After a night of drinking boxed wine in the woods, a distant part of my brain thinks it's weird that I'm brushing my teeth and washing my face in a gas station bathroom. I ignore it, and fill up some water bottles for the road.
Blenheim is a lovely town. My relatives settled here years ago, and with that in mind, I look around with a sense of curiosity. There are cobbled sidewalks, bright cafes, and gardens full of summer flowers. I tell myself to take pictures, but I'm too lazy (read: hungover). We pick up John from the airport without a hitch, though, and by mid-morning we crawl into a greasy spoon diner, where I gorge myself on fried eggs, hot buttered toast, a pot of tea, hashbrowns, and about two litres of cold water. Nothing fixes me like food and drink on a morning like this.
At 11:00 a.m. we pull into the first vineyard of our Marlborough Wine Region tour. The day is sunny and mild; in the distance, brooding indigo hills surround the crisp greenery of the orchard valley.
The vineyard lives up to its reputation: it's an unpretentious introduction to the art of wine tasting, and, as the Lonely Planet points out, it also has the laziest dog in existence, whose job it is to lay on the front porch and look cute and exhausted. The friendly woman behind the counter tells us about the grapes and varieties we're tasting, but doesn't get too caught up in lingo. She walks us through each glass with easy-to-understand descriptions like, "Doesn't this one smell floral? But you'll notice, it's going to taste sort of spicey in the back of your mouth with the finish." She is invariably completely right. Best of all, the tasting is free, and she cheerfully waves goodbye without expecting us to buy anything. We feel we've pulled something off, and enthusiastically visit two more vineyards over the course of the afternoon-- also free. The last vineyard even throws in a tour of the place, explaining all about the oak vessels and the bottling. In the end, we cave, and purchase a $15 bottle of Sauvingon Blanc (which the region is most famous for). We figure a little extra wine never hurt anybody.
By the time we weave our way from Blenheim to Nelson, the euphoric effects of the wine have worn off, though, and I'm feeling extremely sleepy. I've only had about two hours' sleep for the second time in three nights, and the early buzz from the wine has turned into a headache, as well as a stupid, wooly weight behind my eyes. I start to get extremely cranky, to say the least. I may actually have the worst meltdown of my entire trip so far, triggered by nothing more than sleep deprivation, some sarcastic remarks, heat, and a crowded car. Luckily, when we pull into Nelson to meet with Anna, she assesses the situation and kindly takes me under her wing. She brings me to her hostel bunk, where I crash for two hours while the others drink beer.
How do they do it?
****
We spend Christmas in a bach (pronounced like a batch of cookies) in the middle of an orchard near Motueka. Clare has been living here for about a month now, picking cherries, along with a few other fruit pickers, all also young adults travelling through New Zealand on working holiday visas. Some sleep in their vans, which have customized beds, curtains, and names like "Wally" painted on them. John and I somehow score the only double bed in the place, and Clare's friends actually cook dinner for us when we arrive.
The next day, Christmas Eve, Clare and her friends have to work, so the rest of us drive back to Nelson to pick up Anna and go to the beach. The drive seems much prettier to me this time. The ocean crashes up against the levvies beside the highway; it's a luminous, chalky tourquoise, very choppy; and there are islands very much like home out in the water, with lonely-looking pine trees and tall grass, and further out, purple mountain slopes.
In remenisence of my last beach day with Anna, we buy vodka, ice, cups, and cranberry juice, and head to a gorgeous beach with sandwiches and chips. It's the kind of beach that takes five minutes to walk all the way down to the water's edge, and the sand is soft and white. It's pretty windy, though, so John P and Medellee construct a shelter out of driftwood to screen us from the worst of the sandstorm. We don bathing suits and Santa hats and lay in the sun, listening to John's little iHome, mixing drinks, taking walks, and talking, until the beach is empty and we've run out of supplies. At the last minute Anna decides to join us for Christmas, so we spend the rest of the afternoon shopping for two days' worth of food and drink to last us all through the weekend.
John makes curry, and we drink beer, listen to music while we eat, and then gather around Clare's laptop to watch A Muppet's Christmas Carol. I go to sleep early, almost unaware that it's Christmas Eve.
