CT in NZ

A Kiwi Olympics

2008-08-24T20:39:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note about watching the Olympics from a different perspective--from that of a small country whose individual accomplishments make those athletes long remembered in New Zealand sports history (almost any Kiwi can tell you their Gold medal distance runner in 1976). Of course, any heat, semifinal, or final with a Kiwi athlete participating automatically meant viewers here sat on the edge of their seats rooting for their compatriot and by virtue of that participation meant they were often the centerpiece of conversation in idle time. New Zealand won nine total medals and each one, including the bronzes, were cherished, which, I think as an American we too often lose sight of in light of the fact that in many instances we feel a bit let down if we don't win Gold. For these Olympics, the U.S. takes solace in the fact that although we didn't win the most Gold medals, we once again won the most overall and this despite some obvious disappointments in track and field (Michael Phelps notwithstanding).

However, though I think China put on a well-run games and demonstrated an organizational efficiency that comes with the idea that society comes before individual, I can't in good faith celebrate either their attempts to put lipstick on the pig (with great facilities and visually stunning opening and closing ceremonies) or their athletic success, which you just know comes at a price for the individuals involved in it. I really hate making this about politics, but the games struck me as remarkably disingenuous as one of the most elaborate facades of modern times. Until China leaves behind its hold on systemic corruption and state-sponsored athletics, its nearly perverse insecurity before the eyes of the West, and its submission to government control from cradle to grave, I will continue to hope that Taiwan beats it in ping-pong.

For a good synopsis of the Chinese definition of athletic success, this link is a must-read:

http://sports.yahoo.com/olympics/news?slug=dw-medalcount082208&prov=yhoo&type=lgns

Oh yeah, go U.S.A.!

Poker derelict

2008-08-10T19:32:00.001-07:00

So, I managed to grab a seat at the National Pub Poker League Bottom of the South Regional Poker Final this past Saturday, alongside 149 other players from cities like Invercargill, Dunedin, Queenstown, and some smaller towns in between. The top 25 finishers got an automatic entry into the New Zealand National Poker Championship in Christchurch in October. I finished 32nd--the last of the seven alternates. I may have been able to hold on through some big blinds to finish in the top 25, but figured I probably won't be here in October anyway, so what's the point? I played okay, but definitely would have made the cut had I won my last hand, when someone put me all-in pre-flop. I put him on Ace-King to my pocket fours, which, as it turns out, is exactly what he had. It was a good call by me and a good push by him. He caught a King on the turn to win and take me out. By that time, the Jack Daniels girls who were selling drinks in the room had left, so there was nothing to look at except a bunch of dudes with serious attitudes and dreams of poker riches. I would have happily exchanged the 4.5 hours of play for a drink with one of the girls.

There are two roving poker companies in town who host the Sunday-Thursday poker tournaments at the pubs. About three weeks ago, one of them had his final at 11am on a Sunday morning for the 50 or so who qualified. I started well but blew a big hand and went downhill pretty quickly from there, finishing maybe 15th or so. The other company has their final this Sunday, so I'm looking forward to being sucked out on again like I was last night, by a first-time player who had no business at the table. So says the bitter vanquished. I've managed to win two tournaments and make a bunch of other final tables, but the one enduring lesson from this is an appreciation for professionals who sidestep landmine after landmine in daily tournaments to make a living at the game. It really is quite an accomplishment just to make the final table at a 50 person tournament, much less a 1,500 player tournament or 4,000 player tourney. The one built-in advantage of the pub tournaments is that a bunch of the players buy raffle tickets for $5 or $10 and if their card is drawn receive 5,000 or 10,000 in extra chips. For doing nothing, essentially, except contributing to the revenue of the poker company staging the tournament. So, I don't put too much stock in winning these tournaments because I'm opposed to buying the raffle, while others could be short-stacked, win the raffle, and be in good position to make the final table. Anyway, the moral of the story: poker is about luck, yes, to some degree, but it's just as much about betting, and that's the reason you see the professionals finish consistently higher than you do amateurs, keen on winning a $500,000 tournament and then vanishing into the ether.

I'm soliciting for a sponsor. And a Jack Daniels girl.

Not necessarily in that order.

Queenstown

2008-08-03T20:59:00.000-07:00

I've been blog-negligent lately. So I thought since I do the blog primarily to satisfy my personal need to have a record for a later time, when my memory is even more clouded than it currently is, I had better update that record before I forget I was even in New Zealand. In like three weeks.

After three months in Queenstown, it's not hard to imagine why the town has such a pull to it--quaint, young, scenic, and alive, it hit its stride in July just as the snow settled on the tops of the surrounding resorts. Winterfest has come and gone, that 10 day festival with Mardi Gras, live music, and crowds eager to drink the nights away in preparation for the following days' descent on snowboards and skis. The weather is predictably cold, but not that cold, which is saying something because I'm a native Atlantan, which is a euphemism for "I like it hot." It was much colder in Prague, which I can't really understand because I looked at a globe in the library the other day (a globe with pre-1991 USSR on it, North Yemen, South Yemen, etc--their books are on rolls of papyrus and their history books stop after the Industrial Revolution. I made that last part up. And the papyrus part, too.), and Queenstown is at 45 degrees South, which is really freakin' south. If you trace the latitude all the way around the planet, only the very southern part of Chile and Argentina stretch further south than that. The air is remarkably dry, however, which might explain the dearth of snow in town and the relative abundance of sunny skies during the winter. Relative because, of course, after building an ark in Russell during the summer, I'm kind of disappointed that my new wood working and animal husbandry skills won't be needed down here. I'd say that even Atlanta is as cold as Queenstown, generally speaking, which either speaks well of Global Warming--which I'm all for-- or speaks poorly of Global Cooling, which most scientists were warning us about 30 years ago. Basically, it's a win-win situation down here.

Before I paint too rosy a picture of our quaint little ski town, I should mention that I've been sick quite often down here--from sore throats and juicy coughs, to a recently conquered fever and dry cough that made me long for the days of those juicy coughs. I don't know if it's the dry air, the dampness inside the house, or the incessant marijuana smoke that hovers in the family room as my roommate punishes a bong all day long. It may also be the incestual poker tournaments that I've been known to frequent a few days a week--essentially, 50 walking incubators coughing on their hands and then molesting a playing deck, which in turn gets manhandled by yours truly. I'm going with a combination "weed-damp-card" excuse for my new octogenarian immune system. I've gone from a vitamin-popping, gym-addicted, young-looking 34 year old to The English Patient in three weeks. No wonder they have Universal Healthcare down here--between the cigarettes, weed, and Bangladeshi-like dampness, half the population would be addicted to various cold-flu medications with homemade meth labs in their basements if they had to pay $250 each time their doctor told them to "rest."

Yes, a lot of marijuana in New Zealand...but very few Mexicans and Colombians. Which means that the proverbial "New Zealand ingenuity" of which most Kiwis are proud, extends about two inches and requires feats of engineering including packing, rolling, and lighting.

Speaking of my inveterate gambling addiction, there is a thriving poker culture in town, one in which I get to see the same 40 people every night, five nights a week, playing no-limit hold'em for 4 hours trying to win a $50 bar tab and pride. I've managed to win two such tournaments and finish second or third at a few others, which basically means that I'm considering a playing career in Vegas in the near future and am only one sponsor away from listing on my resume under 'Hobbies,' "hitting on cocktail waitresses and 9-3 off-suit." Poker is my girlfriend, which is both bad and good. Bad, because I'm now quite intimate with a biological weapon--a deck of cards, and good because the poker tournaments are free and I don't know of any girlfriend that's free.

By the way, if I ever got a tattoo, it wouldn't be Aces up the sleeve, it'd be far more appropriate--9-3 offsuit. One of my roommates just got a tattoo yesterday and it looks rather trite, if you ask me. And bloody. And painful.

At what point do tattoos become passe, you ask? I'm glad you did. I say they've reached that point already. But with the plethora of Maori tribal designs on Maori and Whitey skin alike, I'm sure NZ will continue to pump out inked-up Kiwis as more people strive to assert their individuality by conforming with everyone else.

Did I ever mention that I retired as Russell's ping-pong champion. No, I don't think I did. Okay, so I retired as Russell's ping-pong champion. I was both the unstoppable force and the immovable object. Chinese diplomats showed up to try to get me to acquiesce to citizenship, but I deferred, citing the whole Communist thing. They wanted me to train with their top ping-pong...excuse me, table-tennis Olympians, but I told them my future included walking pneumonia, early-onset emphysema, and a touch of bacterial meningitis down in Queenstown. Seriously though, I was so good up there in Russell that I will now type about it in the third person. CT played several hundred games all told, and lost but twice. CT believes he has a natural athletic gift in his ping-ponging and is proud to be revered in the hall of Russellian history as 2008 Champion. Sadly, CT realizes that once he turned down the Chinese, his ping-pong future became rather limited...where does CT go next? He has yet to find a table in Queenstown and, even if he did, what else does he have to prove? Do you climb K-2 after climbing Everest? I don't think so. The thrill is gone for CT, so he has decided to instead to invest his time and emotional energy into a game with far more probability, luck, and indeterminism. We wish CT nothing but the best.

I was teaching three Korean girls how to speak English. That gig has run its course, however, so I will most likely soon be looking to book a return flight back to the States, so as to catch the end of summer and the beginning of football season. With no plan, I hasten to step into the abyss once more. Plus, it's been nearly 11 months since I left and, being fairly satisfied that I've seen a lot of what New Zealand has to offer, and hence have come closer to understanding why the country is so naturally beloved, I feel like George W. Bush as he stood on that aircraft carrier in May 2003 with a banner overhead proclaiming, "Mission Accomplished." Which means I probably should spend the next 5 years wandering around the wilderness before asking for directions to the airport. In any event, the easy part, in retrospect getting on the plane, is coming to a close. The next chapter becomes, once more, difficult to write..."What's Next?"

Links to places visited

2008-05-30T19:05:00.000-07:00

Okay, these pictures have been a long time in coming, but since my camera was stolen, I'm attaching links for some of the places I was able to visit on my drive from Auckland to Queenstown. It's not hard to see why people call New Zealand 'God's Playground.' Personally, I think God got it closer to perfect with this... http://z.about.com/d/shoes/1/0/f/x/Marisa_Miller.jpg

http://cache.gizmodo.com/assets/resources/2007/02/milleripod.jpg

http://pub.tv2.no/multimedia/slideshow/17581/1.jpg

...but there's no Lonely Planet guidebook that gets me on the road to that, so I don't know where to find it. Here's my consolation...

