"I live in Europe, the Czech Republic to be exact."

"I'm in Hong Kong now, but I used to live in Singapore."

"I'm a Texan in Australia."

"I've been in Turkey for two years now."

The opening lines from expatriates sound exotic. Some locales conjure up quaint, musty thatched roof cottages on winding cobblestone lanes, gnarled dwarf trees and peasants momentarily mistaken for the other; others recall past triumphs and excesses of extinct empires.

But people really live in those villas and courtyards. They lead unglamorous, very recognizable, everyday lives: taking out the garbage and driving the kids to soccer practice. Laundry still has to be done, the groceries got and supper put on the table regardless of local language, cultural differences or time zone. You've got to do poop patrol and weed your garden whether you live in Slovakia or Sudan.

There is a twist in that all of life's daily chores must be accomplished in concert with learning to speak Russian (or Mandarin), counting correct change in euros for the volubly impatient bus driver, ascertaining which road to take from haphazardly marked maps with few street signs in evidence, fighting the expat backdrop of loneliness and frustration.

Just yesterday I saw a young woman with several children in tow patiently manipulating one screaming, kicking toddler into her stroller, somehow maintaining control of her purse and many bags of groceries (and her sanity). Our eyes met - the same mom-to-mom wry glance of empathy known and exchanged by mothers all over the globe.

Some things never change.