Writer-In-Residence: Risking Failure

Ann Arbor, MI USA

Chess in Christchurch

On Wednesday, May 12, I didn’t fly to Sydney.  Instead, I had an informational interview with the owners of a local publishing company and went to a yoga class.  In between the two, I scraped the side of my mother’s newly leased car against a cement pillar in a parking structure.  Spatial visualization is not my forte; that’s why I don’t play chess.

“What kind of mood are you in?” I asked my mother when I picked her up from work that afternoon.

“Why, what did you do?”  How do they always know when you’ve messed up? Amazingly, she took the news like a champ.  I, on the other hand, took it like a complete loser.

That scratch was a sign from the universe – I had made a mistake; I had missed my plane.   Except that I no longer believe in a universe that conspires against you or sends you messages disguised as minor car accidents that are clearly your fault.  I do, however, believe in irrational fears.

The incident was an indication of one thing only: I am not a very good driver.  (In my defense, it’s been five years since I owned a car.)  My reaction to it was an indication that I’m still afraid of the same thing: failing.

To most people, my proposal to live in Australia seemed brave.  Truthfully, it wasn’t.  It was gutless, because there was no risk involved.  I could have lain in the grass in a park for a year, staring at the sky through the leaves of the trees and I would have accomplished that goal.  It was a guaranteed win, bought for the price of a one-way airline ticket and an electronic work-holiday visa.

Coming home is the truly risky endeavor, because it means that I am finally going to try to realize my life dreams; and inherent in trying is the possibility of failure.   Many people want to write, very few actually become writers.  In Australia, I may have been lonely, unfulfilled, and bankrupt, but my fantasies would have remained safely enshrined in my mind.

My homecoming was supposed to have been strategic, to have set a plan in motion. But things haven’t fallen neatly into place and I seem to be in a state of stasis.  There have been some steps in the right direction – that meeting with the publishers, an all-day writer’s conference, and an interview for the position of Editorial Assistant for an academic journal.  I even wrote a short fiction story, coincidentally about a plane crash.

However, every step seemed to bring with it a warning to turn back.  The publishers reminded me that most writers don’t earn their living writing; at the conference, successful authors revealed that every day is a struggle against literary agents, book critics, and their own insecurities; and “Editorial Assistant” turned out to be a fancy title for Receptionist.  Compounding my frustration, disappointment, and regret was the fact that I miss New Zealand and Argentina far more than I anticipated, and that after six weeks, I still don’t feel adjusted to life in the States.

A few years ago, while I was still living in Argentina, I visited a friend in New York during a trip to the States.  When I finished moaning about how hard life was abroad, she smiled and asked, “Is having an easy life something you truly aspire to?”

“No, of course not,” I replied.  I lied.  My secret fantasy is that someday life will be ridiculously easy.  Oh, and that there will be world peace.

I thought the path ahead would be paved with gold.  Now I realize that I’ll have to bushwhack my way through a dense forest of stiff competition and self-doubt if I’m to get what I want. Faced with the truth – the overwhelming odds against me, and the undeniably hard work ahead – I didn’t recalibrate my game plan and strengthen my resolve.  I lost faith.  I lost the plot.

What if I don’t have what it takes?  What if I’m not good enough?  What if I can’t be it just because I dream it?  What if anything is not possible?  These questions, whether valid or absurd, made me question the point of even trying.

Fortunately, my parents don’t share these concerns, or at least they don’t state them aloud.  Instead, my parents, those perennial patrons of the arts, have agreed to sponsor a summer fellowship – they will cover my living expenses so that I can dedicate the majority of my time and energy to writing.  Being selected as the recipient of this generous award is an honor, but I’ve been having trouble rising to the challenge.

Frightened as I am that following my dreams will lead me to vocational school, a condo in the suburbs, and a mini-van, I am more concerned that my parents will evict me if I don’t get my act together.  Apparently, I’m no longer allowed to whine or cry or remain in my pajamas until bedtime.  Either I go for it or I get out of their house, hence this long overdue blog entry.  Thus, I am happy to announce that I, along with all the obnoxious, self-defeating voices in my head, am the new Writer-in-Residence at my parents’ house in Michigan.

*Itinerary Subject to Change: Temporarily Suspending a Trip Abroad

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Montmartre, Paris at nightfall.

A young American woman sits alone at a café, studying Sartre’s L’âge de raison in its original French.

In front of her sidewalk table the glorious Basilique du Sacré-Coeur glows like an angel that finally got his wings.  It’s spring, but the air is still cold.  The waiter, more homme than garçon, helps a middle-aged woman with the zipper of her fur coat.

Totally engrossed in existential philosophy, the young woman looks up only once and briefly, to acknowledge receipt of her café au lait and croissant aux amandes, and to ponder the meaning of life.

And scene.

That is an excerpt from Me in Paris, a screenplay I wrote nearly two years ago before my family’s one-week vacation to France.  Nevermind the impossibility of that fantasy – it was fall, I’m nowhere near that proficient in French, and coffee makes me jittery – even if it had come true, it would have represented just a few hours of one evening, not the entire trip.  Honestly, I probably would have spent the rest of the time worrying that the almond croissant would transform itself into a muffin top.

