Things I should have brought with me from California for my first week of survival in Toronto:
- Towels
- An umbrella
- Small set of utensils so I can eat like a civilized human
- Comfortable underwear and socks with structural integrity
- Extension cords
- Pants that are NOT jeans or short
Things I actually brought with me from California because I have 0 foresight and thought “These are the things that spark joy! I must bring them to Canada!” while also thinking “I’m not packing my essentials until the last day I leave!”
- Scrap book I’ve kept since Summer ‘19
- Lacy Victoria’s Secret panties that give you wedgies the whole day (a.k.a. bottom of the barrel underwear)
- A VASE I made from my pottery classes (a sizeable one too)
- My entire collection of jeans and denim (Did you know denim on denim is ON this season in Toronto?)
- Cat themed gifts my friends got me from their recent travels to Taiwan and Japan
So yes, here I am, eating from cardboard box tables and sleeping on the ground. Today marks the start of week 3 in Toronto. (Edit: Well, I procrastinated on editing this story, so I’m actually 6 weeks in. How time flies!) 2 weeks down, 50 more weeks to go until I return to California (allegedly). I have spent my past two weeks running left and right trying to get myself set up to live in a completely different country. Canada (or maybe it’s a Toronto thing) has an absurdly complicated renting process that I have grossly overlooked when I gave myself two short weeks to find a place.
In the US, the process goes more or less like “Come in. Take a look. You like the place? Read and sign the lease. Bada bing, Bada boom — here’s your key.” In Canada, everybody has an agent. I have an agent. My landlords have an agent. The whole process feels like a game of telephones. I talk to my agent to schedule viewings. She contacts other agents to see if the unit’s available. Two hours later, she tells me it is. We go see the unit together. I tell her I like the unit. She reaches out to — not to the landlord but — the landlord’s agent and extends a bid. I wait in my Airbnb, nervously biting my nails. My agent tells me to write a letter to the landlord to add a personal touch to my application. I begrudgingly cook up something (Thanks ChatGPT!) that makes me sound like a responsible adult with reasonable hobbies that do not include ax throwing at the living room wall. Thankfully, my letters worked and I got the place I wanted (My landlord specifically said she loved the letter). but it was definitely a whirlwind, more emotionally draining than I thought.
But the place! The place is gorgeous. The moment you step into the living room, you get a panoramic view of Toronto — Lake Ontario to the left and the CN tower to the right. Amidst my wiping and cleaning, I would stop so many times just to look out and just stare into the city skyline. It is beautiful. I feel safely tucked away, twenty something floors above the hustle and bustle, feeling cozy in my own sanctuary that I build solely for myself. I wonder if I’ll ever live in a city apartment like this ever again. Probably not. (For someone who’s born in Seoul, arguably the best metropolitan area in the world, I am not a huge fan of city life. I like my personal space.) So I decided to cherish it. I make the conscious decision to try and love this weird detour in my life. I want to miss my time in Toronto at the end of this year.
In my transition to Toronto, I realized how much love and care I received from people. Those who told me it’s just gonna be a year and you’ll have loads of fun. Friends who jokingly offered themselves or their best friends for a Green Card marriage(!). Best friends who got lost with me in the storage facility trying to find my storage unit. Canadian friends who invited me on my first historical night out here. New friends who helped me move into my Toronto apartment. Time to time, I’d wonder what I did to deserve all the care. Some long lived anxiety I picked up somewhere in my life screams “No! You cannot receive all this love. You are being a burden.” When those thoughts arise, I have to stop and remind myself that all I need to be thankful, that I’d do the same and more for them when the chance arises, and that all I need to do is receive. All I need to do is receive.
Me being the Swiftie that I am, I have been religiously listening to The Tortured Poet’s Department ever since its release. And among the Anthology, [I can do it with a broken heart] has been the anthem of my move. Amidst the emotional rollercoaster that was the visa lottery system and saying good bye to San Francisco, I had to — quite literally — move along. While it is no sold out stadium tours or Billboard record breaking album, in my broken heartedness I did make it here to Canada while being a functioning adult with a job. And as Taylor put it, you know you’re good if you can do it with a broken heart. It’s not the shiny state of “being good”, not the smartest person in the room kind of good, but it a self-proclaimed state of being good. A holistic sense of “good” achieved by managing to stay afloat despite my high tides. And knowing that I am good made me feel better. Try and come for my job — and that job is being an immigrant squared.
Anyway, that is me. I am in Toronto now.
