Life was better in the past: A rant from a battle-hardened expat (of two whole years)

I was here before the Pret in Hamilius opened, before you could whisper "oat milk" into the wind and summon a barista on an electric unicycle.

Hi, I’m Thierry. I’ve been in Luxembourg for two years. That’s basically prehistoric in expat terms.

You know what’s wrong with Luxembourg today? Everything. This country’s gone to the dogs, and not the classy, Instagrammable poodles. No, I’m talking about existentially confused street mutts who bark in four languages and vote in local elections.

I’ve been here two years. That’s basically prehistoric in expat terms. I was here before the Pret in Hamilius opened, before you could whisper "oat milk" into the wind and summon a barista on an electric unicycle. Back then, we foraged for iced macchiatos in Limpertsberg, fighting off wild boars and existential dread.

Those were the golden days when you had to order lunch in French, Luxembourgish, and sheer panic. When your baguette was 89% crust and the tuna came with a side of identity crisis. Now everyone just UberEats their way through life with smug lactose-free confidence.

And the newcomers? Ugh. They arrive all fresh-faced, smelling like spreadsheet ambition and oat-based deodorant, marvelling at the “clean tram.” Please. The real ones remember when the tram ended in obscurity. You had to walk—uphill, through the fog of tax treaties and broken dreams, clutching your badge and dignity like fragile relics of a bygone era.

Today’s kids with their screen-time limits and ring lights don’t know the true struggle. We had to use our smartphones, really use them. Emails. Slack. Random LinkedIn messages from recruiters with names like Gregor. Anxiety wasn’t a condition; it was a lifestyle. We didn’t do therapy, we just screamed into our Bouneschlupp until it stared back.

Back in 2023, there was honour. You could wear your sleeveless Patagonia vest to the office without being labelled “finance-core.” You could misinterpret tax law in three countries before breakfast. Office seating drama was real. Desks were won. Now? Everyone’s “hybrid.” Which just means they appear once a week to steal croissants and compliment each other’s Notion templates.

Don’t even mention the nightlife. Scott’s used to be feral. There were three affairs, two breakups, and one international incident before midnight. Now it’s just consultants sipping Perrier and networking about SaaS solutions. It’s like LinkedIn Live in a pub.

And dating? Nightmare. I went on one date last month and she asked me for my bilan. My bilan. What happened to mystery? To slowly unravelling your emotional trauma over six Negronis and a bad decision in Clausen?

Luxembourg used to make sense. It was chaotic, multilingual jazz. Now it’s... it’s organised. There’s an app for everything. Trains run on time. People smile on purpose. What happened to grit? What happened to screaming “Merde!” when you missed your tram stop because you were busy looking for a new job on LinkedIn?

Not that everything was perfect back then. Stanley Cup culture was a pandemic. No one worked on Mondays. And yeah, we were all obsessed with the Roman Empire. Weird times.

Anyway, I’m off to Le Sud for an €87-lunch and a quiet cry into my artisanal foie gras. I remember when Cloche d’Or parking was free. I remember when popes visited, and we acted like it was normal. I remember when people blew their paychecks on pixelated apes instead of pistachio foam oat lattes and called it investing. Luxembourg, you’ve changed. You’ve lost your chaos. You’ve been... optimised—and not in a good way.