Russell pics

They say it's not work when you love what you do. Well, this is work.

One view from outside the restaurant, looking west toward Paihia, which is 2.5 miles away. The HMS Canterbury, a Kiwi Navy frigate that is scheduled for scuttling November 3rd in a nearby cove, lies at dock just a few minutes away. This is important, because it'll be pretty convenient for me to stuff my boss in the yellow dinghy (lower right) and tie it to the Canterbury for the big boom boom.

Hey, guess what? Russell is on the water. Looking left from the restaurant.

"The" main drag in Russell. Happening. Too much congestion, if you ask me.

I set up those tables. Awesome job by me. View from the door of "zee Gables" toward the wharf. Still don't know the difference between a wharf and a pier. But I do know that a 'courgette' is just a fancy French way of saying 'zucchini.' The School of Life continues.

This is what I stare at all day at work. I'm looking straight out of zee restaurant. Dusk is cool; the sun sets directly behind the hills on the other side of the bay, reflecting brilliantly off of the water. I'll take a picture and post it for you to ignore.

There are too many English around--I just said the word 'brilliantly.' Damn that pound.

Speaking of solar cycles, did you know that New Zealand is the first country in the world to see the sunrise? Store that for a future episode of 'Jeopardy.'

Me: "The table just said that that was the best meal that they've had in New Zealand. I betcha' they just got here last night."

French Chef: "Zarles, ha ha, zoo are good with peopelll. Did zoo go to the pub last night?"

Me: "Yes."

French Chef: "Russell. Just like New York, eh?"

Ha ha.

And now...Act II.

Me: "The table seems happy with their experience tonight."

Australian Girlfriend (AG): "Why did you put the small plates in with the glasses?"

Me: "I'm a Sagittarius."

AG: "Why were you ever born at all?"

Me: "I'm going to duct-tape your mouth, roll you up in a carpet, and stick you in a chum-filled yellow dinghy bound for hell."

AG: "Why didn't you bring the beer out with the wine?"

Me: "Homicidal maniacs are made, not born."

AG: "Go bring in the tables."

Auckland

A view of the sea from outside New Zealand's biggest city-Auckland. It's pretty and stuff. Where's the pub?




Outside of Auckland. I can't remember who this monument is for. I'm pretty sure it's somebody important. Some white guy.

I majored in history. I end sentences with prepositions. Basically, I'm the total package.

Auckland. From a distance. Look closely and you can see vomit on the floor of my hostel. Oh wait, that was Wellington. Nevermind. Not as nice as Memorial Drive in Atlanta, to be sure. But then again, you don't need a translator for this view, either.

Auckland from One Tree Hill. Yes, the same one U2 sang about as a tribute to the country. See the world's largest syringe? I mean, the tallest building in the Southern hemisphere? You can jump off of it, if you'd like. I could volunteer a few people.

Auckland suburbs. They're like the Energizer Bunny, they keep going, and going....

...and going and... so charming, so idyllic, so very large, those suburbs. Did you know that Auckland is one of the world's biggest cities, by geographic area? I am the purveyor of useless knowledge. And random affection.

This is Mt. Ruapehu on the central plateau. Plateau is French for...plateau. I think. You can't see it in the photo, but there is a small ring of ash near the top of the mountain--a leftover from the recent eruption which maimed one hiker. 'Maimed' is a good word--one that I'm going to try to incorporate into everyday language more often. Apparently, New Zealand is riddled with volcanoes. I learned this at the national museum in Wellington, after I apologized to the Maori people for European colonization. And MTV.

Wellington/Mt. Doom/Long Beach pics

Wellington is the one with buildings. Those clouds were about 150 miles away five minutes before this picture was taken. I waited between humans getting blown through my shot to snap it.

The other picture is of Mt. Doom. No, really, this is Mt. Doom. In the center of the North Island, it's one of three mountains that rise up out of nowhere on this plateau. One of the other ones (Ruapehu) erupted a couple of days after I got to New Zealand and crushed a hiker's legs, which needed amputation. Naturally, the casualty was front-page news here in New Zealand. Thankfully, Frodo got out in time, though, thanks to the yellow traffic sign in front. But not before that selfish hobbitt tried to keep the ring at the last second.

