The city was a pulsing hum outside my floor-to-ceiling windows, a vibrant Friday night symphony in a language I was still learning to discern. My apartment, a triumph of negotiation and perseverance, gleamed under the soft glow of designer lamps. Every corner meticulously chosen, every utensil accounted for. I sat there, not in triumph, but in a peculiar vacuum, my thumb idly tracing the pixelated faces of friends on a screen thousands of kilometers away. Another week done, and the sum total of my human interaction beyond the transactional: zero. Zero meaningful, non-scripted, soul-to-soul conversations. How could a life so meticulously constructed continue to feel so utterly unlived? It wasn't the apartment, not really. It was magnificent. It was the sensation that for all the perfect square meters, the crucial dimension was missing.
Perfect Shell
Human Connection
The Missing Dimension
The Checklist Fallacy
We've become extraordinarily good at optimizing the physical transition of moving abroad. We meticulously check off visas, bank accounts, utilities, and, of course, the sacred search for the perfect flat. This checklist, a kind of administrative placebo, convinces us we're building a life when, in truth, we're mostly just constructing a very functional shell. It's like Michael M.-L., the ergonomics consultant, always says when he talks about office design. "You can give someone the most expensive ergonomic chair, a standing desk, perfect lighting, and forty-four inches of display real estate," he'd muse, "but if the work is soul-crushing, or they're constantly isolated, you've optimized for misery. You've forgotten the human."
He's a man who once spent three months analyzing how people used kitchen tongs, just to redesign them for a 4% improvement in grip comfort. His dedication to human interaction with objects is almost obsessive, yet I remember a conference call with him, just me and three others on the line, where he spent a good 4 minutes talking about how much he hated video calls. "They give you the illusion of connection," he'd said, "but they drain your spirit. There's a delay, a subtle disconnect. We're not designed for mediated presence when true presence is what we crave." I often wonder if he applied that same rigorous ergonomic analysis to his own social architecture, or if he, like me, occasionally found himself scrolling past old photos, a ghost in his own perfectly designed digital space.
Optimized
Cultivated
Belonging Isn't Efficient
The expat narrative, the one we're fed and then dutifully regurgitate, is an optimization problem: lowest cost, fastest visa, best location for rent. It's all about efficiency. But belonging isn't efficient. It's messy, slow, and often deeply inconvenient. It demands vulnerability, repeated effort, and the willingness to look foolish 234 times before you finally get the nuance of a local joke. We focus on the apartment as the destination, as if finding a physical dwelling automatically translates to finding a psychological one. And I get it, really. The initial thrill of securing your space, hanging your art, making it 'yours' - it's a powerful, tangible victory. For a time, it gives a sense of enough. But that sense has a shelf life, a surprisingly short one, like a diet you started at 4 pm and already want to quit. You hit the six-month mark, and the shine wears off. You have your keys, your local coffee shop, your routes mapped. You know where the good bakeries are, and you can navigate the bus system with relative ease. You might even use a local phrase or two without stumbling. You've checked off every box on the "successful expat" list, yet you wake up one morning, and the quiet hum of the refrigerator sounds a lot like loneliness.
The Foundation of Connection
This isn't to disparage the incredible work of those who facilitate these transitions, who help lay the administrative groundwork. They are essential. Without a stable base, it's impossible to build anything. Companies like aparto provide an invaluable service, simplifying the arduous process of finding that initial safe haven. They bridge the gap between needing a roof over your head and actually getting it. But the fundamental misunderstanding is believing that securing the shell is the entire project. It's merely the first brick. The real architecture is built with conversations, shared laughter, navigating misunderstandings, celebrating small victories, and mourning quiet losses with people who actually care that you exist in this new place.
Cultivating the Internal
We chase the perfect aesthetic, the optimal commute, the best value for our dollar, meticulously curating our physical spaces while neglecting the vital, invisible infrastructure of human connection. What if we shifted our focus from optimizing the external to cultivating the internal? What if we understood that the hardest part isn't finding a place to live, but finding a way to truly live within that place, connected and understood?