****
Christmas morning and it's another gorgeous, sunny day. I snap some photos of the orchard. In the kitchen, Santa has left us socks full of chocolate, with cards and a note indicating that she would like her socks back. We set to work on the best breakfast we can imagine. I make thick blueberry pancakes, with fruit salad and real maple syrup; Clare fries two packages of streaky bacon (the good kind); Medellee scrambles two dozen eggs; someone fries up the most delicious lamb sausages ever; there are hot pots of tea, coffee, and mamosas with champage and orange juice. Everyone has something to unwrap under the tree, and we snap Christmas crackers, wearing the silly hats and asking each other the stupid jokes.
We leave a mess and head back to the beach for a picnic. I lay dozing in the sun all afternoon, and when we get hungry, it's back to the bach for a barbeque. We have steaks, potato salad, green salad, chicken skewers, baked beans, and lots of beer. Everyone sits on a big blanket with their plates in their lap.
Back home, it's still Christmas Eve. We plan to leave town tomorrow, "Real Christmas," as I think of it, and I hope I'm able to call my family. I'm on the other side of the world in the middle of summer, and I've had a great day, but it's not really been Christmas.
Cape Farewell, New Zealand
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Queen Charlotte Sound
The Interislander ferry turns out to be a surreal experience. We board in the romantic, orange light of the early evening, and we wander around, exploring all of the passenger decks, which seem, to me, to belong to Bizzaro BC Ferries. Eventually we find a pub on board (!), buy several bottles of beer, and lounge in The Atrium, enjoying the view from eighteen-foot windows. The sun sets against angry orange clouds as we pass Island Bay, now blue and black shapes in sea. Simultaneously, a full moon rises. The captain announces that tonight will be a full lunar eclipse. He's right. We can see the red shadow of the earth passing across the surface of the moon. The boat lifts and heaves on giant waves. By the time we pass through Cook Straight and into Queen Charlotte Sound, it's too dark to see; I am feeling sleepy, and more than a little seasick.
It's midnight when we arrive in Picton. The hostel owner greets us, which is a surprise, since he told me when I booked the room that he'd just put the key in the mailbox. He tells us at least seven times not to leave our valuables in the car, gives us our key, and bids us goodnight. I carry my packs into the dorm and realize that Medellee is holding my camera. "Hey," she jokes. "Someone once told me that it would be a good idea if we didn't leave valuables in the car." I feel like a complete idiot.
I have been using my sleeping bag for six weeks, and I can't even describe how luxurious it feels to stretch out my bare feet on cool sheets and snuggle a duvet under my chin. I realize that I have had two hours of sleep in the last forty, and fall into the pillow. I have the best sleep I can remember, not waking, not even moving for nine solid hours.
***
Hostel showers are always an interesting experience. You never get a private bathroom; instead, bathrooms are communal, co-ed, and usually consist of several toilets, at least two showers, and two or three sinks. Towel-clad boys brush their teeth and girls blow-dry their hair as you squeeze in to see if there's a shower free. If you're lucky, the shower stall includes a small area to change in, and ideally, a shower curtain to keep your stuff from getting wet. There are almost never shelves to put your soap and shampoo on, and you've got to put them on the floor, which is invariably littered with hairs of all lengths and colours.
Dorms are interesting too. The bunks are always towel-draped, and you tend to get a couple of half-naked girls changing, or putting lotion on their legs, or checking themselves out in the mirror, and as far as I can tell they don't have a shred of self-consciousness despite the half-dozen strangers nearby.
By ten o'clock in the morning we hit the road, and we decide to head to a camp site near the Queen Charlotte track. The weather has turned fine, and the scenery is lovely. We listen to The Rolling Stones and roll the windows down, stopping to hike around and take pictures now and then. By early afternoon, we've set up the tent at a nice spot, for less money than one of our beds the night before. The three of us laze around eating sandwiches and drinking red wine on the beach until it's dark. Some fellow campers offer us some enormous mussels they've gathered and smoked on their BBQ (the mussels are about the size of large oysters). I wonder about red tide, and discreetly spit mine into the bushes after two bites.
