Traveller but Local

The Thin Line We Keep Crossing (and Still Can’t Balance)

The thing with working as an expat in the field is that it comes with its own strange perks. One minute you’re walking past a SAM-protected muddy field, the next you’re sipping coffee in a city(-ish) café, reading Dostoyevsky like you didn’t just spend ten minutes scrubbing dried mud off your boots.

But what are we, exactly?

Are we locals—of the place we were supposed to live in for three years, but only stayed three months?

Or of the place that started as a one-week business trip and turned into six?

Are we travellers? Locals?

My word for us is: just passerbys.

Like seasoned travelers, we know the airport routine better than our own skincare. No one moves faster through passport control than we do. But we forget where our supposed “favorite pub” is—or never even make it to the Эрмитаж, despite having “lived” in Piter for over two years.

We’re the kind of locals who can tell you exactly where the nearest Сбербанк is—but still need Яндекс Карты to find the nearest metro station.

I can point you to the best pizza in town, no hesitation.

But ask me which color line takes you to Дыбенко?

No clue.

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The Rotation Reality

It’s the weirdest feeling—not really belonging anywhere.

I still remember my first flight to Russia. That excited “tourist” buzz was there, the one you get just before landing in a new place.

But the first trip back home? That one felt off.

That tiny camp room in Amur felt more like home than my actual bedroom in Turkey.

Same thing happened when I was working in Kocaeli. That plain rental room felt more like mine than the one in my family house in Adana.

Now, every time I sit down on a plane and hear Russian being spoken nearby, I feel this quiet exhale—like I’ve been holding my breath all trip.

“I’m going home,” I tell myself.

But the moment I step onto a Turkish Airlines flight and hear that familiar smile paired with a “Hoşgeldiniz”…

I grin from ear to ear and think:

“I’ve been flying in and out for years. And still—when I get home, I’m not sure if I’m visiting or returning.”

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You Become That “Gurbetçi”

“Ama Almanya’da Avro geçiyoo…”

Yes. You also kind of become that person we all rolled our eyes at growing up.

You start mixing languages. Some words just make more sense in one over the other.

One time, I was at the mall with friends in Turkey. We agreed to meet up at the grocery store once everyone was done shopping. I finished early and went there. A few minutes later, my friend messaged asking where I was. I replied without thinking:

“Magazindeyim.”

(магазин—magazin—means grocery store in Russian.)

She spent five full minutes searching the mall for a shop called “Magazin.”

At home, I keep asking my mom to turn on the печка (heater).

When I talk to Осень, I can go:

“Good boy, молодец, annecim.”

All in one breath.

It all adds up to this:

• Locals ask where you’re from.

• Airport staff assume you’re native.

• Your Turkish has gaps. Your Russian isn’t fluent.

• Your thoughts? Entirely bilingual. Sometimes trilingual.

 “You order coffee like a local, but tip like a tourist. And you have no idea which side of the street you’re supposed to stand on anymore.”

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Олигарх—but Not Quite

You develop a very strange relationship with money.

You live like a mini-oligarch in your field apartment. Your fridge is filled with treasures: caviar, marinated crabs, that overpriced Turkish cheese you just had to ship in. You treat yourself like old money.

And then… you land in Turkey and suddenly can’t tell what’s “a lot” or “normal” anymore—neither here nor there.

You try converting everything to dollars.

But the dollar rate?

One day it’s doubled. The next it’s halved.

Eventually, you give up and adopt the unspoken expat motto:

“Spend when you have. Starve when you don’t.”

Some weeks, you’re out every night—eating sushi, hitting clubs, buying the next round for everyone like you just sold a company.

Other weeks, you’re home with a carton of eggs trying to decide:

“Do I order groceries or just eat каша and stare at the fridge until bedtime?”

The Outro: A Different Kind of Explorer

In the end…

 You learn to carry home with you.

You adapt fast, but root deeper each time.

You build pockets of routine, even in transit.

You stop asking “where do I belong?” and start asking “how do I make this version of here mine?”

 And you know what?

You develop a strange rhythm to “travel.”

 So just as in the header—

No, I’m not a travel blogger.

But I am a different kind of explorer.

I want to share my kind of exploration. My version of a holiday.

How resting in your family’s beach house can become a travel vlog.

How a Friday in a half-snowed-in industrial town can turn into a story worth telling.

Welcome to the strange vibe of an expat exploring.

Next stop: Svobodny—named “freedom,” but somehow the strangest, most lovable prison I’ve ever lived in.