Cathedral Cove (Coromandel Peninsula):

http://www.fritzswart.co.nz/images/Cathedral_Cove.jpg

http://static.flickr.com/36/85838316_242ba8577f.jpg

http://www.whitianga.co.nz/images/photos/g12.jpg

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d2/Cathedral_Cove_(Coromandel).jpg/800px-Cathedral_Cove_(Coromandel).jpg

http://www.nzemigrate.co.nz/Images/cathedral%20cove.jpg

http://www.dayout.co.nz/public-files/pictures/10790.jpg

Mt. Maunganui:

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/2/2c/Mount_Manganui.jpg/800px-Mount_Manganui.jpg

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d7/Mt_Manganui_view.jpg/800px-Mt_Manganui_view.jpg

http://img3.travelblog.org/Photos/32422/151011/t/1081308-Mt-Manganui-0.jpg

http://www.davidwallphoto.com/images/%7B295FFF30-6D46-4306-A787-CDFDA9A41671%7D.JPG

http://www.teara.govt.nz/NR/rdonlyres/F8AD208A-A690-414C-8543-5F88402F2F13/114697/p799gns.jpg

Lake Taupo:

http://www.geonet.org.nz/images/volcano/our-volcanoes/Lake-Taupo-28761-lge.jpg

http://www.brownbear.co.nz/assets/image/taupo.jpg

http://www.no1guide.co.nz/images/Lake_Taupo.JPG

http://www.ruggieroweb.com/New_Zealand/0204_lake%20taupo.jpg

http://www.amazingnz.com/lake-taupo.jpg

Wellington:

http://www.bioneural.net/images/enlarge/wellington-large.jpg

http://www.vroomvroomvroom.co.nz/content/files/images/photos/Wellington-Car-Rental--2.jpg

http://www1.istockphoto.com/file_thumbview_approve/3923408/2/istockphoto_3923408_wellington.jpg

Marlborough (Wine region):

http://www.justourpictures.com/newzealand/nzimgs/marlborough.jpg

http://www.totaltravel.co.nz/guide/photos/marlborough/marlborough_sound.jpg

http://williamjthompson.net/WJT/VineyardsLR.jpg

http://www.kiwicellars.com/images/vineyardmarlborough.jpg

http://www.clayridge.net.nz/images/clayridge-2006.gif

Nelson:

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/0/08/Nelson_New_Zealand.jpg/800px-Nelson_New_Zealand.jpg

http://www.english-schools.co.nz/Images/nelson.jpg

http://icons-pe.wunderground.com/data/wximagenew/u/ultraviolet/53.jpg

Abel Tasman National Park:

http://www.wayfaring.info/wp-content/uploads/2007/04/kayaking-in-the-abel-tasman-1.jpg

http://static.flickr.com/32/92478386_49471ca025.jpg

http://www.no1guide.co.nz/images/AbelTasmanNationalPark.jpg

http://www.newzealandcampervanhire.co.nz/images/image2_l.jpg

http://www.motuekariverhills.co.nz/rh_images/abeltasman_beach.jpg

http://www.visitingnewzealand.com/images/abel-tasman3.jpg

West Coast Highway (South Island):

http://www.wildweka.com/images/WestcoastMap.jpg

http://images19.fotki.com/v274/photos/5/54163/2725630/IMG_2891-vi.jpg

http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1434/1036898253_243e80ea76.jpg?v=0

Lake Hawea (from West Coast Highway to Queenstown):

http://www.horizonsunlimited.com/newsletter/images2003/2003-04-01_Batley-LakeHawea.jpg

http://www.travelfisher.co.uk/Photos/New%20Zealand%202004/D19%20Lake%20Hawea%204.JPG

http://farm1.static.flickr.com/48/137909394_7b803e0978.jpg?v=0

Franz Josef Glacier:

http://www.nzimpressions.com/site/images/54073.jpg

http://www.davidwallphoto.com/images/%7BCE6317E6-A95F-479F-9DAA-AFF015E9DED1%7D.jpg

http://www.victoria.ac.nz/geo/people/andrew-mackintosh/franzjosef-glacier-march2005-accum.jpg

Lake Matheson:

http://lloydi.com/travel-writing/round-the-world-trip/_wallpaper/_wallpaper-Images/20.jpg

http://www.mypicture.dk/joomla/mambots/content/smoothgallery/cache/images/stories/gallery/nature/800x576-LakeMatheson_NewZealand.jpg

http://planetkiwi.net/lake-matheson-27.jpg

Haast Pass:

http://www.carrentalnewzealand.com/images/newzealandcarhire-haast.jpg

Wanaka:

http://www.alpenglow.org/paragliding/coast/cd-0527-015-diane-royspeak-lg.jpg

http://www.ethantw.com/images/photo_19full.jpg

http://www.cleangreen.co.nz/gallery1/wanaka/wanaka%20new%20zealand.jpg

Milford Sound:

http://danny.oz.au/travel/new-zealand/p/1669-milford-sound.jpg

http://www.globusjourneys.com/Common/Images/Destinations/milford_sound.jpg

http://lloydi.com/travel-writing/round-the-world-trip/_wallpaper/_wallpaper-Images/26.jpg

http://www.richard-seaman.com/Wallpaper/NewZealand/SouthIsland/MilfordSound.jpg

http://cache.virtualtourist.com/1392268-Mitre_Peak_Milford_Sound-New_Zealand.jpg

Homer Tunnel (on way to Milford Sound; built from 1935-53);

http://farm1.static.flickr.com/50/112958216_71b0731b78.jpg?v=0

http://www.guide2downunder.com/new-zealand/pic5.jpg

Chasm Walk (near Milford Sound):

http://i202.photobucket.com/albums/aa178/tonyclarehodge/Milford%20Sound/64b5b079.jpg

http://www.myspot.net/tlang/anz/P6120039.JPG

The road from Te Anau to Milford Sound:

http://www.gipp.com/pics/2004_NewZealand/_title/09-Te_Anau_u_Milford_04-12-28to30/0/title.jpg

http://www.traveljournals.net/pictures/l/1/13837-mirror-lake-te-anau-to-milford-sound-new-zealand.jpg

http://www.photographybyjohncorney.com/landscapes/uploaded_images/Mountain_meadow_milford-766716.jpg

http://farm1.static.flickr.com/37/108619656_d9354bfd79_b.jpg

Queenstown:

http://landau.rice.edu/~aac/isec2001/qtown.jpg

http://img.thisismoney.co.uk/i/pix/2007/02/QUEENSTOWN_400x310.jpg

http://www.golfhighway.com/images/Queenstown-Golf3.jpg

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/bc/Queenstown_New_Zealand_September_07.jpg/800px-Queenstown_New_Zealand_September_07.jpg

http://www.gorentals.co.nz/cust/img/new-zealand/nz-Queenstown/queenstown1.jpg

http://www.poststar.com/sections/ae/10_list/images/5/queenstown.jpg

http://updatecenter.britannica.com/eb/image?binaryId=83816&rendTypeId=4

http://images.travelpod.com/users/kevandsian/rtw_2002.1092264780.img_3098.jpg (The Remarkables mountain range)

Keeping Left...still

2008-05-09T18:26:00.000-07:00

Arriving on the South Island at the small port town of Picton, I was greeted with more rain...not hard to believe given that this past summer in Northland was wetter and cooler than usual--I'm beginning to believe that I have rain clouds following me no matter where I show up in this country. On the other hand, there was a rainbow straddling the town as I drove off the ship, perhaps a good omen for the next five months or so to be spent in the South. Immediately on the two hour drive to the northern coastal city of Nelson (pop. 45,000), the sunniest city in New Zealand and considered one of its most liveable, you're greeted with the evidence of New Zealand's growing reputation as a wine-producing haven. Vineyard after vineyard dot the landscape of the Marlborough region, the heart of the country's esteemed Sauvignon Blancs, Chardonnays, and Pinot Gris'. Marlborough is where a verdant landscape intersects with the moisture of the Cook Strait to produce grapes that are responsible for a rather rapid rise in New Zealand's international wine reputation. Guided tours abound, taking tourists by car or bicycle to some of the region's most well-known vineyards for a closer inspection of the production process with meals to match.

Since I only drink red, I drove right through the region.

Upon arriving in Nelson, I was reminded of Wellington, only on a much smaller scale. With considerably less wind. One thing I have learned since arriving in country more than 7 1/2 months ago is that every New Zealand town looks almost exactly the same. Oh, and expect to be warmer outside than inside.

Needless to say, almost as if God gets a kick out of hearing me complain to myself, Nelson, the reputed sunniest city in the country, greeted me with more rain. It's no wonder New Zealand's landscape is neon green. The town itself, after hearing such good things from friends who had already visited, cast me in a horror movie of sorts--nights in town in the early part of the week are dead. I was one of but a handful of people walking downtown at night and was half expecting to be dragged into an alley by the undead.

On my second and final night in town, my rental car was broken into in the hostel carpark and my digital camera and Ipod in the glove compartment, as well as my bookbag in the trunk, were stolen. Good times. The police came out to document the theft and write up a report. Sadly, the pictures I had taken on my previous week of travel--about 30 in total--are gone with the camera. Fortunately, all of the other photos on the camera had been uploaded to the blog. After arriving in Queenstown, I received an e-mail from someone who had found my mostly empty bookbag halfway up a tree, so I may be able to get the bag back. But Nelson's final salute to me was to make me a victim of crime. For that, I will always hold a special place in my heart for the sun capital of New Zealand. Rock on, Nelson! Remind me to apply for a job in the Nelson Chamber of Commerce.

After my first encounter with the New Zealand police, I subsequently drove down the West Coast Highway to the tourist heavy Franz Josef glacier--midway down the South Island on the, you guessed it, west coast. I don't get a chance to walk on a glacier very often...I've never seen a glacier before, so after spending a night in the small town, I did a half-day hike on the glacier, which was well worth the money. Provided boots, crampons, a rain jacket (the glacier gets 6-8 meters of rain per year), hat and gloves, and overpants, our small group got a guided 3km walk to the glacier wall, up rock outcroppings with ladders, through the rainforest in the valley, and subsequently about 90-120 minutes walking on the glacier itself. Full day hikes take you farther up the glacier, but I felt pretty confident after it was all said and done that I had gotten the point. It's ice. The scenery, to say the least, is stunning. This is where I would show you the pictures, but if you remember my story, my camera was stolen. In Nelson.

