What it also comes with, however, is a lot of less-than-ideal mind-numbing logistics.
After translating and filling out god knows how many different versions of paperwork, my brain is a wash with pending registrations and pages-long checklists with only a tiny few things crossed off so far.
So now at the end of my first week, I sit in my mostly unfurnished bedroom longing for something that can give me a sliver of my life that didn't exist in limbo.
Suddenly, I have an overwhelming craving for one of my favorite comfort foods: Congee, a thick luscious bowl of rice porridge that never fails to make me feel like everything is going to be okay. I discovered congee during my last big move to New York, where a friend who grew up eating it cooked me a bowl on the lunch break of a particularly difficult service shift. For such a humble grain, rice has always been the food I turn to in times of need. As a child, my mum would cook it perfectly salty with a good slab of Irish butter to ease my sick tummy, nourishing me with the strength to go on.
So now I lift my sorry self from my air mattress, grab the bag of Rice Crafter's Selenio and labour over the delicious rice porridge, adding in some ginger, garlic and scallion for extra warmth. Just as it finishes cooking, I grab the (now sad-looking) fresh mint I bought earlier in the week, throw it in a mug and pour in hot water, making a tea exactly as I would as if I picked it from my parents' garden at home.
Then finally I sit down with my warm vessels, pull out my phone and play Nina Simone’s cover of Who Knows Where the Time Goes (a shared favourite song of mine and my mum) and finally feel like everything is going to be okay.