Hey, look, the clouds are rolling in over Wellington harbor. Shocking.

I'm actually on the lookout for a rogue wave. Wellington is the land equivalent of the show "Deadliest Catch," about crab fishing in the Bering Sea.

Wellington in the springtime. How romantic. Notice how the gray of the sky complements the blue water in the foreground and accentuates the multi-colored buildings in the distance. The City Council actually passed a resolution to make it overcast and windy all the time. They don't want any newcomers. Just actors working with Peter Jackson's nearby WETA Workshop.

Wellington. The nightlife is good. The city is compact. The buses run on time. It's the gateway to the South Island.

My Visa was threatened if I mentioned the weather one more time.

The view of Long Beach in Russell as you come over top of the hill from the other side of the peninsula. The vegetation is luscious. I really like that word.

Long Beach pics

Go around the corner on the left and you'll find me. Naked. Oiled up. Dolphin watching.

My own personal playground. The water is cold, though. Apparently, we're not that far from Antarctica. We're not that close, either, because it'd probably be a lot whiter in my pictures and I'd see icebergs floating by. The same iceberg that will melt because Al Gore said so and because Americans are evil, Hummer-loving, penguin-haters.

Speaking of Danny de Vito, I learned about Antarctica at the Auckland aquarium. Sadly, penguins don't make it this far north. Too many seals and orca and stuff. And they're flightless.

Long Beach in the hizzie...

...that's 'house,' Mom.

If you concentrate really hard, you can imagine how stock prices for Nivea will rise precipitously with bulk sunscreen purchases in Russell. If I lived here, my skin would look like those rocks.

Of course, if I lived here, I would know not to drink with Maoris. See below.

This is the view from my shaded spot on Long Beach in Russell. To my left, there is no one. To my right, there is no one.

Story of my life.

This is the view from my room. The water is probably about 200 yards away. The white house is the one that can peer into my bedroom window as I air dry. If you look really hard on the other side of the bay at Paihia, you can see angry Maori chiefs chanting something vitriolic about the rich white faces on "their" land. Okay, that's a lie. But straight across the bay is the site where the Treaty of Waitangi was signed in 1837 that essentially brought peace between the pahekas (European settlers) and the Maoris. That's all neat and stuff for schoolchildren, but the only real history that needs to be remembered is this: don't drink with Maoris because you'll lose, and don't accept a shot of sambuca after six beers when Maoris offer it to you. Just don't do it, for God's sakes. You'll wind up in the back of a bus with a finger down your throat, a half-digested, lab-experiment-gone-wrong, pre-packaged, grocery store chicken sandwich staring back at you, and regret in your heart. Learn from me, people. The Maoris are no joke.

I'm pretty sure I could write for the Auckland Chamber of Commerce.

Russell: The City That Sleeps

Having finished my first week of work at "Zee Gables," as my new French chef friend calls it, I can offer three judgments. First, Russell is a postcard. I lucked out in the sense that the area is beautiful; between the turquoise water, the sailboats, and rustic charm of the quiet bayside village, it really does feel like its own little world. Really little. On my first off-day from the restaurant yesterday, I strolled over to Long Beach, on the other side of the hill behind the town. Snoop Dogg would be pretty upset because Long Beach is actually the East side of Russell, thereby preventing me from saying, "Long Beach: west side 'till I die." Nevermind. Anyway, after making the arduous 10-minute walk along a footpath that curls through lush green vegetation, you crest the hill and look down upon, well, another postcard. Only this one is better, because the tourists rarely indulge in the effort to see it, so this nearly half-mile long beach, with spectacular views across the bay to distant hills rising up out of the water, becomes, in a sense, your own personal playground. It's almost unreal. I had to pinch myself to believe it, since there are absolutely no women around to do the pinching for me. But, I digress (although there is some hope: one, we're not into the summer tourist season quite yet, and two, the ferry captain told me that rush hour in New Zealand is at 6am, when all the husbands and wives go back to their own houses. Oh yeah.). So, I laid there for a couple of hours doing a crossword puzzle between peeks at the vista that lay just beyond my sand-covered feet. Though there is usually always a breeze in town, since this particular beach is on the other side of the hills, it's much less windy. And, because I have an anemometer for a brain, I found the best part of the beach, up against the hill and shaded by a tree no less, and felt no wind at all. Awesome for me. So, the first warm day since I've been in country coincided with an off day from work and was spent in solitude, on a beautiful beach, with thoughts of a bad Leanardo di Caprio movie in my head.