From Franz Josef, I drove 25kms down the road to Lake Matheson, the most photographed lake in the country, framed as it is by the Southern Alps with clear reflections of the mountains shimmering in the calm waters of the pristine lake. Again, I'd show you a picture...but...

...then onward to Queenstown, my final destination for the winter. The drive from Haast to Wanaka and then to Queenstown was probably the most scenic of drives that I had seen up to that point in New Zealand. Winding through the snow-capped Southern Alps and the lakes they frame was visually extraordinary.

Queenstown is a skiing town and immediately reminds me of Aspen. It's cold. But quaint. And expensive. It sits on Lake Wakatipu and is literally surrounded by the Southern Alps. I took the gondola up the mountain that sits right behind the town and was so impressed by the sights that I bought a season pass for the gondola.

In the following days, I drove to Wanaka, a smaller version of Queenstown located an hour north. Again the drive over the Crown Mountain pass takes me right back to similar high-altitude roads in Colorado. Wanaka is even more quaint than Queenstown, but at less than half its size, seems too small for my liking. It does, however, sit on a lake itself with perhaps an even more aesthetically pleasing view from town.

While I still had the rental car, I drove 3.5 hrs to Milford Sound, one of the most awe-inspiring parts of New Zealand's geography and featured in any literature you'd read about the country. The drive from Te Anau to Milford is THE best drive I've had thus far in country. Simply unbelievable. Driving on yet another winding, narrow mountain road, sheer rock cliffs above, unrivalled vistas, valley fog, imposing mountains, tropical rainforest...the country seems to offer it all.

Except insulation.

I returned the car to the rental agency after adding more than 3000kms to its odometer (2000 miles) and was promptly told that I was responsible for the cost to repair the damaged driver-side lock that the thief had jimmied in order to get in the car. The customer service rep would get a job in the vestibule of hell, if she wanted it. You know, when she gets down there. Though an inauspicious end to my two week journey from the northern part of the North Island to the southern part of the South Island, I feel tremendous satisfaction in having seen alot of what makes the country such an attractive destination for visitors from around the world. The country owes a debt of gratitude to Peter Jackson.

Next time...live from Queenstown, the adrenaline capital of the world...where you can jump out of, from, into, and through, and by all accounts secrete enough adrenaline in a given day to choke an African elephant.

Keep Left

2008-05-08T19:49:00.000-07:00

That's what the sticker said on the dashboard of my rental car.

Keep Left.

With an arrow pointing in that direction.

Sage advice for those of us conditioned to "Keep Right" on the roads, I suppose, and the first thing I noticed when I hopped in the car in Auckland for what turned out to be the 8 day drive down to Queenstown, near the bottom of the South Island. But before we get to that, there is the matter of leaving Russell after six months of working and playing in the little town that closes at Midnight.

My last shift at the restaurant in Russell was Saturday, April 19th, by which time the chef was already on vacation in his head and I was the last of the original foreign hospitality crew to still be standing. In a word: depressing. Bernard, the chef, had had a change of mood over the course of the last month before shutting the doors to the restaurant for 10 days, beginning the 20th. Disappointed by the numbers for the summer, I think he was contemplating giving Russell one more summer to try to make money with the restaurant and, barring an unexpected climb in visitors to town, perhaps leaving New Zealand altogether for more profitable shores elsewhere. So the mood in the restaurant was demonstrably dour over the last couple of weeks as Bernard hit the wall and friends began one-by-one and two-by-two to leave to begin their travels around New Zealand or to return to their home country. The final week was fairly sad: just me and the Swedish cook, Hampus, remaining to serve out our sentences as the rest of our friends began another chapter. We felt left behind.

Nevertheless, on the 23rd of April, the Wednesday after the closing of the restaurant, I said my goodbyes to Mark, my roommate with whom I had a fantastic summer experience drinking and philosophizing and just plain goofing around, and got on a bus headed south to Auckland, four hours away. Once there, I met up with Laura, an English friend of mine who had also worked in the restaurant with me (pictures in previous posts) and Hampus, who was waiting a week for a flight back home to Sweden. For two days we grasped to the last vestiges of our Russell friendship. But it almost felt like we were shellshocked. I had spent six months on what is essentially an island (it's really a peninsula), cloistered and subsumed by the culture of small-town life. I left Russell maybe three of four times, each for a day or half-day trip, so the vast majority of my time was spent in a radius of no more than a kilometer. With the three of us in Auckland, it almost felt like we were privy to an experience no one around us could relate to--if you watched the Lord of the Rings, I imagine it's something akin to what the four hobbits felt upon their return home as their friends in the pub around them were oblivious to the adventure they had just undertaken. They shared a secret and drank a last beer together, smiling quietly at one another, each acknowledging with a look that no one would believe them anyway if they tried to describe the experience. In short, we were in Auckland, but we really weren't in Auckland. And so, two days later, I rented a car, said a goodbye to Hampus, and dropped Laura off at the airport for her return flight to the States.

And then I started to drive.

Keep Left...it takes some getting used to, especially when you make a right turn and have to look right first. You're just not conditioned to having to do that, but despite a couple of close calls, you force yourself to follow the advice of your parents and look both ways before you cross the street. I had no plan on where to go, really, just the Bible...er, my Lonely Planet, and gas in the car.

I've never had more fun driving than I did while I was in New Zealand. I had the car for two weeks and just as I had been told and had read about prior to arriving, the country simply does not disappoint. Much of the South Island reminds me of Colorado, with the Southern Alps substituting for the Rockies. Though the Rockies are decidedly taller, New Zealand compensates by throwing in some of the most stunning coastline you can imagine. The combination of the two, and the fact that the country is so rural, its remote two-lane roads dissecting one mountain range after another, makes my advice to potential visitors really very simple: rent a car and drive the country.

After Auckland, I headed east to the Coromandel Peninsula, a region known for its spectacular coastal views. Winding my way through and around one mountain after another, ascending, descending, and hanging perilously close to the edge of a steep cliff with a sheer rock wall on one side and tropical rainforest on the other, I made it to my first hostel near Cathedral Cove, a beautiful rock formation at the water's edge that draws tourists in for photographs by the thousands. Naturally, I took pictures after arriving after a scenic 30 minute walk from the carpark. After some time there, I headed 10 minutes down the road to Hot Water Beach, a tourist draw for the warm water pits you can sit in at low tide. Because I arrived at high tide, I snapped a few obligatory pictures, got back in my car, pulled out the Lonely Planet, and headed south for the Tauranga (pop. 100,000)/Mt. Manganui (man-ga-noo-e) area.

After a couple hours of driving the infamous winding New Zealand roads (there are no straight-ahead highways in this country, I don't think), I made it to Mt. Manganui, a nearly 300 meter mountain that oddly rises up out of nowhere and sits perched on the water's edge, all alone, with an almost 1,000 foot sheer drop on its back side. I climbed the mountain, having been passed by a few joggers doing the same and after making a few smart-ass comments about being "shown up" by the cardiovascularly bionic. Despite having two strokes and needing defibrillation on the way up, I emerged on to the mountain's crown to, of course, unbelievable views of the Pacific, Tauranga, and miles of coastline. Looking straight down, nearly 1,000 feet, to the water below almost induces a case of vertigo. I don't really know what vertigo is...but it sounds bad and I think I had it. Suffice it to say, the juice was worth the squeeze. A great workout with the added benefit of an even better view.

I managed to make it an hour or so south to Rotorua thereafter, the adrenaline-fueled city that smells like sulfur from all of the volcanic activity simmering beneath the surface. I spent a couple of nights there, riding the gondola up the nearby mountain for views over Lake Rotorua, and luging--getting in a sit-down luge for a run down the hill on a concrete track. I met a friend from Russell, who happened to be in town, for a couple of drinks, found a gym for workout, and then visited Te Puia, a Maori cultural site that offers guided tours of the on-site geysers, boiling mud pools, a sighting of the rare kiwi bird, as well as a look at a Maori traditional wood-carving and weaving school (both on-site and fully operational, as well). Finally, entrance gave us the privilege of enjoying a 45-minute traditional Maori concert, which included, of course, the famous haka dance, guitar playing, and singing. Having had hit my quota for all things culturally sensitive, I drove straight south, through the Lake Taupo area (the biggest skydiving site in the world) and found myself in Wellington again, nearly 7 months to the day that I was first in the capital city.

I didn't need to see Wellington again. Been there, bought the t-shirt, nearly been blown away by the wind. I spent one night there, then early the next morning caught the Interislander car ferry across the Cook Strait for the three hour ride to the South Island. Emerging to a rainbow straddling the small port town of Picton, I had arrived into unchartered territory, excited by the near unanimous rave reviews of the South that I had heard over the months from tourists who had already visited.

What does one do in such a situation? Why, pick up Lonely Planet from the front seat and find out.

Part 2 coming...

Cape Reinga and 90 Mile Beach

2008-04-08T20:57:00.000-07:00

Two weeks left in Russell before heading south to Queenstown and the pace of the town slows as the weather transitions to autumn. Most of the expat/foreign hospitality help will be gone within a week. Almost all are dying to leave--Russell now stands on the precipice of the off-season, and it's a place one has to permanently make home to make the winter worthwhile.

I've had some more time off as a result of the dearth of activity (we're hardly needed in the restaurant these days), and a colleague of mine and I took a day trip up to Cape Reinga, the lighthouse that stands guard on the very northern edge of the country. One word captures the scenery: awesome.

In its most literal sense, the Cape is indeed awe-inspiring. Lonely Planet mentions that it has a real "end-of-the-world" feel to it, which it most certainly does--the last 20kms of the trip traverse an unpaved road, which serves to enhance the feeling of remoteness you get when you stand on a bluff a couple of hundred meters above the meeting of the Tasman Sea and the Pacific Ocean. As the two oceans crash together, there is no wonder why Maori mythology designates the spot as the site where its dead depart the earth.

