The Left Side is the Right Side: Road Tripping from Wellington to Auckland

Motorway 1, North Island, New Zealand

Hitching a Ride to the Top of Whakapapa

I was leaving for Auckland in less than three weeks, yet no one knew of my plans.  Even though I was committed to and eager for the move, I was avoiding accepting the consequences of my decision. I could only predict the reactions of my flatmates, who were convinced that I was staying “indefinitely” (or at least longer than a month); my manager at the bookstore, who would no doubt tell me “I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed”; and my friends, who would be left heartbroken to confront their abandonment issues.  I considered penning a few witty but apologetic post-it notes.  Eventually, I summoned the courage to break the news face-to-face.

As usual, it was not nearly as awful or dramatic as anticipated.  (I swear my imagination could twist a full-body massage into a life threatening experience.)  One flatmate secured me an interview at a recruitment agency (the others posted an ad online for my replacement), while my manager offered to contact the various Auckland branches on my behalf.  That just left my friends.

Over drinks with three former roommates from the hostel, I blurted out, “I’m leaving Wellington.”

“Wait. What? Really? Cool!” Somehow I had forgotten that they are all fellow expats, accustomed to losing friends to travel and unselfishly enabling of wanderlust.

“I’m moving to Auckland,” I continued with renewed confidence.

“Oh. We’re not angry, we’re just disappointed.”

Why do we unabashedly and greedily steal each other’s enthusiasm, like bullies stealing lunch money in the schoolyard?  For the record, when someone tells you they are so unhappy that they have decided to relocate to a different city, “Ew, why would you want to move there?” is not an appropriate or appreciated response.  Allow me to propose an exercise: the next time someone shares with you their hopes and dreams, regardless of how unappetizing or unrealistic they may seem to you, try to be encouraging.  If you don’t have anything nice to say, be vague.  My two favorite pleasantries are “I hope that works out for you” and “Let me know how that goes.” But I digress.

When I announced my departure date, Kate, my closest friend in Wellington, unexpectedly exclaimed, “Me too!”  Unhappy in her receptionist job and due to start WWOOFing in the Coromandel at the end of the month, she had decided to quit work early in favor of exploring the North Island.

“I have an idea,” I shouted spontaneously, “let’s do a road trip!”

“Wicked!  Except I don’t have a driver’s license.”

“That’s okay, I do!”  And just like that, I had agreed to drive us from Wellington to Auckland, on the left side of the road.

I learned to drive at the tender age of fourteen and nine months in an automatic sedan in a small town in Michigan.  Other than driving to school with my head out of the window in the winter, I’m not particularly skilled at operating motor vehicles.  Only once have I been behind the wheel of a manual transmission, and that was in the parking lot of the Veuve Clicquot champagne house during a day trip to Reims, France with my parents.

Given the dearth of automatic cars abroad, I’ve always been wary of not knowing how to drive a stick shift.  In Argentina, I even toyed with the idea of taking lessons.  However, the chances of me wanting or needing to drive were so slim it hardly seemed worth it.  New Zealand is a different story.

With a total land area of 268,680 sq km, New Zealand is similar in size to Japan.   But Japan has an estimated population of 127 million people; New Zealand 4.2 million, and over 80% of that tiny population resides in cities.  In other words, nearly everywhere in New Zealand lies off the beaten path.  Sadly, public transportation in New Zealand is either inadequate or inexistent.  Buses, both within and between cities, are expensive, infrequent and their routes are limited to only the most urban destinations.

Those brave enough or on a tight enough budget may try their hand (or thumb) at hitchhiking. New Zealand remains a relatively safe place to rely on the kindness of strangers, though not entirely devoid of crazies (just ask my Chinese-American friend who was picked up by a war veteran who spent the next two hours telling her, to paraphrase a line from Kill Bill: Vol 2, how much he hates Asians, despises Americans, and has nothing but contempt for women).  Nevertheless, the best method of exploring the country is by car.  But I couldn’t possibly drive in New Zealand – Kiwis drive on the opposite side of the road.

As it so happens, I could drive in New Zealand, at least legally if not very well.  All that’s required to take to the road is a valid driver’s license from your home country.  I find this curious, as I question the prudence of allowing me to drive in say, Los Angeles without further instruction, let alone in reverse.  Nevertheless, I was hardly going to pass up a road trip and the chance to decompress before starting over in Auckland over something as silly as mono-motor-vehicle-dexterity. Since Kate is British, I figured that she would instinctively shout out before allowing me to turn into oncoming traffic or sideswipe a parked car.  Besides, for just an extra $10/day, we could reduce our insurance liability to zero.

At the rental agency, we filled out paperwork for a Nissan Sunny. Keys in hand, I opened the front door, and immediately began rummaging through the glove compartment.  “Just looking for a map,” I offered with a lighthearted smile.

“Aren’t you still holding the one I gave you earlier?” asked the rental agent.

“Oh, so I am.”  Nothing inspires confidence like a driver who can’t find the steering wheel.

Surprisingly, the biggest challenge turned out not to be driving on the left side of the road, but sitting on the right side of the car.  With a little practice, I soon became accustomed to both.  Correctly using the turn signal, especially in a roundabout, still eludes me.

Lake Taupo

Since we had given ourselves less than a week, we were only going to two places: Mt Ruapehu – a popular destination for winter sports enthusiasts, and Taupo – a tiny town on the edge of the incomprehensibly enormous and enviably photogenic Lake Taupo.

Frankly, I am not enthusiastic about winter, but I wanted to cross “learn to snowboard” off my to-do list.  Other than the fact that the car radio turned out to be a diehard fan of Christian rock music (further evidence that rural New Zealand is identical to rural America), it was an easy four-hour drive to the mountain through scenic landscape and small towns with names like Bulls (incredi-bull!) and information centers shaped like a dogs.

Eventually, we reached Ohakune, a quaint village 20 minutes from the Turoa ski area.  Ohakune is also the carrot capital of New Zealand and the host of the annual carrot festival in July.  And yes, there is a giant carrot stationed at the town’s entrance.  

We checked into the hostel, which was owned and operated by two brothers who had clearly missed their calling as video store clerks.  When I asked the younger of the two to please lock my laptop in the safe, he stared at me like I had just demanded the cube root of 81.  I repeated the question, this time pointing at the computer.  “Oh, man, I totally thought you wanted me to put that in the safe,” he said, nodding towards my pink Nalgene water bottle.

In the lounge, Kate and I discovered a lit fireplace and not one, but three Frenchmen sitting beside it: Henri, Victor, and Philippe, a dead ringer for Asterix’s sidekick Obelix.  In Wellington, my friend had been casually dating Henri, another long-termer at the hostel.  He was leaving for Australia in two days, but had dragged his friends to the mountain for one last run and one last good-bye.  How romantic, I’m sure.

As neither my friend nor I had any snowboarding experience, I suggested we start the following day with a course.  She suggested that we start our day messing about with the French guys on the bunny slope.   Who was I to argue the injustice of majority rule with citizens of the birthplace of modern democracy?

The following morning, we arrived at Turoa and waited in an interminable line to rent snow pants, boots, boards, and wrist guards, but not gloves.  Those you have to buy for an additional $20. When we finally waddled over to the beginner’s area, I dropped my board onto the snow and it immediately sped away like a rogue shopping cart in a supermarket parking lot.  Luckily, I managed to wrangle it before it bulldozed a pair of instructors.  If I couldn’t even set my board down properly, there was no way I could go down the mountain on top of it.

Suddenly, I remembered that a charming Kiwi bloke from the hostel had offered to teach me to snowboard, free of charge.  More out of boredom than anything else, I sent him a text message, but he was already on his way back to town.  Tired of waiting, I strapped on the board, and with a little help from Victor, coasted to the bottom without falling on my face or maiming a small child.  Just like that, I was hooked.

I fared far worse without my French training wheels.  Your coccyx may not serve any functional purpose, but it still hurts like hell when you land on it. In a moment of desperation, I fashioned a makeshift buttpad by shoving my hat down the back of my pants.  Of course, this did little more than transform me into an extra from a rap music video and give me the courage to keep going.

The next day, I left Kate to eat carrot cake in a café while I snowboarded.  After lunch, we loaded the car and began the drive to Taupo. On the way, Kate and I made a pit stop at Whakapapa (pronounced, to the amusement of my adolescent sensibilities, Fa-ka-pa-pa), the ski field on the other side of mountain where Kate’s friend worked in the repair shop.

Interestingly, while Kate hates snowboarding, she loves ski lifts. “Do you think they’d let us just go for a ride?” she whispered.  It never would have occurred to me to go sightseeing at a ski field, and I was fairly certain the staff wouldn’t be too keen on us treating the ski lift like a red double-decker bus.

