If you’ve lived abroad for decades and you’re a foreigner in your own country, where do you go when you want to grow some roots? Greedy, I went in search of paradise.

A loud barrage of furious words slammed me in the back. It was shocking! The language being unknown to me, I did not understand what precisely was being hurled at me. However, since the vitriol originated from the toilet lady’s oral cavity, the message was clear.

I had planned to eat mopane worms tonight, but instead I’m facing a hamburger and fries. I am not amused. Having traveled thousands of miles across the African continent I have arrived in a country with the exotic and lyrical name of Zimbabwe, land of the fabled Shona chiefs. And now see me sit here in a restaurant called the Silver Spur.

My store of expat life patience is exhausted. It’s not only the chicken, the water, the electricity, the tiny fridge, the heat, the dull knife, the lack of kitchen drawers, the dead rat in the garden this morning, but . . .

Wouldn’t you think that finding olive oil in Palestine would be easy? Of course you would. But I have news for you: It isn’t.  Well, it wasn’t for me when . . .