At the northern edge of the country, on the west coast, the tourist heavy 90 Mile Beach introduces you to the Tasman Sea. The beach is actually 90 kilometers long and driveable with the right car. It's odd to be walking on the beach while looking both ways for traffic--tourist buses motor down the long stretch of sand as if it's a paved highway. The beach itself is unusual in the sense that it's quite flat as you approach the water, giving you the feeling that you are looking up at the incoming surf at water's edge. As a result, the beach itself is quite wide, probably on the order of about 150 yards from surf to turf.

On to the pictures...

Safia, my colleague at the restaurant, was my travelling buddy for the trip. We borrowed my roomie's car. Safia is French-Algerian and very funny. Here we're standing on 90 Mile Beach.

The right cars can drive on the hard sands of the beach, but my roomie's car is barely right for asphalt, much less wet sand. Here, a tourist bus races down the beach at low tide.

Looking up at the incoming surf of the Tasman Sea.

My first contact with the Tasman. The beach is so flat that the waves actually chase you for about 50 yards before retreating back to the ocean.

That's me running toward the ocean. I'm thinking Chariots of Fire II might be in the cards.

My best side.

The lighthouse at Cape Reinga.

Overlooking the Pacific Ocean atop the Cape. I enjoyed capturing the rain falling in the distance.

Directional markers at the lighthouse provide tourists with an idea about how far it is to various world cities. It's far.

The lighthouse.

The South Pacific.

The whitewater in the background is the exact spot where the Pacific Ocean and the Tasman Sea meet. You can see waves from both oceans crashing into one another

Talk about a feeling of insignificance.

They're still meeting.

Still.

Looking west over the geography of the cape and the Tasman Sea. Well, I'm not. I'm looking east. Working on acquiring a touch of melanoma.

A must-photograph moment on the way up north.

The roomie's car. Circa '87. Last cleaned: circa '88.

Coopers Beach-about an hour north of Russell on the road to the cape.

You see so much of this exact view here in the North Island. It doesn't seem to get old, however.

Random pics - 2 of 2

2008-03-23T16:41:00.000-07:00

This will conclude the meaningless and repetitive part of the blog, as I throw on some pictures that I found in the corner of the room. Be prepared to be mesmerized and amazed.

Poker night at the girls' house. "Poker night" is a euphemism for "give your money to CT night." That's Lindsay and Mike to the left of me...an American couple helping out at the restaurant...while Florencia, my Argentinian love who just doesn't know it yet, looks on. Hampus is enmeshed in porn. Or music. Whatever.

John and Ian, one from Boston, the other from Nantucket. Both work at Kamakura and neither are usually as happy as they appear in this picture. I'm kidding. I'm just bitter because they made fun of my Falcons shirt. Kick a man when he's down, that's nice. At least I didn't choke away my chance at history, boys.

Flor from Argentina, Laura from England, and Emily from Wilmington, North Carolina. English culture...not bad. It's a good culture, with lots of assets besides just tea and an unhealthy fascination with Princess Di. Let's move on.

Oh yeah, Omari, Laura and yours truly, kickin' it at the pub...my smile says, "you know I'm too cool for school." Or, "should be on my final beer."

My man...

Hampus, my adopted little brother from Sweden, and Laura, my adopted distraction from life, on the Russell wharf for a post-pub (midnight) drinking party. She has moved on now to greener pastures, but she's good people, so we'll let her meet the parents when she stays in Atlanta in June with a cousin of hers. I won't be there, but Snuffy, my dog, will act as my envoy. Laura was good for me - she saw the good in me over the last couple of months...good that I too often over the course of the last few years didn't, or couldn't, see in myself. I hope we meet again one day.

Notice I'm under the "Get Rid of Rats" poster. I hope that's not symbolic.

Hampus tried to set the timer on the camera and this is what happened. I am of this world. Brooke, too. Laura and Hampus are not. Maybe they were just a dream. Or maybe I shouldn't add these comments after a night at the pub.

34 according to the birth certificate, but still 14 on the inside.

Brooke atop Flagstaff Hill on her final day in town.

It's easy to get lost in views like that...and think about how far away the Beltway in D.C. and I-285 in Atlanta really are. Enjoy the traffic.

On Brooke's final night in town, Bernard gave her a free dinner at the restaurant. We were so happy with the meal, and the preceding bottles of wine, that we just had to go into the kitchen to document our joy. Ironic in a way because every time someone lauds thier meal at the restaurant, I relay the appreciation to Bernard, and then follow up with something like, "but I'm pretty sure they were drunk." He loves it.

Well, this time, the patrons were in fact drunk.

Sunset from the restaurant.

Local scenery and stuff. Blah blah....

Yeah, more local scenery...the Chamber of Commerce should hire me.

Russell wharf.

The awesome flowery bush right next to the restaurant. I'm pretty certain that botanists call it the "awesome flowery bush" in their books.

Botany. What an underrated word. Incorporate it into a joke and it's always good for a laugh. That and "colonoscopy."

The Strand. That second building is my home away from home.

Liked the picture of the parachute in this one. I have the biggest wedgie in the universe in this shot. I may have lost the ability to have children after that harness had done its damage on my nether regions.

This was taken from the boat. My question: where in the hell is the cord going?

Good shot of the parasail boat driver thinking about lunch as I dangle precipitously from 1,200 feet.

"Raise your hand if you've had a few before this launch and can't remember which cord attaches where."

My groin hurts. Does the boat give coupons for the local urologist?

I don't know if I'm coming or going...but in Russell, it rarely ever matters.

Random pics - 1 of 2

2008-03-18T19:36:00.000-07:00

I found a few random pictures lying around...this is part one of two...

The parasailing crew at the Russell wharf...

A look at the Russell waterfront...

The flagstaff on the treaty grounds...

Local scenery...

The view from a staff bedroom upstairs at Zee Gables.

Not bad around these here parts...

Beautiful surroundings. You know, if you're into that sort of thing.

Auckland

Yep, still there...

From atop one of the volcanoes that surrounds Auckland.

The homestretch...

2008-03-15T19:28:00.000-07:00

I'm coming down to the final 4-5 weeks here in Russell, before I make my move around the North Island and down to Queenstown. The weather has actually been quite nice over the course of the past couple of weeks as summer tries to hang on while autumn beckons. The numbers at the restaurant have been steady, even as this past Saturday night was very busy owing to a wedding at Kamakura.

My best friend from high school visited me for a couple of days last week. We hadn't seen each other in nearly 10 years, yet it felt just like yesterday when I saw him, as we picked up right where we left off. He's acting in Hollywood now and his career is gaining momemtum. He was Kevin Costner's colleague/friend in The Guardian, though his role ends with his death about 10 minutes into the film. He was also on TNT's series Saved, which was unfortuitously cancelled after one season. The man hasn't changed in the 20 years that I've known him, which seems to me to be a good reflection on his parents. Best of luck to Omari!

On to some pictures...

Ah, porch sessions with my roomie and the ubiquitous bottle of red. More than one has expressed their envy of the view and the lifestyle at 4 Little Queen. Life is good. Life is really good most days beginning at 4:30pm. It really is about lifestyle here. You can have the money.

One of my enduring memories of Russell will be the glass of red, the porch, and a conversation with my roomie.

St. Patty's Day. I sported my beads at work and later at the pub. I'm that cool. Bernard is cool...look at the boss man smile. His girlfriend...allergic to happiness.

John from Boston on the left...a sous chef at Kamakura, one of the other restaurants in town. Hampus the Viking on the right. My head in the middle. The bottle of wine...star of the show in Russell.

Hampus re-enacting basically what the Swedes said to the rest of the world during WW2.

Yes. I harbor grudges.

B-diddy and Megan. Body language is everything.

The Pub last Friday night. Too much to handle, as you can see. Omari said after two nights at the pub, "man, it can get boring here." Welcome to Russell! The following night, ironically, was Kororareka Day, or Russell Day, the annual celebration of the 1845 Battle of Kororareka with accompanying festivities. I always enjoy the symmetry of celebrating death and bloodshed with hip-hop dance routines, sausages, and t-shirts. It's why people died in the first place, no doubt. The band at the pub was good, though, so I'm pretty sure that the spirits of the dead were happy we were enjoying ourselves as they lay in the ground.

Sunset. Russell, Bay of Islands.

I never get tired of the sunsets.

This is called having a cool office. View from the restaurant at a late summer sunset. March 16, 2008.

Omari and Laura, a colleague of mine.

Omari and yours truly. Wish I could wear a beret.

The flagstaff at the top of Flagstaff Hill in Russell. The last time I tried to visit, it was undergoing an upgrade. It marks the spot where the Maoris cut down the British flag four times before eventually acceding to commonwealth rule.

View looking down on Russell from atop Flagstaff Hill.

I'm pretty sure I'm not pregnant in this shot. Looking north up the peninsula towards the edge of the Bay of Islands.

Okay, let's focus on the background, not the figure in the foreground. Please.

It was Brooke's last day in Russell before returning home to England. Thus, the picnic at the top of the hill.

I didn't bring a hat to the top of the hill, so I had to borrow one from another colleague, okay. You get burned down here in New Zealand in about 5 minutes, so at the top of the hill you can cut that in half. I'm not getting my nose removed in 10 years in exchange for a little pride now.

I'll miss Brooke. She made me laugh in a way only she knew how to do. We'll see each other again--Copenhagen, September 2008, to visit Hampus in Sweden?

Normally that would be Brooke pouring a real drink. Instead, it's just Brooke, Laura, and Lindsay (another colleague), picnicking at the top of Flagstaff Hill on Brooke's last day in Russell. The 18 year old boys will miss thee, Brooke!

Flagstaff Hill, looking north toward the Hole in the Rock.

Flagstaff Hill, looking northwest over Tapeka point.

The Eagle's Nest resort in the foreground...yours for a weekly price of around $150,000 for a week in the summer. I'm sure they'll pick you up in their helicopter from the airport in Auckland. But a real man would have his own helicopter and fly in himself. Like all the Russian oil tycoons who don't know what to do with all of their money. Thank you, privatization. Thank you, Boris Yeltsin.

Laura and Brooke.

View overlooking Russell wharf from atop Flagstaff Hill.

Porch view. No wonder Mark and I solve the world's problems during our daily hour-long sessions of fermented grape juice and philosophy.

On Brooke's last night in town, we all dressed up in hats and hit our restaurant--Zee Gables--for dinner. After a couple bottles of wine on the porch and and a stop at the Swordfish Club for a beer or three, that is. The following day, Brooke admitted she couldn't remember the last time she had to turn down a drink by the end of the night. Ah, Little Queen Street claims another victim. Get in line, Brooke, right behind my liver.

