From Auckland to Wellington

Okay, so we can go ahead and classify yesterday (Sept. 29) as a day we'd like to forget. In a word, hellish. Let me start by saying that on the bus ride from Auckland to Wellington, one can't help but notice how green New Zealand is. Drove around Lake Taupo, the country's biggest lake where the average rainbow trout pulled from the lake is 4lbs. Useless trivia bit #1,338,457 in my brain. Thank you, Mr. Bus Driver. Luscious. Speaking of green and lushes...

I'm so smart, I went out for a beer on my last night in Auckland with Braveheart--the only Scot allergic to alcohol, by the way...I'm not kidding--and met a couple of Kiwi guys of ethnic Polynesian descent. I should've known right away that I couldn't outdrink a couple of ethnic Polynesian Kiwi guys. Not in this lifetime. Not in the next one. It's like trying to outairhead Paris Hilton or outcrazy Britney Spears--the laws of physics forbid it. Anyway, too many beers and then to top it all off, the coup de grace, a shot of some sort of black licorice liquer that makes me nauseous just typing the words. Friday night? Not good times. I guess digestion in the Southern Hemisphere works in reverse, too. I left 8am Saturday morning from Auckland, on the bus that takes souls to Hell, to make my voyage to Wellington. 10 hours and 45 minutes later, I arrived in Wellington, after spending the entire day thinking of ways not to throw up in the bus. Not good times. Here's to the bus trip that took almost as long as my flight across the Pacific. If ever there were a feeling to replicate a stay in Purgatory, this is it. The scenery? Terrific. The smell of bus? Not so much. Silver lining? Nearly 11 hours less I'm destined to spend in the Big Waiting Room in the sky, as I've already paid some dues down here. I'm officially 5 minutes of self-flagellation away from canonization.

I caught a cab to the hostel and walked into a 6 bed dorm with 5 other occupants who had already declared the room a disaster area and were apparently awaiting federal funds for cleanup. Unfortunately, I don't think New Zealand has a Superfund program (they're nuclear-free and wear it as a badge). The room looks as I imagine Kabul looked in the mid 80's, minus the wreckage of burnt-out Soviet tanks--although one of the British girl's suitcases was almost as big. Said hello to the Chinese guy who apparently hasn't moved off his bed in a few days. Or tried to say hello. All Mr. Social mustered was, "no engrish." I'm pretty sure that's Chinese for "welcome to Wellington, you capitalist pig." I couldn't find the words to say how much I was looking forward to exploiting the workers of New Zealand and that I have a bobblehead of Adam Smith in my bag. So, I bowed, said, "very windy," to which I got a smile and a grunt. He didn't try to kill me in my sleep last night, but one false move and I'm taking a boat to Taiwan and joining the Army there.

I proceeded to meet the manager of a group of restaurants whom I had forwarded a note to back in Auckland (thank you, Lonely Planet) for a chat about jobs. I walked in the "upscale lounge" (thank you, Lonely Planet), was greeted with red velvet and leather booths and immediately knew that I would have to flip the switch to "chic and sexy" to have any chance. Two traits I aspire to but usually fall woefully short of. I wore my best 11 hour Bus Smell cologne. He liked my resume--for another restaurant--and said he'd be in touch. Famous last words. We'll see.

Got up bright and early (again) to follow the Boston College game over the Internet. No plans today (Sunday) other than to eat and walk around a bit. Oh, and find a flat.

Hostels? Not good times. Oh, but it's all about the adventure, isn't it? Yeah, adventure. Sometimes adventure ain't all it's cracked up to be. At least not yet. Magellan said the same thing right before he was killed by natives in the South Pacific.

Okay, off to walk the streets of Wellington and continue the flat search. The wind here is ridiculous. It's mean. No face has been this numb since that woman had a face transplant. Donald Trump? No chance with that hair. The Olsen Twins would be swept away out to sea. If you stick your arms out at a certain angle and lean forward, I'm fairly certain you can take flight.

Ciao for now! Go BC!