I moved recently.
It took a full two weeks to unpack everything and get life back into some kind of rhythm. Of course, it’s not completely over yet. Now that we’re in the new place, there’s an endless list of things that still need fixing.
Even so, just knowing I no longer have to worry about having a place to live is a relief. This whole ordeal of “moving” consumed three entire months of M’s and my lives.
This was our second move.
The first happened not long after I moved into M’s place. He had been living there with his niece, H. (H, after COVID, developed a distrust of vaccines and turned anti-government, so she spent most of her time living in a campervan anyway.) A few months into our cohabitation, the landlord notified us that rent would increase by $100 per week and asked us to decide whether we’d stay or leave.
It was a nice house—but not that nice. So we decided, without much hesitation, to move out.
At the time, I was on a work visa, but tenants with only a two-year visa aren’t exactly landlords’ first choice. Naturally, the responsibility of house-hunting fell to M.
What I failed to consider was M’s personality.
Even by Kiwi standards, he is extraordinarily laid-back.
While I grew increasingly anxious as our move-out date crept closer—with still no house secured—M remained completely unfazed. At one point, he casually suggested that if we couldn’t find a place, we could just stay at his sister’s house for a while.
I told him, quite firmly, that I would rather live in a motel than go to his sister’s.
And then, somehow, we stumbled upon a place.
It wasn’t listed through a real estate agency, but directly by the owner. The house sat in the backyard of the landlord’s main home—a shabby little structure that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. The paint was peeling, the back porch awning had collapsed, and the bathroom… well, let’s just say the bathtub spoke for itself.
And yet, we chose it.
Partly because we were desperate—but mostly because the conditions were too good to ignore.
It was in a wealthy neighborhood, so it felt safe. (The landlord living in the front house was a retired police officer.) It was close to both our workplaces and the city centre. There were lovely parks nearby, and safe cycling paths—which mattered, since neither of us had a driver’s license.
But above all, the rent was ridiculously cheap.
Of course, there was a catch.
The house was scheduled to be demolished in six months.
The landlord made it very clear that he had no intention of fixing anything unless it was a serious issue. But since it was only six months, we didn’t mind. We signed the contract almost immediately.
Except—
That “temporary” six-month stay somehow stretched into three years.
Living in a place that could disappear at any moment made it hard to truly settle in. Everywhere I looked, there were things I wanted to fix—but what was the point? It’s going to be torn down anyway.
We thought about moving many times, but in a city like Christchurch, where prices kept rising, finding something this affordable was nearly impossible.
So time just… slipped by.
Until finally, last December, the landlord decided to go ahead with the demolition.
He told us it would likely begin around March or April and suggested we start looking for a new place.
M was disappointed—mostly because of the rent. I, on the other hand, was thrilled. Finally, we could escape that miserable little den.
M, being himself, said there was no need to rush since March was still far away.
I disagreed.
Having learned from last time, I started moving quickly. (By then, I had residency, so I was no longer at a disadvantage.)
Our requirements were simple—at least, on paper.
Two bedrooms: one for sleeping, one for my workspace. A storage area for M’s collection. A location reasonably close to both our jobs. A safe neighborhood—definitely avoiding areas known for gangs or homelessness. And rent that wasn’t outrageous.
Simple.
Except… not simple at all.
In Korea, finding a place is straightforward. You browse listings online or through an agent, visit, and sign a contract if you like it.
But in New Zealand—at least in Christchurch—it doesn’t work that way.
First, there’s something called a viewing.
You contact the agent or landlord, request a viewing, and they give you a date and time. Private listings can be flexible, but agency listings usually have fixed slots.
You get about 15 minutes to look around, ask questions, and decide if you’re interested. If you are, you request an application form.
The form is long and detailed—personal information, dependents, pets, and a section where you basically have to sell yourself as a tenant.
Then you wait.
Usually 2–3 business days—if they even reply. If you pass, you submit even more documents: financial records, credit checks, references. Finally, if approved, you sign the contract and pay the deposit—typically four weeks’ rent as bond and two weeks in advance.
Only then is it yours.
In other words, getting a rental here isn’t about choosing—it’s about being chosen.
I attended 30 viewings.
Submitted 5 applications.
Rejected 5 times.
Every viewing was crowded—families with kids, groups of professionals, students. On paper, we weren’t bad candidates: both employed, no pets, no kids, stable relationship, good references.
Still, we failed every time—even at the first stage.
It started to wear me down.
“Is it my job?” I asked one day.
By then, January had passed and February had begun. I had recently switched from a high-paying factory job—working 45 hours a week with power tools—to a hotel cleaning job, working 25–30 hours. It was a temporary decision, meant to give me space to figure out my future.
But from a landlord’s perspective, maybe it didn’t look appealing.
M shook his head.
“Not necessarily. Sometimes landlords prefer tenants without jobs.”
“What? Why?”
“Government subsidies. Rent is guaranteed.”
That stunned me.
“So families with kids might actually be preferred too?”
“Could be.”
“That’s… ridiculous. So being hardworking and responsible actually puts us at a disadvantage?”
M just laughed.
“Well, welcome to New Zealand.”
Eventually—just as M said—we got lucky.
We found a private listing, arranged a viewing, made a good impression during the interview, and finally signed the contract.
The new house sat in a quiet neighborhood. It was a 1970s townhouse, with a small front yard and a narrow backyard just big enough to hang laundry. There was an old but usable shed. The kitchen was small but functional. Upstairs had two bedrooms—perfect for us.
The bathroom had been recently renovated. Hot water came instantly. The water pressure was great.
And best of all—
The house was warm.
It had everything I wanted.
Once we paid the deposit, the real moving process began.
And I had no idea it would be even worse than finding the house.
Instead of hiring expensive full-service movers like in Korea, we rented a truck and hired workers. The distance was only 15 minutes—we didn’t want to spend too much.
Then came the packing.
We bought boxes and zip bags from Bunnings and The Warehouse and started sorting everything. I handled household items; M battled his massive collection.
Even after staying up all night before the move, he still wasn’t done packing.
Moving day came.
Two Indian workers arrived early and began loading the truck. M helped them. I went ahead to the new house to wait.
Three hours passed.
Something felt off—but I assumed it was just the amount of stuff.
I was wrong.
They worked painfully slowly. One unloaded, one carried—and M and I ended up doing more than they did.
Worse, when it started to rain, they just left, saying they’d come back in two days—leaving some of my belongings behind.
I was furious.
But complaining wouldn’t change anything. In the end, M had to call a taxi to retrieve my things.
Two days later, they returned and finished the job.
And then came a week of unpacking.
Every evening after work, we opened boxes, cleaned furniture, washed dishes—again and again—until the house finally started to feel like a home.
And just like that, our three-month-long moving saga came to an end.
People often say, “If you have money, Korea is easier to live in.”
I completely agree.
New Zealand can be inconvenient—even with money.
But there’s something you gain from that inconvenience.
I call it the beauty of slowness.
Because everything takes longer, you experience every step more deeply.
Maybe that’s why—
Even though the process was exhausting and mentally draining—
When I look around our home now,
it somehow feels… warmer.
(Maybe it’s just in my head.)
Now all that’s left is to build our life here.
There are many things I want to buy, many things I want to do—but I’ll take it slowly, one step at a time.
Because someday, this house—shaped by our hands—
will feel even more like home.
And maybe, one day,
we’ll even start dreaming of a place that’s truly our own.