Mark and Brooke.

Ciao, Brooke! See you soon!

Russell links

2008-03-02T04:15:00.000-08:00

If you're ever in the Bay of Islands, New Zealand, or planning a trip to the area...

I thought I would provide a link to a local lodge which gives a good overview of Russell today in addition to an early timeline of the town:

http://www.aomotulodge.com/russell.htm

Here's an old link to my restaurant:

http://venuesearch.co.nz/site/display_venue.php?ven_id=1001

And here's a link to some of Russell's attractions:

http://www.damaronline.co.nz/explore-russell/

Parasailing in the Bay of Islands

2008-02-24T18:40:00.000-08:00

We had one of those now infamous New Zealand "perfect storms" hit us again this past weekend. For three straight days, the wind bent the trees in half and it poured. The big sail that shelters patrons from the sun in the back garden bar of the resaurant broke again--the wooden beam supporting it snapped in half. I don't know how many inches we got (or millimeters, as they say here), but it was a lot. The wind was so strong that the ferries stopped running for a couple of days.

But, as a veteran of Kiwi weather hell, I marched on...to the pub, to drown my liver in alcoholic bliss. What else is there to do in a small town when it rains? Really, though, what else is there to do when you live in Russell? It gave me ample time to think of thematic nuances for the bar I'm going to open up one day -- The Spotted Liver. Which will adjoin Cirrhosis Lounge for an evening of probably very forgettable fun.

My day off greeted me with, quite surprisingly, fantastic weather. And there are few places that can match the aesthetic quality of The Bay of Islands on a sunny day. I've been wanting to go parasailing in the bay for quite some time, and a new colleague at the restaurant joined me for 20 minutes of adrenaline secretion today. What views! At 1,200 ft., it's the highest parasail in New Zealand. A good, if sometimes dizzying, time! On to the proof...

Ascending upward as the boat takes off. You get strapped in, with someone else beside you, to a harness, which connects to the parachute, which launches from the back of the boat. You never get wet. We were the only ones on the boat, so the skipper was kind enough to keep us up in the air twice as long as usual--about 20 minutes. As he turns the boat, the rope slackens, you fall almost to water level before he turns again and you quickly ascend back up to 1200 ft. With the wind whipping around over open water, you can get jostled a bit at the top, making for a few stomach-churning moments. Keep in mind: I'm a control freak. That's psycho-babble for a wimp. The worst thing that could happen is if the parachute gets twisted and you plunge over a 1000 ft to your watery grave. But, get this, you have a life jacket on! They'll have no problem finding your bruised corpse and Fed-Ex'ing it back to the States!

Racing toward Paihia, across the bay from home.

Those sunglasses belong on Posh Spice. That is not Posh Spice.

That's Russell behind us.

Somebody should have shaved for his photo-op, but he shall remain nameless. No unibrow action, though, so points for that.

Russell.

I tried to get a picture of the parachute above us. Not so much.

It's a long way up. And down. That's the boat that we're attached to. I'm sorry...to which we are attached.

Looking over New Zealand coastline.

This is the best position to be in when the two guys on the boat say, "that cord looks frayed. Remind me to check on that if we can pull these two back."

Looking West, over Paihia.

Looking North, over the Waitangi Treaty Grounds, where it all started for the Kiwis.

The sea and stuff.

The fresh air, the water, the panoramic view...the eggs I had for breakfast sneaking back up the esophageal track.

Mom, that's for you. If you still read this.

Getting reeled in.

I'm parasailing in the Bay of Islands, New Zealand. Pretty cool. I bought a t-shirt to commemorate the event. Even cooler.

Not a bad view.

Looking East, past Russell, just visible on the extreme right. The Eagle's Nest, one of the planet's more outrageously priced luxury resorts, is nestled right in front of you, among the trees at the top of the hill.

Still attached.

Working my life-saving parachute...

Russell livin' pics

2008-02-17T18:11:00.000-08:00

Waitangi Day-on the treaty grounds, the march ended with a "haka" greeting from teenagers, along with a 20 minute back-and-forth in Maori between the kids and the leaders of the march. The "haka" is a sight to behold--even the University of Hawaii football team got into the practice of doing it before games, with the majority of their players being of Polynesian descent. It is famous worldwide largely due to The All Blacks--New Zealand's official religion, I mean, New Zealand's national rugby team employing it as an intimidation/psyche up routine prior to its matches. Check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Zvs4T4RU30&feature=related

Pretty cool, huh?

It might be akin to how Confederates used to yell as they were charging Union positions back in the Civil War or how American Indians used to yell before attacking whitey and withdrawing to casinos--it's designed to intimidate. And because Maoris themselves are big people, one can see how it would work. I'm going to incorporate it into my life by doing it at important moments--before asking for a pay raise, when I ask a woman out, or when I can't decide which cereal to buy.

Check the face of the guy in the middle, as well as the two girls up top on the left. Now imagine a 250lb guy doing this with an instrument in his hand designed to decapitate. www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haka

The end of the march on the treaty grounds. I think that flag is emblematic of the Maori motto: "White people need not apply."

Saw a couple dozen Maori gang members who were kind enough to grace the special day with their presence. Reminded me of the 00's version of the 80's gangs in L.A.--many of them are affiliated with colors. I half expected Sean Penn to show up to bust some heads together. I would've taken a picture, but let's just say we tried not to make eye contact.

The march around the flagpole. Just prior to this, my roomie and I excused ourselves from the march--at this point, the march becomes a symbolic gesture of defiance toward the police-guarded flagpole and, well, the only things I would like to symbolically defy are ATM fees, older Asian women with drivers licenses and America's love affair with the word "like."

The fuzz.

The man.

5-0.

Guarding the flagpole.

In years past, there have been attacks on the flagpole during the march. Government officials have been jostled and egged. This year, it was docile. I'd like to think attitudes have matured. But I think it was the intimidating presence of that lady right in the middle of the picture. That body says, "not on my watch, Bubba."

The flagpole ringed by the po-po. And eager cameramen hoping their careers are propelled by a violent confrontation. Alas, no such luck. Maybe next year.

Stunning landscape behind the media. That is the new H.M.S. Canterbury off in the distance in the sea on the right. The old one was scuttled and is now a diving site. The new one looks like a half-finished rhombus on water. Not exactly the most aerodynamic or discreet thing sailing the seas these days. It basically obscures the view of the horizon from 1000 miles away.

This is where I removed my very white rear-end from the march, ambled down in front of the horde to take pictures as if the Maoris were exhibits in a zoo. I essentially fulfilled about 6 different stereotypes by doing this.

There was an American flag present among all the Maori independence flags up at the front. You can see it in this picture. The Stars and Stripes had a picture of an American Indian Chief on it, however, and said, "California, U.S.A." One gets a real good insight into how the Maoris view themselves and their historical role in New Zealand's history when Sitting Bull's image is conjoured up for the masses. At this point, were anyone to ask, I'm Canadian. You would be too if you saw how big Polynesians are.

Marching! Land for Maoris! Justice for my people!

I haven't felt this safe as an American abroad since never. Usually the most hated nationality (called "bushism"), here I am among hundreds of Maoris and I've got an Englishman right in front of me! Say "hello" to England, the country responsible for this march! And, who do I see, but an Englishman with a bandana on right in front of me: my roommate.

I told Mark, if anything were to happen today, it was every man for himself, which meant there was a 99% chance that I would yell something like, "he's English! He did it! He's right here! It's his fault! His fault, I tell you!" as I ran for the woods screaming my national anthem.

Mark and I made the newspaper the following day. In a half-page photo of the marchers, you can see us in the crowd. I've hired an agent to field all the calls from Hollywood, now that I've been discovered. You should see the groupies, though.

Still marching. Half-tempted at this point to start reciting Dr. King's "I Have a Dream" speech, since by this stage I'm half-Maori.

The H.M.S. Canterbury anchored off in the distance. A UFO in the left foreground. Russell is just off the picture on the right, where the hills are. If you look closely, you can see Los Angeles in this direction. Or at least some of its smog.

Approaching Waitangi.

This is Bonnie, the ex-cook at the Garden Bar in the back of the restaurant. She's saying, "nooo" as I try to take her picture. Ah, vanity. She and Fiona, the dishwasher in the kitchen, have left my life as they began their travels around the country just a week ago. But they left me a better man: more resolute and bouyed with character from all the rejections I endured from them. Thank you girls.

Your humble blogger trying on the Swedish cook's uniform. As you can see, he's the size of a viking. Between lunch and dinner shifts, he loots and pillages the town and hones his weapons for war.

That's me during a lunch shift. You know, contemplating the mysteries of the faith, ruminating on the boundaries of existentialism in a scientific universe, doodling...that sort of thing.

That's Fiona, our dishy, or dishwasher, who made me fall in love with Asian girls all over again. And Charlie, an occasional helper in the kitchen and a man of the town, with the uncanny ability to talk without moving his lips, making it nearly impossible to understand what he's saying.

The Viking and the French Chef...the title of one chapter in my forthcoming autobiography, "How You Too Can Avoid a 9-5."

Just to go on record: Bernard, the French chef on the right, is the coolest boss in town and probably the coolest Frenchman you'll never meet. I'm tempted to forgive France for World War II after working for him, but I won't.

My friends, from the left: snapper, gurnard, flounder, trevally, and John Dory. On top: crayfish, still alive and kicking. I had one jump off the tray after I had presented it to a table. They're fiesty when they first come out of the water and before we can refrigerate them for a few hours to calm them down. But it's fun to freak people out when I show up at tables and his antennae are moving around and I have a hand on him so that he doesn't flip off the tray. This one is smiling: ah, vanity.

Emilia from Argentina. She and her boyfriend helped us out for a month or so before going back home.

Zee Gables.

A tall ships race in the bay. The view from the restaurant.

Ditto.

Seeing all the boats everyday makes you want to get one. It's a pretty good life, spending your days on the water. They say the two happiest days of a boat owner's life are the day you buy your boat and the day you sell it.

Russell livin'

2008-02-17T17:31:00.000-08:00

I haven't blogged it up in the last 6 weeks because, well, there really hasn't been too much to report. I sell fish, essentially. I work 6 days a week at the restaurant. I drink because, well, that's what you do in Russell. Ironic when you consider that the first temperance meeting in New Zealand took place in the Bay of Islands in 1834. Ha. If they could only see us now.