At bedtime, Medellee and I get the giggles. I guess we both start to feel so tired and happy that we get to that state where we can't stop laughing. Absolutely everything strikes us as funny. We're drunk on lack of sleep and euphoria and red wine, singing the worst Christmas carols we can think of, telling funny stories, making impressions, and laughing at each others' contagious laughter. John Antonioli puts up with us good-naturedly, grumbling that we should go to sleep but then hitting us with a hilarious one-liner when we least expect it.
I lay awake long afterward, listening to some unknown animal (possum? Stoat?) pace around our tent and steal away into the woods with our empty chip bag. Soon loud songbirds begin to call out in the dark, and I know that dawn can't be far off. By five-thirty I'm still wide awake and Medellee is stirring too. Before we know it, we're back to giggling as if we hadn't slept at all. We're completely dehydrated and have no water, which strikes us as something of an adventure. We have a long drive ahead of us, so we pack up, munch some muesli bars (which make us even more thirsty), and pile into the hatchback.
Our epic road trip is about to begin.
It's midnight when we arrive in Picton. The hostel owner greets us, which is a surprise, since he told me when I booked the room that he'd just put the key in the mailbox. He tells us at least seven times not to leave our valuables in the car, gives us our key, and bids us goodnight. I carry my packs into the dorm and realize that Medellee is holding my camera. "Hey," she jokes. "Someone once told me that it would be a good idea if we didn't leave valuables in the car." I feel like a complete idiot.
I have been using my sleeping bag for six weeks, and I can't even describe how luxurious it feels to stretch out my bare feet on cool sheets and snuggle a duvet under my chin. I realize that I have had two hours of sleep in the last forty, and fall into the pillow. I have the best sleep I can remember, not waking, not even moving for nine solid hours.
***
Hostel showers are always an interesting experience. You never get a private bathroom; instead, bathrooms are communal, co-ed, and usually consist of several toilets, at least two showers, and two or three sinks. Towel-clad boys brush their teeth and girls blow-dry their hair as you squeeze in to see if there's a shower free. If you're lucky, the shower stall includes a small area to change in, and ideally, a shower curtain to keep your stuff from getting wet. There are almost never shelves to put your soap and shampoo on, and you've got to put them on the floor, which is invariably littered with hairs of all lengths and colours.
Dorms are interesting too. The bunks are always towel-draped, and you tend to get a couple of half-naked girls changing, or putting lotion on their legs, or checking themselves out in the mirror, and as far as I can tell they don't have a shred of self-consciousness despite the half-dozen strangers nearby.
By ten o'clock in the morning we hit the road, and we decide to head to a camp site near the Queen Charlotte track. The weather has turned fine, and the scenery is lovely. We listen to The Rolling Stones and roll the windows down, stopping to hike around and take pictures now and then. By early afternoon, we've set up the tent at a nice spot, for less money than one of our beds the night before. The three of us laze around eating sandwiches and drinking red wine on the beach until it's dark. Some fellow campers offer us some enormous mussels they've gathered and smoked on their BBQ (the mussels are about the size of large oysters). I wonder about red tide, and discreetly spit mine into the bushes after two bites.
At bedtime, Medellee and I get the giggles. I guess we both start to feel so tired and happy that we get to that state where we can't stop laughing. Absolutely everything strikes us as funny. We're drunk on lack of sleep and euphoria and red wine, singing the worst Christmas carols we can think of, telling funny stories, making impressions, and laughing at each others' contagious laughter. John Antonioli puts up with us good-naturedly, grumbling that we should go to sleep but then hitting us with a hilarious one-liner when we least expect it.
I lay awake long afterward, listening to some unknown animal (possum? Stoat?) pace around our tent and steal away into the woods with our empty chip bag. Soon loud songbirds begin to call out in the dark, and I know that dawn can't be far off. By five-thirty I'm still wide awake and Medellee is stirring too. Before we know it, we're back to giggling as if we hadn't slept at all. We're completely dehydrated and have no water, which strikes us as something of an adventure. We have a long drive ahead of us, so we pack up, munch some muesli bars (which make us even more thirsty), and pile into the hatchback.