I'll give you a second to think of the right bad movie. Called. The. Beach. Let's move on.

The second thing I've learned is an interesting juxtaposition. And when I say "interesting," I mean for me, not so much for anyone else. Russell's economy depends on the summer season. Russell's quixotic nature depends on the summer season. Most importantly, my emotional health depends on the summer season. And, thus, the dual nature of my life is revealed: on the one hand, I really dig the solitude afforded by this town of 800 accessible mainly by ferry, as yesterday and future afternoons spent on Long Beach will attest. On the other hand, most businesses close by 6pm, the small grocery store at 8pm, and the latest that the pub around the corner, called imaginatively "Pub 'round the Corner," stays open is Midnight (10pm on Sundays and Mondays). So, after getting off at work sometime after 11pm, there's really no time or inclination to walk the 300 yards back to my flat, change, and then walk the 250 yards back to the Pub 'round the Corner for a beer before closing. 300 yards never seemed so far, especially after standing up for anywhere between 6-8 hours straight. I got off work early, around 9pm the other night, and walking home I swore I saw tumbleweed blowing through town. My wind-tunnel-like hostel room in Wellington was noisier than Russell. Lying in bed down in Welly, I could confirm that life was in fact occurring, that I was indeed a sentient being. After all, I could hear the wind and the snoring of my Chinese roommate who was dreaming of the looting and pillaging of Taipei. Here, walking home anytime after 9pm, I very easily could be either a) in a movie where the unsuspecting idiot ambles homeward only to be disemboweled yards from his doorstep by a rogue, overgrown, bread-fed Kiwi bird (those rare things are here in Russell, you know. And they're nocturnal), or b) dreaming that I'm in New Zealand but really sleeping in my Mommy and Daddy's house in Atlanta (self-esteem? what self-esteem?). In which case, I would need a pinch to determine the difference between fantasy and reality. And, as I've mentioned before, Russell doesn't seem to possess many candidates for the pinching role. All of which is a rather circuitous way of saying: while the first lesson has its advantages, to be sure, the second may have even more. Of course, with the Kiwis' prevalent use of the Mary Jane, perhaps with an indulgence I could imagine myself racing into outer space at speeds approaching that of light for just a few minutes...when I got back, summer would already be here. Of course, it'd be the summer of 2263, but whatever. As malleable as time may be, at regular human speed, I've got about six weeks before the town sees more plastic than Pam Anderson. And six weeks of surviving that Kiwi bird.

The third thing that I have learned is multi-pronged actually: when living abroad, expect the unexpected. The French chef is, indeed, at least thus far, a prett cool guy. As short as Napoleon but without the froo-froo complex, I think he likes me because 1) I'm the only other guy on a staff of women and 2) I'm American--no, I doubt the French have gained an appreciation for our culture, rather, it may be my confidence that inspires him to believe in me. And believe me, I screwed up a lot on our first busy night over the recent Labor Day weekend. The unexpected? The Australian girlfriend, who is in charge of the hospitality staff. Which means me. Which means, wasn't Australia a penal colony at one point? Can we resurrect that idea and ship her back? Suffice it to say, she's not exactly the encouraging, complementary type. When I say "not exactly," I'm thinking the ratio of accusatory criticisms to complements is eternity. As any good manager does, she leads by whip. I want to stick her in a boat filled with chum and push her in the direction of Australia. Or Haiti. Wherever the currents take her dinghy. She reminds me of a ghostly character in a haunted house movie, which is appropriate, I think, as Halloween nears. Her eyes, dark and soulless, really, perched above an elven nose, stare at you as if she's passing the final judgment of damnation. She walks without upper body movement, reminiscent of a ghost flitting from room to room from the vantage point at the end of a long hallway. Her hair is black and stringy and when not pulled together might host a species of bat that lives on human heads. She disappears before the restaurant opens for dinner ostensibly to cleanse herself for the nightly odyssey of heartless and charisma-deficient service she provides--efficiently, I must say--for her paying customers. I think she disappears to rejoin her coven, but whatever.