Okay, a quick recap: beginning Boxing Day, Dec. 26, until about the 10th of January, Russell actually resembled a tourist town and the restaurant was busy every night during that stretch of time. From October until Christmas, we probably averaged about 20 - 25 people each evening. Remember, Russell is off the beaten path, meaning you have to either take a passenger ferry here or the car ferry, which is about 5 miles down the road. Between Boxing Day and the 10th of January, that average doubled to about 50 a night. On one Saturday night, Kamakura, the self-appointed jewel of Northland dining, was closed, and we did 83 meals. With three servers. I take all the orders in the restaurant, too, as the other servers do drinks and dessert orders. That was a memorable evening. For a couple of weeks after the 10th, the crowds eased a bit, then picked up for about 10 days, before settling down again in the past 10 days. And now the summer season is winding down, just like that. It goes to show that restaurants in town have to squeeze the bulk of their yearly revenue into about a 10 week period beginning after Christmas.

The Drifters showed up in town a few weeks ago and performed at the restaurant right behind us. I was working, so I couldn't go. The group is responsible for "Under the Boardwalk" and "This Magic Moment," among a few other well-known hits. Not the original members, of course, as the group started in 1954 (thanks Wikipedia).

New Years Eve was a sight to behold. I worked until about 11 and then got to watch the chaos of the back Garden Bar as literally 100 people danced to a DJ to celebrate the new year. It was surral to see so many young people a) in Russell and b) at the Gables' back bar. The staff then sat on the beach and watched the fireworks show that the town across the bay puts on for everybody in the area. Very nice.

On Feb. 6th, the country celebrated a national holiday called Waitangi day, which commemorates the signing of the Treaty of Wataingi, which established New Zealand as a Commonwealth country and set up a framework for Maori-European relations. Well, as it happens, I happen to live within sight of Waitangi, which, of course, sits just on the opposite side of the bay Russell is on. So, my roommate and I made our way over there and began walking toward the festivities when we realized we were a part of the festivities. We were caught in the Maori march that leads onto the Treaty grounds, around the police-guarded flagpole (which marks the sight of the treaty signing and is a rallying cry for Maori land reclamation). Good times. I was looking around in the crowd and realized we were two of about 6 white people in the march. Why were all the white people on the side of the road taking pictures? We just went with it. We're that progressive. Now I can imagine what it was like to march with Dr. King at Selma. Only maybe not so much. But being a minority really does change your mindset. Quickly.

Okay, this is a quickie blog. Oh, someone caught an 850lb. Marlin and brought it into the Russell wharf for measurement. Impressive beast. Hello, Old Man and the Sea. Awesome big-game fishing in the Bay of Islands.

My last thought before some pictures. I really am quite lucky. The staff at the restaurants here in Russell are ex-pats travelling around the country, spending but a few months here in Russell (well, for some of us, a bit longer than that). Everybody complains about how boring Russell is for our crowd. And, we're right. You work, go to the pub, and drink. But, I've got a good boss, a restaurant that is turning itself around and I'm a part of that, a good roommate, a good living situation, an office that sits a few yards from the water overlooking the Bay of Islands in New Zealand, great sunsets, and a small but good group of friends to spend my days and nights here in small-town New Zealand. All things considered, I'm coming out ahead, I think. Now, if only Russell was a bit bigger...

A Kiwi Christmas, Part 2

2007-12-25T13:45:00.000-08:00

Christmas dinner at the girls' house. Brooke was kind enough to cook the whole meal for everyone and then spent the next 48 hours depressed and in a foul mood because she missed her family during the holidays. That's what she gets for cooking Yorkshire pudding. Speaking of fowl, New Zealand apparently doesn't do turkey, so the Gables staff dissected a chicken instead. I love fowl. It almost made up for the fact that I like only half of the crew at the table.

Taiwan doesn't do Christmas, of course, so the dinner coupled with my awesome elf hat is the closest Bonnie will likely ever get to the North Pole in her life.

See above.

Hanpus does a lot of pink. He says Swedes love pink. I told him it takes a real man to be able to pull it off. Then suggested that he consider switching colors. He just growled like he wanted to eat me.

What you don't see is the 23 year old Playboy Bunny just out of the picture to the right. It explains the face. That's a lie, I'm actually quite deep in thought. Solving the Pakistani political crisis, while pimpin' the Keebler costume. A jack of all trades, master of none...

I'm tempted to go on the Internet, buy two of these, convert to a fundamentalist sect of Mormonism, move to Provo, and name our kids Jezebel, Ruth, Ezekiel, and Sarah.

I wore that hat for 12 hours straight. That means that I was 10 minutes away from moving to Munchkinland and joining the Lollipop League.

Downtown Russell, Christmas night. Or a picture of Ursa Major. No, it's definitely downtown Russell. What it says is, "it's raining. The humans are dead." Think the movie "28 Days" and you've got the picture of what town looked like on Christmas. Deader than disco.

At this point, I'm running home, because it's so dark and eerie that I'm pretty positive that some wild animal lurks in the darkness ready to pounce. And you think I'm kidding. Nobody would've heard me yell. They were all passed out in their own vomit.

Christmas in Russell!

Santa at 35 degrees south

2007-12-24T20:11:00.000-08:00

Christmas in Russell, sad to say, was much like any other day, with the notable exception of the meat pack that my flatmate cooked up for us to celebrate J.C.'s birth. Yes, it rained. All day. After opening my gifts, which Santa was so kind to mail to me this year for $40, we settled into a carnivore's carnival of protein--lamb, pork, and beef. Prior to the festivities on the porch, Mass was packed at 11:30am, a full complement of 40 people packed together in Russell's tiny Catholic church. St. Peter's in Rome--eat your heart out. I had slacks and a light sweater on and was the most dressed up out of the whole lot. If only I owned flip-flops, I would've been less conspicuous. Battling a headache from Kiwi beer the night before, I returned to 4 Little Queen Street for another reminder of how great Santa Claus really is.

My flatmate received that shirt for doing something noble, though I can't remember what. He came home recently and said, "look at this cool shirt. Thai silk." He was serious. "Interesting," was all I could muster without asking him which crime family he belonged to. If they don't have an English mafia in New Zealand, perhaps they do now. Ignore the elf grabbing ass. Suffice it to say, that was not my first glass of wine. Nor was it my last. What can I say? I'm entirely comfortable being asexual here in Russell. You really don't have much of a choice.

Juan Valdez smoking a Cuban.

See what $40 in postage brings for Christmas? Lots of thin things.

We decorated on Christmas with a Saddam Hussein replica Santa.

Ah, an L.A. Times Sunday Crossword book. Life is good. Look up "Dork" in the dictionary and it's this picture.

Is that an elf hat or am I the new court jester? I can juggle, you know.

This one is titled "Irony." I thought I'd have my English flatmate hold up my new "How much do you know about the American Revolution?" quiz book. He didn't know much. Perhaps that's why they lost in the first place.

Quizzical look. Cologne inside the box. What is my family trying to tell me from half a world away?

Santa still kicks butt even when you least expect him to. Look at that bounty!

Doing my best Rudolf imitation, aided, of course, with Speight's, The Pride of the South.

There's just nothing like waking up with a hangover headache and diving right back into the abyss. It's called 'alcoholism,' and it's Russell's favorite disease.

Christmas morning. I'm so excited. All the little, tiny, hobbitt gifts under my little, tiny hobbitt tree. I would go wake my parents up, but they'd probably be pretty perturbed seeing as how Mom and Dad upstairs barely know me.

My colleague, Brooke, piggy-backed me for a good 50 yards on Christmas Eve. I think that's one of the events in those Scottish Games they have. That and telephone pole tossing. Wait, she's Cornish, not Scottish. Maybe she should move.

Hanpus (Ahn-poos), the Swedish cook, and the two Czech girls at The Pub, Christmas Eve. Those smiles say, "he's so large, we have no choice." And large, he is. Must be the Viking lineage.

Fiona, the new Taiwanese "dishy," or dishwasher, at zee Gables. Bonnie's friend. She doesn't normally drink, so what do we do? We bought her a shot of tequila and jaeger and after smelling it, she downed it and muttered, "sweet." No effect on any of the 100lbs covering her bones. She's a machine. Her English vocabulary now includes "you" "go" "away" and "jaeger bomb."

Fiona meets the West!

Zee French chef at Zee Gables--the one, the only, the indomitable Bernard.

And Megan, on the left.

That's the worst looking face since Texas Chainsaw Massacre hit the screens.

In fact, I think that's the exact face they borrowed for the film.

This was going to be CT's "I'm so vain, but I'm bored" solo shot. Brooke had to stick her Cornish beak in.

Christmas Eve, The Pub, Russell, 2007. Feel the spirit.

Oh yeah. I can almost hear Santa's sleigh bells from here.

Mark at his inebriated best, doing, you know, nonsensical Mark things while trying to grope every girl that walks by. Drunk Mark should be a movie.

"Warp speed, Captain Picard?"

I've offered English lessons to both of them. Back at my place. You know, to improve the girls' chances in an increasingly dynamic marketplace.

'Tis the season...

2007-12-17T19:19:00.000-08:00

Christmas is a week away. I learned of this when I checked the calendar recently. Russell has gotten in the festive spirit--one of the trees in town has a string of lights that appears to have been put up during Happy Hour. If the tree were a woman and the lights its makeup, it would look like Courteney Love (http://www.imnotobsessed.com/2007/07/31/courtney-love-in-bad-shape/) after a meth binge. Oh, the Pub has a Christmas tree, too. Which is fitting, I think, because everyone I know here says that Christmas Eve and Christmas day are all about getting plastered. I don't think that's the exact sentiment that "Joy to the World" was intended to convey, but we all should know by now that Christmas is less religious than commercial, and for the Pub, it means good business. I don't know about you, but when I think of the baby Jesus, I think of rum and coke. If the nativity were to take place today in Russell, the Holy Family would receive gifts of vodka, tequila, and cointreau. I'm pretty sure that's not a joke. Jesus would be in Russell AA before he was 15. Wait, is that blasphemous? That one was a joke. I know Jesus could hold his liquor.

On to some pictures....

