Appel (Metamorphosis as the original story)

First, who are these expats? For those not familiar with the term— “expat” (short for “expatriate”) is a person who lives outside their native country, often for work, retirement, or lifestyle reasons. Do you know any work-globe-paddle-hoppers? Or are you one? Most people have dipped their toes abroad via short vacays or business trips. Whether you’re a hardcore backpacker or luxe-resort member, you may snag a flavor of local authentic life from a tour bus or hotel windows framing street life. But ditching your comfort zone for a full-on foreign experience? That’s the next level up.

Hot sectors to taste expat life: education, engineering, remote tech, entertainment, hospitality/tourism, or oil & gas. I belong to the last tribe—O&G expat gal. Got my entrée ticket in the early 2000s. Compared to warm tropical or slick urban locations of high-tech, touristic, entertainment, or even education gigs, oil and gas is famous for more radical landscapes—we call it “in the middle of nowhere”: dicey locations that usually promise health, safety, and security in your relocation package, plus savage weather or political environment piled on top. Again, remember— “in the middle of nowhere” must be well paid to justify surviving the conditions. Sure, occasionally you luck into a comfortable setup, but some spots can be isolating, extremely scorching hot or cold, with vicious wildlife, lurking viruses and poor healthcare, nearby political conflicts, exhausting schedules, and many more. But it’s nothing if you have a romantic adventurous spirit. Moreover, you never know which number you’ll draw when playing this roulette. And trust me—it is a sort of “wheel of fortune” when you are negotiating your first overseas contract. You usually don’t have good cards if you’re young, barely experienced, and can’t imagine what’s waiting you up there... on the other side.

And here I am in 2010: red passport, cursed with bureaucracy and pricey visas everywhere except ex-commie club country mates. Perfect excuse to start exploring the world beyond my porch by becoming an expat. BUT! To start the journey, two things must happen—you need at least some experience, and you must be lucky enough to receive an “invitation”, because it’s a “private club.” The only real chance to jump on the train is knowing someone who was invited earlier and will reference you. Luckily, both happened for me. First, I got a crash course before my big step via the Sakhalin 1 and 2 projects in my backyard—Sakhalin Island, Russia. I didn’t blindly dive into expat life. I watched those pioneers arrived in the late ’90s to develop a new sector for my home: oil and gas.

Before I dive into the heart of my expat anecdotes, allow me to sketch a brief portrait of myself and my origins—to set the stage for just how humble my starting point was, and how profoundly it reshaped my entire worldview. I was born in 1981, in the former USSR’s Russia, on Sakhalin Island, that remote Far East outpost. Like any frontier province, the eastern reaches carry their own rich history and distinctive spirit, and Sakhalin is no exception; it remains a captivating cultural and historical melting pot. Indigenous peoples, descendants of Koreans conscripted into forced labor by the Japanese Empire during World War II, and Russians who began settling the island in the mid-19th century all converge here. A small historical step aside (one not often found in standard history textbooks): for centuries, ownership of Sakhalin and the Kuril Islands was fiercely contested among Russia, Japan, and China. Though Japan formally relinquished its claims to Sakhalin in the 1951 Treaty of Peace with Japan, the lingering dispute over the Southern Kurils has prevented a full peace treaty from ever being signed. I mention it because the topic remains contentious; no matter how neutrally I phrase it, someone will surely take issue. Yet that’s not my intent—these very historical currents drew together Russians, Sakhalin Koreans, Ukrainians, Tatars, Kyrgyz, Nivkhs, and countless others on the island. My favorite aspect? The beautiful cross-pollination of traditions. I confess a deeper love for Asian cuisine than for Russian, and if I had to choose one dish to eat for the rest of my days, bibimbap would triumph over pelmeni without hesitation.

The island has the remarkable shape of a fish—check it on a world map when you have a second. Back in the ’80s, Sakhalin was a fortified border zone, access limited to the public. Like my entry into expat life, my father received his “invitation” in the 1980s as a young, promising marine officer. The island was remote from Moscow’s grip, unappealing unless duty called (military) or you had a tempting reason—like the romantic exploration of isolated corners, popular Soviet propaganda message picked by my parents’ generation. My parents had a different motive, which I call “Romeo and Juliet”: LOVE. Their marriage wasn’t blessed by my grandparents, so dad decided the best way to start a family was to go where grandfather’s authority couldn’t reach. A military-restricted border zone in the middle of nowhere was perfect to get married and start family life.

So, who were the Sakhalin islanders when my parents arrived in the early 1980s? They were a tapestry woven from descendants of the island’s indigenous tribes, Sakhalin Koreans, the children of earlier voyagers, military personnel posted there by decree, and university graduates channeled into the region through state assignments. I cannot gloss over the island’s shadowed past: it once housed Russian Imperial penal colonies—known as katorga—from the early 20th century until the southern half was ceded to Japan following the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–1905. Later, after the entire island came under Soviet control in 1945, the infamous Gulag labor camps were established, immortalized in Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago. A somber, indelible chapter in its history.

