Life Without John

When John left town and caught a bus to Wellington, I stayed behind. We agreed that it would be best to work separately, and to make up as much money as we could before embarking on our final journey, in a month's time, into the Pacific.

I immediately began to see his absence everywhere.

There was his empty bed when I left for work, and the empty house when I returned in the evening. No rosy light, no fire in the stove, no dinner smells, and no arms awaiting me. 

My only company that night was Ken, the hostel owner, who dropped by to let me know that he was going to move me into a different house. The season was over, he explained, so the house I was currently living in was closing down for the year. I had my choice of rooms, but I'd be moving the following morning. 

I cooked myself dinner and, after an appropriate segment of Downton Abbey, put myself to bed.

I was in no hurry to get ready the next day. Ken may have his plans, I thought, but it was my day off, and I was going to take my time. So, after a leisurely breakfast and a long shower, I said goodbye to the cozy house before packing yet again, taking several trips down the hill to the new house (John had left some of his stuff behind).

When I saw my new room though, I cheered up considerably. My roommate was a girl from Korea called Sunny, and she kept the room clean – while maintaining a good level of girlish bottles, bags, and shoes everywhere. I had a closet and several drawers, a bedside table (with a reading lamp!), two pillows, extra blankets, and a lollipop to welcome me home. The entire house was sunny and cozy, with an enormous kitchen, two bathrooms, free laundry, Freeview TV, and a DVD player that actually worked. 

I felt that I was going to like it here.

Since it was sunny out, I put the laundry on, and popped in a DVD in while waiting for the wash – a cheesy kid’s movie, and one that no one else would ever have watched with me (okay, okay. It was Karate Kid). I made myself a cucumber and cheese sandwich (my brother’s favourite, I couldn’t help remembering), and after lunch, hung up my clothes to dry in the sun. 

If John were home, I thought, he’d probably have done the laundry by now. It’s strange – by the time I think of doing laundry, nine times out of ten, he’s already done it. And, I couldn’t help but feel he would have disapproved of my sandwich – particularly its lack of beetroot and lettuce, or anything resembling a stack of nutrition. For some reason, the simplest things – watching that movie, making that very enjoyable plain little sandwich, and doing my own laundry – gave me a weird sense of power. I was in control of my own life.

Stupid, right?

No matter. In a spirit of independence, I walked to town, through sunshine and fallen leaves. 

At the library, I borrowed Margaret Atwood’s new novel. I also picked up a mystery called The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, and a knitting book. I ducked into an internet café for half an hour and downloaded all of the second season of Glee, and all of the Harry Potter movies. Then, by pure happenstance, I found a yarn store. Perfect! After browsing the walls of brightly coloured yarns, I felt creatively inspired and bought 5mm needles and some cheerful yellow wool. I put everything into my backpack and strode on. Then, on the way to the grocery store, I went into a specialty cheese deli and bought $5 worth of goat Gouda on a whim.

Living dangerously, right?

Well, still. Baby steps.

I made a deal with myself that (after the cheese) I would only buy healthy food – that way, I’d have to eat it all or else waste it. I therefore bought lots of vegetables, and lots of fruit, soy milk, eggs, corn flakes, muesli, and yogurt for breakfast. I bought rice crackers to go with the cheese, and chicken to roast with the vegetables; also, some salmon, and finally, two chorizo sausages and a can of tomatoes (I love to eat them together).

It was going to be a good week. I had some delicious meals planned, a lot of television to watch, books to read, knitting to start, and a healthy dose of work on the side. My idea was to keep myself busy, so that my time apart from John would go by quickly.

My roommate moved out the next day, as it turned out. So, I had the room (and the closet!) to myself. 

Far from being lonely, I began to really enjoy myself.

Every night, I made myself dinner, then heated up the hot water bottle and curled up with a book or a movie. I walked to and from work, except when I worked later than 10:00 at night, when I took a taxi home. I gradually got better at serving tables, and as my confidence improved, so did my power to charm the guests. The girls at work took a decided interest in making me feel welcome, and began to invite me out. The following Tuesday, I took myself out for pasta and a movie, and had some laughs over popcorn while watching Bridesmaids by myself.

John and I spoke on the phone every night, and sent each other text messages if anything funny or interesting happened during the day. Last week, we even talked on Skype. It was really nice to see him, even if it was just the Star-Trek screen version.

Somehow, two weeks have gone by.

If there is anything that these two weeks without John has taught me, it’s how to take care of myself, and how to enjoy my own company. 

