The Places That Teach Us Who We Are

Recently my sister sent me a text while she was vacationing on the Oregon coast with her husband and mis sobrinos. She asked me a question that caught me off guard because I'd never really stopped to think about it before: "You've lived in several tourist destinations as a permanent resident. What's your biggest takeaway?" I stared at my phone for a minute before answering, realizing that after years of living in places other people dream about visiting, I'd learned something I hadn't yet put into words.

My answer came quickly once I found it.
Living in a beautiful place that many people consider a destination has a way of keeping you from taking it for granted. La Paz certainly welcomes visitors, and it deserves every bit of admiration it gets, but it's also a real city, full of people living real lives that aren't centered around tourism. Visitors see your home with fresh eyes, and every now and then they lend you that perspective. They remind you that the beach you've walked a hundred times is indeed extraordinary, that the morning paddle you've come to love is something people save all year to experience, and that what has quietly become your normal is still remarkable. Their excitement has a way of refreshing your own. It reminds you not to stop noticing. And I've come to think that paying attention is one of the first steps toward belonging somewhere.

I've also come to believe that we each have our own habitat.
Not a perfect place, and certainly not one where life suddenly becomes effortless, but an environment where more of who we are comes naturally. Some people recognize that place early in life and never feel the need to leave. Others discover it only after years of moving through the world. The point isn't that everyone should move. It's knowing yourself well enough to recognize the places where you naturally thrive.

Once I realized La Paz was one of those places for me, another question followed.

If this is home, what does home ask of me?

Finding your place isn't the end of the story. It's the beginning of a relationship. The older I get, the less interested I am in asking what a place can give me. Instead, I find myself wondering how to live here well. Every community has its own history, traditions, rhythms, and ways of doing things. Long before I arrived, life was already unfolding here. If I'm fortunate enough to call this place home, I think my first responsibility is to understand it instead of wishing it were more like the place I left.

Maybe I see it this way because I spent most of my adult life in the restaurant biz, Hospitality. The best guests are always welcome, but hospitality has taught me that the relationship changes over time. There's a point where someone stops feeling like a guest and becomes a regular. They know people's names. They remember birthdays. They understand the rhythm of the house. They don't stop being appreciative, but appreciation gradually becomes participation.

Belonging isn't something a place hands you. It grows through ordinary moments. Learning enough Spanish to have a real conversation, even if I make mistakes. Understanding why traditions matter before deciding whether they're for me. Becoming a familiar face at the neighborhood café or ferretería, and being corrected by my barber so often that I started calling him Maestro. Showing up often enough that people stop seeing me as the new guy and simply see me as another neighbor.

I don't spend much time debating labels, and I understand why many people use the word expat. It simply isn't the word that resonates with me. Immigrant reminds me that I'm the newcomer. I chose to come here, which means I have more to learn than I have to teach. That perspective keeps me curious. It reminds me that I arrived as a student before I ever arrived as a resident. My first job is to learn before I compare, to understand before I form opinions, and to remember that belonging isn't something I can claim. It grows one conversation, one friendship, one act of participation at a time.

Hospitality taught me to listen long before real estate did. Over the years, I've worked hard to train myself to really listen, because if you give people enough room, they almost always tell you why they're considering a change. Rarely does it begin with square footage or granite countertops. More often it's about imagining a different way of life. They want to spend more time outdoors. They picture morning walks instead of scraping ice off a windshield. They want friends and family to look for reasons to visit. They hope for a stronger sense of community, a slower pace, or simply more days that feel like they're being lived instead of managed.

Those aspirations deserve every bit as much attention as the practical details. Sometimes they're pointing toward exactly the right next chapter. Sometimes they're asking a new place to solve something that can only be solved from within. And sometimes, they simply need a clearer picture of what everyday life actually looks like once the vacation ends. Life in La Paz still has deadlines, grocery runs, broken appliances, bills to be paid (often at OXXO, which is somehow as much a bank as it is a convenience store), and days that need to be managed. Learning the pace of a place, and deciding whether that pace truly fits who you are, is every bit as important as falling in love with the view.

My job isn't to answer those questions for someone. It's to listen carefully enough to understand what they're really searching for, and to help them decide whether a move is truly the answer.

Recently my sister asked me for my biggest takeaway from living in places that other people dream about visiting.

Looking back, I don't think it has much to do with beaches, sunshine, or beautiful views.

It's that every place has something to teach us, if we're willing to listen. Sometimes the lesson is that we've been home all along. Sometimes it's that home has been waiting somewhere else.

There isn't a right answer. Only a personal, honest one.
Migration is beautiful.

Either way, I hope you give yourself the time to understand your why before you pack your boxes.

And wherever life takes you next, I hope you arrive with curiosity. I hope you pay attention. I hope you arrive as a student before you ever call yourself a resident.
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