The Great Cheese Crisis Of An Expat In The Philippines

Being an expat in the Philippines is not always easy. People often think the biggest challenges must be the heat, the humidity, the traffic, the paperwork, or the mysterious ability of a rooster to start his concert at 3:47 in the morning.

But no.

After years of careful observation, deep personal suffering, and several emotional supermarket visits, I have identified the real challenge.

Cheese.

Yes, cheese.

Not the weather. Not the bureaucracy. Not even the karaoke machine next door that seems to have a personal grudge against silence.

Cheese.

Now, before anyone gets me wrong: food in the Philippines is not generally bad. Quite the opposite. There is good food everywhere. There are dishes full of flavour, fresh seafood, tropical fruits, and meals that can make you very happy. Filipino food has its own charm, its own soul, and sometimes enough garlic to protect an entire village from vampires.

But then comes the German inside me.

And the German inside me whispers one word:

“Käse.”

Cheese.

Back in Germany, cheese was not a luxury item. Cheese was normal life. Cheese was waiting in the supermarket like a trusted old friend. There were shelves full of it. Long shelves. Beautiful shelves. Shelves that looked like a dairy version of paradise.

You did not ask yourself, “Can I afford this cheese?”

You asked yourself, “Do I want Gouda, Emmental, Camembert, Brie, Tilsit, Bergkäse, Butterkäse, blue cheese, goat’s cheese, or that strange one with herbs that I bought once and never fully understood?”

The real problem in Germany was choice. Standing in front of the cheese section could become a philosophical experience. You could enter the supermarket young and full of hope, and leave twenty minutes later with three kinds of cheese and a new opinion about life.

In the Philippines, the experience is slightly different.

Here, you approach the cheese section with caution. Slowly. Respectfully. Like someone entering a jewellery shop without being properly dressed.

There it is.

A small piece of cheese.

Wrapped in plastic.

Sitting quietly.

Looking innocent.

Then you see the price.

And suddenly you understand why security guards exist.

Good cheese is available, yes. But the price can be so dramatic that you start checking whether it comes with land, a small car, or at least a personal thank-you letter from the cow.

You pick it up. You look at it. You put it back. You pick it up again. You calculate. You pretend to compare other products. But in reality, you are asking yourself serious questions.

Can we still pay the electricity bill?

Will this affect retirement?

Is one slice worth emotional bankruptcy?

Could I simply smell it through the packaging and go home?

Of course, there are usually a few options. Two or three brands. Sometimes an Australian cheese that, with all due respect, does not exactly make my German heart sing hymns of joy. Then there is often a local option, which I personally would describe as “cheese-related”. It has the colour of cheese, the shape of cheese, and the ambition of cheese.

But ambition alone does not make cheese.

Then come the European options. This is where things get complicated. In Germany, I would probably walk past some of these cheeses without even slowing down. They would be the emergency cheese. The “all shops are closed, and guests are coming” cheese. The cheese you buy when your first, second, and third choices are sold out.

But here in the Philippines?

Suddenly, this average European cheese stands there like royalty.

It has crossed oceans. It has survived customs. It has travelled further than many people I know. And now it demands respect. Financial respect.

A piece of cheese that would be a humble discount supermarket option in Germany now has the confidence of a luxury product. It sits in the chiller with the attitude of gold bullion.

And there I am, staring at it, thinking:

“Yes, technically I can buy you. We will not end up on the street. We will still have a roof over our heads tomorrow. But morally? Emotionally? Economically? I am not sure.”

In the past, I had a solution. A comforting thought. A survival strategy.

I told myself: “Never mind. Soon I will fly to Germany again. Then I will eat cheese properly. I will stand in front of a German supermarket shelf and choose like a free man. I will buy cheese without doing mathematics. I will eat it without guilt. I will not whisper apologies to my wallet.”

Germany was always there, waiting in the background like a giant cheese reserve.

And the reason to fly there was always my mother.

She was home. She was the connection. The reason. The person who made Germany not just a country from my past, but a place I still returned to.

Since she passed away, that has changed.

Now Germany feels different. The thought of going back no longer feels connected to comfort and familiar places. It has become quieter. More complicated. Less obvious.

And with that, even my cheese strategy has collapsed.

This is the part nobody tells you about expat life. You do not only miss food. You miss the world around the food. The people. The reasons. The rituals. The normality of walking into a supermarket and buying something ordinary without it becoming a symbol of distance, memory, and international dairy economics.

So now I stand in a supermarket in the Philippines, holding a small piece of overpriced cheese, and it is no longer just cheese.

It is Germany.

It is childhood breakfasts.

It is evening bread.

It is my mother.

It is the strange luxury of ordinary things.

And still, because life must go on, I sometimes buy it.

Not always. I am not reckless.

But sometimes.

I take the tiny golden treasure home, open it carefully, and cut slices so thin they could almost be used for scientific research. I place them on bread, eat slowly, and try not to calculate the price per bite.

For a few moments, I am happy.

Then I look at the remaining piece and immediately become a responsible adult again.

Because being an expat in the Philippines teaches you many things. Patience. Flexibility. Humour. Appreciation. The ability to survive humidity. The art of accepting that some things from home will never be the same.

And above all, it teaches you this:

Never take affordable cheese for granted.