From Hutong BBQs to Caribbean Villas: How We Rebuilt Our Life in the Dominican Republic

I’ve been banging my head trying to figure out the best way to share with my friends—scattered all over the world—some of the recent life updates and changes I’ve been going through. Ever since I left China last May, it’s been a never-ending roller coaster of adventures and heartbreaks. I left many friends in China with the thought that I would see them again in early October during Golden Week, when I expected to have my last and latest wedding celebration (that would be 3.5 weddings). But all of that went strategically to hell, as I’m currently writing this from a small little coffee spot under the palm trees in the Dominican Republic. They have excellent croissants and chocolatines, for those wondering.

From Beijing Dust to Caribbean Palms

Now, what happened during these last few months? And while I acknowledge the last time I wrote here was December 2023, the world just seems to push us away from our own self-built blogs and into the claws of social media. I lost the motivation to write here altogether. So I’ll simply let some thoughts wander here from time to time, without making it my sole motivation to create something. And I won’t go all the way back to December 2023—except for a couple of specific elements to put everything in context.

Wedding One: Hong Kong Escapade

First, I got married in Hong Kong in June 2024. It was an escapade wedding—just the two of us, two expats from different backgrounds who had already survived over six years of relationship, COVID, distance, and cultural disintegration in the midst of a fast-paced life in Beijing. Our wedding was small, but that’s what we could afford, and as we watched others arriving at the hôtel de ville for their vows, surrounded by friends and family, we felt sad that ours were so far away at that moment. So we promised we’d make up for it when the time was right. Soon after, we followed our photographer through a parade of poses and photos inspired by Lidia’s favorite movie director, Wong Kar-wai. An evolving evening where the dimming sky met Hong Kong’s neon lights. By the way, my now-wife’s name is Lidia. There—you’re caught up on that side, and I’m going to fast-forward ALL the way to our departure from China in May 2025.

Hutong BBQ and Our 0.5 Wedding

Before we left, we had a small gathering of friends around our famous Hutong BBQ to celebrate our departure, our wedding, my birthday, and to launch us into the next part of our life. It was a warm night with so many people coming to see us off. It was also heartbreaking, because truly, after eight years in China, part of your soul is forever tied to who you are. I consider that our 0.5 wedding celebration, since it wasn’t 100% dedicated to it. And on June 1st, carrying heaviness and bags, we hit the road for our first destination and wedding number two: Moscow.

Wait, where’s Milo?

I heard you—don’t worry. Milo is totally fine. I sent him off earlier to Canada (our final destination) with my mother, who came to visit for the first time in eight years in China. And what a trip it was. I bet she won’t forget that one anytime soon. Three weeks of me being me, dragging my mom from one destination to another, losing her only once in a taxi across China. From Beijing to Shanghai, the hanging temple, the Terracotta Army, the Great Wall, and all the way to Guilin’s famous mountains—the ones on the 20-yuan bill—while fighting off crowds of thousands during the unfortunate Labor Holiday. She challenged herself well beyond what she expected, cursing the stairs going up the mountain, then embracing the view and the pride of conquering it. It was a joy for me to see, and it made me a proud son. In the end, I packed her and Milo together, and those two sweethearts waddled back to Canada, where Milo proceeded to conquer many hearts, including my dad, my niece, and my nephews. Moving on!

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Wedding Two: Moscow, Confession, and an Orthodox Church

As we landed in Moscow, a dark feeling washed over me as I approached customs with my Canadian passport. They’ll take me away for some random excuse and I’ll be used as a pawn in a political chess match no one asked for! Oh God! And then I reached the border control counter—a cute blonde officer gave me the biggest smile and the warmest welcome. Seeing that I was on a family visa, she knew I was married to a Russian woman. She asked why I came to Moscow. I said, “To get married… again,” and she giggled. And then, unknowingly, I added, “I’ll let you know before number three,” which made her laugh even more. She wished me well and opened the doors to beautiful Moscow.

If you’re shocked by that exchange, you probably don’t know me well enough. But if you do, then you know I’ll always be the charmer and would do anything for a laugh. It’s my coping mechanism… for dealing with life? Soon after, I met my wife past customs and got a lift from her brother to the apartment that had been our home for at least six months during COVID. It was exactly how I remembered it—maybe only more… moist. It had been closed up for months, with a poor old cat named Motia who had been fighting loneliness for so long she had forgotten she was supposed to be independent. Instead, she greeted us with a “miao,” a hug, and the pungent smell of her “gifts” in the bathroom. We were home. And it was time to tackle our first big challenge since leaving China: the Russian wedding.

Now, you have to understand that this Russian wedding was a religious wedding. Luckily, I’m Orthodox, and we decided to get married in a cute, small Orthodox church in the middle of Moscow with over 500 years of history. Many had passed through its doors before us, and hopefully many will after. For now, that little church would become part of our history. Little did I know there were a couple of extra things we needed to do—like attending a sermon and confessing.

Yeah, I know. Confession. Something I had never done, and I felt the list of sins I carried was longer than War & Peace.
Oh, you’re fine! The priest probably doesn’t even speak English!

