5 months and 3 weeks ago, I was sitting in a terminal at San Francisco International Airport as I anticipated the commencement of my escape plan. After a long awaited bittersweet goodbye to friends, family, and habits, I threw myself into an abyss while clinging tightly to hope and the two cumbersome suitcases that rolled alongside me. I was face to face with a fear that I had never been acquainted with before. An anxiety that, for once, was natural and expected. This was the first time ever moving away from the house I've lived in since birth. And what better place than the other side of the Pacific ocean?

The three summer months preceding this careless abandonment of home had been marked by late night escapism, lazy afternoons with pot and good company, and, of course, that much cherished "light at the end of the tunnel" feeling. It simply didn't get any better than that. Making every day count. Making every hour worthwhile. Taking in all the goodness that life had to offer. Of course, those are just the highlights. The rest will unravel with more selective nudges.

For now, I live week by week and paycheck to paycheck. I have a job that I like and it keeps me on my toes. I finally recognize the "little things" that everybody talks about and welcome them, often appreciating their scarcity. I am nearly halfway through my one year visa and nervously pondering the options. What to do, oh, what to do?