One of the unexpected things about living abroad is noticing what local people barely notice.
Not because it’s unusual. Quite the opposite.
The things that stand out to foreigners are often those so woven into everyday life that they have become almost invisible: habits, expressions, social rituals and ways of moving through the world.
After several years in Chilean Patagonia, there are still things I notice.
Conversations rarely begin abruptly. There is often time for pleasantries, a few questions or a brief catch-up before getting to the reason for an interaction. Even routine encounters can feel personal.
Family, too, seems constantly present. Parents, siblings, grandparents and cousins appear naturally in conversations about work, plans and everyday life.
Then there is the rhythm of smaller communities. People stop to talk. Shopkeepers recognise their customers. Familiar faces appear throughout the week. Community can feel both comforting and, occasionally, impossible to escape.
Nature is equally difficult to ignore. Weather shapes plans. Volcanoes sit on the horizon. Rivers, forests, mountains and lakes enter everyday conversation. Nature is not somewhere you go; it is simply there.
And then there is language.
I arrived expecting to learn Spanish. What I hadn’t anticipated was learning Chilean Spanish — and all the expressions that come with it.
A baby is often a guagua, a word with Quechua roots. A pichintún — from Mapudungun — means just a little, or a tiny amount. Indigenous languages remain woven into everyday Chilean Spanish in ways that are easy to overlook.
Then there are the diminutives. A coffee becomes a cafecito, a moment a momentito. The Spanish -ito and -ita do more than suggest something small: they can soften a word, add affection or familiarity, and subtly change its tone according to relationship and context.
And the modismos seem endless. A young man is a lolo. To cause chaos is to dejar la escoba. Something boring is fome, while something excellent might be bacán. And so it goes on.
They’re words I’ve become quite affectionate about. Even when I use them, though, after all this time, they still sound slightly off-key in my accent.
Perhaps that is what living in another culture teaches us to notice: not only the obvious differences, but the tiny, ordinary details through which a place reveals itself.