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.

De Bier Haus Nights

De Bier Haus, a Belgium-style pub, is owned by a very young and very inexplicably successful entrepreneur named Matt. He’s in his early thirties, but the ball cap and clean-shaven face make him look even younger.

(At 27, I can only stress the fact that a successful person in his thirties is young. Too young to be that successful – since I’m nowhere close yet.)

Apparently, the original owner of De Bier Haus went bankrupt less than a year after building the pub, so Matt bought it at the perfect time – just as it was going under. From there, he’s turned it into the only positive-growth establishment in the area. I don’t know where he came up with the money to buy it, and I don’t know how he turned the business around. But he did. Nowadays, the place is crowded with drinkers and diners.

The pub’s interior looks something like a medieval castle, complete with long wooden tables, stone walls, iron-wrought chandeliers, dripping candles, and a fireplace. The fare is pretty rustic too: lamb shanks, chowder, antipasto platters piled with olives, cheese, meats, mussels, bread. Chilled steins of beer and glasses of wine clutter the tabletops, and there is the drone of conversation and the clink of cutlery.

I stand at the bar, dressed in black. My hair is twisted up into a straw-coloured knot, and I’m wearing eye makeup, for once, that smudges my eyes into a feline shape. I feel out of place, but I try to look natural, smiling at everyone who comes in, and greeting them warmly. Are you in for dinner tonight? Great. Just sit anywhere – I’ll bring over some menus.

Hi there. Just drinks? Sure thing. What would you like? Lake Chalice Pinot… Sorry – was that the Pinot Noir or the Pinot Gris?

Oh, right. The menus. Hi guys, sorry about that. I’m Alieda, I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Our special tonight is a pan-fried salmon fillet on fondant potatoes; it comes with a beautiful spring salad. I’ll just leave you with the menu and come back for your drink orders.

I clear some plates at the table next door. How was it guys? Good. Would you like coffee, dessert? Maybe another glass of wine?

One more thing to remember. Port, cheesecake, cappuccino. That wasn’t even my table. I write it down. My notepad becomes quickly ridiculous. I try to keep track of the table numbers, but they aren’t permanently assigned – they’re random. It’s like that in every restaurant, in New Zealand. The Kiwis love to put a random number on a wooden stand; they put it on any table. It confuses me. Why not just number the tables? One less thing to crowd the table, and one less thing for me to write down.

I serve more drinks at the bar. I remember to bring water to my table, try to decipher their accents, bring them the correct wine, and take their meal orders. I remember to punch it into the till, being sure to send the order to the kitchen. More people come in. The Friday night Happy Hour crowd is mostly populated by yuppies in suits, drinking Stella, or ladies grouped together drinking wine. Soon I have three or four tables, then five or six.

I try to juggle everything at once, but I’m not very good at it, at least not yet. I acquire new tables just by making eye contact.

As soon as they see me, some ladies want to order drinks and dinner (who gave them menus? Who do they belong to?), and before I can get to the till (my home-free), this group wants another round (that’s three Stellas, two bourbon & cokes, house Sauv). Darn, that’s the bell – that man’s steak is ready.

I am not very fast at the bar, but pouring beer and wine is easy and I know I’ll get faster. It’s the cocktails that trouble me. Kiwis call ginger ale “bitter” and Sprite “lemonade,” for example – not very helpful. I find the port glasses. I make the cappuccino. Someone orders Sambuka shots.

I hear the bell again, rush over, carry out food, clear more plates. More people wander in for dinner; they sit; I bring them menus. I must remember to come back to them.

No one brings you a check in New Zealand. It’s quite strange actually. When you’re finished your meal, you come to the bar to pay. You can’t just put your credit card on the table – no one would get it. Also, nobody tips a penny: if you pay in cash, you get your change.