Daydreaming with wild abandon is as integral a part of any pre-overseas ritual as getting vaccinated and renewing your passport.  If I remember correctly, my visions for Argentina involved dulce de leche and tango dancers, while those for New Zealand featured bungy jumping and one of the guys from Flight of the Conchords.

Sadly, those snapshots tend to spontaneously combust upon arrival, when you realize that neither you nor your destination at all resembles the picture in your head.  You then construct a new image of yourself from the rubble, only to have it destroyed again.  This creation-destruction cycle continues until finally your idea of who you are in a given place matches reality.  In my case, I started out a peacock and arose from the ashes a hummingbird.

Faced with the promise of Australia, my imagination began painting the walls of my mind as if it were a hyperactive child with finger paints and an innate appreciation of the works of Jackson Pollock.  Prominent subjects of the fantastically colorful mural were surfing, koalas, and the stage of the Sydney Opera House.

However, at some point imagination gave way to realism.  In a flash of lucidity, I prophesized myself living in a backpacker’s hostel and temping at a telecommunications company, friendless, penniless, and with too much stuff.

Not two months ago, I was camping on the beach in New Zealand with my boyfriend.  Today, I am sitting on the couch of a close friend in Buenos Aires.  The idea that I traded all that for the opportunity to be lonely, frustrated, and uncomfortable in Australia made me queasy.  Of all the things I’m good at, bargaining is not one of them.

On two separate occasions, I have moved abroad alone, with no job or contacts, and minimal savings and language skills.  I did this for a reason – to free myself of familial, societal, and peer pressure, and to find out who I was when there was no one there to tell me who I was supposed to be.

The last five years were phenomenal, propitious, and absolutely necessary for my personal development; but now that I have a clear idea of who I am, what I want to do, and how I want to live my life, I can’t justify subjecting myself yet again to the solitude, insecurity and anxiety inherent in going overseas on your own.  It’s not that I no longer want to be abroad; it’s that I can’t stomach the thought of starting over from scratch a third time.

As with all good nervous breakdowns, this one turned out to be a revelation: after so many years of ego-tourism, I am done with journeys of self-discovery, for now. The next time I travel, it will be with one backpack and a budget, I will leave from and return to the same place, and I will not worry about working, making friends, or paying rent.  Unfortunately, I am broke and burnt out, and in desperate need of a break before I can manage such a trip.

When I called my parents from Buenos Aires to ask if I could stay with them for a few months (instead of through mid-May as originally planned) they were both shockingly sympathetic, supportive, and delighted.  I’m uneasy about the prospect of returning to Michigan, but excited to have two summers in a row.

Postponing my trip to Australia was not an insignificant, easy, or expected decision. But of all the lessons I’ve learned from my time abroad, perhaps the most important are: trust your instincts, drop your pride, and all itineraries are subject to change without prior notice.

Haciendo Ecología: Being Green in Buenos Aires

Buenos Aires, Argentina

When I left New Zealand, I donated old clothes to the Salvation Army, threw away toiletries, and gifted my oil pastels and blue plastic bucket to my boyfriend.  One item that did make it into my suitcase was a bright green cloth grocery bag.  Available for $1.50 at most major supermarkets in New Zealand, the bag shamelessly implores you to “help us create a better environment”.   Girl scout cookies I can resist, but I never could deny the exigency in the eyes of the clip-art raindrop.

In Buenos Aires supermarkets, produce is weighed before you reach the cash register. Shoppers place fruits and vegetables into plastic bags and present them to a store employee, who affixes them with a price sticker.  The first time I went produce shopping after returning to Argentina, I selected my items, set them on the counter, and tried to explain in rusty Spanish that I didn’t want plastic bags.  The man behind the scale stared at me as if I were a talking orange cat.

“Because of the environment” I explained, brandishing my hideous, slightly self-righteous tote bag.

“Ah. Ok,” he smiled after a brief pause, “estás haciendo ecología.”

“Yes, exactly, I’m doing ecology.”   After a few minutes of brainstorming, he agreed to weigh and sticker each item individually.  I walked out of the store with a clear conscience, albeit slightly self-conscious.

Unfortunately, the bags aren’t the only thing here made of plastic.  I recently invented a game called “spot the boob job.”  It’s easy – you just look for a tiny woman with a disproportionately large chest and no bra.  Ironically, women who get implants no longer want to appear as though they are wearing a corset, and so are requesting natural-looking fake breasts.  The result is girls with the body of an adolescent and the chest of a senior citizen.

In Buenos Aires, there is overwhelming pressure to conform to an ideal image of beauty.  According to a CNN article, an estimated 1 in 30 Argentines has gone under the knife.  OSDE, a leading health insurance provider, covers the entire cost of aesthetic plastic surgery if you hold their plan 410 or higher.  The concept of healthy is totally distorted. A popular brand of yogurt, known for promoting regularity, launched an ad campaign encouraging women to eat their yogurt because of its slimming effect.  I wouldn’t be surprised if it contains a mild laxative.

The moral of the story is that it’s not easy being green in Buenos Aires, and the struggle extends beyond being a vegetarian in a carnivorous country.  Buenos Aires is a city obsessed with physical appearance but utterly negligent of the physical environment.  The other day, I encountered a group of young Argentines on the terrace, drinking mate, rubbing tanning oil on their skin, and flicking their cigarettes into the pool.