“It’s a chair lift, Kate, not a camel. Probably not.”  Kate looked like a child who had just been told she couldn’t press the buttons in the elevator. “But it doesn’t hurt to ask,” and with that, I reluctantly trudged my way through the snow, in grey canvas Converse sneakers, to bat my eyelashes for a free ride on the ski lift.

After a long and majestic ride to the top of the mountain, we were instructed to dismount the lift.  I landed with all of the grace expected of a former competitive gymnast, only to discover that my zipper was caught in the wooden slats of the chair.  “Help!” I shrieked, running alongside the chair to avoid being dragged behind it. “I’m stuck!  I’m stuck!  I’m stuck!” I am now that girl who stopped the ski lift.

Kate is a genius.  The view from the summit was spectacular – certainly worth defying death for.  The setting sun backlit the fluffy white clouds, making them glow like roasting marshmallows.  My feet turned blue before Kate begrudgingly agreed to return to the base of the mountain, where we said good-bye to her friend and resumed the drive to our next destination.

Taupo, both the city and lake, are located in the Taupo Volcanic Zone.  Unbeknownst to me, the area is something of a geothermal wonderland. And as I’ve come to learn during my time in New Zealand, where there’s geothermal activity, there are hot springs.

Our hostel owner suggested that we walk to Spa Thermal Park, where we would be able to bathe in mineral pools au naturel.  She also recommended that we wear our swimsuits under our clothes, sound advice that we acknowledged but ignored.  The pools are completely exposed to the elements, which is of course part of the fun.  But they are also completely exposed to the eyes of passersby.  Despite the park’s abundance of trees and plants, there was nowhere out of sight for us to change.  Not to mention that it was the middle of winter.  We stood at the water’s edge, debating our options.  Intoxicated and seduced by the pungent vapors, we dropped trou in the middle of the woods, much to the delight of the father and son team that coincidentally walked past at that very moment.  Unsurprisingly, the pools were positively delightful – hot, shallow, surrounded by nature, and best of all, free.

Hot Springs in Spa Thermal Park, Taupo

The rental car was due back at noon on Sunday.  We woke early that morning and hit the road to the “big smoke”.  (Calling Auckland the “big smoke” is a little like calling a library loud.  I guess when you’re used to immaculate even spotless seems dirty by comparison.)  At eleven a.m., we arrived in Auckland.  At 11:59am, we arrived at the car dealership.

I can summarize the route from Wellington to Auckland in two words: Motorway 1. Thus, Kate’s navigational duties had been no more challenging than locating the cleanest rest stop.  It wasn’t until we were irrefutably lost in Auckland that I noticed that not only does she have a terrible sense of direction, she is actually cartophobic.  Nevertheless, we brought the car back on time, without so much as a scratch on it or our friendship.

The sight of snowcapped Mt Ruapehu rising from the Central Plateau transformed Wellington from an open wound into a distant memory, and reminded me of what a magnificent country New Zealand truly is.  The experience solidified my friendship with Kate and delivered me to Auckland energized and optimistic.

I hate to think of all the previous trips I never took because I was afraid to take the wheel.  Now I’m left wondering – how often do I say, “I can’t” when what I really mean is “I prefer not to”? How often do I convince myself that I am incapable of doing something, rather than merely unwilling?  How often do I conceive plans, but never execute them? How often do I bemoan my bad luck when I should be decrying my cowardice?

Financial concerns, prior engagements, no organizational or time management skills, complete lack of interest in the proposed activity or, as is most often my case, irrational fears are all legitimate reasons for not doing something, but they are not can’ts.  Can’ts are insurmountable obstacles or acts of God, not minor inconveniences or personality flaws. There are so many factors out of our control that dictate the terms and conditions of our lives, why do we deny ourselves the few chances for adventure, immediate gratification, or happiness that are afforded to us? We should all be more mindful of and conservative with our can’ts, for can’ts kill possibility.

Just as “I’m fine” can mean everything from, “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my life” to “I’m the closest I’ve ever been to taking my life”, “I can’t” has become a euphemism for everything from “you couldn’t pay me to attend a Teletubbies tribute to Michael Jackson on ice” to “I have a triple bypass scheduled that afternoon”.  In both cases, no one even bothers to call us on our ambiguity; no one except my friends.

If you start a sentence with “I’d love to but…” my friends immediately start working on solutions, like your life was a word problem about trains leaving Boston.  In a few weeks, a friend from home is coming to Auckland.  She’s in med school at the moment, saddled with ludicrous student loans that will take several generous kickbacks from pharmaceutical companies to repay.  Those same student loans paid for her flight to New Zealand.  When you’re already $100,000 in debt, what’s a $2,000 plane ticket?

My friend turned what for most of us would have been a dead end into a means. Where most of us would have seen an excuse, she found an answer.  Clearly, not all of us would consider this a sound calculation.  The point is my friend doesn’t have more resources or opportunities than anyone else; she just has a different set of values, priorities, and basic accounting skills.

I’ve realized that being honest about your motives for saying no and acknowledging that you have a choice is empowering. Cutting back on “I can’t” may not make you anymore brave or proactive, or your life anymore exciting or fulfilling, but it will stop you from feeling like a victim of circumstance.  It also gives you the chance to change your mind and behavior.  I’m fairly certain that it would be easier for me to eliminate like from my vocabulary than can’t; but I’m going to try, because I’m tired of living in a world full of walls with no windows.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to consult a thesaurus.

No Shortcuts: Assessing My Skills

Wellington, New Zealand

Sign at Wellington City & Sea Museum

Not counting that brief stint in graduate school in Buenos Aires, my academic career ended over four years ago. Yet curiously, I spent Tuesday evening in the library preparing for an exam.  As vexing as this was, of all the activities and professions that I have tried in my short but random life, the only one that I ever truly mastered was school.  Even though I was out of practice (and decidedly uninterested in staging a comeback), I assumed that studying was as unforgettable as riding a bike.

However, despite my previous level of expertise in the subject, I found myself seated at a desk, with water bottle, snacks, and computer placed before me, entirely uncertain of how to proceed.  I used to be so good at this, I moaned to myself in utter despair, before remembering that delaying the inevitable is a healthy part of any exercise program, like retying your shoe laces or uploading music to your iPod before running.

Since procrastination is a natural part of the education process, I gave myself permission to compose a list of bad similes and metaphors, which is at least more productive than reading my friends’ away messages on AOL Instant Messenger.   Eventually, like a homosexual Belgian man resigned to marrying his best girlfriend for a Green Card, I acquiesced in confronting the task at hand: cramming for a Microsoft Excel and Word skills test.

After four months in Wellington, I am relocating to Auckland.  Everyone I met while living in Wellington gave it rave reviews (which isn’t surprising, considering the population sampled), and everyone seemed to be having more fun than me (which is to say, having any fun at all).  Wellington is undeniably a delightful town, with its beautiful harbor, pervasive café culture, manageable size, interesting architecture, thriving arts scene, and lively nightlife.  In fact, that’s why I stayed as long as I did: I kept waiting to be let in on the secret.  Ultimately, the way I feel about Wellington is similar to how I feel about George Clooney: while objectively I can appreciate their appeal, neither of them do it for me.

There was also the issue of the “young person’s trifecta”, a concept recently introduced to me by a good friend.  She postulates that all young people strive to attain three things: a pleasant living situation, meaningful relationships, and a satisfying job.  In Wellington, I was struggling with all of them, but the final category was by far the most challenging, demoralizing, and influential on my quality of life.

Unbeknownst to me, I had not been hired part-time at the bookstore; I had been hired on a casual basis.  In other words, I was their scheduling bitch: they could put me on or take me off the roster as they saw fit.  Coincidentally, they happened to need me a lot on the weekends, which meant that I was only working when I didn’t want to.  Promotions were certainly amusing (especially for the people lucky enough to witness me walking down Lambton Quay dressed like a one dollar coin) and profitable, but also highly unreliable.  With no fixed schedule or guaranteed number of hours, I was unable to take a second part-time job or budget.  My social life suffered and I was hemorrhaging savings.  Worst of all, I was unable to explore or experience my new city and country.

My free time then became dedicated to finding full-time work, itself a full-time job.  At first, I applied only to roles that sounded at least somewhat interesting, but as my desperation increased, I sent my CV to every employer with an email address.  Most didn’t even have the courtesy to acknowledge receipt of my application.  In fact, just yesterday, I received an email from the human resources department of a major publishing company thanking me for “taking the time and effort to apply” and informing me, “although your skills and experience are impressive, we have selected another candidate.”  I took the time to apply over two months ago, but it was nice of them to formally communicate their decision, in case I had been hoping all this time that no news was good news.  Even though I didn’t take the rejection personally, it did nothing to improve my condition.   Under these circumstances, I would have been unhappy in Disney World.

