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.
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