I’m no sociologist or psychotherapist, but I speculate that this combination of personal vanity and environmental apathy stems from a lack of control.  Inflation and corruption are rampant, university classes are cancelled due to protests, public transportation is interrupted by strikes, and noise and air pollution are palpable.  I can hardly blame porteños for preferring to invest in their looks rather than their city.  Their bodies are one thing they can still take ownership and pride in.  Perhaps it’s unfair to expect people to care for a city that doesn’t take care of them.  Still, even if individuals can’t fix the broken sidewalks, would it hurt them to clean up after their dogs?

When I moved to Buenos Aires over four years ago, I didn’t care about or notice these things.  Instead, I was enthralled by the city’s sense of urgency, arrogance, and glamour.  But live in New Zealand (and date someone doing a master’s thesis on water conservation) long enough, and you start sprouting your own lentils and growing your own herbs.  I used to make fun of people for shopping at Whole Foods.  Now, I say things like, “I’ll just carry my tofu and flaxseed.  Why do I need a bag when I have two hands?”

Leading a healthy and natural life in Buenos Aires is not impossible.  There are vegetarian restaurants and organic cafes, gorgeous yoga studios, meditative breathing courses, and lovely parks and plazas.  However, even if you surround yourself with like-minded individuals and create a micro-community, fighting against the zeitgeist is like driving the wrong way on 9 de Julio.

Obviously, there are many things I adore about Buenos Aires; I wouldn’t have made a pilgrimage back here otherwise.  Unfortunately, the pervasive culture is not one of them. If you move to a new city or country where neither you nor the native residents hold you to the local standards, you can observe your surroundings without being personally impacted by them.  But if you and the local culture take each other on, as was my case in Buenos Aires, the prevailing atmosphere directly affects you, making it harder to accept.

Luckily, as a traveler, I have the freedom to move on if the lifestyle doesn’t suit.  As of now, I am a voluntary and temporary guest in Buenos Aires.  For the short time I’m here, I can overlook the city’s shortcomings and focus on the great things it has to offer.

On my next visit to the supermarket, the staff member in charge of the produce section informed me that plastic bags were an obligatory store policy.

“Why?” I challenged.

“To prevent theft.  We seal your bags so you don’t take more items between here and the register.”  I considered proposing another solution – to weigh fruits and vegetables at checkout, but that would result in slower lines, and put him out of work.

“If it’s one item, fine,” he continued, “but if you’ve got multiple items, like your bananas, I have to bag them.”

“But it’s one bunch of bananas,” I argued. “I can’t possibly add another banana to the bunch.”

“Look,” he said, agitated and annoyed, “I’m just trying to do my job.”

I realized then that he didn’t make the rules, nor was he in a position to challenge or break them.  Neither of us can change this city; but unlike him, I have the luxury of leaving in a few weeks for a place where the grass (and the people) are greener.

“Ok.  Bag them,” I conceded.  At that moment, his job seemed more important than my convictions.

Pedestrians Do Not Have the Right of Way: Returning Home After An Overseas Experience

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Near-hit, Traffic in Buenos Aires

Crossing the street in Rome could be the final exam for a 500-level course on “How to Avoid Getting Hit By a Car.”  It requires advanced preparation and specialized knowledge.  While studying abroad in Barcelona, I traveled with a friend to Rome.  We took a bus into town from the airport, hoisted on our backpacks, and began walking to our pensione.  At the edge of the grassy median separating the bus station from the main road we stopped abruptly, paralyzed by fear.  A group of travelers stood cowering like a family of pioneers about to ford a river.  In terror-stricken silence, we watched as multiple lanes of Italian sports cars raced past.  It wasn’t oncoming traffic; it was the Running of the Bulls.

Frantically, we searched for an intersection, crosswalk, or animal whisperer.  With none in sight, we resigned ourselves to spending the afternoon on the curb.  Suddenly, I remembered an obscure fact I had read in a guidebook: the key to crossing the street in Rome is eye contact.  I waited for a lull in the traffic, took a deep breath, stepped into the road, and with feigned confidence shot the Italian drivers an intense look that said, “Hey! I’m walking here.”  Magically, the vehicles slowed, kneeling graciously as we sauntered to the other side.

Fortunately, in New Zealand you don’t need wits to cross the street, just patience. You simply congregate on the corner and wait for the neon crossing guard to give you the green light.  It’s all very civilized, albeit boring.  The biggest risk is that it might be ten minutes before the light changes.  (Jaywalking was completely out of the question for me since I never could work out which direction the traffic was coming from.)  However, when pedestrians are finally given their turn, they have the opportunity to cross diagonally, thus getting two crossings in one.

The best part about being a pedestrian in New Zealand is the zebra crossings.  Alternating dark and light patches of pavement, and black and white poles indicate places where pedestrians always have the right of way.  Because the friendly, law-abiding Kiwis actually respect the road code, you can walk into the street while reading a book without fearing for your safety.

When I finally landed in Buenos Aires after a seventeen-hour delay, an eleven-hour flight, and traveling backwards in time, all I wanted to do was shower.  Before I could so, I had to walk a few blocks to the store to buy toiletries.  At the first intersection, I spotted the familiar black and white bands of paint, and mindlessly continued into the street. A gang of taxis fought each other for the chance to commit vehicular manslaughter.  I jumped back onto the sidewalk, barely avoiding an accident. Between the pharmacy and my friend’s apartment, I had three near-hits.  It seems I was a little unclear about what city I was in.