Oh, how I wish that were true. The one marrying us barely spoke English. But the one assigned to hear my confession had an extended history as a priest in the U.S. He was thrilled to have someone to speak English with.

With a smile he asked, “Tell me, my son, what is it you wish to confess?”

“Well papa—I mean, father—I’ve never confessed before and don’t know where to start.”

“Well, think about the things you did that weren’t that great.”

“There are so many, father, but… I guess sometimes I was lazy when I should have worked harder.”
Boom. Found the trick. Keep it generic.

“Ah yes, that happens. And then?”

And then?! I really had to say more?

“Okay, okay… Well father, sometimes I was proud when I should have been more humble.”
Nice. Nailed it.

“Ah yes, my son, humility is important—especially since you’re getting married tomorrow.”

“Yes father, indeed. Oh and… yes… there were also the women, father. Sooo many women…!”
WHY? NOOOO.

He burst out laughing. And while still laughing said, “Yes, yes, I understand. But no more. Tomorrow you are a married man and must be dedicated to her, okay?”

“Yes, father…”
I didn’t feel the need to clarify that none of this was during our relationship. Good enough.

Confessional mission succeeded! I told Lidia, she laughed, and then regretted not making her own confession more entertaining. Always the shy one, but never to be underestimated.

After planning and organizing, we secured the date of our wedding and found a beautiful out-of-city house designed to embrace nature. Think one of those fancy Canadian chalets with huge windows that open to the world. And by “we” I mean Lidia—my Russian is rusty at best. I know “kartofel” (potato) and “svoboda” (freedom). Basically, I can feed myself and ask for liberty. My Russian is at a William Wallace level.

When the magical day came, my already-wife left me alone with her family. Thankfully, I have a great relationship with them, and her father and I share a similar sense of humor. She was out gallivanting with her friends, getting dressed and putting on makeup. As we arrived at the church—me taking family selfies and meeting with the only person on time, Lidia’s grandfather—I felt oddly calm. I love people who are on time. I tolerate people who are late. I hate people who are very late.

Lidia’s wedding theme was La Dolce Vita (yes, Fellini). Her grandfather came dressed to the nines without even trying—bowtie, elegant blazer, easily the most stylish man of the event. Charming regardless of age; I can only imagine the heartbreaker he must’ve been in his youth. He understood the assignment.

After a ceremony from which I understood nothing except for the two times the priest spoke English to me, we were married once again. First, during communion, he said “Drink more,” and I nearly choked as he tilted the cup upward—apparently we had to finish the whole thing. It wasn’t small. The second time he spoke was toward the end: “Kiss your wife.”

So if I learned anything from this sacred event, it’s that in life… you need to drink more and kiss your wife. That’s the secret of marriage, I think.

We followed with another photo session around Moscow. If you’ve never been, it’s breathtaking. Our guests were generous in sending us off with beautiful gifts to launch us into our future. And as we celebrated late into the evening, we stepped outside for fresh air and heard echoes of explosions on the horizon. A reminder of the uncertainty in that part of the world. We observed a moment of silence for tragedies unfolding—ones we didn’t choose. With that, our celebration slowly ended. The wine was gone, the food eaten, guests asleep.

The Cursed Suitcase

And so began our next adventure:

The cursed suitcase.

From the start—at the Moscow airport—the airline refused to charge us by extra bag and instead charged by the kilo. We had three suitcases plus carry-ons. Pegasus Airlines, in their pursuit of misery, decided 1200 USD was a fair price for our overweight luggage. Some say we were scammed. Maybe. Either way, it was shameful. The botox-filled dimwit at the counter who could barely drink water without spilling it on her face probably pocketed some of it. And with a big chunk of our wedding gifts burned instantly, we were off to Italy on more modest means.

To ITALY, I said—and botox-lip girl be damned! I would have my Cacio e Pepe in Roma!

Italy: Cacio e Pepe Before Disaster

Italy was simply… amazing. Rome, Sardinia, Venice. Friends, beaches, art, cold meats, museums, wine—unforgettable. We’ll return.

And while traveling, we decided to ship the cursed suitcase to Canada directly.

Oh, the mistake.
The incompetence.
The money lost.

I’ll place a gallery of our Rome photos here later and then pick up from where the cursed suitcase saga truly begins—our stay in Paris.

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Paris, FedEx, and Hunting a Suitcase

Arriving in Paris, exploring history, streets, and art, we soon received news about the cursed suitcase.

“Sir, something in the suitcase prevents us from sending it abroad. Is there makeup in it?”
“Are you serious… makeup?”
“Can you change the address to Paris instead?”
“No. It’s your responsibility to ensure there were no dangerous items.”
“But there aren’t! Not even perfume!”
“Well, we don’t know. FedEx is sending it back.”
“Back where?!”
“Back to where you sent it from.”
“Oh my god.”
“It’s not our responsibility. You have to handle it.”
“Then why did I pay you?”

And then… silence.

The suitcase was being sent back to our first hotel in Rome. The hotel refused the first pickup—understandably.

