We moved to Vancouver in August 2016. I've never been to Vancouver before, but when we first got off the plane at YVR's Arrival, it was nothing like Beijing's T3, but the staff was friendly and the airport felt warm and welcoming, crowded with people of different colors and wearing different clothes, carrying different things; "it's just an airport" I thought, "doesn't mean anything, everything will be the same here, just like what dad said." And you know what they say, "daddy's always right!" The flight was smooth with only a couple of small nudges here and there, and the landing, man, the landing was phenomenal ---- everyone applauded for that landing ---- and while smiling and clapping, we felt a sense of belonging. I was excited and exhausted when we finally got out of the airport, through the custody and all the paperwork. I wanted to rest; I imagined there will be a perfect bed waiting for me in a perfectly polished house, just like everytime in hotels in Japan, Korea, Europe... Every time when we travel ---- better, actually, because this time, it will be my new home. My parents' friend came to pick us up, and as we drove through the already-turning-red maple trees and clusters of giant trees, good, I thought, perfectly organic and Canadian, this should be fun. After running to the supermarket a block away and changing the batteries, the keys finally worked, opening into the lobby. There were four matching Matcha green sofas and a fake furnace with shiny plastic orange lights. The lobby led to two long hallways and two elevators; this all looked vaguely familiar, and the idea finally hit me when we reached our apartment door with "116" written on a metal board ---- this all looked too much like a hotel and nothing like a home. I ran up and opened the door, hoping something drastically different would be inside, like what happened in Narnia or Coraline (alright maybe not this one). If Emily Dickinson called hope "the thing with feathers," I think it has been plucked, seasoned, roasted, and served on a silver platter in my heart. My brother yelled "cool!" and dashed in; my mom took off her glasses; my dad sighed and said, "This. Is all... temporary." The walls were a pale white color with messy brushstrokes of grey, the floor looked like it hasn't been cleaned for centuries, you can find balls of grey fur and candy wrappers everywhere, and in the middle of everything was a sad looking purple sofa-bed with a broken upper left leg. The place spelled out despair for you nice and clear. It was the definition and textbook example of what's not suitable for human habitation. I have never wanted to come to Canada. The decision was made for me. My friends, my grandparents, aunts, pets.... everything familiar was left back home ---- my life was back there. My mom came closer and hugged me. "I understand," she said, "I know, it's hard for you. It's hard for all of us; it's hard for anyone who has had the experience... an opportunity, the blessing, to see a bigger world. We didn't want to leave either, but this is the best choice made. Sometimes we'll have to sacrifice some old memories to make new ones." At the time, I didn't really think much about what she said. Why couldn't we hold onto the past and move forward at the same time? Thinking back, when I was acting childishly hysterical in the middle of that dusty apartment, pessimistic with no hope whatsoever, I was dragging a shipping container-full of old memories and nostalgia. In reality, I didn't lose anything, while the past adds to me, it doesn't define who I really am.