I thought that we'd look back on it and remember it as "the city we lived in for three years".
First of all, we were about to be dropped into a new country. And I have never lived anywhere but Canada.
And second... it's New York City.
This was seriously my image of Manhattan: tons of beautiful and fashionably dressed models with stunning high heels rushing around, looking fabulous at every moment of the day. I thought I would be the only one in flip flops.
Only a few hours after arriving in my new city, my perception of NYC (that was based on my imagination and a few movies) quickly changed.
Our apartment superintendent welcomed us with a smile and wonderfully thick accent, and we met all the folks who work in our building.
We began to discover all the tourist spots in the city with my husband's family (who drove down with us) and one of my very best friends.
But even after all of this... it still didn't feel like home.
Let's fast forward to a week later. Everybody's gone. It's just me and my husband and our little apartment.
I find a few, including "301 Questions You Should Ask on Your Interview" and leave.
I start walking down the street, sun streaming down on my face, books under my arm, and suddenly it hits me...
"I'm home. This is my city. I belong here."
My defining moment didn't happen when I saw my apartment for the first time. It didn't happen when I looked out on Manhattan from the top of the Empire State Building. It didn't happen when everyone visiting left and we were in our city alone. No, the moment Manhattan became home was when I rented my first library books.
I know that sounds super dorky. But it's true.
That day, a few weeks ago now, I walked back to our apartment feeling utterly joyful, and all I could think was "I'm home. I'm home! I'M HOME!"
great heartfelt story
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