My friends asked, “How far is Taiwan? How many hours do you have to sit in the plane?”
The apartment-hunting trip was a 24-hour flight, stopping over at the chaotic Chicago airport with awful signage, loud travelers, and unfriendly staff.
The relocation-trip was 21 hours, including 3 hours that were spent on trying to get through New York City alive. Never again will we fly from JFK! I forgot how many times I swore before.
– Breakfast: For a gazillionth time I said I had enough of bagels, pancakes, and frozen waffles. Now I eat congee and salty duck eggs for breakfast. Distance is measured by Bisquick and maple syrup.
– Songs: The sentimentals so softly sung by a male in the taxi radio makes me feel foreign. I typed in “pandora.com”. It does not serve Taiwan. I found Josh Groban. He does not sound right here.
– Books: We asked for bookstores and were introduced to a wonderful one, Eslite. Seeing an English copy of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid is like seeing our lawn at home.
– Smells: The supermarket called Welcome has everything we can possibly think of and the staff are even friendlier than Weggies’. For 20 years I hated the smells of the cheese counter. Now it is the cheese rack in Welcome that reads home.
Feeling distance is like feeling pain. It cannot be described. It is personal.