There are no pedestrian walkways in Buenos Aires; there is only target practice. Although Argentines are essentially displaced Italians, you can forget about the eye-contact strategy.  Staring at an Argentine motorist only helps him perfect his aim. Even where there are pedestrian lights, turning traffic has the self-appointed right of way. The best strategy for crossing the street in Buenos Aires is to run for your life.

Other than a few close calls at the beginning, the transition back into life in Buenos Aires has been relatively smooth.   The weirdest part is that it’s hardly weird at all. There are no suggestions of my time in New Zealand, save a few photos on Facebook, and many remnants of my former life in Argentina remain.  Most of my close friends are still around, I have an active social life, and I know where things are. It’s comfortable.  It’s home.

With everything so deceptively normal, I predicted that I would only need a few days to recover and establish a daily routine involving cooking, meditating, exercising, reading and writing.  After ten days, my biggest accomplishment was watching an entire season of America’s Next Top Model in one afternoon.  Apparently, you don’t get over an abroad experience overnight.

For more than a week, I did little more than sleep and sit on the couch in my pajamas. I felt like a character in a Jane Austen novel sent to the coast to convalesce.  Except that instead of taking a carriage to the seaside to breath in the salty air, I rode the elevator to the rooftop terrace to lie by the pool. At first, I was confused by my exhaustion and frustrated by my apathy.  After a difficult year abroad, I had been looking forward to going somewhere easy.  Now, I appreciate that reentry is harder than I expected, especially because I am so hard on myself.

Recoleta Cemetery, Buenos Aires

Returning to a city where you’ve already lived is certainly less challenging than, say, starting anew in Lithuania.  But, it’s still a process and it definitely takes longer than a long weekend. Even if mentally it’s as though I never left Argentina, emotionally, I’m still tied to Auckland.  I may not need to meet new people, but I do have to catch up with old friends and make sure no damage was done to the foundation of our relationship in my absence.  There is the work of creating and adhering to a new schedule, acclimating to local sounds and smells, and seeking out the raw materials needed to facilitate my lifestyle and hobbies, both of which have changed considerably since I last lived here. Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about a job or a place to live.

Rather than reprimand myself for being lazy (or blame Argentine drivers for my reluctance to leave the apartment), I lowered my ambitions.  I set smaller, attainable goals for myself, such as getting dressed before noon or reading in the Recoleta Cemetery instead of on the couch.  Slowly and naturally, life is regaining a sense of order and purpose, and I am becoming more active and motivated.  More importantly, given that I am only in Buenos Aires for six weeks, I have reassessed my priorities.  I didn’t come here to be responsible; I came here to spend time with friends and decompress before starting a new adventure. Staying out until 6am on a Wednesday may decrease my productivity, but I am supposed to be on sabbatical. With no one to answer to but myself, maybe, for a little while anyway, I can stop being so demanding and unreasonable.

Geographically Polyamorous: Having Multiple Countries At One Time

Buenos Aires, Argentina

I’m in an open relationship with four countries.  I guess you could say I practice geographical free love.  I entered New Zealand on a one-year Working Holiday Visa.  My first few months were an absolute tragedy, and I had no more intention of extending my stay than of coordinating my five-year college reunion. Weeks were wasted in Wellington wrapped in fleece blankets, listening to depressing music, and devising schemes to get deported.

Then I moved to Auckland, where my quality of life and mental health improved significantly.  By month twelve, I was infatuated with New Zealand’s majestic beauty, in love with my boyfriend, contended with my lifestyle, and reluctant to leave. I was also receiving weekly emails from Immigration New Zealand reminding me that my visa was due to expire.

Protecting your privacy on Facebook is more challenging than obtaining a New Zealand Working Holiday Visa.  For U.S. citizens, the application is free of charge and lodge

d online.  All that is required is that you are between the ages of 18-30 and willing to lie about having health insurance and being financially solvent.  Once you’re hooked on life in New Zealand, the government starts making demands.

To be fair, it is not impossible to extend your stay in New Zealand.  If you have a short-listed skill, are in a long-term, committed relationship with a Kiwi or someone with residency, or can convince your boss that you are indispensable and irreplaceable, you have a good chance of getting another work permit.  However, the process takes months, costs thousands of dollars, and involves medical exams, joint bank accounts, letters of recommendation, and winning a spelling bee.  More to the point, I didn’t fall into any of the aforementioned categories.  My only option was a tourist visa, which would have been tantamount to paying $700 to drain my savings and delay the inevitable.

The best I could do was to take out the atlas and decide where to go next. The obvious choice was Australia.  Ever since arriving in New Zealand, I had heard nothing but rave reviews of Oz from fellow travelers and certain Kiwis whose names have been changed to protect the innocent.  In December, I successfully applied for a Work and Holiday Visa and booked a one-way ticket to Sydney on V Australia.  The flight from Auckland takes about four hours.  My trip will take two and half months, thanks to a couple of extended layovers.