Our epic road trip is about to begin.
Windy Welly
The day is overcast, windy, and warm. I sit at the water's edge in Island Bay, Wellington, watching the waves swell and dip, swirling around the labyrinth of rocks. The salty wind tangles my hair and sends gulls reeling.
Medellee is due to arrive tomorrow. In the past month, we have been like ships passing in the night: I know she's out there, but I always miss her. Invariably, I get her machine when I call, and there are no messages waiting for me when I manage to get online. Even now that she's been here in New Zealand for nearly a week, she's still never called. Am I actually irritated at my best friend for the first time? Strange, the things that distance can do.
I still haven't packed. I've looked over the Lonely Planet for the South Island, though, and sketched out a rough itinerary for the next two weeks. We'll be traveling counter-clockwise, beginning in Picton and ending in Christchurch. Our ferry leaves tomorrow evening at 8:00, heading towards the looming Southern Alps at sunset. John has agreed to work until Wednesday, so we'll have to pick him up from the airport in Blenheim on Thursday morning, the day before Christmas Eve.
I think over my experience in Wellington, the windy city that has kept me captive these last six weeks. I will miss it. I have been bored, and I'm eager to continue my journey, but I have also made good friends here, had fun, and gained a measure of stability and routine. I will remember the barbecues at James and Jeannine's, with their stunning ocean views; I'll remember countless quiet coffees and walks to myself. Mostly though, I am overwhelmed with excitement at the prospect of experiencing the vast landscapes of the South, spending time with friends from home, and also, meeting my cousin Dee, who has invited us to stay with her in Marlborough in the New Year.
I wonder what adventures await me in the coming months. Orchard work, undoubtedly; grueling treks in the mountains; scuba diving, if I have my way; and hopefully, a two-week trip to Malaysia that we've been cooking up on the back burner for awhile now.
It's nearly Christmas, but it doesn't seem that way to me. To me, it's the beginning of a long, outdoorsy and adventurous summer-- I'll miss Christmas in the wintertime. I still have nine months in New Zealand, and I have grown accustomed to feeling homesick.
My time here has only just begun.
****
When I have coffee with Jeannine, I eat banana bread and talk about the usual: her life, my life. I can't help but let slip my frustration with Medellee and how I wish I could see her now, not tomorrow. I wish she would meet me halfway, write to me, call me, tell me what's up. Instead the conversation reaches a dead-end, and we decide to pick up a bottle of cider and go home.
I'm just finishing the cider and watching the sunset when John calls.
"No," says Jeannine,"actually, Alieda got together with some other foreign guys she met. She told me to tell you that she's decided to travel with them from now on." There's a pause, in which I laugh and she resumes. "No, that's someone else laughing." Pause. "Yeah, no. Of course she's here. We're drinking cider." Pause. "Hmmm," she says. "Sure, you can come over."
We continue to watch the sunset, and before we know it, we hear John walking down the stairs. To my surprise, though, he has a camera when he comes around the corner, and I swear, on second thought, that I hear the distinct tones of John Antonioli laughing. I clue in, instantly. "No way!" I scream, and round the corner to see Medellee, looking radiant and travel-tired. I jump into her arms and scold her loudly for deceiving me, telling her that I was mad as hell-- how dare she surprise me!-- had she been planning this the whole time?!-- and that I had thought that she didn't care, I was so lonely. She only laughs and holds on. I alternate between squeezing, hitting, spinning and yelling before I realize that Jeannine is opening wine, and that she may have been aware of this surprise. I am suddenly heart-full and overwhelmed. I honestly can't believe that Medellee is finally here.
We take our time, drinking wine, and eventually, walking down to the shops to pick up some Indian takeaways. We spend the evening drinking beer and talking, but our Johns go to sleep by midnight. Medellee and I stay up talking until 4:00 a.m. I lie awake listening to everyone sleeping, too excited to sleep. I have booked a ferry ticket for tomorrow, and we'll be on the south island by dark.
Medellee is due to arrive tomorrow. In the past month, we have been like ships passing in the night: I know she's out there, but I always miss her. Invariably, I get her machine when I call, and there are no messages waiting for me when I manage to get online. Even now that she's been here in New Zealand for nearly a week, she's still never called. Am I actually irritated at my best friend for the first time? Strange, the things that distance can do.
