Even though I'd been coming over for visits for over a decade, the first couple of years were tough.
Everything -- absolutely EVERYthing -- is a learning experience for a while.
When I speak, strangers start and turn to look at me. Not entirely a bad thing -- it can be an easy icebreaker if you want to strike up a conversation -- but, you know, it's a daily reminder I'm a stranger in a strange land. I'll never lose this accent, either.
I hate, hate, HATE driving here. We live out in the country, the roads are narrow and twisty with no shoulders, oncoming traffic on one side, a lethal dropoff into a drainage ditch on the other, and people go flying up and down at unsafe speeds. Huge articulated lorries from the Continent halfway in my lane. Brrrrr.
I'm not picking up enough work to pay my way, so I'm dependent financially. I feel like a kid, and not in a good way.
I don't even let myself think about home. I have no family ties to the place I lived for the last thirty years, so I'll almost certainly never see it again.
BUT. I still regard this move as absolutely the right thing to have done. I knew all along that the first few years would be rough (I'm two and a half years in) and it gets easier by the day. We live in a beautiful place and people have been wonderful to me.
I'm going to complain? No, I'm not.