Those who wouldn't grow up

Dear future hubster,
and dear fellow expats,
have you ever wondered about the real reasons of our runaways? That beyond the wanderlust, the professional challenges, the bitter and the sweet love stories, we just want to get away from the responsibilities of a "normal" life? The very same normal life we then try to rebuild in our temporary haven, until the burdens of an adult life become too cumbersome, and we set sail again?
Aren't we just a bunch of Lost Boys, following some invisible Peter Pan to a Neverland that keeps slipping away?

But all the same I hate it

Dear future hubster,
it didn't take long for me to receive the first invitations to somebody's farewell dinner or drinks. A couple of weeks after my arrival, really. Back then, those were courtesy invitations, from people I met once or twice, or bulk ones, sent out to everybody under the sun.
Not much later though, I started receiving invitations to farewell parties of people I actually knew.
And then, sooner than I expected, started rolling in the ones for people I happen to care about.
I know the day will come, not so far from today, when I receive one from somebody I don't want to see leaving.
Isn't it ironic (and not in the misinterpreted Alanis Morissette way) that we keep going away, leaving people behind, but feel betrayed when others do the same?

Closing Time

Dear future hubster,
it's funny how the same weather makes me listen to the same kind of music.
And how the same kind of music always makes me think of the same people.

By any other name

Dear future hubster,
it was so obvious and expected, that I forgot to mention when it first happened, but my princess attitude couldn't be kept hidden from my flatmates for long. Only they call me khaleesi.

We are the same

Dear future hubster,
if you thought that distance makes people different, you were wrong. Parking spot entitlements (or lack thereof) brings out the exact same petty fights, regardless of location.

There's always gonna be another mountain

Dear future hubster,
despite the self-confident and sharp image I may project, I am very often way too much concerned about what other people may think of me.
Sometimes, when climbing a mountain with Canadian soldiers, Australian outdoorises and Mexican capoeira teachers, and watching them passing by and getting to the peak without any visible difficulty, I get rather self-conscious because I have to stop every three steps and my breathing sounds like a lousy imitation of Darth Vader.
And then I tell myself that I still climbed the largest active volcano in Africa, and that it really doesn't matter if while doing so, I looked liked an unfit, fragile, whiny white girl. That volcano has not gotten any smaller because I got to the top slowly and am now in significant pain all over my body.