Upon reflection, my approach to life in New Zealand has been misguided.  I came here with one lofty objective – to find a job whose principal task was writing – but I was unrealistic about how long and how many steps it would take to achieve my goal (and perhaps about how unqualified and inexperienced I am).  If you’re going to reach for the moon, it helps to have a solid base to stand on.  I was too anxious and impatient to start at the beginning; I was naïve about the way global events would impact my personal life; and I was arrogant, believing that I would be the one to defy the odds.  I realize that I need to modify my expectations, priorities, and timeline, and begin again.  Unfortunately, I’ve never been able to get a fresh start in a place where I have history.

Apparently, if you have a dream, you also need to have a plan for making it a reality, which is why I’m considering enrolling in a Master of Creative Writing program next year. Since I no longer feel the urgency to write professionally, my ambition for the remainder of my Kiwi experience is simply to enjoy myself, and to see as much of this incredible country as I can.   This means establishing financial solvency and job stability, so that stimulating, productive, and entertaining extra-curricular activities can become part of my regularly scheduled programming.

This time around, I’m going to be as aggressive, proactive, and flexible as possible. If you’re on a working-holiday visa, your employment opportunities are limited, especially if you’re in a country that respects and adheres to immigration laws. Restaurant, retail, and hospitality jobs are typically available. However, for many, the best option is temporary office work (which often leads to an extended contract or even a permanent position), and the best tactic is to sign up with a recruitment agency.

Before leaving for Auckland, my flatmate generously offered to forward my details on to his contact at one of New Zealand’s bigger and better staffing agencies.  An HR consultant phoned to invite me in for an interview and skills assessment.   Bearing in mind that the market is so tight Kiwis with 20 years of experience are fighting for the same short-term secretarial roles as gap-year travelers, I told the consultant that I was open to all possibilities.  This was a mistake.  Agencies will not consider you for or place you into a role without first evaluating your aptitude for such a position.  The more open you are, the more tests they give you.

In my case, this included tests on data entry, customer service, typing, sheep herding, apple picking, and goat milking.  I couldn’t believe that I had to go through all this just to have a chance at answering phones and making coffee. Suddenly, I empathize with people attempting to adopt a child. When I asked the consultant how long I could expect the assessment to take, he politely suggested that I pack a lunch.  He was also kind enough to recommend, in a lowered voice, that I memorize the drop-down menus of Microsoft Word and Excel, as shortcuts (and mistakes) are not allowed.

I know as much about Excel as I do about fixing hot water cylinders; and while I use Word daily, I could not tell you the precise path for placing blinking Christmas lights around text (Format -> Font -> Animation -> Las Vegas Lights).  Determined to prove myself a strong candidate, I made flashcards like I was prepping for the GREs, except that acing the GREs promises entrance into a top university, while acing a systems test promises entrance into the mail room of a major company.

Once I completed the epic testing, the consultant called me into an office to review the results.  “How’d it go?” he asked, as if he were asking me where I was on the night of June 24.  I found this question strange, as he already knew the answer.
“Well,” I began to humor him, “it took some time to get used to the test.  Also, I have a different version of the programs at home.  But overall, it was fine.”
“You’re in the 99th percentile of all candidates we’ve tested in the past three months.”
“Oh.  Then I’ll stop explaining myself.”

The following day, a consultant from the Auckland office phoned to discuss my details.  The optimism and confidence of the previous afternoon were soon shattered, when she revealed that Auckland had been hit harder in the recession than Wellington and was taking longer to recover.  I may be valedictorian of the staffing agency, but I appear to be destined for data entry.  Spending forty hours a week performing the same mindless activity is to me what getting stuck in an elevator with a clown is to a claustrophobic person.

My immediate reaction was to panic, and cry, but when I calmed down, it occurred to me that the agency was helping me to take the first step that I should have taken four months ago.  Boring but temporary entry-level positions can lead to more dynamic roles, friendly co-workers, rent, a sense of purpose, a routine, after-work drinks, an office romance, and free pens and notepads, all things that are necessary for my happiness and missing from my life.  So, while I may be disappointed over leaving Wellington and uneasy about moving to Auckland, if nothing else, I can feel good about the fact that I type 71 words per minute with 100% accuracy.

Can You Spell That, Please?: Speaking the Kiwi’s English

NZed

A woman walks into a bookstore in Wellington.  She is well dressed and well mannered, probably an executive assistant for the CEO of a dairy company, or some such profession.  She approaches the information desk and asks the salesgirl, an American, for help finding a particular title. The salesgirl begins to enter the customer’s request into the computer’s search engine, but hesitates:

“I’m sorry ma’am, but can you please repeat the title of the book?”
“Sick and Violent,” says the woman, a hint of annoyance in her voice. Trying not to judge, the salesgirl assumes her position at the keyboard.
“S-I-C…” She stops, and again asks, “Um, can you repeat that one more time?”
“Sick and Violent,” snaps the customer.
“Yea, ok, can you spell that for me, please?”
“S-E-C-O-N-D.”
“Oh, second!” exclaims the salesgirl with a sigh of relief. She pauses. “And the last word?”
“V-I-O-L-I-N.”
“Second Violin! I thought you said ‘Sick and Violent.’”  As the woman looks mortified, the salesgirl tries to alleviate the tension with a joke, “I swear we speak the same language.”
“It must be my accent.  I’ll go home and practice my English,” replies the customer, with not a hint of a sense of humor. Sadly, this type of misunderstanding happens all the time.

I understand how pathetic this is; but one of the reasons why I finally decided to leave Argentina was that I missed English.  Or maybe it was that my English had gone missing.  I had already been living in Buenos Aires for nearly two years when my friend came to visit.  After a few minutes of conversation, she remarked, “I’m so happy that you don’t sound like a Neanderthal.” She was right: thanks to my job as a customer service manager for a U.S.-based nonprofit organization, as well as my American friends and co-workers, my English was still standing; but it was also starting to deteriorate.

Between living in Spanish and studying French, my total vocabulary had no doubt increased considerably.  However, the quantity of English words under my command had decreased markedly (a fact which I successfully disguised with the help of Thesaurus.com).  I no longer noticed when I Espanglishized my speech: “Sure, I’d love to meet you there.  What’s the direction?” (Dirección being the Spanish word for address.)  And don’t get me started on prepositions – do you arrive at, in, or to a city? Honestly, I’m still not sure.  Yet, it wasn’t until the following conversation with my mother about her upcoming dinner party that I realized just how bad things had gotten:

“So, what time are people going to your house for dinner?” I asked.  My mother giggled, somewhat condescendingly, like she was watching an episode of Kids Say The Darndest Things.
“Oh, Amy.  In English, we say what time are people coming to your house for dinner.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” I protested, “I’m not at your house and neither are the guests.  Logically, it should be going not coming.”
“I appreciate your argument, but it’s still coming.”
“En serio?”
“Yes, Amy, en serio.”
“Whatever.”

With the decision to dedicate myself to becoming a writer, I concluded that it would be beneficial to immerse myself once again in English.  My father was quick to point out, repeatedly, that in New Zealand, I would have to learn a whole new dialect.  As much as I hate to admit it, he was right.  Differences in punctuation, pronunciation, spelling, and vocabulary abound.  For example, Kiwis seem to have an adverse reaction to the Oxford Comma (such as the one used before “and vocabulary” in the previous sentence), apostrophes, and periods at the end of abbreviations (as in Mr).  Harbor becomes harbour, theater becomes theatre, organize becomes organise, and so on.  I am often accused of being Irish because, as it turns out, only Irish and Americans pronounce their “R’s”. Just what are togs, jandals and singlets, you ask?  You’ll just have to go clothes shopping in NZed to find out.

Perhaps my favorite part of Kiwi speak is its “as” (not ass, as).  “Sweet as” is probably one of the most common phrases you will hear in New Zealand (and see printed on t-shirts in tourist shops).  Basically, it’s just the first half of a simile, and means “cool” or “awesome.”  The “as” format can be used with just about any adjective -  “It’s cold as outside”, “I’m tired as” – and saves you from having to come up with a clever comparison to describe the situation.  Sure, it sounds like people are speaking in incomplete Mad Libs; but while some may call this lazy, I call it genius.

My least favorite part, in case you were wondering, is how excessively polite people are:
“Your total comes to $100.”
“That’s lovely.  Eftpos [debit card], please.”
“Your card was declined.”
“Cheers.  I’ll use a different card.”
“You entered the wrong pin.”
“That’s lovely.”
“Is that your baby?  I ask only because it’s hideous.  Seriously, get it out of my face.”
“Thanks. You have a wonderful day. Taa.”

They also have a penchant for shortening words and adding a “y” or “ie” to the end of them – brekkie for breakfast, cardy for cardigan – making it sound like the language was invented by two ten-year old girls named Tiffany and Brittany while playing with their Barbies.  Then again, if you’ve ever heard a rugby player ask if you’ve seen his sunnies, you might find the practice more charming than juvenile.