I still haven't packed. I've looked over the Lonely Planet for the South Island, though, and sketched out a rough itinerary for the next two weeks. We'll be traveling counter-clockwise, beginning in Picton and ending in Christchurch. Our ferry leaves tomorrow evening at 8:00, heading towards the looming Southern Alps at sunset. John has agreed to work until Wednesday, so we'll have to pick him up from the airport in Blenheim on Thursday morning, the day before Christmas Eve.
I think over my experience in Wellington, the windy city that has kept me captive these last six weeks. I will miss it. I have been bored, and I'm eager to continue my journey, but I have also made good friends here, had fun, and gained a measure of stability and routine. I will remember the barbecues at James and Jeannine's, with their stunning ocean views; I'll remember countless quiet coffees and walks to myself. Mostly though, I am overwhelmed with excitement at the prospect of experiencing the vast landscapes of the South, spending time with friends from home, and also, meeting my cousin Dee, who has invited us to stay with her in Marlborough in the New Year.
I wonder what adventures await me in the coming months. Orchard work, undoubtedly; grueling treks in the mountains; scuba diving, if I have my way; and hopefully, a two-week trip to Malaysia that we've been cooking up on the back burner for awhile now.
It's nearly Christmas, but it doesn't seem that way to me. To me, it's the beginning of a long, outdoorsy and adventurous summer-- I'll miss Christmas in the wintertime. I still have nine months in New Zealand, and I have grown accustomed to feeling homesick.
My time here has only just begun.
****
When I have coffee with Jeannine, I eat banana bread and talk about the usual: her life, my life. I can't help but let slip my frustration with Medellee and how I wish I could see her now, not tomorrow. I wish she would meet me halfway, write to me, call me, tell me what's up. Instead the conversation reaches a dead-end, and we decide to pick up a bottle of cider and go home.
I'm just finishing the cider and watching the sunset when John calls.
"No," says Jeannine,"actually, Alieda got together with some other foreign guys she met. She told me to tell you that she's decided to travel with them from now on." There's a pause, in which I laugh and she resumes. "No, that's someone else laughing." Pause. "Yeah, no. Of course she's here. We're drinking cider." Pause. "Hmmm," she says. "Sure, you can come over."
We continue to watch the sunset, and before we know it, we hear John walking down the stairs. To my surprise, though, he has a camera when he comes around the corner, and I swear, on second thought, that I hear the distinct tones of John Antonioli laughing. I clue in, instantly. "No way!" I scream, and round the corner to see Medellee, looking radiant and travel-tired. I jump into her arms and scold her loudly for deceiving me, telling her that I was mad as hell-- how dare she surprise me!-- had she been planning this the whole time?!-- and that I had thought that she didn't care, I was so lonely. She only laughs and holds on. I alternate between squeezing, hitting, spinning and yelling before I realize that Jeannine is opening wine, and that she may have been aware of this surprise. I am suddenly heart-full and overwhelmed. I honestly can't believe that Medellee is finally here.
We take our time, drinking wine, and eventually, walking down to the shops to pick up some Indian takeaways. We spend the evening drinking beer and talking, but our Johns go to sleep by midnight. Medellee and I stay up talking until 4:00 a.m. I lie awake listening to everyone sleeping, too excited to sleep. I have booked a ferry ticket for tomorrow, and we'll be on the south island by dark.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Too Hot to Hold Hands
The day of Anna's arrival begins like any other day in Wellington. I get up early and jog to Houghton Bay, using an old trail cut into the rough hillside. My old shoes slap on the hard-packed dirt, or whisper through the leaf mould under the trees. The air is already warm, and smells of wildflowers and mown grass. There is a cold wind from the ocean, and as I follow a short bridge over a muddy stream, songbirds echo everwhere.
