I know I've been particularly whiny recently and I also realise I seem to complain about being back in Singapore alot. But I think it mainly does come down to the process of moving to a new place, finding people to hang out with again and just generally feeling disoriented.
My first six months in Australia were terrible. I was lonely and cold had never experienced winter before. All my close friends seemed so far away and I longed for friendly faces and loving hugs and for the sun. I didn't know where to buy stuff, where to find the things I wanted to eat; the city seemed so foreign, so cold.
It's the same experience all over again. Really, it is.
Except that now I think about the ski trip I could have taken, cake and hot chocolate with friends in warm cafes and lazy weekend morning brunches. I see on facebook the dinner parties and gatherings I missed out on and ache.
Singapore changes so much and so quickly that it seems like a foreign city despite having grown up here. My home is the same, but the city morphs into a different creature every six months. I miss my friends, my friday night group, Boy and my girl groups from school, work and church. I kept asking myself, all through the last two weeks, if it was worth it to give all that up to move back.
There isn't a good answer to the question. There is only a story, rather a patchwork assortment of stories.
The story of how my mum, my sister and I met for lunch at a cafe to celebrate her birthday last week. The story of old friends meeting after 2, 5 or 10 years over coffee or drinks. The story of new shoes and the finding of a lovely new restaurant come back to.
Finally, the story of family and the cousin who drove me to the air freight centre to pick up my boxes and patiently and uncomplainingly helped me through the frustrating process of extracting them out of the warehouse and into my home.