No one, absolutely no one, just up and moves to another country. Not by choice or by whim or by lark.
19 year old Ernest Hemingway dithered as a cub reporter for six months in Kansas City before diving into World War I. Billy the Kid ran away from Sheriff Pat Garrett on his epic escape to Mexico. Billy didn’t want to leave, he wanted to keep robbing. Billy faced exigent circumstances that forced his hand. With apologies to the asylum seekers who have guns pointing at them and their homeland are burning, American ex-patism is a choice.
Permanent residency in Mexico takes months of paperwork, proof and dedication to obtain. You have to stay in the country for, well, however long it might take La Officina to call you for a face-to-face review of your application, regardless of how much money you have invested in Mexico.
If an American comes a’flopping their way into Mexico, stumbling and bumbling, angry or drunk or overly motivated, red flags shoot up. No one wants to get near them. They fail in their migration instantly, the smell of rotten cheese driving off any support. They
Jimmy Buffet sang about the exceptions. Folks who miraculously pulled the ripcord and moved to better latitudes. Perhaps a recent divorcee with a bucket of cash and nothing to lose, hoping to screw his way through a sticky, fecund future south of the border.
The rest of us start small when considering migrations.
We start with a houseplant, not a house. If a 2 inch succulent can live in a pot for a year, its safe to graduate to a hamster or a kitten. Buy a used car, an entry-level job at TGIFridays, and a starter marriage. Seven pieces of flair can’t be wrong.
Amy and I built up to Baja. We have had 10 houses, more than 30 addresses spanning 6 states and 5 countries, 14 dogs, 10 cats, 3 rabbits and a parrot.
Originally published: June 22, 2026
Last updated: June 25, 2026