I flew to New Zealand directly from Argentina on a roundtrip ticket.  I never intended on using the second leg, but it was the cheapest option at the time.  However, when I began to contemplate life after New Zealand, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia for Argentina. The energy radiating from the city on a warm summer night, the buttery smell of fresh medialunas, the euphonical sound of Castellano: these sensations rose to the surface of my memory like bubbles in a bottle of aqua con gas.  More importantly, I missed my friends.  Returning to Buenos Aires for a few weeks made the most sense emotionally, if not logistically.

Puerto Madero, Buenos Aires

Even though my bedroom is now the guest room, my mother insists on taking offense when I tell her that Ann Arbor, a city I haven’t lived in for nine years, no longer feels like home.  Nevertheless, before I booked my flight from Buenos Aires to Sydney, I called to inform her of my plans. A few days later, she made me an offer she hoped I wouldn’t refuse.

“We’d like to bring you up to the States from Argentina.  You can always fly to Sydney from L.A.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I yelled. “How many times do I have to tell you, I’ve no interest in going to the States? What possible reason could I have for coming home in April?”

“Well, Amy,” my mother sighed, “your grandmother is turning 95, your father 65, and your brother 30.  And we were going to surprise you with your own private jet.”

“Oh, you could have mentioned that sooner.” No matter when I talk to my mother, it seems to be that time of the month.

Following our conversation, I apologized for losing my temper and graciously accepted the free ticket home.  I even agreed to stay for an entire month to be there for Mother’s Day as well.  I didn’t want to go to the States at that time or for that long for a number of reasons – genuine disinterest, impatience and anxiety about moving to Australia, lingering teenage angst, fear of getting sucked into the black hole of satellite TV – but I simply cannot skip my grandmother’s ice cream social. What is the furthest distance between two points?  My trip from Auckland to Sydney.

Michigan Theater, Ann Arbor

No longer do I worry about baggage allowances, long-haul flights, or lengthy transitions.  My only fear is that I’ll never find a compound big enough to house all of the pieces of my life. No matter where I am, I’m always missing someone or something. While I had a wonderful boyfriend in New Zealand, most of my best friends were in Argentina, and all of my family was in the States. Four friends will get married while I’m in Australia, and who knows how many breakups, engagements, births, deaths or really amazing dinner parties will occur in my absence?

Of course, if I were willing to stay in one place, life would be a lot less complicated.  But it would also be a lot less exciting and fulfilling. The irony is that the thinner I spread myself, the more complete I become.  For a long time, I didn’t know who I was, where I belonged, what my purpose was, or what kind of life I wanted to lead.  These last few years have been like an epic scavenger hunt, where I travel the globe collecting clues to these riddles.  In the process, I’ve overcome fears, gained wisdom, met amazing people, and done and seen strange and wondrous things. I’ve learned to be independent, open, confident, composed, and most of all, happy.

For me, traveling is equal parts compulsion, education, and mission.  Sure, my life can be frustrating, uncertain, and lonely at times, but then again, whose life isn’t? I’ve finally come to terms with my insatiable curiosity, hunger for new experiences, and wanderlust.  Maybe someday I’ll be ready for monogamy; until then, I will continue to be geographically polyamorous.

(Let’s) Go Hike a Mountain: Making and Keeping Friends While Traveling Abroad

Tongariro National Park, New Zealand

Mt. Ngauruhoe, Tongariro Alpine Crossing

I hadn’t seen Kate, one of my dearest friends, in over four months.  She only lives two hours away by car.  You can imagine what this implies for friends who live two days away by plane.

As you may recall, Kate is the British girl who accompanied me on my sojourn from Wellington to Auckland. After over a month of fruitless job searching in Auckland, she relocated to the Coromandel Peninsula in October, where people are generally more accepting of her nose ring, Florence Henderson haircut, and second-hand clothes.

While Kate was working and dating in the beach town of Tairua, I was doing the same in Auckland.  However, unlike Kate, I had wireless Internet, Facebook, and cell phone reception.  We stayed in touch as much as possible, but we never managed to actually see each other.  Clearly, only a special event could bring us together, and that event was the Tongariro Alpine Crossing.

Considered to be one of New Zealand’s best one-day walks, the Crossing is a nineteen-kilometer trek over the steep volcanic terrain of Mt. Ngauruhoe and Mt. Tongariro.  Kate and I first learned of the hike in July, when we went snowboarding at Mt. Ruapehu.  Both activities are located in Tongariro National Park, but the idea of climbing an active volcano in the snow was about as compelling as the idea of skiing on gravel.  We vowed that when the weather warmed, we would return to complete the Crossing.

Honestly, I didn’t think it would happen. I finished working at the end of January, leaving me almost four weeks to travel before leaving New Zealand.  However, my boyfriend offered to take me surfing for the last two weeks, and I doubted that Kate and I could coordinate a trip in so little time. Thankfully, we both perform better under pressure.  A few days after I finished my contract, I met Kate in National Park village.

Kate was already a few days into another reunion.  Roger, one of her best mates from England who she hadn’t seen in over two years, had made New Zealand a quick stop on his six-month journey around the world.  Given that the Crossing is a quintessential North Island activity, we invited him along for the hike.

Unlike many activities popular with the masses, the Crossing actually lives up to its hype. Emerald Lakes glitter in the blazing

Emerald Lakes, Tongariro Alpine Crossing

summer sun, cloud shadows dance upon the rocky slopes of conical Mt. Ngauruhoe, and steam escapes from vents like a sulfur-scented air freshener.  We clamored past painted rock formations and colorful craters, breathed the moist air of a lush podocarp forest, and reapplied sunscreen, often.