So in anger and frustration, from Paris, I booked a last-minute flight back to Rome to intercept the suitcase on Monday morning, as FedEx promised delivery. I even booked a return flight the same day. Yes. I flew back to Rome. I waited nearby the hotel with wine at 11 AM—sue me. And then FedEx delayed delivery to the next day.

OH. MY. GOD.

I was about to lose another ticket.
1200 USD to get the suitcase out of Moscow.
380 EUR to ship it.
450–500 EUR for the Rome round trip.
Not counting the wine.

All for a damn suitcase. Why? Because our wedding certificate was inside.

I know. Idiot.

After panicking, drinking, and calling Lidia, I eventually snapped at 11:37 AM:

“Fudge it, I’ll go find the suitcase myself.”

I went to a FedEx shop, begged the worker, and he found out it was in one of three fulfillment centers.

“One hour and a half away by car. They close at five. Lunch break until two. Good luck.”

Mission accepted.

Taxi. Heat. Waiting. Praying. Cigarette with a stranger.

At 2:06 PM the door opened.

“In cosa posso aiutarti?”
“Cercando la mia valigia… per favore.”
“Un minuto.”

He came back with a victory smile. “Lo preparo in 30 secondi.”

I almost cried. The cursed suitcase was found.

I scooped it up, took another taxi, ate Cacio e Pepe by the Trevi Fountain, and flew back to Paris.

Immigration Limbo: When Canada Said No

And then—another curveball.

Our immigration lawyer emailed us about Lidia’s visa refusal:

“I regret to inform you… incoherent reasons… inadequate justification for the refusal…”

When even your immigration lawyer can’t understand why, you know you’re screwed.

This was July 16th.

After crying a bit in Jardin du Luxembourg, we accepted our dwindling budget and burning savings. I flew to Canada while Lidia stayed in Paris until August 13th. I reunited with family and Milo, but couldn’t find a solution for us in Canada.

All we could do was wait—and we didn’t know where to wait.

Landing in the Dominican Republic with Almost Nothing

So on August 13th, I flew again—this time to meet Lidia in another country and figure things out. Help came from friends of my dad, who offered extremely affordable accommodations in the Dominican Republic, in Sosúa. They saved us more than they know.

We stayed with them for three weeks, two zombies trying to figure out how to make money and save what little we had left. My parents helped us financially too. And slowly, we met people, made connections, built friendships.

Thrown into Dominican Real Estate

I was quickly recruited into the Dominican real estate world. A cutthroat industry where everyone—grandma and dog included—is in real estate. But I joined an agency with an in-house lawyer and strict listing standards. I partnered with a hardworking new friend who lacked tech skills, so I built the website, created the social channels, and started hunting listings. Got plenty. Clients, not so much. Sales cycles are long. We were financially screwed.

Lidia and I often stared at the sea, or floated in the pool, wondering how on earth we’d pull through. But I kept my cool—after adding my salty tears to the ocean—and kept grinding, smiling, hiding our flickering life.

Oh, did I mention we also wanted a baby?
Yeah. Life.

Through many conversations, I connected with people from Casa Linda—a gated community of villas popular among Canadians and Americans. First Steven, the sales manager; then Silvia, the Italian marketing queen; then Colleen in Canada; then finally Eric, the owner. Before I knew it, I was in a three-way interview. My background, experience, creativity, and drive led them to offer me a job—because, as it turned out, they needed me as much as I needed them.

And so I became the sole marketing coordinator at Casa Linda—while also being a realtor. A full-time, well-paid job that let us rebuild our life in under three months. From zero to stability. A miracle, honestly.

From 0.11$ to a New Start

And little do people know, until now, that by the time my first paycheck arrived, our bank account balance was $0.11. We were too tired to cry by then.

So… what about Canada?

Well, we’re waiting. Anywhere from 12 months to March 2028—it’s unpredictable. In the meantime, Lidia is embracing her opportunity to become a full-time writer. And I’m betting on her to become the real breadwinner one day. Her stories deserve to be films. One day, actors will fight to be in them.

For now, I’m relieved to give us some breathing room while we figure out what comes next.

Oh, and did I mention I now have an EU passport because—hello—Romanian born? So maybe in 12 months, we’ll move to Europe instead of Canada, with a little bambino born on the beaches of the Dominican Republic. A real pirate baby. I say pirate because yesterday I was reading about pirate history in the region, and it’s fascinating. Pirates, rum, cigars. That’s the vibe here—when it’s not real estate.

Wedding Number Three: On Hold, Not Canceled

Well, that was the one due for Golden Week last October. It’s not canceled; it’s just postponed until Lidia and I are finally and officially in Canada—whenever that time comes. Because I do want to celebrate with my friends and family, and with all who can join us from around the world. Ideally, it will be an autumn thing, because Canada is beautiful and colorful during that time of year.

So that’s as far as we’ve gone since last May. I’m thinking of writing here more often—not to drive traffic but simply because I spend too much time on social media and need an outlet that doesn’t require metrics. So if you read this and enjoyed it, that’s good enough for me.

Until next time,
Dragos out!