At home I fix myself a cup of tea, a boiled egg, and some sliced cold vegetables. I can't tell if this is breakfast or lunch, but it's just past 9:00. I read while I eat, and afterward, I stretch out in the back yard to doze in the sun. I've found the perfect suntanning spot, and I take my time out there every day, ten minutes a side. The Tuis call all around me. A straw hat shades my face, and I relax, glimpsing the blue sky from under my eyelashes and beginning to feel the sweat trickle down my skin. Yuck. Time for a shower.
I get on a bus around noon and head downtown, to get a cup of coffee and check my e-mail. Anna has sent me an urgent message: "At the Base hostel in Wellington, recovering from last night. I got a phone! Let's meet up!" I call the number, but get no connection. Damn. Instead, I leave an urgent message of my own: "At Te Papa Museum, having coffee. I am dying of boredom! Meet me here!"
Our reunion is like something from a movie. Two friends meeting again, on the other side of the world. I stand up when she comes in and we rush together for a hug, loud hellos, laughing, more hugs. Can you believe it?! She gasps. We made it! Here we are, on the other side of the world!
My thoughts exactly.
We take off immediately and I give her the grand tour of the city. We stop at a sunny patio in Cuba Street Mall for gin-and-tonics. Sitting there, swirling ice and lemons around our glasses, which are sweating and cold in the sun, we catch up on our adventures. Anna has been in Taiwan for her brother's wedding, and has been touring New Zealand on the Kiwi Experience Bus-- a party on wheels for young tourists. Our glasses leave wet circles soaking into the wooden table and I idly make figure eights. We buy another round.
That night, we take a case of beer and some groceries back to my place, where we cook John dinner. We drink one beer after the other, listening to rock and roll and talking. Anna tells funny stories about the Kiwi Experience. I make pan-fried potatoes, steamed vegetables, and salmon on a bed of spinach; Anna makes sauteed prawns in garlic butter and we snack on garlic-pickled mussells between bites.
I am glad Anna has arrived. I have spent fifty hours a week alone and bored for about a month now, and although I do enjoy solitude, this level of peace and quiet is starting to drive me nuts. I feel helpless, waiting for work to start, and spending all of my time killing time. Anyway, it's going to be nice to have someone to talk to for the next few days.
The next day, Anna meets me in Island Bay after lunch. We have plans to go to the beach, and we've packed sunscreen, music, plastic cups, ice, cranberry juice, and a 40 of vodka. What a day. We spend all afternoon on the beach, which is empty and a little windy, drinking maybe five vodka-crans apiece. I know Anna through the book store, so for awhile we talk about the book business. It's what we know best, and we're both good at what we do. We talk about going into business together someday. Gradually, as the drinks take their toll, the conversation moves on to relationships, men, past experiences, future dreams. Eventually we wander into a bar up the street, where we meet No Service Sarah-- just our nickname for a very friendly, very drunk lady we meet before she's kicked out for being too inebriated.
Later, we meet John at James and Jeannine's, where we BBQ and I embarass myself a little, having had a few beers and some more vodka since the beach. Everyone laughs and John walks me home. I tell him he's sweet to take care of me, but our roles reverse just a few days later.
Anna's last day in Wellington comes too soon. We meet for coffee downtown, wander through the city, shop for clothes (neither one buying anything). Toward afternoon, we grab an innocent patio beer, then head to Anna's hostel so she can change. The weather gets cooler and we get hungry, so we decide to get a bite at the pub in Island Bay, where I live.
The pub is nearly empty, but I see someone I recognize right away. He's outside on the back patio, facing away from me, but when you've been sleeping beside someone for five years, you know their back anywhere.
John is the center of attention out there, telling stories, laughing, surrounded by his work mates and what I assume are their girlfriends. I sidle up and say, Hey Handsome, come here often? John exclaims something in surprise and gives me a big public hug-and-kiss. What are the chances! We say. We were just here for supper! He introduces us to his friends, and we pull up chairs, ordering beer and cheeseburgers. John's already pretty drunk. He tells me he's been here since three (it's seven-thirty). His boss is buying. By the time John finishes a pint, his boss has already brought him another.
At eight-thirty, Anna and I leave to catch a movie. Before I go, John's boss pulls me close and points out The Shed. It's across the parking lot from the pub. "That's where we'll be," he tells me.
"Are you serious?" I laugh.