As a matter of pride, I make my bed every day, and keep my room clean - no clothes on the floor. I do my laundry and shopping on my days off. I visit the library more often than I really need to, and I tend to take myself out for coffee, just to enjoy my book in public, where I can watch people, and feel comforted by the company of strangers. I am always on time for work, and I’m also happy to come in a few hours early, or even on my day off, if they ever need me to (which they often do). After all, I’m here to work and make money.

If this is loneliness, then maybe I actually like being lonely. I don’t know anyone in this town, and even the hostel I live in is almost empty; and yet I don’t really miss anyone’s company. I feel fine with the company of the characters in books and in movies, and with my own thoughts. I relish it even, because I always know that I’m not really alone. John is just a phone call away. 

Life without John has not been altogether unhappy – in fact, I’ve made myself very comfortable. Don’t get me wrong: I miss John, and he means everything to me. This is the longest we’ve been apart in five years, and it’s definitely strange. But it isn’t too hard, because I know that in our hearts, we are close. I think living alone has been good for me. I will certainly get my fill of independence and solitude.

John hopes to come back to Tauranga in a few weeks (or maybe longer). And as much as I am comfortable and happy, and as quickly as this month will pass, the fact is, it’s still a few weeks too long to live without John. He is the very best part of my life, and, no matter how content I am at the moment, I still know that, in the long run, all of these other little entertainments in my daily life can never fill the gap he leaves behind.

I can picture that boy stepping down off the bus, and it puts a smile on my face every time.

The truth is, even when he is far away, I carry him with me always. For me, there is no life without John.

A Stranger in a Strange Land

Sometimes I almost feel at home.

At night, the city lights reflect against the windblown lagoon, like long yellow shadows. As I walk over the bridge, I can hear fish jumping in the darkness. The seagulls on the railing begin to squabble as I approach; then they take flight, returning with lazy grace once I've passed. The wind makes my ears cold.

During the day, the weather is warm, for winter. It is often sunny, and I can walk into town wearing only a sweater. As I pass over the bridge, I stop to watch the strong current pulling at the water, like the folds on the surface of a river. When the tide is low, oystercatchers run on the muddy sandbars, calling to each other and changing direction, moving according to their strange logic. I always see cormorants waiting on the rocks beside the road. They regard me aggressively from one wary yellow eye.

A few leaves still cling to the massive Kauri trees in town, but most have been left in big windblown piles, like snowdrifts or sand dunes against the buildings. They look very much like maple leaves, and they have that same russet colour. The clock tower declares the wrong time.

It feels like any other sunny autumn day I have known in my life.

Sometimes, though, I feel an inexplicable dread. At times, it seems like the streets are full of unfriendly strangers, and I feel upset. People are often rude to me, especially service people: bus drivers, baristas. 

Maybe it’s my accent, my shyness. I speak too quietly, anticipating and provoking a sharp tone, even if I just want to ask a question or order a coffee. It makes me wish I was brave enough to be aggressive, give attitude. 

I’ve made a vow to myself to always make outsiders and strangers feel welcome, if I ever have the opportunity, once I’m back home.

For me, the strangeness of New Zealand has mellowed and also accelerated over time. Sometimes I feel completely at home, but then sometimes I catch myself locked in a surreal mindset: I’ve become a stranger in a strange land. I am alone and without distraction, so that incidents of cultural difference compound upon me – events no longer isolated, and no longer surprising.

For example, in New Zealand, guys often wear their hair in mullets or rat tails. Teenagers walk through town, and into shops, barefoot, listening to loud pop music from the speakers of their cell phones. I can’t help but wonder if they own headphones – or shoes, for that matter – and why, in this country, a mullet is a totem of masculinity, whereas in my world, it’s an unfortunate relic of the 80’s, or at least a sign of cultural backwardness. 

New Zealand’s isolation from the rest of the world has its perks, though. In this country, one can feel truly free. I don’t just mean that standing-on-a-mountain kind of free (although that is here too). There is a certain cultural freedom that comes at the cost of isolation, a lack of cultural diversity that results in a kind of social unity.

For example, it seems to me that in New Zealand, everyone wears what he or she likes, without an ounce of pretentiousness. Running shoes and sweat pants are okay. Different fashions from past years are all mixed in together casually. With my complete lack of style and limited wardrobe, I actually feel comfortable, even stylish myself. It seems that most people couldn’t be bothered with this or that fad.

