A few months ago, two good friends of mine relocated from Bali to Chicago, after almost fifteen years living abroad. They’ve been planning this move for a long time, because you don’t just pick up and move all your furniture and your two-year-old halfway around the world without putting some thought into it.

Since they first broached the subject of moving, I think I’ve been more excited about it than they have. They are sad about leaving the beautiful island they’ve called home for so long, apprehensive about how socially conservative the climate here has grown since they’ve been away, and disappointed at giving up their lifestyle, which included a live-in housekeeper and plenty of opportunity for travel. I, on the other hand, am thrilled that they will be close enough to visit and jealous that they get to move to my favorite city. I keep talking up Chicago, telling them how much they’ll love being in a big, vibrant, diverse city. They react as though I’m saying, “Don’t worry, the re-education camp will be loads of fun!”

Last night, I visited my friends in their new home. They’ve both teachers, so they had that stunned beginning-of-the-school year look that I remember so well. Moving and starting a new teaching job may well be the Perfect Storm of emotional upheaval. It brought back horrifying memories of my first day teaching in Florida, when I found out that my first paycheck would be delayed a month, and I only had enough money for two more weeks; my first day teaching in Tunisia, when I had amoebic dysentery and discovered that the faculty toilets were strictly “bring-your-own-toilet-paper”; my first day teaching in Pennsylvania, when I noticed one of my students carrying around a copy of Mein Kampf.

You would think that in the fullness of time, I would be able to chuckle softly over those memories, but looking at my friends’ tired faces, I couldn’t help blurting out, “Man, I don’t miss this at all.”