Before I moved abroad, I became interested in books and trip diaries written by authors far from home. My intentions were to carry with me references that could help me in my new country of destination (unknown back then) and at the same time to give me some bravery for my adventure.
However, in spite of my purpose and maybe as a reflection of my insecurities, the anecdotes I remember the most were those that cast shadows about the integration process; one of my favorites at that time was Jack Kerouac's trip to Paris in the summer of 1965, where after spending only a few days traveling around with the intention of rebuilding the history of his last name he left saying: «Paris rejected me».

As I didn't want to be too affected by my doubts. I persuaded myself that these stories were just peculiarities of a specific city or person, and probably the mistake in those situations was the length of the visit; too short to make bonds. But after a fortuitous arrival to Hong Kong in the summer of 2014, I felt first hand that the feeling of belonging to a new place could take a long time. I wandered in a scenery unable to synchronize with it for years, struggling with languages that I never mastered, trying to build my own space with old materials that didn't adapt to the new host land.