Restaurant work is hard work, if only because it's a combination of mental organization, timing, and soul-crushing criticism from upper management. "I'll do whatever I can to help," is all I say when told that rather than pay me hourly, they're putting me on salary because they are trying to squeeze hours out of the restaurant for everyone. I'm not sure how beneficial that change will be, as it leaves the two Czech girls in charge of the outdoor Garden Bar (which will be really nice come summertime), and leaves me doing more restaurant work, and perhaps a little kitchen work, as well (don't ask, because I don't know). Basically, I'm turning into the restaurant slut without any of the benefits. I'm sure she's got a voodoo doll of me upstairs in her lair.

On a side note, on my final day in Auckland before travelling north, I went to an aquarium that is actually located under a city street. As in, you drive over it to get to it. On the edumacational side, I now know everything there is to know about Antarctica, which constituted a major part of the museum--the first expeditions down there, the climate, the impact on the global ecosystem, you know, boring stuff like that. I know, as a matter of fact, that the ozone hole over Antarctica has improved since the 1980's when it was reputedly the next global climate catastrophe (falling right after warnings about the new ice age that never came and the global food crisis which never came, and right before the latest global warming craze that garnered Al Gore the credit he never got for inventing the Internet). But, the best part of the aquarium, other than sticking your hand in ice water that replicates the water temperature in Antarctica (can you guess that it's cold?), oh and the sharks that swim over your head as you walk in one of those overhead aquarium things, was the penguins. Love the penguins. Love the waddle. Love the parenting skills they have. There's really nothing not to like about penguins. There are so few animals you can say that about. I used to think that way about elephants, but then you read about elephants stomping their handlers to death, plus you never really hear about all the casualties in places like Laos and Thailand and places like that, so it's probably an underreported large violent land mammal. And they've been known to trunk down farmers' rice beer in India. Who needs alcoholic elephants causing havoc?--they're ornery enough without the beer. Anyway, all that is beside the point. I like penguins. And you should, too.

Which brings me full circle in a clever writing device I like to call "bringing it full circle." The original name for Russell is Kororareka; you know, the Maori name before the white man showed up and said, "too hard to pronounce, especially with all the rum in our stomachs." Russell was once, after all, a den of prostitution, drinking, and inveterate hedonism (where did you go, Russell?)--thus it's 19th century nickname "the hellhole of the Pacific." Naturally, it's now a place for rich Europeans to summer in, an irony that seems to be part of a story told too many times in other places around the world as well (the restaurant where I work was once a brothel--I knew it had charm). The name was changed in 1844 and before you think you've had your New Zealand history lesson for the day (or your life), try this: legend has it that a Maori chief, wounded in battle, asked for and received some penguin broth to be brought to him. After drinking the broth, he said "ka reka te korora" or "how sweet is the penguin." Thus Kororareka - korora being the blue penguin, and reka- meaning sweet. And there you have it. Another legend which is probably part-truth, part-fiction, yet invariably cruel to the one animal that everyone should like. What did a penguin ever do to you?

P.s. I found out that the French chef and his "she'll float in the lake with weights tied to her legs" girlfriend are 30 years old. Which means I'm the oldest person in the restaurant. Which means I swallow my pride, she swallows my soul, and a beer mug is about to swallow me.

From Auckland to the Bay of Islands

So, I've got my meeting with the Nazi...I mean, French Chef today. I have no idea what to expect, though I hope my new accommodation will get sorted out and that I've slept my last night in a hostel (for a while). I took the bus from Auckland yesterday and it was a scenic 4-hour ride over a winding, twisting, ascending, and descending two-lane road. There are no straight roads in this country, it seems.

Paihia is a small, bayside town with more backpackers than residents. Across the bay, you can see Russell, where I'll be heading in a few hours, and though called "more charming" than Paihia, it is also overflowing with about 800 people. It's hard to cultivate my general distaste for people when there are none of them around.

I spent the last week in Auckland hanging out with my dormmates. Two Irishmen, two Englishmen, and a German. You really haven't lived if you haven't seen a couple mid-20's Irishmen dancing (white man's overbite in the extreme) and lip-syncing to Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance With Somebody." Basically, a force of nature. Those Europeans really have an appreciation of the 80's. I noticed this in Prague, too. The 80's and Europe together are unstoppable.

