Fotos From South America - How Does It Feel, This Far From The United States?

How does it feel to be living so far from the United States right now?

I was born in Brisbane and lived there for 27 years before I left Australia for good. I didn’t plan it like that—when I left Australia, I was only supposed to go to London for a while, which I did—but then I ended up in Minneapolis for 22 years. Now, most of my adult life has been spent there, and it will always be my home, more so, even than Brisbane.

I was texting with some friends who still live in Minneapolis, reminiscing about the early 2000s and getting very nostalgic. Wow, those were some good years for me.

I remember tasting Summit EPA for the first time at Elsie’s Bowling Alley in Northeast Minneapolis and falling in love with craft beer. I remember riding my bike all over the city, impressed by the cycling infrastructure and all the cool bars, cafés, and restaurants. There were so many things I absolutely loved and remember with real affection—apple orchards and pumpkin farms in the fall, the country roads outside the city lined with old barns and family farms, and the bike events and cycling community that became the backbone of my life there. They were the source of almost all my good friends.

Many years later, I found that same kind of community again—first while working in the craft beer industry, and then at Trader Joe’s. I met some of the best friends I’ve ever had. Together, we went to massive art fairs, music festivals, and craft beer events. We saw concerts—small, intimate shows as well as huge events like The Cure, Midnight Oil, or Dessa with the Minnesota Orchestra—that one still gives me goosebumps. We went to book readings, artist meet-and-greets, fundraisers, parties, coffee workshops, wine classes, beer classes—and roller skating. That last one was one of the hardest things to say goodbye to. Roller skating culture like we had at the St. Louis Park Roller Garden simply doesn’t exist in Ecuador. I miss it more than I can really express.

There was a lot to love about life in Minneapolis, and I loved it for a very long time.

OK, so, I’m not going to give you a list of grievances about the U.S. and why I left. Those of you who know me already know why I wanted out. It’s the same collection of reasons everyone talks about on YouTube—you’ve heard it all before. For those who don’t, the short version includes a combination of depression, high costs of living, housing, and healthcare, and a toxic political and cultural climate. My wife at the time felt the same, so we made plans to start a new life in Ecuador.

May 2, 2025, will mark three years in Ecuador for me, and how things have changed. Many of you know I’m divorced now, and unsurprisingly, that has profoundly impacted how I live and experience Ecuador. Being here as a single man is entirely different from being part of a married couple, it’s a lot harder on your own. My environment has changed too; I left the rainy, cold mountain climate of Loja for the warmth and sunshine of the coast.

These days, I spend a lot of time thinking about my life here and what it feels like to be so far away from my former home, the United States. I did it! I got out, right? Sometimes people congratulate me on this fact, and while I do think it’s an achievement worth celebrating, it’s a lot more nuanced than that. It’s not like life became instantly better the moment I got off the plane in Quito. We all know there’s a transition period—a honeymoon phase—and then the realities of life in a foreign culture set in. Your new normal embraces you in an intimate and unsettling way. For many, that last stage is overwhelming, and just like that, they’re done. Back on a plane before you can say bienvenido.

I never experienced that. Of course I struggled with daily challenges, but I never once seriously thought about going back to the U.S.—no matter how difficult things became. I was done with the U.S., and even if I wanted to return, I literally couldn’t afford it. For me, the move to Ecuador was a one-way investment—no return possible. Moving to a country like this is like a magic ticket out of the rat race, but once you’re out, I’ve found it’s nearly impossible to climb back up that financial mountain and re-enter. Anyway, as I already said, I don’t want to.

To be honest, I did recently consider moving on to yet another country—the Philippines. But that was more about the language barrier and the constant, grinding, never-ending struggle to learn Spanish. For me, learning Spanish has been incredibly difficult—and often humiliating. Sometimes I feel like there’s something wrong with the language center in my brain, and I’ll never be able to learn this language. The struggle is brutal, and the damage it can do to your confidence is formidable. So the idea of living in a country where English is widely spoken was very tempting.

Now, though, I’ve put so much work into learning Spanish that I don’t want to throw all that away. So I’m staying, even though my Spanish is still… not great.

So how does it actually feel to be physically and mentally separated, with a sincere, unfeigned sense of finality, from the United States?

Mostly, it feels good. Mostly.

It is very good, no, it’s wonderful, to not worry about going bankrupt from an illness. And it feels amazing to be out of the churning, crushing machine that is work life in North America. I have free time now—a lot of it. The level of work-life balance I enjoy here is, I believe, totally impossible in the U.S. Moving to a country like Ecuador is like holding a golden ticket, and wow, it feels great.

Speaking of feelings—I’m off my depression meds. I can function without them. I feel far enough removed from the things that caused me to spiral mentally, to ruminate, to visit dark places—I no longer need the medication.

Of course, every time I open Instagram or YouTube, I’m assaulted with news from the U.S. There’s no place in the world you won't see it online. Moving abroad to a wildly different culture is not the absolute escape it might have been 50 years ago. However, I can more easily limit how much exposure I get. If I practice self-control with reels and shorts, I can put my phone down and walk outside into a world staggeringly different from North America or Australia. And for me, that’s the most profound difference. When I’m exploring cities in Ecuador, or even just walking to the local markets here on the coast, it feels like the political chaos of the U.S. is very, very far away. I don’t even think about it—and that freedom has become a powerful part of my happiness.

Sometimes, when I’m doing something here, I get a rush of emotion at the sheer adventure of it all. This wave of endorphins is like the first sip of coffee—or that second beer—or maybe like the chemistry you feel with someone new. As I write this, I realize a future girlfriend might read, “To Jason, our romantic chemistry is the same as if he just drank two beers…” I hope my poorly thought-out analogy is worth it!

The feeling is powerful. I remember having it in a taxi recently, driving through Quito. Another time, walking the streets of Guayaquil, I saw old men playing dominoes on top of a trash can. I walked past them and they nodded hello. One of the most powerful moments, though, was in the packed street markets of Lima, Peru. Even though I was a foreigner—and not in Ecuador—I knew how to navigate this almost overwhelming situation. I was comfortable handling the aggressive vendors. And similarly, I knew how to talk to the people I wanted to buy something from. I knew what was safe and how to avoid what wasn’t.

In a crowded street packed shoulder to shoulder with people vastly different from me—I felt at ease. I realized I could enjoy this moment without anxiety or fear. I felt like: I know this place now. I can move within it. I can safely head down this road—with confidence, with wonder—and be ready for whatever’s next.