all my belongings

It's harder than I ever imagined it would be.

Half a year ago, when I was over here visiting before I moved, I found myself in tears in a supermarket. I had planned to cook dinner for a friend but I didn't know where to start. I couldn't visualise the kitchen where I would be creating the unspecified masterpiece. I didn't know the contents of the cupboards, of the fridge, I didn't know what staple ingredients were already on hand. I wasn't sure what selection of cooking utensils would be available to me.

It required me to start from scratch. To conjure up in my mind all the ingredients I could possibly need. Not just the meat, not just the vegetables, but the sauces and the spices and the condiments. Flour, oil, butter.

I was standing in the midst of what I later discovered was categorised as a hypermarket. All I knew was that it was big, it was bright, and they sold goldfish and hula hoops right alongside bread and milk. The concept was foreign and the packaging was unfamiliar. I didn't recognise brand names or labels. No longer was I in a place where, with a quick scan of the aisles, I could make my selections and be out the door in minutes. I had to read everything, first to figure out what the product was, then to find out if it fit my requirements.

I could go on, but it is enough to simply say I had a miniature meltdown (though so composed you wouldn't have noticed it had you been looking) right there in the fresh meat section while holding a packet of steak. My mind blanked, my optimism plummeted and my companion looked at me in frustration.

How could I explain? How could I put into words how utterly defeated I felt when we were simply shopping for groceries? How incompetent I had been struck at a task I've been finding effortless for a decade.

This should have been my first warning.

My second came months later, sitting on a train hurtling my way from Toronto to Windsor on my third day in the country. I wasn't even at my final destination when I wrote, somewhat guiltily, that I already wanted to go home. That I was done with my adventure before it had started. Of course it was too late for regret and it was merely a thought that I hoped would be fleeting. I was still green, looking to dive in and make the most of this.

I suspected it would be hard. But I also expected the greatness to overwhelm whatever doubts and struggles I encountered. I was prepared to write home with stories of adventure, of laughter, of love and of exhilaration.

I had no idea that it would lead me to some of the darkest months of my life.

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In June of this year I sold all of my furniture, and my (first and only) car of ten years. I said goodbye to all of my friends, and I headbutted my cat for the last time.






I packed all my belongings into two suitcases and I stepped on a plane in Christchurch, New Zealand, at some time before dawn.

Countless security checks, queues, departure lounges and aircraft changes later, I arrived in Toronto, Canada. I had a newly issued work visa that was valid for a year, the phone number of a friend, and terribly flat hair. At least my luggage arrived safely.

Fast forward two months, though they have passed painfully slowly.

It occurs to me that I should have started this blog back then, when it was all new and fresh and my observations were still made in wonder. But this is the product of desperation. I need another outlet, and a way to keep in touch in a slightly impersonal way.

That may sound strange - after all, isn't a blog the more intrusive, vulnerable option? But the way I see it, this requires less from me. I can update without having to reply to emails, without having to censor my words or cast my stories in different lights with the individual recipients in mind. This does not demand much of me, which is very well because I do not have much to give right now.

Besides, maybe it'll keep me more transparent. Something that has long been my downfall and my isolator. Because updates to friends have been scant. To family, even less. I'm supposed to be having the time of my life. Admitting that I'm not tastes a little too much like failure for me to readily do.

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This is too long, and too heavy for a first post. I'm just trying this out, anyway.