One Englishman was 50lbs overweight, and a junk food addict (surprise), who constantly took time out of his life to suck on lollipops between cigarettes and beer. If I could buy stock in "dead before 50," this would be the company. Let's just say this: he was a nice guy from the English countryside whose malodorous nature was a combination of hair gel, body spray, and lots of sweat. The perfect storm. If anything will help him achieve offspring at some point in his life, it'll be the cure of his allergy to water and soap. The other Englishman is a fair-skinned, quasi-professional windsurfer who has worked in Turkey and Greece and wouldn't be out of place in California. More importantly, he does a mean air-guitar. He faithfully reprised Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody in its entirety while playing pool. I think we'll hang out again, if only because we'll be able to compare changes in the lesions on our skin as we compete to see who can get skin cancer first. As for the German, he was looking for the grocery store, so I pointed in the right direction and said, "think France." Wouldn't you know it, he had no problems marching right over. For Vegemite. Everybody needs a little concentrated yeast in their lives to spruce things up. Anyway, in a typical robo-German way, he took 20 minutes to select a DVD to watch. Watching him pare down the choices one-by-one, I almost felt like I was in the Eagle's Nest watching the exact same methodology used to confiscate the Sudetenland. In other words, we're all just products of our environment. I only mentioned the War (both) once or twice to see if I could get any collective guilt out of him. Nothing too over-the-top, of course. Just a "how's Poland?" question and a reference to those "dirty" Bolsheviks (hey, we have something in common). Sadly, it seems the Germans don't believe in guilt. Or emotion. But that's okay: I don't believe in forgiveness, so I guess we're even.

The next blog should be from Russell--oh wait, I'm not sure Russell has the Internet yet. I'm kidding, of course. I think. I hope.

Until next time...

A few not so interesting observations:

--Strolled into the movie rental store which doubles as an Internet cafe. New release: "The Puppetry of the Penis: A Show of Genital Origami."

I think Spielberg was busy when that phone call came in.

--The elevator in my hostel was manufactured by Schindler. I guess that makes it Schindler's Lift.

Thank you. I'll be here all year. Tip your waitress.

--Auckland will heretofore be known as Tokyo South. Japan may not have an army and may have a declining birth rate, but that's only because they're all overseas taking over foreign lands....again.

--Hungry for something different? Go to the grocery store here and have your choice of beef or chicken, sure. But, come on. You're in New Zealand. How about some Lamb Knuckle (a hoovy delight), Lamb Liver (complement with a Merlot), Lamb Heart (veiny, sure, but any warrior knows it'll give you the fighting spirit of a lamb), and Lamb Brain (yes, it looks exactly as you imagine...wrapped in plastic).

No wonder Clarice needed therapy from Hannibal Lecter.

Oh, don't forget to grab some Pig Liver (hey, they don't drink beer), Pig Heart (plumpier than their lamb counterparts), and Ostrich meat.

What is this? The Amazon? The Old Testament? It just goes to show: we're all just walking, talking, pieces of meat.

Clarice isn't the only one searching for the silence of the lambs. I think I'm having an existential crisis.

I can't remember if Publix sells any Lamb Mince. Maybe Piggly Wiggly?

--Everything here (at least on the North Island) is geared to make you remember Maori culture. I can't decide if its genuine appreciation or one, big, collective apology from the country's European descendants. The National Museum here in Wellington is called Te Papa, which I'm pretty sure is Maori for "Who's your Daddy?" I think every male Maori on his 18th birthday sings the "Cha-ching" song. It goes like this: "Go to the museum, cha-ching. Breathe the air, cha-ching. White people, cha-ching."

John Lennon, eat your (lamb) heart out. It's better with the melody.

They have a Government council here, after all, that is continually looking to give back to the different Maori tribes land that was dispossessed from the indigenous peoples beginning back in the 19th century. If the American Indians were smart, they'd buy a plane ticket, get a pow-wow together with the Maoris, and figure out how to get it done.

Granted, the Atlanta City Council would probably have to re-route the Connector around the new casinos, but just we should just consider it atonement for the polio blankets. And all those John Wayne movies. As an added bonus, new highway tolls could be a direct fund for the Bill Clinton Slavery Reparations program.