I remember when John and I first went out for dinner in New Zealand, we thought that we were being ignored. We sat around waiting for our bill, and we waited and waited, finally getting fed up and marching up to pay very pointedly. When it happened again and again, we realized that, in New Zealand, a printed-out check is just not done; nor is leaving the cash on the table. You don’t even tip at the bar. It’s crazy.

I can understand now why servers sometimes avoid eye contact. They already have so much to remember – they’re probably chanting to themselves, an order, a table number, and if you interrupt them before they can get to the till, they’ll have to make the embarrassing spectacle of heading back to the table to say something like, “I’m sorry – it was medium well steak, right? And you were having the pork belly. Right. Just checking.”

A lot of the time, people order even faster than I can write - which is saying a lot. I'm a fast writer - I've written four years' worth of lecture notes. In that case it's up to me to remember calamari, risotto, mussells, chardonnay, sauv, flat white.

"Are you from New York?" someone asks me. 

"No," I say truthfully, and smile, and keep walking.

Sometimes people order food at the bar, to my immense relief. It makes things much easier. Food and drinks ordered all at once, while I’m standing at the till – no room for error. Then I make the drinks, and I know the food’s already on the way, and already paid for. The only issue is making a spectacle of myself, like a person learning how to type – one finger trained above the till, looking for the right button.

“First night?” they ask.

“Yeah,” I laugh. “How can you tell?”

It’s the walking that does me in. When tables are ordering from their seats, I have to write it down, walk back and forth, and it seems like every step holds the possibility for a distraction or an error. I’m bound to see something that needs doing, and someone’s bound to want something.

So far, I’ve been lucky. I haven’t forgotten any tables, and although I have made mistakes, none of them were very noticeable. My biggest issue is definitely the accents. I can imitate a Kiwi accent easily, but understanding one, in a loud room, is another matter. I don’t have the heart to tell the customers that I can’t understand half of what they just said. I just phonetically write down what I think I hear, and then check it against the menu.

Sometimes they ask me questions I can’t answer: Does the lamb shank come with gravy? So I have to level with them. Sorry, I’m not sure – it’s my first night? But I can ask. I’ll just be right back.

Once I had a guy come up to the bar while I was in the middle of a nervous attempt to punch in a table’s orders (five lamb shanks, one pork burger, a bottle of wine, some beer). I looked up and he just started firing away drink orders. He got as far as a Stella, two Pyos, a Roan Mig Marlow, a Buhbin Bitta, a Mick Kinna – I had to stop him. I’d found the Stella button, but had forgotten the rest of what he’d said. Pyos? Roan Mig? What did that mean?

He wasn’t saying Pyo, it turns out, but Pure, which meant Steinlager Pure – a Kiwi beer, don’t worry about it. I found the bottles behind me in the fridge. The Roan Mig, I deduced, was the Roaring Meg Merlot. And the McKenna is a pre-mixed bourbon-and-cola. You’d never see something like that in a pub in Canada, I don’t think. Buhbin Bitta – bourbon bitter – bitter meant ginger ale. Golly.

The man was completely affronted. He must have thought I was an idiot – he had to repeat his order three times before I understood him. I explained that I was new, didn’t know the till, but the truth is I just didn’t know the lingo, and couldn’t understand his accent.

After my shift, I take my free glass of wine into a corner and read Truman Capote, alone. The restaurant is just warming up - there is hardly a seat anywhere. I notice that there is a storm outside. The rain is immense: a halo of water is bouncing off the tables, lights, and street. At one point there is a clap of lightning like flash photography, making everyone pause and look out. I feel relieved that I remembered an umbrella.

This morning, Saturday, John left for Wellington. He'll be working there at least a month. It's the longest I'll have been parted from him in five years - the longest I've been alone too. I already feel his absence: his empty bed has been made up for the next guest. He won't be there when I get home from work tonight. It will be strange to cook alone, eat alone, sleep alone.

But it's Saturday, and it's time for work. De Bier Haus is going  to keep me busy tonight.