The older I get, the more often I find myself asking one question: Where do I want to grow old?
I'm at a stage in life where I think more and more about where I'll live once I retire. Will it be the United States? If so, which state? After all, I've called four states and five cities home over the past three decades. Or will it be Bosnia and Herzegovina or Croatia, the countries where I spent the first 23 years of my life, before beginning my American chapter? Or perhaps another European Union country?
What's interesting is that while I'm in America, I often idealize life in Europe and long for it. Then I come back here and very quickly remember how difficult it is to readjust to certain parts of everyday life—things easy to overlook when you're just a tourist spending a few weeks visiting family and vacationing along the beautiful Adriatic coast.
One of those things is bureaucracy—or what we in the Balkans know all too well as the endless "paper chase."
My Croatian passport had expired, so I decided to use my time in Croatia to renew it. Unfortunately, I had missed my passport appointment at the Croatian Consulate in Cleveland earlier that year because of a snowstorm.
That brought me to the police station in the nearby town of Metković. My sister, nephew and I arrived at 11:30 AM, only to discover it was lunchtime—a break we had completely forgotten about. After waiting for the break to end and patiently watching for my number to appear on the screen, I was greeted by a clerk who was rather unfriendly.
She rejected the passport photos I had brought from my original appointment in the US. That wasn't what bothered me. If they didn't meet the requirements, I completely understood. It was the dismissive tone that brought out the American in me. After more than three decades in the US, I'd grown accustomed to a culture of customer service, so I found myself saying, "You could be a little kinder."
She looked at me in complete disbelief and replied, "What do you mean, I could be kinder?!"
Fortunately, my sister, who happened to be applying for a passport for my nephew that same day, was helped by a different clerk. Before leaving, I sincerely thanked her for her kindness and for not treating us as though we were idiots.
A few days later, we drove to Dubrovnik to pick up our expedited passports. Once again, I witnessed something all too familiar. A young employee, who looked like she could still be in college, stood behind the counter and, in a tone that suggested we were inconveniencing her, asked three of us in line what we needed. Two men who were ahead of me and I answered that we were picking up our new documents. As she helped the first man in line, she moved so slowly, it felt like watching a movie in slow motion. At one point, I couldn't help but laugh out loud. The woman standing behind me immediately understood why and said, "Everyone who works in government offices should first spend ten years in the private sector before they're allowed to work here."
When I told my sister about it after we had both received our new passports, she said it sounded exactly like the sloth from Zootopia. Since I'd never seen the movie, my nephew immediately pulled up the famous scene. I have to admit—it was almost documentary footage.
And don't even get me started on parking in Dubrovnik during the busy tourist season. The police administration building is in a location where the only realistic option is to pull onto the sidewalk, turn on your hazard lights, and hope for the best. My sister and nephew stayed in the car while I ran inside to pick up my passport. Then we switched places—I got behind the wheel while they went in to collect theirs, and I carefully backed into a parking spot so I'd have a better chance of getting back into traffic afterward. It all felt like part of the mission.
The whole experience got me thinking again. Is there actually a country where bureaucracy isn't this frustrating? I know America isn't perfect, and there are plenty of things there that frustrate me, too. But I must admit, in my experience, most administrative tasks are simply much easier to handle there.
Maybe part of it is that culture of customer service. I know many foreigners see Americans as "fake" because they're often overly friendly, smiling, and eager to help. But honestly, I appreciate it. Whether that kindness is always completely genuine or simply part of professional courtesy, I enjoy being greeted with a smile, having someone willing to help, and being treated with respect. At the end of the day, isn't that part of quality of life, too?
The passport was just one errand. My sister, who lives in Bosnia and Herzegovina, reminded me we had all the required documents and managed to renew our passports in a single day. She pointed out that the real "paper chase" begins when you're sent from one office to another because you're missing yet another document. She had a point. Yet the experience stayed with me because it made me think about something much bigger.
Moments like this remind me that deciding where to retire is more complicated than comparing healthcare systems, taxes, or the weather. Those things matter. But so do the countless everyday interactions that either make life a little easier or a little more frustrating. Over time, those small moments add up.
Maybe that's the greatest dilemma for those of us who live between two worlds. When I'm in America, I miss Europe. And when I'm in Europe, it doesn't take long before I remember why I left. Yet every time I return to America, part of me immediately starts missing Europe again.
Perhaps there isn't a perfect place. Perhaps every country asks us to adapt, and if we live there long enough, we inevitably become a little bit of that place. Maybe that's why this question has become so difficult to answer.
Part of me will always belong in the US, but every time I come back to Europe, another part of me wonders if I should come home for good.
For now, I don't have the answer. Maybe I don't need one yet. But those who have already faced this decision, I wonder, what helped you know where you belonged?
