Empty Cabinets
What I learned from moving abroad for a job and then quitting after a month.
I stare into my kitchen cabinet, and the cup of instant noodles is the only thing staring back at me. The monotony of my meals is the only thing boring in my life. After impulsively accepting a job in Amsterdam, I planned and executed the move within three weeks. I was a pro at starting a new in a foreign country. I was addicted to the excitement of reinventing myself. Seeing who I could be in a new context. However, that cabinet confronted me with the flipside of the coin. Nothing long-lasting was to be found in my cupboards. Everything could be consumed within weeks — in case I had to leave abruptly again.
I thought I would be relieved that I had escaped the boringness of my hometown. New experiences add flavour to your life, and I wanted an explosion of spices. However, as I was staring at the excuse of a meal, all I craved was the comfort of a kitchen that contained all the herbs one would accumulate over the years. The soy sauce you get for your first Sushi takeaway, the chilli that spices up any stir-fry, and the random sauce you bought for this one specific dish but never used again.
I accepted the job on a whim on the train home from an internship abroad. How could I pass on the opportunity to live in Amsterdam?
I only unpacked my bags to switch from summer to winter clothes and then hopped on a night train to Western Europe again. The beauty of the canals and houses, combined with the scandalousness of drugs, brothels, and partying, is a recipe for an exciting life. And exciting, it was… for about a week.
This life feels as empty as my kitchen cupboard.
A tedious 9–5 job isn't more thrilling in a beautiful city. My contract was fixed to 7 months, and that was too short and too long at the same time. Seven months is not enough time to furnish a flat, build a friend circle, and buy groceries you won't consume within that time — but too long to live without close friends and a routine. So I moved into a furnished room available for a month and bought perishable foods.
Suddenly this life doesn't feel exciting anymore. It feels like a waste of time and energy. It feels as empty as my kitchen cupboard. My evenings are spent looking for cosy flatshares to enjoy the time in Amsterdam but not so cosy that I'll have a hard time leaving again. My attempts at building friendships always carry the weight of knowing I'll have to leave them again.
I crave to settle down and build a life, yet every decision leads to another temporary settlement in a new city. Something in me is so restless I'm incapable of committing to a country. It's as if I was searching for something without being instructed on what to look for— always craving something or someone new that would be better than what I have now. This sentence could be taken out of an essay about modern online dating.
“I think I’m gonna quit”
One afternoon after work, I sit on the steps to my room as my flatmate comes home. I'm still in my dripping rain jacket — an essential for Amsterdam — too exhausted to take it off. "How was your day?" she asks. We haven't gone beyond the polite small talk, so it feels natural to respond with a courteous "Good, yours?". But I'm too tired to keep the facade alive. So instead, I blurt out: "I think I'm gonna quit".
It's an admission that brings me relief. Finally, I can stop running in the hamster wheel that is building a new, temporary life. I’ve only been in Amsterdam for two weeks, but it seems easier to pull the plug before I get too emotionally attached to the city or its people. Suddenly it doesn’t matter if I find friends, a hobby or a suitable room. This chapter hadn’t even properly begun yet, but it felt appropriate to turn the page.
The last three weeks of my lease feel like a holiday. Going to work almost resembles a theatrical performance. I receive the training for a job that I’m not gonna be doing much longer. For the first time in two years, I don't dread the day I board the train back home.
My experiences abroad were a taste of the person I wanted to be — independent, confident, and interesting. Amsterdam represented an opportunity to escape the old version of myself. The person I was, growing up in a small town. Boring was an adjective I ascribed to myself — and I assumed others did too. Nobody who constantly moves and experiences new things can be described as boring. That was the added bonus of my time in foreign countries.
It turns out what I was searching for was the version of myself I could be content with. My mistake was to believe that this version of me was confined to a country's borders. Realizing that made it possible to figure out where I want to live and settle down.