What really gets me into trouble is Maori, especially in place names.  When a customer returns an item, we have to ask for their address, which often goes something like this:
“Can I ask for your city/suburb?”
“Sure, it’s Paraparaumu.”
“Your papa raises emus?”
“Para-para-umu.  How could you miss that?”  At least most cities are spelled exactly how they sound.

The other day, one of my coworkers came up to me with a giant grin on her face,
“When it’s time for your break, there are Shrewsburies, Squiggles, and Tim Tams in the staff room!”
“I want you to know you just sounded like a passage from Harry Potter to me.  What are all those things?”
“Biscuits!”
“What?”
“You’re so cute,” she laughed.

Most people find such barriers to communication amusing, and are eager to explain to me the meaning of Kiwi words, phrases, and product names.  Unfortunately, when I can’t understand their accent, most people seem to find that offensive.  When we learn a different language, we tend to ignore the accent, concentrating on memorizing vocabulary and mastering grammar (this is likely due to embarrassment, as no one wants to speak French like the chef from The Little Mermaid).  However, this is a huge mistake.  It doesn’t matter how complex are your sentence structures if people can’t understand a damn word you say.
Trust me, there is nothing more frustrating than asking the cashier at the supermarket if you can pay with a tarjeta de crédito while waving your credit card in front of her face, and having her spit at you, “no te entiendo.”  On more than one occasion while living in Argentina, I had someone stop me mid-conversation to ask, “what language are you speaking – English or Spanish?”  And then there were the infamous “I don’t hear the difference” exchanges:
“Dónde está el libro?”
“El qué?”
“El libro.”
“El qué?”
“El libro.”
“Ah, el liiiiibro!”
“I don’t hear the difference.”
Eventually, I resigned myself to the importance of the accent, and set about relearning how to pronounce Spanish words.  By that point, it was too late for perfection, but at least I wasn’t humiliated every time I spoke.

Just as Argentine Spanish (Castellano) sounds radically different from Spanish, Mexican, or Chilean Spanish, Kiwi English sounds radically different from English, American, and yes, even Australian English.  In “Eh?”, a recent article featured in Your Weekend (the Saturday supplement of Wellington’s Dominion Post), David Killick explains, “Want to talk like a Kiwi?  Easy.  Put a peg on your nose. Now, change the vowel sounds: A to E; E to I; I to U. Talk in a monotone, and finish each sentence with an upward inflexion, like a question.”  So, for all you Flight of the Conchords fans out there, the answer is yis! Kiwis really do talk like that, sort of.  According to the article, many New Zealanders themselves struggle with New Zealand English, deeming it ugly and incomprehensible.  Even Prime Minister John Key has come under attack for his strong Kiwi accent; although the article is careful to emphasize that clarity, not accent, is the real problem.

In fact, the New Zealand accent may be a solution.  I have read elsewhere that New Zealand’s departure from the Queen’s English mimics the country’s attempt to distance itself culturally and politically from its former colonial ruler.  Following this line of argument, New Zealand, a young country just now entering its rebellious teenage years, is using speech to establish and assert its unique identity.   Personally, I support and empathize with New Zealand’s attempt to create (or find, whichever you prefer) itself, even if I can’t always understand what its saying.

I’ve long since believed that the way you speak says as much about you as your actual words.  I finally came to embrace my accent in Spanish because it perfectly expressed my experience in Argentina: I lived there long enough to insert myself into the local community and adopt many local customs and colloquialisms, but not long enough to abandon my native tongue or disassociate from country of origin.   Already, I have versions of my CV and cover letter in Kiwi English, and the words “reckon” and “meant to” have been sneaking into my speech more than I would care for them to (as in “What do you reckon the Prime Minister meant to say?”) There’s no telling how much worse it will get.  Just do me a favor: if you ever hear me say “cheers” in place of “thanks”, smack me. Taa.

There’s a Good Chance That Today Will Suck: Dealing With Depression Abroad

In the Doldrums, Wellington, New Zealand

You know how I know I’m depressed?  It’s 9:30pm on Saturday night and I’m lying in bed, lights on, fully clothed, listening to Radiohead.  Given that my musical tastes tend to be more bubblegum than bittersweet, when my personal soundtrack features angst-filled alt-rock, you know things are bad.  The only thing missing was a rain-streaked bay window for me to look out while running my fingers through my tousled hair.

In my defense, I was nursing a wicked hangover and had just returned home from a day of arguing with customers over the injustice of being charged 10 cents for a plastic bag (‘all proceeds go to charity’) and helping middle-aged women locate science fiction-romance novels written by # 1 New York Times bestselling authors (a distinction I used to cling to like the ‘verified’ status on Internet auction sites, until I realized that earning that title is a lot like being crowned Prom Queen: some writers are better than others at printing buttons and baking muffins).  Although, I must confess that when the store is exceptionally ‘quiet’, I pass the time reading summaries of these books in our catalog:

When Luci, a beautiful archeology student, decided to spend her Spring Break in the Arabian Desert, she had no idea of the      treasure awaiting her.   Trapped in a terrible sandstorm, Luci is rescued by a mysterious stranger on horseback.  Who is this handsome but guarded to whom she owes her life?  Slowly, Luci digs away at his layers, and uncovers two shocking secrets: he is a Sheikh, and a werewolf.  The next full moon is fast approaching.  Will their undeniable sexual chemistry be strong enough to overcome their differences in class and biology?

To make matters worse, the owners of the house were I had been staying were due back the following morning; the place was a mess and my personal belongings were everywhere.  Still, on the eve of the big move into my new flat I should have been elated, not stewing in a pot of my own purple funk.

There is a widespread misconception that when you go abroad, it’s all sunshine and roses.  Allow me to clarify: it’s not.  I’m not being negative or pessimistic.  Just think about it: can you remember a six-month period of your adolescent/adult life when you were happy every single day?  Probably not, because bad days happen, even to the best of us, regardless of where we are living.

Yet, most of us, myself included, naively believe that when you leave home, you leave your troubles behind.  Unfortunately, many of your problems sneak into your suitcase while you’re not looking.  Your support system and comfort zone, on the other hand, see you off at the airport.  Even worse, once you land, you pick up new issues that you’ve never seen and for which you have no remedy, like mutant strands of psycho-emotional swine flu.

The stigma attached to being depressed at home is nothing compared to the shame associated with being down in a different country.  We all secretly hope that going abroad will be the best time of our life. Consequently, when you feel lonely, homesick, frustrated, or confused, you also feel like a failure.

In an effort not to disappoint or worry, you write a lot of emails that sound eerily like the letters you used to send your grandmother from summer camp: “Everyone here is really nice. I’m having a lot of fun and the food is better than I expected.  I miss you.”  No one, especially your mother, wants to hear about being defeated by the subway; getting ripped off by the laundry mat, which dry-cleaned all of your clothes, including your socks; or eating meals at McDonald’s because you’re too intimidated to sample the local cuisine.  They want to hear about the different accents you’ve slept with; the nights you’ve spent partying until dawn; the spontaneous weekend getaways; and the sophisticated dinner parties hosted by foreigners that you’ve attended.  They want to picture you in paradise, with a spare bedroom for visitors.

Now, I’ve had plenty of great trips that have played out like a montage of best moments.  However, sometimes things just don’t work out in your favor.  You choose a destination based on the best information available to you at the time.  But there are things that you can’t know about yourself or the place you are going until you get there; and there are factors that will influence your experience that are simply beyond your control.

Transitions are hard. Period.  Some days, you will feel like you’re recovering from a head injury: you have to relearn how to talk, getting dressed is a challenge, and feeding yourself is a notable accomplishment.  An expat friend living in Auckland told me that during her first few weeks in New Zealand, she began each day by telling herself, “there’s a good chance that today will suck.”  Then, she got out of bed and forced herself to do something – sign up with a temp agency, take a class, go for a walk – even if it felt like a lost cause.   Earlier this week, I decided to take advantage of my part-time unemployment: I visited a museum, treated myself to lunch at a café, and spent the afternoon reading and writing.  Normally, I would describe such a day as my version of Christmas morning; but given my current state, it felt more like a white elephant gift exchange.  Still, it certainly didn’t suck.

Depending on circumstances and personal characteristics, some people adjust, adapt and settle more quickly than others.  Often, it’s just a matter of stamina, like one of those “last man standing” competitions where you can win a new car simply by touching the vehicle for long enough.  The trick is not to lift your hand too soon; and not to let your sense of proportion cloud your sense of perspective.  When you only plan on being somewhere for a short while, a few difficult weeks represent a significant percentage of your total stay.  Taking a broader view, your overseas experience, whether you consider it a vacation, gap year, or working-holiday, is just another chapter of your life; and what are a few bad months over the course of a lifetime?