No one really cares to look the way so many kids do back home: there are no skinny jeans, no vintage sweaters, no leather satchels, and no wide-rimmed glasses; there are no old-lady dresses or beards or rock-star hairstyles. No one wants to be the first to discover a new indie rock band; no one has heard of Jack Kerouac or William Burroughs, and no one seems to be trying to outdo anyone else in the pursuit of belonging to an elusive hipster scene.

Instead, everyone seems to agree that bop-along hits are the only songs worth listening to. Unfortunately, there is not much choice, not much diversity – but they seem to like it that way, because there’s no debate. No one knows the band, but everyone knows the words.

Recently, in Tauranga, I went searching for some live music to keep me busy. I looked for posters on telephone poles and on café windows, but I didn't see much, and the few I saw advertised events that had already passed. A lot of pubs play live music on Friday nights – 90s rock, like Fastball, Oasis, and Green Day. The only official “show” coming up is a largely unknown, indie-looking rock band, and, while their music would undoubtedly fill the hipster hole in my life, the tickets cost an astounding $25. So, while I must concede that the indie rock scene appears to exist here in New Zealand, it may be too unreachably expensive to survive for long.

And speaking of expensive culture, I really am pissed off at the state of the book industry in this country. Most of the book stores are going out of business, and no wonder: they have no customers. They have no customers because the books are so bloody outrageously expensive. For example: a mass market paperback sold in America for $6.99 (or in Canada for $10.99) sells in New Zealand for $34.99. I’m not good at math, but that’s like, three or four times more expensive than in North America. And as a consequence, people read less. Who can blame them? Television is cheaper and easier. Even secondhand books cost twice as much as we would pay for a brand-new book back home. It breaks my heart. It really does.

Needless to say, one of the first things I did upon arrival in Tauranga was to get a library card. The institution is a haven for book lovers everywhere, a source of free media, and free information – well – sort of – free-ish. Actually, the use of the libraries in New Zealand does cost a bit of money. Sometimes it’s $10 per month for the card. Also, it costs a couple of dollars to borrow CDs, DVDs, audio books, and any recent or popular books. The libraries in New Zealand have become more like video stores where you rent the books instead of borrow them.

Still, it’s cheaper than actually buying books.

Today I decided to sit and read the newspaper. But I didn’t want the Bay of Plenty Times (the top story was about school bullies): I wanted something broader, with more international and exciting news. The library didn’t carry international newspapers, and the lady at the book store just gave me a rude “do you mind, I’m going out of business here” stare when I asked her. She looked at me like I was a crime happening on TV.

The librarian recommended the post shop, but when I got there it was closed. So, I got myself a cup of tea and read the Bay of Plenty Times after all.

There was a story about a seniors dance club (they were really young at heart), a feature about the kiwifruit harvest (it’s over), something about the local politics I didn’t quite follow, and then of course the Facebook bully story. In all, I found myself wondering about the nuclear meltdown in Japan, the reaction to the recent gay rights laws passed in New York, the economic crisis in Greece, the developments in Middle East, and news from home. What I wouldn’t do to get my hands on The New York Times.

In New Zealand, internet companies charge by the megabyte, so it is generally pretty expensive. You are not likely to find free WiFi signals in coffee shops. Now, I don’t know if you know this about me, but I am something of an internet junkie. It’s always been my limitless source of entertainment, pop culture, and information. I’ve grown up with it, and I use the internet to do almost everything: it’s my map, my yellow pages, my encyclopedia, and my newspaper. I normally download films, music, and television as I desire them. I surf when I’m bored, checking out things that interest me, from recipes and knitting patterns, to sports, jobs, facts, bands, blogs, news, and travel articles. The internet is how I keep in contact with family members and friends. It’s how I entertain myself, and it’s how I stay informed.

I guess what I’m saying is that I am suffering from pop culture withdrawal.

What with the expensive internet access, the overwhelming mainstream music, the lack of international newspapers, and the high expense of books, I sometimes feel a little frustrated with the lack of media, the difficulty of getting information and international news. It makes me feel even more isolated from the world than I really am.

On the other hand, it makes me realize how dependent I was – am – on the mainstream culture in North America. If the Kiwis have a certain unity within their culture, then you could say that I do not fit into that unity, and I also feel disconnected from the unity – and the alienation and dissent – I felt within my own culture.

It is nice to be a stranger in a strange land, but also alienating. It makes me homesick and it makes me free. The whole experience is rather confusing. I guess I'm not quite at home yet, after all.