The only low point occurred when we stopped for lunch and Roger announced he didn’t have the room key, even though he had been the one to shut the door.   Fortunately, when we returned to the hostel after a day of perfect weather, beautiful scenery, and strenuous activity, we found the key dangling from the outside lock and all of our stuff still inside the room.

The next day, Roger went to jump out of a plane in Taupo (for fun, not as punishment), while Kate and I am ambitiously hitchhiked nearly 350 kilometers from National Park to Tairua in the Coromandel. (Note to my mother: it’s still safe to hitch in most parts of New Zealand.) We made the journey in just five rides and six hours, and only one driver showed any indication of being a total nutter.

I learned many valuable lessons along the way, such as hitchhiking greatly resembles speed dating, only you don’t want to date the people you meet so much as write novels about them.  Or that on long car rides, strangers will tell you all manner of things that neither of you want you to know.  Also, never get in if you don’t trust the driver, allow the driver to make an unplanned stop or detour, or put your bags in the trunk.  Most of all, I determined that friendships, unlike romantic relationships, don’t require constant contact or close proximity for survival.

In fact, after observing Kate and Roger, I would argue that distance might be beneficial in certain cases. The incident with the keys was only one of many complaints Kate lodged against Roger once he was out of earshot.  Mostly, she griped that he was selfish, lazy, and clueless.  “He’s a twenty-eight year old male who still lives with his ridiculously wealthy parents, what did you expect?” I reasoned.  “Traveling will be good for him.  Give him a chance to change before you write him off.”  That’s when Kate confessed that she wasn’t disappointed in Roger; she was scared that she no longer had anything in common with her friends from England.

Many long-term travelers share the fear that after a long stint abroad, they will find themselves irreconcilably distant from close friends.  In my experience, this is an irrational fear. Becoming an expat does change you; but you probably became an expat because you were different to begin with.  If your friends got you before you left, they’re likely to still get you when you return home.  Besides, traveling is not the only thing that changes people.  Love, marriage, children, mortgages, careers, graduate school, and ageing all impact personal development and personal relationships and don’t require a passport.  It’s possible that while you were evolving overseas, your friends from home were evolving in exactly the same way.

Don’t do your friends the injustice of presuming they can’t understand you simply because they’ve never left home (and for everyone’s sake, please have something to talk about other than your own travels). And don’t naively assume that if you lived next door to your best friend you will still be as close now as you ever were. As we mature, pursue romance, follow our life’s dream, and inherit responsibilities once delegated to our parents (cooking, cleaning, paying the bills), we have less time for our friends, and our friendships progress or plateau, persevere or vanish. No doubt you will miss your friends while you are gone.  However, so long as your friendships are based on genuine affinity rather than history or convenience, you won’t lose them.

Of course, part of my connection with Kate comes from the fact that we are both restless souls.  I wish I could drop by Kate’s place unannounced because I happened to be in the neighborhood, seek her advice rather than report on the results, or actually do stuff with her instead of tell her the story later.  Our lifestyle just doesn’t allow for it.  But, there is something magical about our marathon gossip sessions; Kate’s epic, stream of consciousness, punctuation- and paragraph-free emails; and our girl-bonding vacations.  Three days probably provided us with enough inside jokes and unforgettable memories to last us until next time – June 2010, Melbourne, to celebrate our birthdays.

Three Soybeans in a Pod: Matching Your Home Life to Your Lifestyle

Auckland, New Zealand

Venus Fly Trap

When is flat hunting not flat hunting?  When it’s an identity crisis.  Once I decided to move out of the hostel, I began looking for a room to rent. More than just a place to store my stuff, I wanted a home and a home life that would contribute to and facilitate my experience in Auckland.  Since I wasn’t unhappy at the backpacker’s per se, I had the luxury of time. I was prepared to be picky.

When selecting a flat, there are four key elements to consider: price, location, physical space, and flatmates, in no particular order.  I’ve lived in spectacular neighborhoods, but paid such a high premium for that privilege that I couldn’t afford to leave my bedroom.  I’ve lived in an apartment where I had my own bathroom and balcony, but so despised my flatmate I couldn’t stand to be there when she was home. In her presence, the house wilted like a flower deprived of sunlight and water.

Since I had already been living in Auckland for a few weeks, I held the advantage of having a sense of the personality and highlights of the various neighborhoods. I narrowed my search down to two: Parnell, the self-proclaimed “Creative Quarter” and Grey Lynn.  Both are young, affordable, and accessible, and boast an assortment of bars, cafes, shops, restaurants and parks.
Although they are equidistant from my office, Parnell and Grey Lynn are on opposite sides of the map. Parnell has a French market, Grey Lynn a Woolworths.   Parnell is trendy, Grey Lynn bohemian.  Parnell has hipsters, Grey Lynn feral hippies.  Parnell has a website, Grey Lynn does not. I could see myself living happily in either.

Through Trademe, I found candidates in both neighborhoods.  The house in Grey Lynn was cozy; and by cozy, I mean small.  However, it possessed that lovely broken in feeling of your favorite pair of jeans.  The flat occupied the back half of a split house, and was tidy, quiet, and warm, decorated in deep reds, dark woods, and creamy whites. The front door opened onto a luscious garden with fruit trees, fresh herbs, and wild flowers.  The house may have been crowded, but thanks to an abundance of windows, it was neither dark nor stuffy.