I got out of Russell the other day. This is me on the park grounds of the Treaty of Waitangi--don't make me go back, it says. It's an interpretive dance I've been working on. I call it "Cabin Fever," it'll pass in 8-10 months. My colleague, Brooke, borrowed another colleague's car and the two of us headed north to Kerikeri for some grocery shopping in a real grocery store. I saw people there that I didn't recognize from The Pub. Other humans inhabit this country! Amazing! Anyway, Kerikeri is nondescript, but it's grocery store did have an excellent wine selection. I spent $88, of which $50 went to three bottles of wine. If you're scoring at home, that's an alcohol ratio of %57. But, that's okay. I may be halfway to becoming an alcoholic, but I take a multivitamin. Basically, I'm perfecting the art of simultaneity: I'm lowering my chances of getting cancer and upping it for that liver transplant in 2023. Ah, picturesque Russell!

The view from the grounds of the Treaty of Waitangi across the bay to Russell. It really only takes a few miles of separation from my 'hood to get me excited. Even if there was a man-eating animal racing towards me in this shot, you still would've seen me with a smile on my face. Thankfully, all of the man-eating animals are in Australia. Seriously though, it's amazing what motorized transportation can do to improve one's mood.

The flagpole marks the exact site where British officials and dozens of Maori chiefs gathered in February 1840 to sign the Treaty of Waitangi, which officially made New Zealand a part of the British Empire and consigned them to talking really funny. The treaty grounds are located across the bay from Russell. It's 5 minutes by ferry and 3 by taxi, or if you drive it like we did, it's about 30 minutes by road and car ferry. Thank you Mr. Rand McNally. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_of_Waitangi

The view out to sea from the treaty site. I wish I could photoshop out the gray sky, but then that wouldn't be giving you a realistic image of what New Zealand looks like. The locals say it's unusally wet and gray this year, but all I know is that I'm about a week away from buying serotonin on the Internet from China. I'm going to get Roger Clemens' trainer to inject some of it in my butt at the gym.

Who's that sexy fella' at the base of the flagpole that nobody can really see but that is there so you'll have to trust me? It's your 33rd favorite blogger!

A few more days of this really awesome weather and the flagpole will have a new addition--165lbs of American meat strung up by the neck.

Let's file this one under "You Get the Point."

Adjacent to the flagpole is the treaty house that James Busby, the British Resident in New Zealand, lived in with his family during the 1830's. Busby played politician for several years with the local Maori chiefs in a largely successful attempt to assimilate the European settlers, traders, and whalers who were increasingly moving into the Bay of Islands prior to 1840. Busby wrote the Treaty and used his influence with the Maoris to gain their acceptance of the document--a treaty spurred in large part by the presence of the French nearby--so the story of Maori-European relations in New Zealand essentially begins with his name. Jimmy Busby...what a guy.
That's a fake Busby munchkin that you're looking at in the replica of the Treaty house bedroom. She scares me. Something about little lifeless girls in old buildings. I've seen that movie. It doesn't end well.

This is Busby's work room in his treaty house, which was built in 1833-4. They stuffed him and sat him in this pose for tourists to pay $12 to see. The nice part is, he really knows how to take a good photo. Very erudite and serious, almost as if he's birthing an entire nation. My complexion is the only thing whiter than his face or his drapes.

Some of the original lumber and brick walls, along with the foundation, are still intact, even after a major restoration in 1989. Here's a link that I bet you'd never come across in all your life. And probably still never will. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_house

Local Maoris built this meeting house in 1940 to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the signing of the treaty. It sits next to Busby's treaty house. Excellent photography, don't you think? Don't blame the photographer; there was a very large Maori man (on the left) doing a ritualistic greeting of an American couple during all of this and I sort of didn't want him to think that he was like, you know, a special exhibit at the zoo. The consequence was a Hubble-like photograph of what looks like deep space. My nickname in high school was "Ansel Adams." It was either that or "what's his name again?" I've forgotten. Like a violent crime victim, I've blocked that whole experience out of my mind.

This is what digital photography has done. It's made amateurs look even more retarded than they already are. Here's a sign about other events in the period 1834-1839 that took place on the big lawn surrounding the flagpole. The Maoris signed a Declaration of Independence in 1835, a full five years before the Treaty of Waitangi was formalized, in response to a growing French presence and thus enlisted the help of the British Crown in protecting them and their land. Even the Maoris knew not to trust the French.

I bet the French do a better Christmas, though.

Wait, where's the delete button on this damn blog anyway...

Two historic flagpoles within sight of one another. The other one, here in Russell, is on top of one of those hills just to the left of the flagpole in this shot. If you look closely, I put a BC flag on that one to commemorate a 10-win season and yet another trip to The Proctor & Gamble Priapism Sports Bowl of Topeka.

Since I have nothing to add here, let me just say that...I have nothing to add here.

How in the hell do you erase photos you've already uploaded into the blog? This would seem simple. This is where you figure out that my degrees are in the liberal arts.

This must've been the exact view the Maoris had in 1840 of the incoming British party as they landed to walk to the field above to negotiate the treaty. I found a transcript of a conversation at that moment between Maori chiefs in the sand next to the sign:

Maori Chief #1: "Damn. White people."

Maori Chief #2: "Fish and chips. Fish and chips. That's all those people eat."

Maori Chief #1: "If I have to talk about Manchester United one more time..."

Maori Chief #2: "Sambuca?"

Maori Chief #1: "Make it a double."

Hobson was sent by the Queen to negotiate with the Maoris; Busby essentially authored the treaty document. The Maoris talked among themselves for a day. And the white guys won. Same story, different country.

Heyyy, sexy thang! I'm talking about the Maori War Canoe. Long doesn't describe this any more than it would The Great Wall of China. You can fit the entire nation of Nicaragua in this thing and still have room for Daniel Ortega's personal cocaine stash. I think the Navy SEALS could use this thing the next time they wanted to surreptitiously land on, oh, say, Greenland to establish our next missile defense site. I mean...every Navy SEAL.

This is Brooke. She deserves her own shot because she was driving. Now, in this case, "driving" is a euphemism for "CT hadn't been that naseous since having that ear operation at 4." Just like it's likely a statistical improbability that we're alone in this universe, it's also a statistical improbability that she should have a driver's license. Accelerating into sharp turns allowed me to understand a bit better the training that NASA gives its astronauts. I need some ginger ale just thinking about it. Let's move on...

The closest I'll ever get to being tall, dark, and handsome.

The front of the war canoe. I'm thinking this will be a hood ornament on my next car.

You could train for a marathon by running around this thing. Twice.

There he is. The man, the myth, the shipwrecked captain. It was Christmas party time at the local social club, and the theme was "Shipwreck." Along with a broken compass, a broken telescope, and some seaweed attached to his blazer, the ol' flatmate prepared for a night of alcohol intake unseen since the days of Caligula. Notice again how he gets into character. I mean, he even sewed that crest on the coat. You have a responsibility to the world to get cirrhosis if there is sewing involved in your costume.

It's breathtaking, his poise. Sure, he's had some grape juice by this point, and sure his ship is only beginning to run aground, but he still manages the seaweed-aided left-arm fold while staring at a naked fijian native through that telescope. And he's pimpin' that moustache! As any Englishman would tell you, "brilliant!"

Notice the empty wine glass on the table behind me. This has got to be the worst photo of any human on the planet in the last 6 months.

Say 'hello' to the newest member of Men at Work.

It's green for a reason

2007-12-13T04:18:00.000-08:00

I didn't see the sky for 9 days. Not once. Not even a brief glimpse. By the fourth or fifth day I was online, checking to see when relief might come, when we might be able to peek at an emerging blue sky. The town slowed down, the population's mood was noticeably dour. It's amazing what a little sun can do. Or lack thereof. It's probably no coincidence that the U.S. is behind Sweden, Germany, Denmark, and France in suicide rates per 100,000 people. It's certainly not attributable to lifestyle. In any case, I can't remember the last time I went 9 days with a thick, depressingly gray, overcast sky greeting me from the moment I woke in the morning to the time I went to bed. The clouds finally broke yesterday and my roommate and I celebrated with nearly 2 bottles of wine before I went to work for the dinner shift last night.

As the Kiwis are fond of saying, "sweet as..."

If you're ever in New Zealand, bring a raincoat.

The week it rained...

2007-12-07T18:18:00.000-08:00

This is Jed, our new cook. He joined the Gables family from Queenstown. The sad part of this photo is the fact that it was taken in the middle of the restaurant during normal trading hours. What it isn't showing is two things: 1) it rained from Tuesday to Monday (Dec. 4-10), seven days straight, non-stop. And it's supposed to continue raining for the next few days. No one told me I'd be living the life of a Bangladeshi here in New Zealand. I haven't see the sun in so long that I've come down with Rickets. My bones are so soft right now I'm thinking of trying out as a contortionist for the Chinese Cirque du Soleil.

Basically, the town looks like a morgue. No life. No tourists. No joy in Mudville. You know it's bad when the English start to complain. I want to feel bad for all of the tourists who are visiting the Bay of Islands during this two week stretch of rain. But then I remembered that they're mostly European. So, I won't. 2) For some unknown reason, this year's run-up to the summer season just hasn't been as busy as last year's, and even the locals can't explain why (rain notwithstanding). Many of the Kiwis are probably saving up for Christmas, but that doesn't explain the relative dearth of activity from tourists. The cruise ships have begun to dock in the bay and send people into town, though. Which just means more people that I have to fake like.

My favorite conversation with patrons thus far has happened a handful of times in some variation of this form:

Patron: "What brings you to New Zealand?"

Me: "Why not? I had heard good things about the country. I lived in Europe last year and enjoyed my experience there and wanted to continue living abroad. Plus, Aragorn called and asked if I could help destroy Sauron."

Patron: "Oh, is this all school related?"

Me: "I'm 34."

I stare at them, straight-faced, to see how they try to dig themselvses out of an awkward silence. Good times. That's when I get more "ums" and "ers" than a public speaking class at a school for the deaf.

On an unrelated note, we just added another Swedish cook for our soon-to-be-unveiled breakfast menu, but I'm not showing him because he pissed me off the other day. He wore a t-shirt with a band on it and beneath the group was written "The Killers." Thinking he was a fan of the Las Vegas rock group, I asked him about it. He walked closer to me to reveal Saddam Hussein, Osama bin Laden, Hitler, and George W. Bush on the front. Needless to day, that put me in a bad mood. Warning: tangent up ahead.

