The initial comparisons were unavoidable: six twenty-something strangers picked to live and work together in Lima, Peru. Two guys and four girls divided amongst two apartments. We are writers, so instead of confessionals, we joked about writing our deepest, darkest secrets in blog form. We toasted to our new lives in Lima over Inca Colas and Pisco sours—the makings of any good MTV show full of satisfying drama.
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| Celebrating Peru´s Independence Day. Rooftop view. |
But in reality, we are six like-minded strangers in transition: some of us have just finished up school, while others have ventured into the journalism world only to be turned away. The expat life offered by our new employer charmed us—an apartment paid in full, a monthly salary, and three weeks of vacation to explore Peru´s diversity: beaches, deserts, mountains, and rainforests.
The other day, we watched the semi-finals of The Copa America soccer championship with a few Peruvians. They jested about how we English-speakers always find an excuse to travel—gap year, study abroad, work abroad. What they were getting at is that we´ve only taken the first wobbly, uncertain steps in becoming ex-pats: we´re out on our own in Lima, but we´ll be hugging our family and friends at the airport before the New Year.
If we thought we´d be living here forever, the excitement would wear down, be quickly replaced with longing and nostalgia. As it stands, the six of us are in the position to have a brief, uncomplicated fling with Lima. At age 23, that´s just the sort of relationship I´m looking for. The world expects stability—stable career, stable family, stable relationships—but the expat life allows for transience and messiness. For crossing personal boundaries and physical borders.
For now, that means settling into the garûa and grey of Lima winter with a cup of tea and my new favorite candy bar (a noteworthy accomplishment for a chocolate lover). There´s a hazy view of the Pacific from my office window and some writing to be done.
