Moving has never been easy for anyone. Well, most people, and especially not for me. Let me explain. First there's all the packing and labeling to do. And getting used to the fact that your days wherever you are, are numbered. Then you have to get on with spreading the news of the move and making your last memories. Then goodbyes. I passionately hate them. The tears, mostly fake, and a whole lot of promising to keep in touch, usually forgotten by the time your second week away is done. My claustrophobia doesn't help with traveling by land or air. Then you have to unpack and find your way around a new neighborhood. I loathe the traditional 'meet the new neighbours', when I'm virtually blackmailed by my mum into dressing up for a very formal dinner to get to know our neighbours. You have to make friends all over again, get used to a new school and suffer the heartaches of a long-distance relationship. Oh, and you may have to learn new languages and get used to weird tastes on the menu. Well, for someone who has a politician slash ambassador for a dad and a top designer for a mum, I must be totally used to it by now but I'm not. They had me on the second move, a year after their wedding, and after that eight more moves. So I've been in four different countries from the one I was born in, in two different continents and I speak about six other languages apart from my mother tongue. People expect me to be a move expert by now but that's the exact opposite. I hate moving and I think it sucks. But that's how this story begins.