Try not to judge the city, or your connection to it, until you’ve managed to crack the surface and throw down some roots.  Be patient, be resilient, and most importantly, relax.  Moving abroad is an inherently stressful situation; seasoning it with your own special blend of neurosis is a bit like squeezing lemon on a grapefruit.  Once you’ve done your part, and while you’re waiting for the Universe to meet you half way, try to have fun.

Unfortunately, sometimes the Universe stands you up, leaving you sitting alone on the curb like a total chump.  In which case, unless you’re an actor, putting on a non-stop one-man show does you no favors.  You can’t fix a problem until you admit that you have one. I know this because I recently took that first step: “Hi, my name is Amy and I’m not happy in Wellington.”

The truth is that so far, not so good.  The possible reasons why are endless: simple incompatibility, unrealistic expectations, bad timing, global economic crisis, wrong approach, and the list goes on.  (Remarkably, everyone with whom I’ve shared my predicament has been amazingly supportive and managed to say the right things.) All I know is that my present situation is untenable, financially, emotionally, and psychologically.  Rather than invest more time, energy, and savings to maintain the status quo, it’s time to explore other options.

I’ve come to the conclusion that there is a thin line between quitting and hubris.  Walking away from something that isn’t good for you; isn’t actually what you want; or can’t offer you what you need, is not admitting defeat; it’s taking care of yourself and moving on with your life. There’s no shame in trying something new.  Once you hit your wall, don’t torture yourself with “maybe if I stay longer, things will get better” or “maybe there is more that I could be doing”.  All you can ever do is your best; give it a fair chance, and then come up with a plan B.

No final decisions have been made, but I am currently contemplating ideas for my immediate and short-term future – moving to a different city (other than the one in which I was born and raised) where I have friends and there are things to do other than drink coffee, applying to master’s programs in creative writing – some of which I had never before considered.  When I was living in Buenos Aires, I rode the bus everywhere.  On certain occasions, when made to wait an unreasonable amount of time, I would change my mind and decide to take a taxi or walk.  Without fail, the bus would pull up an instant before I turned away.  Now that I’ve genuinely committed to looking elsewhere, one of two things will happen: Wellington will show up at the last minute; or it won’t, and I’ll go through with my exit strategy.  Either way, I no longer feel stuck.

You know how I know that I’m going to be okay?  It’s Sunday evening, a week after moving into my new flat, and I’m finally unpacking my suitcases.  In the middle of hanging up my clothes, a Justin Timberlake song comes on and I stop organizing my belongings to stage an impromptu fashion show/music video in front of the mirror.  As long as there is choreography, lip-synching, and catwalking in my life, all is not lost.

We Just Live Together: Hunting for Housing in Wellington

Wellington, New Zealand

Men complain about how complicated and dramatic women are; but I still can’t get a handle on the opposite sex.  After exchanging a few delightful emails with someone that I met online, we decided to take our virtual relationship to the next level and meet in person.  Even though I found his suggestion to have coffee at his apartment to be a bit forward for a first encounter, I accepted his invitation.

The day of our date, I anguished over what to wear like I was debating the best tactic for dealing with the Cuban missile crisis.  I wanted him to find me attractive; but I didn’t want to appear to be trying too hard (especially given the location of our rendezvous).  I wanted my clothes to reflect my personality and style, without scaring him off or giving too much away.  Finally content with my outfit, I made my way to his building.  I announced my presence with a nervous ring of the buzzer; and a few seconds later, the front door opened to reveal a handsome, strapping young man: bald and muscular with a big smile.

Inside, we drank hot beverages and talked.  Just as I expected, we had a lot in common: we both speak Spanish (he’s planning his first trip to Argentina in July); we both studied economics and international relations; and we’re both non-hippie vegetarians.  At the end of the evening, he promised to be in touch; and I believed him.

Days went by with no word, text, or email.  After passing through all five stages of mourning – denial (maybe he dropped his phone in the toilet), anger (how rude!) bargaining (if only I’d worn more makeup), depression (it’s not him, it’s me), and, acceptance (whatever) – I took to the Internet to search for something better.  In my experience, men possess a sixth sense for when a woman is about to move on; and sure enough, just as I finished arranging to meet someone else, Bruce Willis’s gay doppelgänger texted me: “Sorry didn’t get back to u yet about flat.  Need to talk w flatmate b4 we make our decision…will let u know soon.”  I swear, finding the father of my children will be easier than finding housing in Wellington.

Argentina was my first experience outside of college with real estate and randoms.  My initial roommate (or in Kiwi speak: flatmate) was a French girl that I found on Craigslist.  She quickly became not only one of my best friend’s in Buenos Aires, but one of my best friends, literally, in the world.  I was devastated when she returned to Paris, not least of all because it fell on me to retrieve our security deposit from our Latin American landlord, a feat akin to stealing gold from a leprechaun. The good thing about the whole affair is that I learned how to threaten to break someone’s legs in Spanish.

A string of apartments and roommates followed, none as glorious as the first.  For a few months, I lived with an Italian man who was such a cultural stereotype that we shall call him Luigi.  He was a photographer from Milan and wore Burberry scarves, tight black Armani t-shirts, and even tighter jeans (not that I’m complaining).  He drank water from silver Dansk vodka bottles. The only thing I ever saw him eat was pasta with sheep’s milk cheese (cow milk bothered his stomach), which he cooked while complaining about Italy. This, I found amusing, endearing even.  What I found annoying was how he insisted on removing my vegetables from their plastic bags and arranging them in the refrigerator by color and shape.  Then there was the sex.  One night, I was disturbed from slumber by the unmistakable sound of heavy breathing.  I was still half-asleep and the noise was so loud, I thought that Luigi and his girlfriend were having sex on my bedroom floor.  Finally I understood why he ate so many carbohydrates: he was preparing for a marathon.

At some point, I lived with an Argentine girl.  I’m not sure if she was high all the time or just morally opposed to speaking with her mouth open.  Either way, I never understood a single word she said.  Unemployed, she spent all of her time watching videos on YouTube and smoking weed.  She also refused to throw away rotten food or wash her dishes (there are hungry and thirsty children in Africa after all).  When I returned home after a four-day silent retreat to discover the kitchen resembling a preschooler’s found-object art project, I was in such a state of awe and disbelief that I took a picture.

Because I never intended to stay in Buenos Aires longer than a few months, I preferred to rent rooms in furnished flats rather than get my own place.  If I had known then that I was to be there for over three years, I would have done things differently.  What I learned is that your home life heavily impacts your overall quality of life.  Unnecessary roommate drama; depressing rooms with no natural light; and pipes that clog and flood the kitchen with sewage only serve to bring you down, especially when you’re new in town, spend a lot of time at home, and have nowhere else to go.

Unfortunately, since arriving in New Zealand, I have slept on floors, pullout couches, bunk beds, and air mattresses.  I have shared my bedroom with seven other girls, none of whom were relatives. While house sitting has been wonderful for my financial stability and personal freedom, it’s too much house for one person and it’s too far away from the action; isolation is killing my social life.  More than anything, after a while, being a guest in someone else’s home begins to wear out its welcome.

Like Goldilocks, I wanted my next living situation to be just right, as it will likely influence how I feel about Wellington and how long I stay here.  Because desperation does for apartments what beer goggles do for ugly people in bars, I began looking for housing weeks ago.  I sifted through hundreds of listings, setting aside those with promise while dismissing those that mentioned chore rosters, rotating dinner schedules, or vegans who only eat raw produce sourced from their own gardens.  I went to see a few places with little potential because I thought window shopping with no pressure to buy would help me define exactly what it was that I was looking for.

I compiled a list of criteria: location (within walking distance of town); cost (I have a part-time job and earn minimum wage); physical space (nothing too cold, damp, dark, cramped, dirty, or reminiscent of an attic); “clean- and tidy-ness” (hygienic but not obsessive); and most importantly, flatmates (single- and two-bedroom apartments are uncommon in New Zealand, as most people prefer to live in houses or large flats with multiple flatmates).

In the past, who I lived with was less important than where I lived.  I didn’t need or necessarily want for the people I lived with to be my best friends; all that mattered was how well we co-existed.  However, given my current circumstance, I now want to live with people whose company I genuinely enjoy; who have similar interests, lifestyles, and personalities; who are “social but also have their own social lives”; and who make me feel welcome and comfortable.

With such specific conditions, I knew that finding exactly what I wanted would be a challenge; but I hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to actually acquire it.  In Buenos Aires, securing a flat was as easy as showing up, having a look around, and handing over a large sum of cash.  In Wellington, the (unofficial) application process involves multiple rounds, including an introductory email (I copied and pasted part of my cover letter); one or two visits to the flat (to which some people brought baked goods); and the final decision.  The pressure to impress (and the awkward questions about your income, intentions, and plans for the future) is similar to that experienced when meeting your boyfriend’s parents for the first time.  One girl asked us about our favorite book and our personal policy on energy conversation, at which point I panicked: I had left my swimwear at home and had nothing rehearsed for the talent portion of the evening.

