The Emotions of Arriving:

We arrived on a Sunday afternoon – no easy task with 17 bags – and spent most of Sunday and Monday trying to adjust to the 8 hour difference, and recover from the hectic sleepless week of packing. Once we pushed ourselves to get out and start looking for apartments on Tuesday, we quickly felt a bit overwhelmed.

I can sum up the feelings by this description:

It felt as if someone had smacked me in the face, punched me in the stomach, and ripped off my socks.



The combinations of:
- jetlag,
-the constant stream of adjustments to everything from the warm mineral water, (I somehow could not find a cold glass of spring water,)
-to the feeling of being a tourist and saying and wearing the wrong things,
-and the shock of seeing our first round of flat lettings felt like a huge shock and weight.

How and why did we give up our sweet house, and fun life in San Francisco to come to this dark place where we may have to live in an unbelievably small flat and choose from things like having either a dining room table or more than one closet.

The apartments are TINY – and the neighborhood in which we wanted to live, Marylebone, is 80% owned by one estate. This man left this estate to his 3 daughters, who then have broken it up and now rent it out. The majority of these apartments are unfurnished. Fun times for us as we just brought our clothes.

I do not want to feel as if I am complaining. I know this will get better – but the shock of it all is daunting. Going through this at times with someone else makes it a bit more difficult but all the better . Alone, I could bury myself in bed, feeling sorry for myself – as a team TJ and take turns telling the other person that it will be OK, that we will be happy here, and that it will have been worth it.

I need to express it, maybe that will help me get it out and quit my bitching:
everything is different – that is amazing and frustrating. I am tired of eating out – everything is ghastly expensive and we don’t get paid in pounds for at least a few more weeks so every dollar we take out immediately turns into fifty cents – my stomach is killing me – I cannot sleep – everyone talks to me, (or my sensitive nature makes me feel like they are talking to me,) like I am either a bit deaf or slow, I don’t know of one person besides my husband that I can call to do anything with – and I don’t know if I’ll like it yet.

Kind of like someone has slapped me in the face, punched me in the stomach and ripped off my socks.