On the other hand, the house in Parnell was multi-storied, with a huge garage-cum-man-cave in the basement, a spacious common room with a large, flat-screen TV, an ample kitchen, and two full-baths.  The available bedroom was no bigger than the one in the Grey Lynn flat, but it came furnished.   The price was slightly higher, but still safely within my budget.  So far, cat’s game.

The final round was between the flatmates.  The Grey Lynn flat was shared by two thirty-something Kiwis, Jane and Alex. Jane was a buyer for a well-known New Zealand mid-range clothing line.  This struck me as odd, as Jane was dressed from top to bottom in black, including her hair, which was dyed black, and the clips in her hair.  Alex, who reminded me vaguely of a tattooed Buddy Holly, worked the overnight shift at an airline.  As Jane was rushing off to meet friends for dinner, Alex emerged from his room to prepare himself breakfast.   “This is Alex,” said Jane, “he’s somewhat of a vampire.”  “A corporate vampire,” clarified Alex.  A Goth and a vampire: I worried the brightness of my wardrobe might turn them to dust.

Yet for as apparently different as we were, we shared a great deal in common.  We were all vegetarians, with an interest in healthy living and spirituality. Jane and I discovered that we had been in the same yoga class the night before. After she left, Alex and I became engrossed in an intense conversation about religion and philosophy.  Even if we don’t live together, I thought, I hope we can be friends.

In the Parnell flat were one American and two Kiwis, who were all, well, normal: just your average beer loving, meat-eating, pub-crawling, social twenty-something young professionals.  There was nothing offensive or special about them, except that the girl had the most obnoxious laugh I had ever heard.  Even though I didn’t particularly identify with them, they were comfortingly mainstream and familiar.

The two flats were so unalike that on a Venn diagram of their interests, you would need a magnifying glass to see the overlapping part.  In high school, the Parnell flat would have mocked the Grey Lynn flat, and the Grey Lynn flat would have judged the Parnell flat.  I felt like the new girl in school trying to decide where to sit at lunch. I thought about a poster I bought as a kid that said, “What is popular is not always right, what is right is not always popular.”  More importantly, I thought about what having that poster said about me as a person.  With that in mind, I made my decision: I wanted the flat in Parnell.

I pictured myself in Parnell on the weekends, perusing art galleries and stationery stores, and taking my MacBook to the Chocolate Boutique Café, where I would write witty blog entries while sipping frothy cappuccinos served by surly waiters.  My flatmates and I would stumble home together after a night out on the piss, and join each other for brunch the following morning. Now I imagine myself there, feeling relatively deprived, out of place, and incurably hung over.  I am just not that girl. Fortunately, the cool kids had the good sense to send me where I belong.  They gave the room to someone else, and I moved into the flat in Grey Lynn.

Perhaps I had been hasty in leaving the hostel.  My first paycheck went to three-week’s bond and two-week’s rent; I couldn’t afford a bed, bedding, or bedroom furniture.  I borrowed an air mattress, which I inflated nightly as if it were a pair of Reebok Pumps.  I didn’t sleep for weeks.  Eventually, I was able to buy a bed and a couple of sets of plastic drawers, and Jane gave me her old desk.  By some miracle, all of my worldly possessions fit into my tiny room.  Better still, I fit perfectly into the flat.

Just as you should buy clothes suited to the life you have, you should choose a flat suited to the lifestyle you lead.  One of the reasons I wanted to live with locals was to benefit from their insider knowledge.  The question was, knowledge of what?  Thanks to Jane and Alex, I know where to find the best vegetarian restaurants, organic markets, and bulk food shops.  We exchange books, ideas, recipes, and discuss our ambitions for the future. For the first time, I feel encouraged and enabled in my choices.

The other day, we had a flat meeting to discuss what to do about the plague of flies that has descended upon our house.  This is the environmentalist’s dilemma: chemical pesticide or carnivorous plant?  There is now a Venus Fly Trap on our kitchen window sill. I might wish that the flat weren’t so cramped, damp, or moldy, but I am so glad the other one turned me away.
Recently, I faced a similar conflict when trying to decide what to do for New Year’s Eve.  At first, I agreed to volunteer with two friends at Rhythm and Vines (a three-day music festival on a vineyard in Gisborne).  No sooner had we received confirmation from the volunteer coordinator than the emails began to fly.  “I can’t believe how much they are charging for camping!!!” “Check out this other festival!!! “Let’s just go to the beach?!?” Suddenly, I remembered how much I hate New Year’s Eve, crowds, electronic music, and exclamation marks.

In the diversion created by my friends, I snuck off and made alternative plans.  I signed up for a ten-day silent meditation retreat that I’d been interested in attending for over a year.  While my friends will be working in the VIP tent, I’ll be learning to practice Vipassana.  When I told my mother, she rolled her eyes.  When I told my coworkers, they averted their eyes.  When I told my flatmates, they didn’t bat an eye – they’ve both completed the same course.