Some flats turned me down (or blew me off); and I did some rejecting of my own (including of the aforementioned indecisive flat).  I began to wonder if I shouldn’t lower my standards; if maybe my dream flat didn’t exist; or worse, if maybe it was out of my league.  I had all but given up hope and resigned myself to living in the suburbs in a converted basement with eight university students, when Prince Charming came along to rescue me.  A few days ago, I found the perfect flat; and this time the feeling was mutual. On Sunday, I move into my new home: a spacious, six-bedroom apartment located in the epicenter of my personal universe.  My room is the perfect size; the price is reasonable; and the flatmates seem great: three Kiwi blokes, a French girl, and one as yet to be determined. There’s just one minor problem: now that I have to pay rent, I need to find a job (other than handing out promotional ice cream cones at movie premieres).

Acclimatization: Weathering Windy Wellington

Wellington, New Zealand

Because even teapots need help staying warm

When I awoke on Friday morning, the house was rocking.  And yes, I had slept alone the night before.  As it was only 6am and my eyes refused to open more than halfway, my first instinct was to incorrectly blame myself for the swaying.  But when I steadied myself against the bathroom counter and the mirror continued to bounce merrily like a child on a pony ride, I quickly surmised that the shaking was structural.

Far beneath New Zealand, the Pacific and Indo-Australian Plates are engaged in an ongoing, geological Sumo wrestling match.  The result of all of this tectonic butting, crashing, and slipping is New Zealand’s diverse and shapely landscape.  Geothermal wonders, such as geysers, mud pools, and hot springs, rank among the North Island’s most popular tourist attractions.  The Southern Alps were born of plate subduction, and volcanoes are to blame for the Waimangu Valley, the Central Plateau, and Lake Taupo. Given that an earthquake registering 7.9 on the Richter scale leveled the town of Napier in 1931, I couldn’t help but wonder if I wasn’t experiencing my first taste of seismic activity.

But alas, it was merely another windy day in Wellington.  The weather in New Zealand’s capital is real shit.  Temperatures may be moderate (annual averages range between 6-20°C), but it’s the wind that’ll kill you.  The gap between the North and South Island is a natural wind corridor, and as air passes through the Cook Strait it becomes faster and stronger.  Consequently, Wellington averages 173 days per year with powerful gusts (winds faster than 60km/hr), and those winds often travel with a posse of purple rain clouds that pass overhead like a stampede of buffalos.  At least on those days I don’t have to worry about watering the plants.

Of course, I knew this before choosing Wellington.  But I was promised that the city compensated for its climate.  People assured me that with so many great things to do, places to go, and people to see, Wellington’s meteorological shortcomings would be reduced to small talk.  They were wrong.  No mixed drink, hip club, or Kiwi bloke has yet to convince me to shed my leg warmers and hooded sweatshirt, leave the space heater at home, and go out in a torrential downpour.

However, I can’t help but think that maybe my friends were onto something. Every time I walk home after work on a Friday night, I pass hordes of co-eds in short, strapless cocktail dresses, an entire can of Aqua Net sprayed in their hair, walking like Quasimodo in their four-inch heels.  One would assume that they are all dressed up because they have somewhere to go (like Shooters on Courtenay Place).  I guess my invitation was lost in the mail.

Recently, it has occurred to me that Wellington, like all cities, is an exclusive, members-only club. If you want access to the best bars, flashest stores, top neighborhoods, finest classes, and coolest cultural events, you have to be an insider, or at least be friends with one. But I am still the uninitiated new girl.

However, it seems as though I am slowly gaining entry.  The woman who co-owns the hostel where I used to stay recommended the Wellington Community Education Centre, where I am now taking an acrylic painting class on Thursday nights. (Either I’m the next Picasso or I should have signed up for a drawing class).  Last week, a flier delivered to the bookstore informed me of an event at the Te Papa museum featuring six international authors nominated for the prestigious Commonwealth Writers’ Prize. And just tonight, a friend told me about an outlet mall located a short train ride outside the city.  Now that Wellington and I are getting to know each other, and I’ve earned its trust and respect, it’s starting to open up to me.

I’ve taken to viewing the weather as Wellington’s version of hazing. Rather than tie two 40oz bottles of beers to your hands or knifing you in an alley, the city sends the wind to weather-beat you. If you hope to make it here, or anywhere really, you have to prove just how badly you want it.  (To give you an idea: you know when a little kid tries to fight a bigger kid and the big kid defends himself by simply placing his outstretched hand on the little kid’s head, leaving the poor, misguided attacker to flail his arms in desperation while running in place?  That’s what jogging in Wellington on a windy day feels like.  I joined a gym.)

Truthfully, if I do end up in Wellington long-term, I doubt I’ll ever cease to comment on the weather. I lived in Buenos Aires for over three years and never stopped moaning about the humidity, overcrowded subtes, and missing monedas.  In my experience, a city’s faults become part of the shared experience, and rising above them brings residents closer together and distinguishes them from other communities. Complaining is an integral part of the collective narrative.  It is also a source of pride, because staying with a city despite its flaws indicates that you have a profound connection to and a rewarding relationship with that place.

I don’t know if Wellington and I will go the distance.   But I’m not ready to give up on it yet.  I have a good feeling about this city and we’ve had some good times together.   And as time passes, I am more comfortable and at home here.  Besides, after careful calculation and scientific analysis, my fellow expats and I have concluded that eight months is the magic number – you simply can’t determine if a city is right for you any sooner.  Who knows, maybe I just need to buy some warmer clothes.

Good While It Lasted: Managing Transience

Wellington, New Zealand

I may be a fan of The Power of Now and a proponent of living in the moment, but if I’m being honest, I don’t and can’t always practice what I preach.  We live in a fearful, future-focused society that encourages us to help our children plan for retirement rather than talk to them about safe sex.  Delayed gratification is a virtue, while instant gratification is seen as hedonistic, frivolous, self-indulgent, and worse, irresponsible. But I believe in the short-term.  I believe that we should allow ourselves to do the things that make us happy now, even if they won’t do anything for us later.  Call me a utilitarian (actually, please don’t), but I believe in the intrinsic value of pleasure.   Yet lately, I’ve been plagued by the question what’s the point?

Considering that I’ve only been in Wellington permanently (and given the nature of the current discussion, I use that term reluctantly) for a few weeks, things are going well.  I live alone and rent-free in a beautiful house, and I have a fun part-time job, friends whose company I enjoy, and a good-looking English guy to give me something to think about.  In other words, there are a lot of things to be happy about.

But happy is not exactly how I’ve been feeling lately.  And trust me, there is nothing more frustrating, obnoxious, or unattractive than being able to count your blessings but not being able to appreciate them.  It’s a little like finding out that your boss, who has a wife and twin girls, is having an affair with the young man who works in the mailroom, and not being able to tell anyone about it.  At first, hormones were my only explanation for this unwarranted and irrational display of indifference.  Until I realized that rationality was actually to blame for my bad mood.

Yesterday, after dance class, I met a friend for coffee.  She had spent the weekend in the mountains, interviewing for seasonal work at a ski lodge.  A lot had happened since we had last spoke, just a week before.  We sat for hours talking psychology, dating, and the hardships of being an expat.  It was one of those great conversations that graduate the relationship to the next level of friendship.  However, when we said goodbye, I didn’t feel satisfied.  I felt empty.  During the evening, my friend had revealed that whether she gets the job or not, she will likely leave Wellington within the next month. And it hit me just how temporary my life is at the moment.

The pleasure we derive from doing certain things, like buying treasury bonds, lifting weights, or shaving our legs is based on the promise that our actions in the present will pay off in the future.  Sure, the more masochistic among us may find such activities amusing (I, for one, do genuinely like going to the gym), but for the most part, we suffer these tasks in silence because we understand that they are part of the creative process.  All of these actions, and the subsequent sore muscles and nicked knees, are necessary in order to reach our objectives.  And it is the knowledge that we are building a foundation or nearing our goal that makes these steps not just bearable, but rewarding.

So, it’s a little disheartening and disappointing knowing with certainty that I will soon have to say good-bye to many of the wonderful things in my life, like the house, my job at the bookstore, and my friend.  And it’s discouraging sensing that the energy I am currently expending will not be compensated.  I just can’t help but feel burdened by the expiration date.  Which brings us back to the age-old question: is it better to have loved and lost or to have never loved at all? When I think about my time in Argentina, this blog, or the recent coffee date with my friend and how comforting it was to share stories, worries, and plans with another person, I would definitely place my vote on the former.

Besides, as my friend pointed out, as much as I need a certain amount of stability and control, I also need to explore, experiment, and evolve.  If everything were sorted and settled, eventually I would get bored and crave change.  Rather than resist or resent the transient nature of my existence, perhaps I should try to accept and embrace it, as it gives me the opportunity to constantly refresh and do-over.  The problem is when something ends before you’re ready to give it up.

