I never meant to move to Tokyo

How a job offer blew up our carefully manicured lives in Montreal

I want to be clear that, as of three months ago, nobody in this house had any idea of moving to Tokyo.

Not my wife, who is Japanese but left 20 years ago and seldom looked back. Not our daughter, 12, who was looking forward to starting secondary school at the end of the summer. Not our son, 10, not the cat, 3, and certainly not me, the nearly-50 year-old Venezuelan exile with a soft spot for Montreal bike paths and back-alleys and its chill neighborhood vibe.

We’ve set roots in Montréal. Our friends are here, our house is here, our neighborhood is here, our retirement savings are here. Our bikes are here. Our kids have never lived anywhere else. They are québecois through and through. If you cut them, they bleed maple syrup.

But life threw a curve ball at us. Earlier this year my wife was forced to leave her job, and she didn’t have the easiest time finding another one nearly as good.

Even so, when a recruiter reached out from Japan, she rejected the idea out of hand. Because —have I made this plain enough?— we were definitely not going anywhere.

Except, well, we got to Googling the job. Just out of curiosity, of course. And then, well, heretical thoughts started to creep up, first on me…and soon also on her.

Now, the Japan she remembers is not a place she would be tempted to go back to. But then, the Japan she remembers is quickly fading in the rearview mirror of history: the Bubble economy burst when she was 11. Her high school and college years were shot through with post-bubble malaise. That’s why she left. Why she taught herself three European languages. Why she married me. And why she figured she’d stay gone, for good.

Except...

After a grueling set of interviews, she got an offer. Not a good offer, a great offer: for a company you’ve definitely heard of, and for a job that’s not just well-paid but interesting.

In the end, it wasn’t a difficult decision. I can do my dream job anywhere. She can do hers only in Tokyo.

Before I knew it, she was signing papers and we were fielding calls from the onboarding team. Boxes, all over the house. The pain of sorting through what we’ll take, what we’ll sell, what we’ll give away and what we’ll throw out. The butterflies in my stomach each morning, as I count down to a departure that’s now, well, imminent.

End of July. That’s…imminent.

Am I ready? Of course not.

Who could be ready for such a thing?

Am I scared? Agan, of course! And excited. All at once.

But what will I do professionally with this.

“You know, you’re a writer,” my friend Amir said over the barbecue I made to say goodbye, “you should just write it! A Venezuelan Montrealer suddenly has to move to Japan… that’s interesting. Just describing what that’s like, you could make it so funny. Or sad. Or whatever it becomes. Just write it.”

So here I sit…writing it.