I was a child of the 1980s, stamped from the classic Soviet mold: identical clothing, the same toys for every kid, uniform apartment blocks, standardized furniture, limited food — and a car only if fortune smiled. Year-round fresh fruits or vegetables in my childhood grocery stores is simply sci-fi. It was rear to have any plant or fruit in cold months unless it’s pickled. Apples, bananas, tangerines were New Year treats—canned at first, then imported as borders opened. Wild local apples are sour, but locals are crafty with gifts of nature: we cooked and ate almost everything—wild mushrooms, flowers, berries, roots, tree juice, you name it. Diet depended on mainland supplies or later neighbor trades. Sakhalin was an isolated bubble, even from the mainland—though I believe any vast region echoes that. Class distinctions simply didn’t register in our world back then. We were raised to be self-reliant: prepare your own meals, eat, look after younger siblings until parents came home from work. I neither complain nor brag about those years; I just sketch the quiet rhythm of a life sealed in isolation, utterly untouched by the outside world—until the sudden rupture felt like being hurled into another galaxy. The slashing ’90s came and everything turned upside-down. Quick overview: perestroika, Iron Curtain fell, Gorbachev lost power, gut-punch inflation… leap to Yeltsin, foreign investments poured in. No opinions here—just the chain reaction unlocking Sakhalin’s new chapter.

Search for Sakhalin today and you’ll be flooded with stunning images: sweeping natural beauty, breathtaking landscapes, turquoise lagoons, and weirdly giant shellfish harvests variety. Whether a blessing or a curse—depending on where you stand—Sakhalin won a jackpot in natural resources. Mining, fishing, and then, in the late 1990s, the explosive oil and gas boom. Oil & gas rush—of course, like any impactful era, it brought goods and bads, but it lured outsiders to build a frontier industry in my homeland. Golden era for fresh grads with English skills.

I studied at St. Petersburg University, where my greatest career visions amounted to guiding tourists through the Hermitage or signing on as crew aboard an international cruise liner. Life, however, had a far more exciting script in mind. The post-graduation job hunt in St. Petersburg proved merciless: the salaries on offer barely covered survival, let alone any semblance of the vibrant lifestyle I’d imagined in a city brimming with promise for ambitious young souls like mine. My father proposed a lifeline—return home, where oil and gas projects were sprouting like mushrooms after a spring rain. It was a golden window for anyone fluent in English, especially with a dash of technical or construction know-how. I knew English enough to handle everyday conversations and absorb industry jargon on the fly while trailing experts across the sites. I slipped my foot through that narrow opening, convinced greater horizons lay beyond. It’s astonishing how a single moment can ignite a cascade of events that spins your entire trajectory in the opposite direction.

My next chapter evolved - Sakhalin saga. Early in my career, I stumbled upon a gem of a book—Don’t Tell Mum I Work on the Rigs (She Thinks I’m a Piano Player in a Whorehouse) by Paul Carter (paperback, November 2007). I seized it as a rare chance to immerse myself in English and sharpen my skills. Yet it became far more than practice material; it cracked open an entirely new universe—one of paid wanderlust. Carter laid bare the anatomy of oil and gas ventures. Starting from age 18, Carter bounces between some of the planet's most godforsaken landmarks like storm-lashed rigs in the North Sea, scorching hot camps in the Middle East, jungle-choked sites in Borneo and Sumatra, and straight-up hazard zones like Nigeria, Colombia, Russia, Vietnam, Thailand, Papua New Guinea, and Tunisia. It's a raw, unfiltered dive into the absurdities and dangers of the trade: bone-crushing shifts on rusty platforms, brushes with venomous critters and machete-wielding locals, bureaucratic nightmares, and encounters with the planet's most disturbed characters—from trigger-happy drillers to eccentric expats who'd make your average barfly blush.

The title's cheeky nod to his mum (who imagines him tickling ivories in a bordello rather than wrestling pipes in hellholes) sets the tone: equal parts hilarious, harrowing, and hazy with the fog of too many post-shift beers. Carter doesn't sugarcoat the grind — the isolation, the near-misses with explosions, the ethical tightrope of an industry that powers our world but chews up souls—or the fleeting highs, like impromptu beach parties in war zones or the thrill of outrunning trouble in a chopper. It's less a linear tale and more a barstool story, packed with urban legends (or tall tales, depending on your skepticism) that capture the mad alchemy of boredom, bravado, and sheer survival. If you've ever romanticized the "edge of civilization" life, this'll either hook you or have you hugging your desk job tight.

For the first time, the idea crystallized: global work could be mine—and thrilling, too. The opportunity itself still shimmered in the haze, but the path ahead suddenly blazed clear. All I had to do was ensure my ride was only half as insane as Carter’s, and I was ready to pack.

To be continued next week. Part 2 - UAE: Landed for Rotation, Never Rotated Back.