 The very real but myth-gilded Casablanca was everyman's expat town, and the sad-eyed fellow who sat at the table at Rick's Place was the expat in all of us, leaving a question that forever hangs like a cartoon balloon over our heads: Why are we here?
For me, I was in flight from a rather boring PR job in Washington D.C. Having run my own company the decade before, living on my boat on the Potomac River could not generate sufficient excitement to anchor me to an international public relations firm and the exaggerated quest for, as it is known, the billable hour.
But was there more? Of course there was. Every expat has a story, and as the song goes, he or she is a "walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction..."
Having owned houses, a cabin cruiser, a plane, an assortment of colorful sports cars and even the proverbial pony, I found myself in 1994 without a house, boat, sports car, plane or even equine companionship. Early in Ukraine, all I owned was my $101 daily expense allowance. My salary was sent stateside to meet a lifetime of responsibilities.
There was also the looming divorce I didn't know but suspected would happen. There was the downturn in the business I had sold to my employees in West Virginia, and their inability to pay me for it less than a year after the deal.
Misfortune often stalks the would-be expat, you say.
There was a yearning for excitement, and the genuine feeling the USAID-sponsored market reform education program I led in Ukraine actually was doing some good, and not a waste of taxpayer money. The verdict is probably still out on that one.
All this made sense at the time, though, to a fellow bumping up against the bubble age of 50, that time when you either have made or will make something of your life, or you sink into a satisfied but under-funded retirement.
But what now, 12 years on? What has latched me like a barnacle on the third floor of an apartment in the shadow of St. Sophia church? What do I think on a clear as blue ice weekend day as I puff a Cohiba from my balcony and watch time being committed?
What is the lure of this city, Kyiv? This country, Ukraine? But more than that, my friend, why are you here?
In Casablanca, the police captain poses the question with a twinkle in his eye, "Rick, I would like to think you killed a man. It's the romantic in me." Rick replies he came for his health, "the waters", and when told they were in the desert, he deadpanned, "I was misinformed."
In the back of your mind, you always wonder if the expat sitting across from you asking about the possibilities of employment has his mug on a post office wall back home with the notation "wanted" at the bottom and even a possible mention of reward.
A few years back, an expat employee--no longer in Ukraine--came to me and confessed a conceivable sin that was neither illegal nor, for that matter, immoral, but he wanted to get it off his chest, thinking I might find out from a third party and actually give a damn.
"You've told me more than I want to hear," I said. "We're sort of like the French Foreign Legion. The past is the past."
Over the years and on several occasions both from other expatriates and Ukrainians, I have heard a nebulous line of thinking that we are here because we couldn't make it anywhere else. In other words, by definition, an expat in Ukraine is a failure in life.
Perhaps it is my ego, but I believe this is hogwash. If it is not, we are a sad ship of fools, indeed.
I am reminded of Jed Sunden, who started a newspaper from scratch and now has a publishing empire. And of Mike Perry, who launched a successful construction company in a hostile climate, or the Scottish clan at Pulse, who keep on ticking and building like the Energizer bunny. Then, of course, there is Eric, the East German who is so famous he needs only one name. His restaurants grow like mushrooms in a summer rain.
One might say the Willards and the Englishman David Payne haven't faired that badly, what with a business that expands every year in several countries despite some goofy ideas from the CEO (like starting this magazine seven years ago). But all is subjective.
I like to think the entrepreneur is the true expat. Other foreigners are merely getting off the bus for a 20-minute sandwich break, only to rejoin the tour when the engine cranks up. Entrepreneurs have an emotional and monetary commitment, not easily extractable.
The true expat is galled when he hears other so-called expats talk about "these people" in a silly or derogatory way. The true expat guy, with his 20-years or younger girlfriend or wife, looks on the tourist sexpat with wry contempt. We sniff they are not the type people we would want to shoot a game of pool with, or perhaps even let buy us a beer.
When I came to Ukraine, I intended to stay a year. I am now a veteran of a dozen years in the region. I have lived in Kyiv longer than I have ever lived in any place in my life. Still, I am asked, "When will you be going home?"
"Home?" I reply.
Or, as Rick Blaine said with an air of acceptance when told he should help the freedom fighter Victor Laszlo or the man would die in Casablanca: "What of it. I'm going to die in Casablanca. It's a good spot for it."
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