Just don't let Bill Campbell near it.

The real question, however is this: what drives New Zealand's communal guilt? Why here and not elsewhere? When is Britney going to get her parental rights back?

--I had to sidestep vomit on the hallway floor on the way to the bathroom this morning. Hostel living, baby, fantastic.

A New Plan?

Ostensibly, I chose to come down to Wellington because I had heard good things about the city and because it is the jumping-off point for trips to the South Island. Makes sense, right? I'm right next to the ferry that takes you across the Cook Strait to Picton on the South Island. When the time came for adventures to the south, what's more convenient than being 10 minutes from the big boat?

Now why should things be so easy?

After a week here, looking for a job and a flat, I've come to two conclusions. First, what they say about "Windy Wellington" is absolutely true: if you catch it on a good day, you'll probably love it here and want to stick around for a little while. It's compact and walkable; it's got the water and the hills (where most of the suburbs lie), it's got cafes and clubs, pubs, and shops. In short, it's the capitalist cultural center of the country. I mean, it's got some charm. If you look hard enough, I'm pretty sure there are even some elves and hobbits still lurking in nearby woods who didn't hear Peter Jackson yell "that's a wrap." Kind of like all those Japanese soldiers who lost themselves on Pacific islands only to re-emerge like, you know, 60 years later, with a rusted bayonet and some stale coconut.

However, if you catch it on a bad day, you'll probably want to leave and invest in facial nerve regeneration therapy. There probably isn't such a thing, but there should be, and the Center for Facial Nerve Regeneration Therapy should be here in Wellington. Because, frankly, it's mostly been bad days since I've been here. And by bad, I generally mean that the city council should think about changing its nickname from "windy" to, I don't know, "maelstrom Wellington" or "typhoonic Wellington." Although it probably wouldn't pass on those alluring tourism brochures, I'm fairly certain that their honesty would be rewarded in the afterlife. I know I'm beating a dead horse (killed by the winds, no doubt), but, yes, the nickname aptly fits. It just so happens that this week is anomalous--or so the locals say--as the "southerlies" from Antarctica are blowing in. I'll say that again. Antarctica. Don't hear that too much in the States. It's more like "Gulf of Mexico" and "north Georgia." Nope. Antarctica. Suffice it to say, I've scratched it off my "must see" list as of this week. It's ironic in a cruel and degrading sort of way that the Winter I spent in Prague just so happened to be the coldest they had had in 40 years there. And, here I am in Wellington, suffering Antarctic-fed, gale-forced winds (with occasional rain) and longing for the 100 degree days of an Atlanta August.

The second conclusion I've come to is that my best bet for securing a job in the busy summer (tourist) season is to go back to the northern part of the North Island. Welcome to "Let's Do It the Hard Way," starring yours truly. When I say "best bet," I really mean, "the only positive response I've received from the over 25 resumes I've sent out came from up north, so that's where I'm going." Right. So, I received a call from a French Chef who operates/owns a restaurant in Russell, Bay of Islands, New Zealand (google "Bay of Islands" and you'll understand why I'm doing a u-turn). I recorded the conversation for posterity, as it will probably be the only time in my life that I speak with a French Chef about a job, about anything really.

French Chef: "Zo, Zarles, zoo zav waiting expeereeance, no?"
Me: "Yes, sir."
French Chef: "I am very deeemanding of my staff, ok? Vee vork hard and I expect perfection."
Me: "Yes, sir."
French Chef: "Zoo are a gooood seller, yes? Zoo could zell to your Mother, no?"
Me: "Yes, sir. Though I think they know me too...."
French Chef: "Ok, then. Zoo can vork vhole summer season then, yes?"
Me: "Yes, sir."
French Chef: "Zoo have bar expeeeriance, no?"
Me: (lying) "Yes, sir."
French Chef: "Ok, zen I zill call you tomorrrrrow, ok?"
Me: "Yes, sir."
Me: "Oh, one question. I'm curious, is this a new restaurant or just a whole new staff?"
French Chef: "The Gables iz zee oldest restaurannnt in New Zeeeland."
Me: "Oh....so it's a whole new staff then."

The moral of the story? As always, I'm an idiot.

