Expat Lifestyle: Labels. Lost In Translation? Welcome To San Miguel

By Doreen Cumberford

What do you call yourself when you move to another country? Expat? Immigrant? Nomad? Global citizen? If you've spent any time in online forums for foreign residents, you'll know this question generates more heat than a June afternoon in the Jardín. People feel strongly. Labels matter, or do they?

Here in San Miguel de Allende, the locals have already solved this problem for us. They call us extranjeros. Simple. Neutral. Done.

Except it isn't simple at all, and that's what makes it intercultural and imperfect.

The word extranjero traces back to the Latin extra, meaning outside, which became extraneus - external, foreign, outside the house. Old French used it as estrange, meaning strange or foreign, before it arrived in Spanish. Which means our word for foreigner is a blood relative of strange, stranger and estranged. We are, etymologically speaking, the strange ones. I prefer the unofficial translation, though. When I first heard extranjero I thought it meant the extra people. Surplus. Optional. The ones who showed up uninvited to a party that was going on perfectly well without us.

We're Not the Only Ones

Before we get too precious about our label problem, consider this: Mexicans do this to each other too. Perhaps it's simply human nature.

People from México City are called chilangos, this is a word so loaded its etymology remains gloriously unclear. It may derive from a Mayan word meaning frizzy hair, possibly a reference to the great feathered headdresses of the Aztec rulers of Tenochtitlán. Originally used by city residents to describe provincial arrivals looking for work, the meaning then flipped entirely, becoming what outsiders called the city dwellers themselves. Self-important. Sophisticated.

A little exhausting. A mild insult. And then? The chilangos reclaimed it, wore it with swagger and even named a city magazine after it. Derogatory label, turned identity, turned pride – this is how cultures transform.

Sound familiar?

Every region has its own equivalent,  the city type, the country bumpkin, the northerner, the southerner. We humans have always used geography as shorthand for character. It's a very old habit, and it travels with us whether we pack it consciously or not. Many of us arriving in San Miguel come from cultures where categorisation runs particularly deep - where the first questions at a party are where are you from? and what do you do? as though the answers explain everything about us.

The Label I Own

I'll be honest about mine. I've been an expat, a repat, a migrant and a naturalised citizen, living across decades on several continents, like so many others here. Each move delivers a different label and none of them ever feel entirely right. The word expat carries baggage I'm aware of, including colonial undertones and unspoken assumptions about who gets to be temporary and who doesn't.

I use it carefully, because it fits best. These labels are rarely the problem.

The unconscious luggage accompanying them usually is.

What the Locals In San Miguel de AllendeAlready Know

Sanmiguelenses have been watching waves of us arrive for generations. First artists in the 1940s, then retirees in the 1980s, followed by spiritual seekers, remote workers, and people reinventing themselves quietly in a beautiful town. They've seen every variety of extranjero, and they've responded with patience, curiosity and a generosity of spirit that should frankly humble those of us still arguing semantics online.

Watch how they meet us. The barista who quietly learns how you take your coffee. The neighbour who switches mid-sentence between Spanish and English without a second thought, (thank God for them). The taxi driver who asks where you're from, not to file you under a label, but because your story genuinely interests him. Because he has a cousin there. They don't wait for us to sort out our terminology before extending kindness. They lead with the relationship.

There's a Mexican phrase for the in-between state so many of us inhabit: ni de aquí, ni de allá, neither from here nor from there. We tend to claim it as ours alone. But it belongs to far more people in this town than we realise. Some families are divided by borders, children raised between worlds, grandmothers who stayed while grandsons built lives elsewhere. San Miguel has always lived in the hyphen.

The lesson isn't complicated. Drop the label wars. Follow the lead of the people who've been here longer, who've seen more arrivals than we can imagine, and who keep choosing connection over categorisation. I say let’s be good at being extranjeros. Strange ones. Extra people. Outside the house. Let's welcome everyone we meet to cross the threshold - and build the dream we all came here to find.

Doreen Cumberford is an intercultural trainer and author. She's recently created The Belonging Project, a podcast exploring what it means to belong across cultures. Learn more at nomadicdiariespodcast.com