July 2020. 

We said our goodbyes to Tokyo. Behind some of those windows we found our home for four years. 

Our belongings disappeared into a container and were shipped. We wouldn't see them for some months. I felt decluttered. 
It felt light.

But I could not deny that the past few weeks had been tough. Not knowing what. Or when. Or what if. And maybe. The goodbyes. The last coffees. Without hugs. Not being able to really meet friends, because of COVID. How to say your goodbyes 2 meters apart from each other with a facemask on. 

It felt like leaving through the back door. 

I tore a piece of my heart, again, and left it behind.
It's always been my Tokyo-people that turned Tokyo into our home. Now I could not see their faces and I don't know when I'll see them again.
It's another scar on my heart.
 It won't heal completely, and the wound will burst some times but will make me into who I am. 

the waiting
the waiting
The airports were empty during their otherwise overcrowded summer peak. 
We were some of the very few that traveled.
And we traveled only because we had to.

Corridors were spooky scenes of a movie. 
Shops were closed.
Airplanes half empty...
The flight attendants dressed like medical staff in a laboratory.
This must have been the weirdest summer to move... 
We spent one month in transit, in Norway. In between posts. In the safety of known places yet with our mind in our own world. Out of Tokyo, into Norway, on our way to Beijing. Quarantine in this area of the world was not a bad thing at all. We went for walks 'in the neighbourhood', we didn't see many people, we breathed fresh air straight from a cool northern wind. We were rejuvenating our lungs and souls. 

We were also houseless. We knew where we were heading to and we were looking forward to getting there. Not having a physical place we can call 'home' is an interesting concept, but as long as we know where we belong, it felt ok. 

So we were sucking the air into our bodies, waking up to the sounds of seagulls and sheep. We were listening to the northern wind and the rain, hoping they would silence our questions.

We were recharging, getting ready for the chaos of starting from scratch in a new city, a new country, a new language in August.
August 2020. We still had so many questions, and it felt unnatural and wrong to answer 'we don't know' to the questions of our children. It felt wrong not to know, but there was no way we could.

Understandably, a lot of measures were in place to prevent the virus from coming back to Beijing, where the virus had been eradicated and schools already reopened end of June 2020. 

We were preparing by self-isolation and taking a COVID test before we boarded a flight. Then we were of course to do the obligatory 14 days quarantine to be sure we were not carrying the virus into the country. But how would it go? What could happens if... Would we be in a quarantine hotel room together? What if one of us gets ill during the quarantine? Will doctors speak English? What's the Health Kit App? How often will we be tested? What kind of tests? Nose? Throat? Buttom? Blood? We were simply handing over the control over our lives to others, in a landscape where rules changed so quickly, and each sleepless night brought us closer to getting onto that plane.

I said I was not stressed, but I admit now that was a big lie.  

And yet, we had to get ready to start.
I had to be ready to discover this new country. 
I had to be ready for the normal yet frustrating downs because I knew there would be ups too.

And after a while, the downs will be forgotten and the city will feel as home.
... as long as I embrace every challenge, everything will be fine. 

But until then, I just wanted to wake up to the sound of seagulls and sheep... 

And from here, our Chinalife starts... 




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