"That's the Shed," he says, "We're gonna be there. You should come!"
I can't tell if he's joking, so I smile in a non-commital way and we take off.
The movie is good-- "The Social Network," about the guy who created Facebook. It's darker than I expect, but I enjoy myself, and besides, it's completely full of good-looking men. It turns out that the creator of Facebook might be a pretty big asshole. Or maybe not. This is the movies.
I walk Anna to the bus, then head to the pub to see how John is doing.
He's not at the pub, and I look dubiously towards The Shed, where, sure enough, I can hear music, loud conversation, and the tinkling of glass. I head over and look through the gate.
I see John right away, and he sees me. He looks blissfully happy, and completely surprised to see me. He confesses that he has no idea where he is. How did I find him? Nevermind! I should come meet these guys!
The crowd at The Shed are mostly Maori, and mostly in their fifties. They are singing loudly to Hawaiian rock-and-roll, blending harmonies and laughing. John joins them, and for awhile it seems that no one knows the words. The Maori men congratulate John on his pretty girlfriend, trying to charm me into dancing. I also meet some Pakea (Europeans), like Trevor from Texas, some more of John's work mates, and Maceala, from Maine. We spend some time dancing but eventually, after John has stepped on my feet twice wearing steel boots, I decide it's time to go home. John agrees readily, up for any adventure.
He's asleep and snoring instantly. It's just after midnight, and I'm not really sleepy, so I watch a late-night movie on TV. I must have dozed off- next thing I know, it's morning.
I let Johnny sleep in. Around noon, I make him French toast and bacon before dragging him to the beach to meet Jeannine. The day is incredibly hot. I can see the Southern Alps across the water, and I think, Anna is over there by now. It ends up being a perfect Saturday. We read on the beach, then rent a movie on our way home. As we walk up the hill, we nearly die, it's so hot. We can't even hold hands- we're too sweaty.
"Hey," says John. "It's really summer. It's too hot to hold hands."
My thoughts exactly.
At home I fix myself a cup of tea, a boiled egg, and some sliced cold vegetables. I can't tell if this is breakfast or lunch, but it's just past 9:00. I read while I eat, and afterward, I stretch out in the back yard to doze in the sun. I've found the perfect suntanning spot, and I take my time out there every day, ten minutes a side. The Tuis call all around me. A straw hat shades my face, and I relax, glimpsing the blue sky from under my eyelashes and beginning to feel the sweat trickle down my skin. Yuck. Time for a shower.
I get on a bus around noon and head downtown, to get a cup of coffee and check my e-mail. Anna has sent me an urgent message: "At the Base hostel in Wellington, recovering from last night. I got a phone! Let's meet up!" I call the number, but get no connection. Damn. Instead, I leave an urgent message of my own: "At Te Papa Museum, having coffee. I am dying of boredom! Meet me here!"
Our reunion is like something from a movie. Two friends meeting again, on the other side of the world. I stand up when she comes in and we rush together for a hug, loud hellos, laughing, more hugs. Can you believe it?! She gasps. We made it! Here we are, on the other side of the world!
My thoughts exactly.
We take off immediately and I give her the grand tour of the city. We stop at a sunny patio in Cuba Street Mall for gin-and-tonics. Sitting there, swirling ice and lemons around our glasses, which are sweating and cold in the sun, we catch up on our adventures. Anna has been in Taiwan for her brother's wedding, and has been touring New Zealand on the Kiwi Experience Bus-- a party on wheels for young tourists. Our glasses leave wet circles soaking into the wooden table and I idly make figure eights. We buy another round.
That night, we take a case of beer and some groceries back to my place, where we cook John dinner. We drink one beer after the other, listening to rock and roll and talking. Anna tells funny stories about the Kiwi Experience. I make pan-fried potatoes, steamed vegetables, and salmon on a bed of spinach; Anna makes sauteed prawns in garlic butter and we snack on garlic-pickled mussells between bites.
I am glad Anna has arrived. I have spent fifty hours a week alone and bored for about a month now, and although I do enjoy solitude, this level of peace and quiet is starting to drive me nuts. I feel helpless, waiting for work to start, and spending all of my time killing time. Anyway, it's going to be nice to have someone to talk to for the next few days.
