is something I wonder about each time I do the drastic deed and yank myself out of a space I’ve already nested in–packing my bags, shedding most treasured things, unfastening myself from reliable routes and even more reliable loves. I know myself to be a creature of habit, and so I suppose my habit of moving means I am also a masochist, flinging myself into situations that involve staple sources of anxiety. This move in particular, because it comes with a major switch in time zone, climate, and overall atmosphere, brought out the best in my worries, including but not limited to: flying (I love to travel but have a hard time enduring long flights, long lines, and the general confusion of airports), heavy lifting (an inevitable part of international relocation, and in this case, luggage almost double my weight), reading maps (I can’t for the life of me read a map without orienting it according to where I stand, a process that involves a lot of pausing in the middle of the sidewalk and spinning around–of the map, of myself–all the while proclaiming to the world of strangers how probinsyana I am), and taking public transport based on my hazy sense of direction (with matching struggle to suppress deer-in-the-headlights look).
Despite all anxieties, I am here, finally, and now comes my nth round of nesting, a process both heartbreaking and exciting. With record-breaking speed, I have almost kicked jet lag. Thanks to the help of old friends and new, I have assembled my new work desk, am now the proud owner of a rice cooker, and have had enough to eat without yet flexing my muscles in the cooking department. I now have a suking Indian restaurant, a suking secondhand bookstore, and a cell phone plan that allows unlimited international texting. Now if I can only get around to unpacking.