Halfway House: Starting Over in a New City – Again

Auckland, New Zealand

Except for that time in high school when I got kicked out of a party for talking about the hostess behind her back (she was totally asking for it), I avoid conflict.  While altercations of all kinds make me uneasy, I particularly abhor domestic quarrels.  I would rather listen to an amateur hip-hop DJ practice his set at 1am or clean up after someone else’s 10-person dinner party than confront a flatmate.  You can imagine how disconcerted I was when my new roommate yelled at me less than a week after I moved in – over a frying pan.

For a nomadic pseudo-hippie, I have an absurd amount of stuff.   If money were no object, I would happily board a plane with just a good book, an empty suitcase and a credit card.  If I were less hygienic or sartorially inclined, I would emulate my parents, who spent an entire summer in Europe with little more than a toothbrush and two pairs of underwear.  Alas, I am too high-maintenance and too low budget to travel light.

When I left Wellington, I left nothing behind.  The trunk of the rental car looked like a bag lady’s shopping cart.  Batteries, a Rubik’s cube, secondhand bunny ears, and an art smock were among the items that made the trip not just from Wellington to Auckland, but from Argentina to New Zealand.  I have no excuse; I’m just that ridiculous.

There was simply no way my belongings were going to fit into a bedroom already containing five bunk beds and the personal affects of ten tourists.  I figured that booking a room in a full-serviced student apartment would be better than staying at a backpacker’s hostel, especially since I had no idea how long it would take for me to find my own place.  Before leaving for Auckland, I reserved a double apartment for my friend and I.  She only lasted two nights.

That they were still standing was the only redeemable aspect of the apartment building, a grey high-rise tower located in the heart of the University of Auckland’s city campus. The entire building smelled like an unsettling combination of Thanksgiving dinner and the dentist.  There was no hallway, dining area, or living room, but there was a hot water kettle crawling with fire ants. The kitchen and bathroom were so close together I could open the fridge while sitting on the toilet.  As we stood in the doorway, I was hesitant to even hazard a sarcastic comment or look my friend in the eye.  Marriages have ended over less.

Forty-eight hours after we moved in, my friend moved out (she would have left sooner had we not paid in advance), and I was relocated to a different apartment. The first thing my roommate, a twenty-year old Korean girl, did when she met me was to tell me that the chopsticks were hers.  The second thing was to ask me how long I was planning on staying. When she returned from the library, she was carrying a handful of “roommate wanted” posters collected from the bulletin board.

One morning, I decided to make toast for breakfast.  As the apartment had no toaster, I grabbed the nearest frying pan and heated my bread on the two hot plates that passed for a stove.  A few hours later, I heard a knock on my bedroom door.  “I’m not happy,” announced my roommate. “You used my frying pan and now it’s scratched.” She was so angry and serious I felt that I should at least try to defend myself or express remorse. But when I opened my mouth, all that came out was, “I’m leaving in a few days.  Get over it.” I packed up all of my stuff, called the taxi company, requested a van – yes, just for one person, and moved into a hostel.

I’ve never been fond of staying in a backpacker’s when you’re not actually a backpacker. They are typically dirty, crowded, noisy, smelly, and distracting.  You have a better chance of spotting a unicorn than finding peace, quiet, and privacy.  Forget about a good night’s sleep.  People get drunk and eat the chocolate cake you baked for your friend’s birthday and were naïve enough to leave in the communal fridge, use the computer to upload pictures to Facebook, and have sex on the bottom bunk.  And even though there are always interesting people with funny accents around, making real friends is practically impossible when the last people you see before you go to sleep are never the same people you see when you wake up in the morning.

Yet this time, I was actually looking forward to moving into a hostel.  The truth is, when you’re fresh off the airplane, unemployed, and have no friends, furniture, or agenda, there is no place better for you than a good hostel.  Luckily, I discovered a great one – clean, bright, cheap, and not a bunk bed in sight.  The best part about it was the enormous, secure-luggage storage area in the basement.  The excellent location, large garden, spacious lounges, and ample kitchen so well equipped an episode of Iron Chef could easily have been filmed there were just bonuses.

Hostels, I’ve discovered, are a lot like dormitories during Freshmen welcome week in college – everyone is friendly and outgoing, every night is a party, and there’s always someone to look out for you. But eventually, classes start and you no longer appreciate returning from the library and discovering that you’ve been sexiled by your roommate and the guy she met earlier that night in the communal bathroom.  For a while, I truly enjoyed living in the hostel.  I didn’t have to pay bills, make the bed, or clean my room.  I never ate a meal alone, even if I wanted to.  And I even found a cute Dutch kid to take me out on the weekends.

All that changed when I got a job.  I soon became annoyed with laying my clothes out at night and getting dressed in the dark, so as not to wake my sleeping roommates at 6am.  As my Canadian friend sipped boxed wine from a tin mug and stared at me with sympathy and horror while I packed my lunch for the next day, I realized the hostel and I had grown apart.

For me, hostels make excellent halfway houses – a place where you can stay while you secure employment and housing, and where you can begin to build a support network and integrate into society.  Of course, if you have no intention of or desire to lead a conventional life, there is no need or even benefit to leaving the hostel.  There are a lot of costs associated with moving into a flat, and they are hardly worth assuming if you are merely passing through.  But once it became clear to me that I was going to stick around Auckland for a while, it also became clear to me that it was time to move out.  Fortunately, the hostel had wireless Internet, so I could hunt for a flat while everyone else played drinking games.

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.