There is an adjustment period for every relocation.
No matter how well you plan, there are always the details you will not think about until after you arrive. Where to buy a padlock in Rome (hardware store), how to say "bleach" in French (eau de javel), why there is no drip coffee to be found in Perth (no Starbucks.)
It isn't the language or the landscape that feels most foreign. It's the tiny things that make up everyday living, the fixtures you have come to rely on without realizing it. Their absence puts you off-kilter. Like stepping off a curb just a fraction shorter than you expected, the missing milimetres that leave you reeling.
To navigate, you must reestablish the baseline. Trace the lacunae, mark their lines. Seek out windfalls to stop the gaps. Redraw the boundaries of the familiar.
That which was prized is prosaic; that which is commonplace becomes rare. Know that this city will offer you neither apples nor buttermilk; here there is rosemary, but no sage, no thyme. Instead, chestnuts and fennel fronds; buckwheat flour, cheap and plentiful. Not an oddity here, but a constant.
Blended with ground almonds and sugar, mixed with butter and eggs, buckwheat produces a rustic cake of unusual fragrance. Absence of gluten gives it a delicate, tender crumb. There is still afternoon tea, basking in late winter light. Soothing, this ritual. Settling. The boundaries of the familiar, shifted.