It’s exhausting to think about starting anew, again. Especially for a girl who may or may not be writing this at 1pm from her bed because she can’t be bothered to get dressed.  I had been hoping to put on cruise control and just coast for a while.  However, in the immortal words of Bryan Adams, “Ain’t no use in complaining when you got a job to do.”  And there’s also no use in staying at home on a Saturday night, even if it is raining, just because your partner in crime won’t be around the following weekend.  So, I guess I’m going to get up, brush my teeth, and make dinner plans with a friend who is leaving for Asia next week.  I might as well enjoy what I’ve got before it’s gone.

All To Myself: House Sitting for Six Weeks

Newtown, Wellington, New Zealand

Due to my commitment issues and mood swings, I don’t typically plan in advance. But I knew exactly how I was going to spend last Friday night, long before it happened.  During my friend’s wedding, she and her husband introduced me to friends of theirs, a couple, who live in Wellington.  Not only are they stylish, intellectual, and gorgeous, they are also unnecessarily generous.  Just days after we met, they gave me the greatest gift I’ve ever received – they asked me to house sit for six weeks.  And we’re not talking just any house, but a newly renovated house from the 1900s with high ceilings, wood floors, natural light, and a garden. Did I mention they don’t have any pets?

Given that I’ve been living in hostels, sharing rooms with up to nine other people, and sleeping on air mattresses, pullout couches, and bunk beds for the past two months, if someone had offered me my own teepee it would have been too much.  The offer to live alone and rent-free in someone else’s spacious, modern home was like asking to borrow a cup of sugar and being handed an apple pie.   The day I moved into the house, I could barely concentrate on the homeowners’ last minute instructions. Luckily, I didn’t have to, as they had left me a note detailing phone numbers, security codes, and the location of the Tupperware and extra towels. It was like the first day of college, and I was waiting for my parents to leave and the fraternity party to begin. Except that binge drinking was not on my agenda for the evening.

As soon as the couple pulled out of the driveway, my night began.  I turned on the radio, dumped out the contents of all of my suitcases, stripped off my clothes, and did laundry naked, because I could.  Then I soaked in the claw-footed bathtub, made snow angels in the white sheets of my double bed, and fell asleep under the down comforter.  Oh, the joys of being a single girl in a new city where no one knows you.

This house performs miracles.  Lately, I’d been having a crisis of faith, uncertain if things were going to work out for me in Wellington or if I have what it takes to become a writer, here or anywhere.  The truth is that things are already going well, it just didn’t feel that way.  I’m impatient and anxious by nature – once I know what I want, I want it now, and the idea of “enjoying the process” is a little like trying to enjoy getting vaccinated before going on an African safari.  But this time, I wasn’t just talking about moving faster towards my goal.  I was talking about trading in my dream for another one.

I started to feel jealous of my roommates, with their nine-to-five office jobs and exam schedules (or maybe it was resentment over being woken up at 6:30am every morning).  They had somewhere to go and something to do each day, and something to show for it.  I began to covet my neighbor’s routine.  I wondered if being my own boss wasn’t a failed experiment, if I shouldn’t give up my desperate housewife lifestyle and literary aspirations and return to the office.  Or worse, return to school.  Luckily, before I could trade in my pen and paper for a business suit or textbook, I left the hostel.

One of the first things I did when I moved into the house (after cleaning up the mess I’d made and getting dressed) was go for a run.  There is a closed track around the corner, and I resigned myself to running around in a circle for 40 minutes while people in spandex mocked me openly.  But before I even finished my first lap, I saw a paved path in the distance, heading uphill.  Hmmm, I wonder where that goes? I thought, and I was off on an adventure. I discovered children playing soccer (on a field next door to a pistol range), numerous parks, the bus stop, post office, supermarket, and library.  As I ran, uncovering the secrets of my new neighborhood, I was like a pig in mud. I remembered how much I enjoy exploring, and how liberating it feels to be able to go with the flow because you have nowhere you have to be next.  I remembered how thrilling it could be to veer off the beaten path, as long as you have somewhere safe to return to.

Many people like living in hostels.  Because their only ambition is to finance their travels and have a good time while they’re in town, they happily trade privacy and freedom for constant companionship and zero responsibilities.  But I have other priorities and other needs, and I found the hostel tiring and oppressive. Hostels may seem like a community, but they are governed by the Law of the Jungle.  Everyone circles the two computers like vultures circling their prey, boxing out anyone who tries to cut in before their turn.  Food left on the counter for more than five minutes is consumed before it can be placed in the free food container. And then there’s the battle for the bottom bunk.

Personally, I waited two weeks for one of my roommate’s to vacate her bed.  When I returned to the room on the day of her departure, I found that a new girl had claimed it, even though I had already placed my belongings on the corresponding shelf.  I kindly corrected her error, moving her stuff off of my bed.  Later, I discovered that she had made the bed, placing her possessions on top.  Again, I was forced to remove her things and replace them with my own.  When I got home that night, she was fast asleep in the top bunk.  All’s fair in love and bed wars.

Used to setting my own schedule, I found conforming to the pace of the hostel difficult.  I didn’t understand why strangers should inform when I eat, sleep, read, or go to the bathroom, and I hated having to lock my suitcase every time I left the room. What it takes to reach your goal is stamina, but fighting for counter space, waking up early to take advantage of the free breakfast, and waiting in line for the shower left me exhausted.  I wasn’t starved for stability.  I was desperate to get out of the hostel.  I literally felt like I was being pushed out the door.  However, without a home base, I was much less willing to venture out into the great unknown.

When I moved into the house, the only thing that really changed was that I had heated floors in the bathroom.  But that changed everything.  With a comfortable place to call my own (even if just for six weeks), I can finally see that I’m in a great place in my life.  I no longer feel limited by other people’s stuff or agendas.  I signed up for classes and returned to my interests and activities because I have space to spread out and the resources that I need in order to stay organized.  Content with meandering towards my goal and easing into my new life, I no longer feel the need to rush anywhere.  Sure, I have to find another job (because the one I have won’t pay the bills) and a flat (because, unfortunately, I can’t stay here forever), but not this week.

The first phase of moving abroad is definitely the hardest, full of uncertainty, doubt, and anxiety. It’s easy to lose perspective, especially when you focus on what you gave up to come here rather than on what you already have or stand to gain.  But it can also be the most fun because everything is new and novel, and everyday is unpredictable and exciting.  For a while, I was so unsettled that it was upsetting, distracting, and demoralizing.  But now I’m ready to face the world because I know that at the end of the day I can come home and slam the door in its face.

For This They Pay Me $30/hr? : Job Hunting in New Zealand

Wellington, New Zealand

Promoting $3 Parking

When my savings dwindled and I could no longer justify or tolerate starting each day at 2pm, I began to look for a job in Buenos Aires.  At that time, I was willing to do whatever it took to stay in Argentina.  With the exception of pornography and prostitution.  All I needed was an income and a reason to get out of bed in the morning other than to go to the bathroom.  An equal opportunity job hunter, I didn’t care if the position was “black” (under the table) or “white” (on the books), stimulating or mind-numbingly boring, as long as it paid the bills.  I dropped off my CV everywhere, from toy stores to nightclubs.  But in the end, I decided to do the one thing I had vowed I would never do – teach English.

Don’t misunderstand. I have nothing but respect and appreciation for teachers.  But I’m not one, neither by training or disposition.  And just because you know how to do something, doesn’t mean that you know how to teach someone else to do it.  Most days, I felt more like an actress (or a con artist) than a professor.  Some days, I felt like a complete ass.  The way I explained phrasal verbs, prepositions, and idioms sounded a lot like the way the dad from Calvin & Hobbes explained science.

Calvin: “Why does [the sun] move from east to west?”
Calvin’s Dad: “Solar wind.”

Quite honestly, everything I know about English language and grammar, I learned from Schoolhouse Rock! Not surprisingly, my students, typically middle-aged businessmen, weren’t too keen on singing “Conjunction Junction.”  That is, assuming that they showed up for class.

I can’t recall the number of times that students simply failed to come to class with no warning.  Because their companies paid for the classes, there was no financial disincentive to playing hooky.  But even Ferris Bueller had the decency to call in sick.  And I’m fairly certain that none of my students ever used the extra hour to hijack a parade float and lip-synch “Danke Schoen” while driving down Avenida 9 de Julio. Sure, it was nice getting paid for taking a nap under my desk.  But while I was willing to do just about anything for money, I wasn’t interested in getting paid for doing nothing.