I thought I had it all figured out, you see. My first apartment abroad was stunning, overlooking a river. I spent a small fortune on furniture, convinced that if the space was perfect, I would be perfect in it. I even researched the best plants for air purification, down to the exact species. I was so busy perfecting the container that I neglected the contents. I thought a beautiful setting would organically attract companionship, like some kind of social magnet. It didn't. Loneliness, I discovered, has a way of making even the most stunning views bland. It's a contradiction I still grapple with: how could something so technically "right" be so experientially "wrong"?
Metrics of Belonging
Michael, with his penchant for precise measurements and detailed observation, would probably point out that we optimize for easily quantifiable metrics - square footage, rental price, proximity to amenities. But how do you quantify a laugh shared over a table, or the comfort of a friend showing up unannounced with your favorite coffee? These are the real metrics of belonging, intangible but profoundly powerful. These are the things that turn a temporary dwelling into a home. It's not about the four walls, but about the web of human threads woven between them. It's the small, unremarkable moments that accumulate, like stones building a wall, until you realize you're no longer standing outside, looking in, but are firmly rooted within. We crave the ease of the checklist, the straightforwardness of a transaction, because the alternative - the messy, uncertain, emotional labor of building real relationships - is daunting. It offers no guarantees. It can't be bought for $474 a month.
We confuse logistics with life.
Redefining "Optimization"
This isn't to say we should abandon practicality. Not at all. A stable home base is foundational. But perhaps we need to redefine "optimization" when it comes to moving abroad. It's not just about getting there efficiently; it's about arriving with a strategy for truly inhabiting the new place, socially and emotionally. It's about recognizing that the "tourist" label isn't just about how long you've been somewhere, but about how deeply you've invested in its human fabric.
I've seen people here for over 4 years who still seem like visitors, their social circles mirroring their old lives, their interactions superficial. And I've seen others, here for only 4 months, who've plunged headfirst into the local scene, learning the language, joining clubs, making themselves available for the unpredictable, glorious chaos of real connection. The difference wasn't the duration of their visa; it was the depth of their intent.
Active Cultivation vs. Passive Waiting
It's a subtle but profound shift in perspective. Imagine dedicating even a quarter of the energy you put into finding the perfect couch to finding the perfect community. Imagine researching local volunteer opportunities with the same zeal you apply to comparing broadband packages. Imagine the uncomfortable but necessary step of initiating contact with strangers, not just for networking, but for genuine connection, with the same diligence you spend on negotiating your lease. This isn't about sacrificing a comfortable apartment for a sparse one; it's about understanding that the apartment is just a stage. The play, the actual unfolding of a life, needs actors, an audience, and a script that's written collectively, often with unexpected plot twists and certainly with numerous unannounced interruptions.
Michael M.-L. would probably tell you that even the most perfectly designed office space isn't truly ergonomic if it doesn't facilitate human interaction and collaboration. You can have all the right tools, but if the processes are broken, the outcome is flawed. Our process for moving abroad has been focused on the tools, not the human needs they're supposed to serve.
Perhaps the biggest mistake I made, and one I continue to correct, is believing that belonging would simply happen to me. That if I built it, they would come. It's a passive stance in an active world. It's waiting for an invitation that rarely arrives. Belonging, like any meaningful relationship, requires active cultivation. It means putting yourself out there, accepting rejection, trying again, being present, and, most importantly, giving more than you take. It means seeing the city not just as a backdrop for your life, but as a living, breathing entity you are now a part of, with responsibilities and contributions, not just demands. What does it mean to truly *belong* to a place? It's a question that echoes long after the last box is unpacked, long after the rent is paid, and long after the initial novelty fades into the quiet hum of a Friday night. It's not a transaction. It's an unfolding.