I have noticed that some ex-pats seem to have spent the last few months in their home city paying homage in some way – favorite museums, restaurants, parks, etc. – and that they made a conscious effort to say goodbye to their home before leaving.
But not me. I spent the last months working, packing, and stressing about the big move. I spent time with family and friends, but I ignored
I’ve said before, I had what you might call a love/hate relationship with
Despite my seething hatred for
The last week leading up to my departure was extremely busy. There wasn’t enough time to do the things that needed to be done. I slept every night in horror that something, somehow, would be forgotten, lost forever.
Finally, I was on the plane headed for
As the plane started moving down the runway, I had a last minute fear that something had been left behind. As the plane started to take off, I looked out the window, and realized, I had left something behind. My city. The place that had been my home for the best and worst years of my life. As I watched the city disappear beneath me in a swirl of clouds, I began to cry.