After nearly a year in Buenos Aires, I finally landed a real job (expat parlance for a stable, salaried position, typically executed in an office between the hours of 9am-5pm, for which a work visa is either required or provided).  The actual tasks I was expected to perform were dreadful.  If the infinite monkey theorem states that “a monkey hitting keys at random on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type a given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare,” then a trained monkey certainly could have done my job, and probably would have complained less.  But it wasn’t teaching English, and fortunately, there were enough benefits, like amazing coworkers and great pay, to compensate for the boredom and soul sucking.  Not to mention the fact that it kept me in Buenos Aires.

After nearly two years, my brain had atrophied and my mood had defaulted to depressed. The real wake-up call came when I found myself awake at 2am, hovering over my computer in a darkened room, writing computer programs.  It was the most mental stimulation I had experienced in nearly two years, and it was addictive.  Fearful that I would eventually turn into a coder, I was compelled to quit my job. There was another reason for leaving – I had found my passion for writing.  And working all day as a customer service manager left me with no time or energy to explore my talent or pursue my new career objective of becoming a writer, in New Zealand.  (No, I didn’t really think that last part through too carefully.)

Unemployment has been stressful and uncertain, but I promised myself that I wouldn’t compromise my dream for a paycheck. I came to New Zealand with a specific goal – to find a job in publishing.  While I’m open to taking on any role where the principal activity is writing or editing, I’m not willing to do just any job.  So someone please explain to me how it is that I ended up spending Saturday night walking around windy, wet and cold Wellington in a two-piece leopard print outfit that resembled a “sexy Wilma Flintstones” Halloween costume, trying to convince drunken men to stop grabbing my butt long enough to sample a new deodorant body spray?  The answer’s easy, really – I got paid $30/hr.  Degrading?  Perhaps.  But let’s be honest, for $30/hr., you would do it too.

For nine glorious months, I haven’t had a boss, schedule, or professional responsibilities.   But I haven’t had a paycheck either. I’m committed to being an artist, just not of the starving variety.  And since arriving in New Zealand, it’s become clear to me that if I want to stay here long enough to make my dream come true, I need money. It’s also become painfully clear that, instead of setting up a trust fund for me and my brother, my parents have spent all of their hard-earned money on travels and expensive jars of mustard and jam.  So, when I got to Wellington, I signed up to work on a casual basis with a promotional staffing agency.  Besides, I’m the new kid in town, and having a job, any job, is a great way of getting integrated into the local community, meeting new people, and killing time.

Unfortunately, promotional work is unreliable, so I applied for a part-time job at a bookstore as well.  As far as menial jobs that pay minimum wage go, it’s my best-case scenario.  Not least of all because the manager is such a dandy that I half-expected him to pull a pair of gloves from his breast pocket, slap me across the face, and challenge me to a duel in place of an interview.  He also likes to compare retail to theater, which possibly explains the dramatic pauses he inserted into our conversation.  “Honestly, Amy,” *cocks head slightly to one side while pausing meaningfully* “the dress code here is ‘express yourself.’” I start on Friday, and something tells me that he and I are going to have great fun together.

The truth is that I’m looking forward to having an activity and income that I can count on.  I’ve even been practicing saying things like “Sorry, I can’t.  I have to work tomorrow.”  But I also keep telling myself that one day, these jobs will make great material for interviews, when people ask me to describe some of the things I did before I made it big as a writer.  (And of course, these characters and experiences will make great material for my memoirs).  I guess we all have to pay our dues.  Which seem to include a bad cold, sexual harassment, and a boss that uses jazz hands when explaining the store layout.  When it comes too quickly or too easily, you don’t trust it and you feel like you don’t deserve it.  So, if this is what I have to do in order to win a Pulitzer or become the Arts & Entertainment Editor of The New York Times, bring it on.  I’m not afraid of a little hard work.  Waking up at 7:30am on Friday morning, now that’s a different story…

Fast Cars and Fast Family: Spending Saturday Evening at the Gisborne Speedway

Gisborne, New Zealand

Gisborne Speedway

There’s nothing to do in Gisborne on a Saturday night. No, that’s being too generous. There’s not really anything to do in Gisborne ever. Famous for being the first city in the world to see the sunrise each day (as well as Captain Cook’s first New Zealand landing point in 1769), Gisborne (or Gizzy to abbreviation junkies) is handsome, clean, and seaside. Sandy beaches line Poverty Bay and boats fill a small marina. During the summer, vacationers flock to Gisborne to sunbathe, swim, surf, and sail. Gizzy is also home to Rhythm & Vines, a two-day music festival starting on New Years Eve, and a popular destination for people cruising the Pacific Coast Highway.

But even though it’s sunny, attractive, and relaxing, be forewarned: should you grow weary of the beach, Gisborne doesn’t offer much by way of entertainment. Sure, there are a few modest museums and even more modest botanical gardens, along with the requisite lookout point and monumental statues to explorers and government officials. But other than that, you’re stuck hanging out at the petrol station.  And  if you want to eat, drink, or be merry in the company of strangers after 10pm, good luck.

Thanks to bad timing on my part, I found myself in Gisborne over the weekend. Friday night was spent in the hostel watching all two hours of country music night on American Idol with a few other travelers. Fortunately, Norbert, a German knight in a shining rental car spared me from a Saturday night of Whale Rider on VHS and a six-pack of Canadian Club & Cola.

Apparently, there is one place where Gisborne picks up the pace and rebels against its otherwise puritanical demeanor: the speedway. Car racing is to Gisborne what dancing was to Kevin Bacon in Footloose. While driving past town, Norbert had spotted a sign advertising a Saturday night filled with stock cars, motorcycles, and sidecars and was lured into Gisborne by the idea of watching giant Matchbox cars drive in circles around a closed dirt track. Overwhelmed by curiosity and boredom, I agreed to be his date.

The whole town had turned out to see the races, which happened to be the season championships. Poor Andy was operating under the misguided belief that car racing in Gisborne would resemble car racing in Europe. In reality, between the oversized corndogs and the oversized people eating them and the teenagers making out under the bleachers, the Gisborne Motorway had more in common with the Michigan International Speedway than Formula 1. Except for one major difference: there was absolutely no alcohol allowed at the Gisborne Motorway.

Without a doubt, the highlight of the races was when cars crashed (no drivers were harmed, of course). The announcers weren’t shy about expressing their disappointment when a racer collided with a wall but remained upright. “Aw, man. I really thought he was going to flip over that time.” The only downside was that every time a car went belly up (which was at least once a race), all of the other drivers had to stop until it was confirmed that only the vehicle had been dented. Consequently, with its frequent pauses, watching the races was a lot like watching American football. In other words, boring, not to mention repetitive. And unlike American Idol, the races were due to last four hours.

After a couple of rounds, Norbert and I were both cold and ready to head home. But we were playing our own game of chicken – neither one wanted to give in first. I was on the verge of saying uncle when the woman sitting in front of us struck up a conversation. A grandmother by biology and nature, she quickly handed us each a feijoa (a fruit native to New Zealand that looks like an avocado and tastes like a star fruit and can be eaten by rubbing it in your hands, biting off the top, and sucking down the flesh) before sharing with us a corner of the blanket covering her five-year old granddaughter. Then she offered us her actual granddaughter.

An interesting and inspiring woman, she was clearly close to her family (all of whom were attending the races), but had spent six months traveling alone through Europe and Northern Africa. It seems that her husband, an award-winning sidecar driver, is afraid to fly. Somewhere between Marrakesh and Praque, her outgoing, indiscriminate, and trusting granddaughter found her way onto our laps. And her older sister and brother were not far behind. “We’ve got the whole family here,” Norbert said to me with a broad smile, delighting in the instant kinship. At that moment, he was the cool but distant older cousin and university student on one of his infrequent weekend trips home. I was his reluctant new girlfriend, secretly more enamored of his relatives than him, but careful not to get too attached to his family lest we break up before his next visit.

It was strange how easily we all adopted each other for the evening (and how willing and able I was to play with children). After a few hours of comparing travel stories with grandma, playing hide and seek with the kids, and hearing about pets and school, pregnancies and divorces, Norbert and I said good-bye and walked away. There were no tears and there was no talk of seeing each again soon because everyone understood that we were not actually family, and never would be.

I guess that night I was trying to fill a void that I didn’t even know existed. I was craving family. However, the sense of familiarity, while comforting and distracting, had also been surreal and the slightest bit disconcerting – I felt like I was cheating on my own family. And more importantly, for once, I actually didn’t want to be a part of someone else’s family. The Kiwis may have been delightful, but I didn’t want to be drinking tea with milk and two sugars at the Gisborne speedway, I wanted to be drinking beer at the Tiger’s opening game at Comerica Park. The whole experience was as unsatisfying as eating I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter spray, and it left the same bad artificial taste in my mouth.

People always ask me about the things that I miss while traveling – the products, flavors, brands, and styles. The answer is not much – I can normally find a suitable (and often better) replacement or alternative for just about everything. But, I just have to face it: there is no substitute for your own family.