It's a melancholy sort of day. Low clouds block out any memory of blue sky. Every now and then a cloud gets a bit too full and spills the goods, dousing whatever happens to be below. Sunlight is diffused, leaving everything in shadow, washed in gray. I'm perched in my window seat with a book on Macau history, watching partially loaded container ships and tiny fishing sampans cross the harbour.
Today marks three months since I boarded a plane and left America. I only know this because I happened to check the calender. The first nine weeks in Macau, I could tell you exactly how long we'd been here. Week ten was an invisible boundary line clouding my precise memory. People would ask how long I'd been here, and I could only give a vague answer... around two months... maybe?
With each previous international relocation, we had a definite end date. We had plane reservations already booked and ready to take us away from our temporary home. This time? Totally different. There is no end date to count down to. Our flights were booked one way fare.
I had a honeymoon period upon arrival in Macau. A time where I was both thrilled to be reunited with my husband who'd been here three months without us and thrilled to be a in a new place, meeting new people, and filling my brain with a dozen new things each hour. I think that period may have passed at week ten as well.
Even though the honeymoon is over, I don't love Macau any less. If anything, I find compelling reasons to stay here each and every day. The white-hot thrill has passed, but contentment flourishes. My best explanation? This obscure place transformed from being a foreign and exotic land into something far more more commonplace: home.