The next day, Anna meets me in Island Bay after lunch. We have plans to go to the beach, and we've packed sunscreen, music, plastic cups, ice, cranberry juice, and a 40 of vodka. What a day. We spend all afternoon on the beach, which is empty and a little windy, drinking maybe five vodka-crans apiece. I know Anna through the book store, so for awhile we talk about the book business. It's what we know best, and we're both good at what we do. We talk about going into business together someday. Gradually, as the drinks take their toll, the conversation moves on to relationships, men, past experiences, future dreams. Eventually we wander into a bar up the street, where we meet No Service Sarah-- just our nickname for a very friendly, very drunk lady we meet before she's kicked out for being too inebriated.
Later, we meet John at James and Jeannine's, where we BBQ and I embarass myself a little, having had a few beers and some more vodka since the beach. Everyone laughs and John walks me home. I tell him he's sweet to take care of me, but our roles reverse just a few days later.
Anna's last day in Wellington comes too soon. We meet for coffee downtown, wander through the city, shop for clothes (neither one buying anything). Toward afternoon, we grab an innocent patio beer, then head to Anna's hostel so she can change. The weather gets cooler and we get hungry, so we decide to get a bite at the pub in Island Bay, where I live.
The pub is nearly empty, but I see someone I recognize right away. He's outside on the back patio, facing away from me, but when you've been sleeping beside someone for five years, you know their back anywhere.
John is the center of attention out there, telling stories, laughing, surrounded by his work mates and what I assume are their girlfriends. I sidle up and say, Hey Handsome, come here often? John exclaims something in surprise and gives me a big public hug-and-kiss. What are the chances! We say. We were just here for supper! He introduces us to his friends, and we pull up chairs, ordering beer and cheeseburgers. John's already pretty drunk. He tells me he's been here since three (it's seven-thirty). His boss is buying. By the time John finishes a pint, his boss has already brought him another.
At eight-thirty, Anna and I leave to catch a movie. Before I go, John's boss pulls me close and points out The Shed. It's across the parking lot from the pub. "That's where we'll be," he tells me.
"Are you serious?" I laugh.
"That's the Shed," he says, "We're gonna be there. You should come!"
I can't tell if he's joking, so I smile in a non-commital way and we take off.
The movie is good-- "The Social Network," about the guy who created Facebook. It's darker than I expect, but I enjoy myself, and besides, it's completely full of good-looking men. It turns out that the creator of Facebook might be a pretty big asshole. Or maybe not. This is the movies.
I walk Anna to the bus, then head to the pub to see how John is doing.
He's not at the pub, and I look dubiously towards The Shed, where, sure enough, I can hear music, loud conversation, and the tinkling of glass. I head over and look through the gate.
I see John right away, and he sees me. He looks blissfully happy, and completely surprised to see me. He confesses that he has no idea where he is. How did I find him? Nevermind! I should come meet these guys!
The crowd at The Shed are mostly Maori, and mostly in their fifties. They are singing loudly to Hawaiian rock-and-roll, blending harmonies and laughing. John joins them, and for awhile it seems that no one knows the words. The Maori men congratulate John on his pretty girlfriend, trying to charm me into dancing. I also meet some Pakea (Europeans), like Trevor from Texas, some more of John's work mates, and Maceala, from Maine. We spend some time dancing but eventually, after John has stepped on my feet twice wearing steel boots, I decide it's time to go home. John agrees readily, up for any adventure.
He's asleep and snoring instantly. It's just after midnight, and I'm not really sleepy, so I watch a late-night movie on TV. I must have dozed off- next thing I know, it's morning.
I let Johnny sleep in. Around noon, I make him French toast and bacon before dragging him to the beach to meet Jeannine. The day is incredibly hot. I can see the Southern Alps across the water, and I think, Anna is over there by now. It ends up being a perfect Saturday. We read on the beach, then rent a movie on our way home. As we walk up the hill, we nearly die, it's so hot. We can't even hold hands- we're too sweaty.
"Hey," says John. "It's really summer. It's too hot to hold hands."
My thoughts exactly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)