Landed after a long 5 hours of flight, I had so much energy and excitement. I even had enough energy to heave all 23kg of my suitcase into the Uber’s trunk, all by myself. Watching the city of Vancouver pass by through the car window, I thought about what I could do with the rest of the evening. The sky was a clear, pristine blue, with occasional clumps of white sheep-shaped clouds cloaking the far-away mountains like a fur scarf. It was a glorious day, and I hoped it would stay that way for the entire month I’d spend here for my clinical rotation.
What I saw later, at the house I’d live in for the rest of the month, was nothing of the sort.
I’m a homebody. Nothing changes that. No matter how much excitement I feel exploring new places, traveling to different corners of the world, at the end of the day I need time to recharge, at home.
Home can be made. It’s a self-constructed concept. Home isn’t always my actual bedroom, with my two cats, soft bedding, and thick wool socks.
I’ve always been an easy-going person about living arrangements. I’ve gone camping, stayed in backpacker hostels where you share the toilet with strangers and your bed is a hard surface. I’m much more easy-going than my brother and my mother, who need a comfortable bed and a clean bathroom wherever we travel. This laxity of mine is something I’m proud of—it means one less barrier to where I can go.
Or so I thought.
At 25, the “rumoured” age my frontal lobe is supposedly fully developed, the year I officially become a functional (maybe) adult, I’ve noticed some changes in myself. I’m no longer immune to any living space.
Here I am, standing at the door of the rented house my parent’s friend offered me for free. I kept reminding myself: I got it for free, in a city where places are hard to come by, where rent is probably much higher than what I’ve been paying in Guelph. Yet the sight in front of me did a much better job staying at the forefront of my mind.
The house looked like nobody had lived there in months. Stacks of toilet paper, plastic bags, random boxes, bottled water, all scattered around the living room in places one wouldn't have thought to put them. The wooden floor, which I imagined must have once looked gleaming, had black, sticky stains all over, as if someone spilled soda, stepped on it, and walked away without bothering to clean the mess. I couldn’t bear to leave my shoes at the door like a true Asian. My ancestors probably would have insisted otherwise if they’d seen this floor.
I looked further inside. Dishes sat in the sink, looking like whoever used them last had moved out and forgotten about them three months ago. Spiders and fruit flies seemed to be the only residents.
A moment later, a girl came out of her room: small, glasses, dark straight hair, pale skin that made me think she hadn’t seen much sun lately. Turned out she was Vietnamese too. Thank God, someone at least. She looked aghast, like she hadn’t known I was moving in today. She showed me around. She’d only moved in a couple months earlier and didn’t seem too thrilled about the state of the house either. I guessed she’d had the same reaction I was having now (who wouldn’t?), but hadn’t bothered fixing anything since she didn’t plan to stay long.
What do I even do?
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Usually I would, especially with a bed already in the room. But there were no clean blankets, and I couldn’t wash them since someone else in the house (not the Viet girl) was doing laundry all night. I thought, why bother, it was a hot day anyway, and my room had no AC, no vent, just that thick, stifling oi bức feeling hanging in the air. It got colder as the night went on, but I was too tired to get up, so I settled with a jacket over my feet and another around my torso. At 5 am, I finally gave up and muddle around, just to find out that there was a heater knob near the door (stoopid).
I dreamed of my bed and my thick, soft comforter. I yearned for Mun and Luna, how they’d snuggle against me through the night. I wouldn’t even mind them waking me up early now, if it meant being close to their warm, balled-up bodies.
The next day, I tallied it up. An uncomfortable bedroom. A dirty house. A kitchen too horrendous to cook in (and I love cooking). A toilet I felt icky using. No snuggle buddies. It didn’t help that I’d bought groceries for meal prepping and there was barely room in the fridge—a huge two-door fridge, being used by exactly one other person. And now I’d be spending more money eating out, in a city that’s already expensive, instead of cooking for myself like I normally do.
So I broke.
I called my mom. It was nice, because she was the one who named all the things that had been bothering me, after only 15 minutes of me ranting. She’s the best at pointing out things in such specific detail that you feel validated for a feeling you couldn’t even name. I didn’t know living arrangements could get under my skin like this until now.
My mom’s solution showed exactly how well she knows me: go get a good meal. Anytime I move somewhere unfamiliar, there are new things to adjust to, and with the state of this place, I’d be struggling to feel steady this whole week. So the priority was making myself feel better first, even if that meant eating out, just for this week.
I’m a saver, not a spender, so this thought terrified me a little. But my mom reminded me that eating out for one week isn’t a habit I’m locking myself into, it’s a short-term investment in staying sane.
That evening, I got myself a good bowl of miến gà. This is basically chicken soup for the soul if you’re Vietnamese. The best part of this whole area is how much good Asian and Vietnamese food is around. The bowl warmed me up instantly. I slept through the night, with clean blankets, the heater on, and without stirring once.
The next morning, I woke up early, having gotten a true 8-hour sleep. I made myself a mug of milk Earl Grey tea, walked to the nearby Cantonese bakery, and found they had the Macau-style egg tart I’ve always loved. I got that, plus a cheese-blueberry bun: sweet, fruity, soft, so pillowy it felt like I was chewing on the clouds of the Vancouver sky. I walked home under the sunlight, a little spring in my step, listening to a bird call I didn’t recognize: a Northern flicker. And that was today.
So I tallied it up again. A bakery selling the cheapest, tastiest baked goods ten minutes from my house. Multiple Vietnamese restaurants nearby. A free room for the month. Housemates who, despite everything, lend me what I don’t have. And loved ones who show up for me even from hours and miles away.
That sweet bun was exactly the power-up I needed. The daggers can come now. I’ve got a full stomach and clean blankets. Let them try.