The odds of my life intersecting with that of a French chef would, before this trip, probably be somewhere close to a number that physicists see in doing quantum mechanics. In essence, not real high. The odds of me landing a job from a French chef? If there were a line in Vegas, I was a dollar away from starting my own Galactic Empire. I could've bought the Yankees and the Red Sox, merged them, and had them playing AA ball on Kevin Costner's field in Iowa. I could've bought Hillary Clinton, replaced the software in her robot brain, and reprogrammed her not to destroy the world once she takes office. The best part of the whole deal (besides the staff accommodation): the French Chef partly owns the restaurant! Great times in store for me. If you think working for a French Chef, whose first line to a prospective employee is "I can be very hard on my staff, yes?" would challenge one's belief in a Higher Being, then imagine the fun of working for a French Chef who has money invested in the restaurannnnt. In reality, all I really wanted to say to him was, "voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir," just to see what he said.

With all that being said, however, the gig starts in 10 days, so now I have to think about how I'm going to go about achieving absolutely nothing in a foreign land, with no car, for 10 days. Suggestions are welcome.

Quick sidenote: I saw another flat two days ago out in Miramar, a suburb about 25 minutes by bus from the city center. The township itself is really close to Peter Jackson's WETA Digital Workshop, where LOTR was filmed, produced, etc. So, I walk up to the house, only to encounter a small, white fence about waist-high. The gentleman renting the room was very nice, just as Tolkien described them to be. A few inches shorter than me (I know), the nice man said he did some "radio, TV, and acting."

Me: "Anything I've seen you in?" jokingly.
Nice Man: "I don't know....Lord of the Rings."

Yeah, so he was a hobbit in the film and there in his hallway is a cast photo, in full hobbit gear, with Mr. Nice Hobbit Man--one arm on Frodo's shoulder and one arm on Pippin's (or was it Merry?). Everybody with a beer in hand, most notably Peter Jackson, right in front. Pretty cool stuff.

Only in Wellington.

So, the search for an ordinary life continues. I have visited three flats around the city, have two more scheduled for today, one tomorrow, and one Thursday. The upside is that I'm becoming acquainted with the city a bit more each day. With each passing day in the hostel and each passing night with my comrade from China sleeping on top of me.

You know what I mean.

I was looking at a flat last night in Island Bay, a quaint community that offers really nice views from most homes of the Gulf...or Bay...or Ocean...I forget which...it's a 15 minute bus ride from the city center. A single mother of one was offering a room to rent. If it sounded too good to be true, it probably was. During our chat, I learned that she's a Rapid Cycling Manic Depressive; but that the medication helps (a gummy bear on steroids). That she is self-employed--making beaded jewelry and practicing reflexology (foot or ear massage anyone?). That she's "bipolar, bisexual, and beautiful." That two of her three children died tragically in a house fire a few years back, that her father is a Member of Parliament here in Wellington, and that she had the most charming English boyfriend with a charming blank stare, a cleft lip, and very little to add to humanity, or so it seemed. I think this is the chapter of Alice in Wonderland that Carroll never got published. I got to see the tattoo of a phoenix on her thigh, too, which will come in handy since it'll be the cover photo for her soon to come autobiography "What Not to Say to Potential Flatmates," available at alternative bookstores everywhere.

I'm still waiting word from the restaurant manager whom I spoke with on Saturday about job openings. I really hope to see him again soon so that I can experience all over again the Dirk Diggler shirt he was wearing as manager of one of Wellington's most upscale watering holes. He reminded me of the pimp from the Risky Business remake "The Girl Next Door." Dirk Diggler wardrobe, pimp looks...I'm pretty sure I'd fit right in. I didn't know if I was interviewing for a waitstaff position or a pizza boy role in his next movie with the stunning bartender who ignored me (all an acting job, I'm sure).

"Do you see Bartender Girl? She's beautiful, isn't she?"

"Yeah, she's really foxy."

"Take off your pants..."

Okay, I'm off to visit another flat. College kids. I'm eerily close to becoming the perverted older roommate. What's the rule on this? I'm sure there's some kind of etiquette about what's shady and what is acceptable man behavior in this situation--looking at flatmates. Should it be half + 7, as with dating?

In any case, I very well could end up being the guy that they tell their friends about..."come see the older roommate. We've nicknamed him Pee-Wee."