First, I don't care if you like Bush--my travels to Europe and now here have introduced me to a seeming endless supply of Bush-haters, some of whom I call friends. The ratio is probably somewhere on the order of 50 to 1 in numbers of people who express a condescending distaste for the "cowboy from Texas" and those who support the Administration's War on Terror (read: Iraq). Most overseas American expats are themselves very Liberal, and thus further perpetuate the myth in their respective countries that even Americans can see their nation has ignoble intentions aimed at enlarging their "empire." I call these people "Hugo loco" and check to see if they have a Venezuelan stamp in their passport. One Canadian ESL teacher in Prague even made a statement that she wouldn't mind seeing Bush assassinated. Is it a stretch to see why Canada graces the top of my "Ungracious Freeloaders" country list? (So, we pay for their national defense so that Canadians can have socialized healthcare and then cross the border to have their lives saved by American medicine? Huh?) ESL is famously very Liberal, so it should come as no surprise that its rank and file love to be around one another to reinforce their groupthink.

Listen, we can agree to disagree, and unless someone really wants to debate the issues, I usually just change the subject so as to avoid the unpleasant revelation of people's superficial knowledge of U.S. foreign policy and how it was affected by 9/11. Undoubtedly, Iraq, from the reasons given for the invasion to its rebuilding, was screwed up and the president deserves blame for much of it. However, to not finish the job at this point would be tantamount to conceding defeat, which is important for one very good reason: bin Laden has said in previous interviews on numerous occasions that the one enduring lesson he gleaned in 1993 concerned America's spongy resolve as a result of America's retreat from Somalia after the bodies of the Rangers were dragged through the streets of Mogadishu during our brief involvement in Somalian politics. A repeat, albeit on a larger scale, would be crushing to the U.S.'s opportunity to change its image in the eyes of its enemies, which is almost as critical as the result in Iraq itself.

Bush himself hasn't helped America's image around the world, in so far as he has been unable to communicate the danger of Islam's "victim" mentality and what that means for the rest of the world. And, I think, he should have been working harder on an Israeli-Palestinian deal prior to his last year in office. It's also difficult to keep warning people of the instability caused by Islamic fundamentalism when America has, to a large extent, been successful in decimating the top management structure of al-Qa'ida and similarly fascist-minded groups. In a way, America is the public relations victim of its own success. People in Europe and the multitude of cliched rock groups and Hollywood "elite" who have expressed their abhorrence of Bush fail to understand this last point. Of course, one wonders how many books any of the Hollywood/rocker jetset have read about any of this.

I can understand people disagreeing with an American president, especially a European with a conservative Republican who hails from a state that leads the nation in sanctioned executions. However, this is where disagreement often crosses the line to propaganda (an irony in all of this is the discovery that the overwhelming majority of those who debate this with me more often than not are the most judgmental people I've encountered. Aren't the "lefties" always claiming to be "progressive" and "non-judgmental" in their approach to life? Another life lesson learned.)

To dishonor those who died at the hands of real mass murderers by making a moral equivalence between the likes of Hitler and Bush demonstrates a remarkable lack of knowledge about history. Aren't Europeans supposed to be sophisticated? Ha. The irony in a Swede wearing a t-shirt besmirching an American president and lumping him in with Hitler is apparently lost on the new cook. The Swedes aided Hitler in World War II by allowing him unimpeded access to Norway for the invasion there (to acquire ports for the German navy in their battle against England) and Finland (for their extreme northern front in their battle against the Soviets). Sweden was essentially a part of the Axis powers in WWII! They enabled the German conquering of Scandinavia! Read a book. As Kierkegaard said, "irony is a disciplinarian feared only by those who do not know it, but cherished by those who do."

And, as Oscar Wilde said, "quotation is a serviceable substitute for wit."

In any case, the inability to distinguish the turpitude of Hussein/Hitler/bin Laden with that of well-intentioned, but flawed, U.S. foreign policy is reprehensible to me. I have no patience for the intellectual laziness involved in making such a judgment. Expressing one's disagreement is fine, so long as it's reasoned and consistent in structure. Hyperbole is for the intellectually feeble.

One wonders if Clinton's face would have graced the shirt's front were it made after repeated bombings of Iraq from the No Fly Zone during our Used Car Salesman's administration. Or the bombing of Serbia (it wasn't the Swedish Air Force doing that in their backyard). Of course not. Our Commander-in-Chief was too busy dipping the pen in the company ink, defiling the office, and lying to a federal judge about the whole thing. Europeans welcomed the president's criminal behavior with such an urbane and cosmopolitan approach: "it's only sex. What's the big deal?" Congratulations! European history adds a new chapter titled, "Ignorance is Bliss: Criminal Relativism in New Europe."

Welcome to "When Hippies Have Control," starring Billary Clinton. Look for the sequel, "At All Cost: An American Flirtation with Socialism," starring Hillabillary Clinton in theaters sometime in January 2009.

One final thought. The rest of the world can harp and criticize and bitch and moan all they want. Like I've said, we're not going to agree and people who wear those sorts of t-shirts aren't needed anyway. They probably have one with Che Guevara's likeness on the front, too. A civil disagreement is fine by me.

Just so long as the next time you need the U.S., its economy, its Air Force, Army, Navy or Marines, its political weight, its money, its status, its principles, its negotiation, its doctors, its researchers, its lawyers, its ingenuity, its universities, its business, its credit, its treasury, its stock market, its freedom, its agriculture, its "pursuit of happiness," its involvement...you go right ahead and skip our number.

On second thought, maybe you can have the lawyers.

In any event, we wouldn't want the world to be consigned to the ignominy of hypocrisy, a trait Abraham Lincoln likened to the man who murdered both his parents then pleaded for mercy on the grounds that he was an orphan.

This is Brooke, who is helping me (taking drink orders) in the restaurant. When I say "help," I really mean, "taking half of my tips." She's Cornish. Which is another way of saying "a really good drinker." She looks as if she's preparing for a board meeting here. But, she's really preparing for a bored meeting, as this photo was taken right after the one of Jed. Her hobbies include beginning every sentence with "I," promising to begin a workout program between cigarette breaks and tequila shots, and talking so fast that I have a 1 in 8 chance of understanding any of our conversations.

The office. The inside of Zee Gables, New Zealand's oldest restaurant, as many are fond of saying. Did you know that Zee Gables' foundations are made of whalebone? That there may be a ghost in the building? That at various parts in its life, the building served as a boardinghouse, a bakery, and a brothel? That there was a secret hiding room underneath the staircase to hide sailors and pirates wishing to escape the joys of homoeroticism during 19th century transoceanic transportation?

My best friends in Russell. I don't think I'm kidding. Always sad to see them chosen, weighed, and grilled, my buddies and I spend a lot of quality time together as I give each table the opportunity to smell like fish and win the staring contest these guys are so good at. Reactions to my appearance at a table with this tray generally fall into one of two categories: 1) eyes beaming, tongue licking lips, a patron rises in his/her seat and hears "fresh fish" to mean "30 minute orgasm," or 2) eyes squint, face shrivels up, a patron shrinks away from the tray and declares, "nothing with heads."

At that point, I'm reminded of the sign outside the shop, which reads "Fish Speciality Restaurant." Did you think you were getting turkey on the menu? It's not like I'm dragging out Mary's little lamb or Little Bo Peep's buddies and re-creating Passover's bloody door trick to show you who we were going to grill up that evening.

From the left: Gurnard (2), Snapper (2), Flounder (2), and Tarakihi (2).

"Moral indignation is just jealousy with a halo."

H.G. Wells

Strings n' Things

2007-12-03T04:29:00.000-08:00

Mine is a simple life. Without any emotional attachments and lacking a desire to be in Washington, D.C. for work, my greatest concerns in the Southern hemisphere revolve around 1) the amounts of beer, wine, and tuna fish in my flat, 2) the ability to conquer my genetic disposition for being late, 3) the ability to exercise, and 4) the weather. Fighting traffic, paying cable and telephone and electric bills, paying off and maintaining a car, running errands, and organizing one's life around televised sporting events and the activities of others are distant memories for me here in New Zealand, as they were when I was in Prague.

Before anyone thinks that sounds too good to be true, there are, quite naturally, trade-offs that have to be made in order to accommodate a more pedestrian lifestyle. For one, money. There hasn't been a lot of it over the past 3 years. I think the IRS thinks I'm dead. After all, you won't make much teaching English unless you go to Korea or the Middle East. Now, don't get me wrong: I love the DMZ. I've heard lovely things about the DMZ. But I have no interest in living in Korea. And that has little to do with the fact that my karaoke skills are gnu-like. I watched MASH, I know what it looks like--and I feel like my emotional reservoir for Korea ended the night "Goodbye" was spelled out in rocks for Hawkeye to see as he left on the helicopter. As for the Middle East? Though I hear the United Arab Emirates is lovely in the summertime, I'll have to pass, unless I can teach from an air-conditioned Armored Personnel Carrier. Which, as I understand it, are hard to fit inside language schools. Though I'm still expectant and hopeful that Hollywood will one day discover me and immortalize me on film, I'm as yet emotionally and spiritually unprepared to star in al-Qa'ida's next cinematic thriller, "Death to This Infidel, Allah Akbar."

Here in Australasia, to earn real money, you'll first need to establish networks to access the better jobs, which takes time and, of course, money.

Friendship. I have two good friends from Prague that I would fly halfway around the world to help on a moment's notice, and only one--our favorite French chef--thus far in the "Z." That's simply a byproduct of the nature of travelling--most people you come into contact with are transients themselves and/or already have a clique--usually friends from back home--with which they are travelling and feel most comfortable. Further, most are quite young, in their early 20's, and suffer from the same disease that afflicts the MTV generation: incessant, rampant, uncontrolled, unyielding, single-minded and resolute selfishness. Talking to them reminds me of many a date I've been on where I had to pay for the privilege of listening to the unending droning of yet another woman talk about herself. Lucky me.

Distance from family and friends. The longest time I went between seeing family and friends when I lived anywhere in the States was 6 months. It will likely be upwards of a year here in New Zealand.

In the end, one uses the quadratic equation and mixes in Einstein's Field Equations along with some deductive reasoning to decide if the trade-offs of a life abroad are worth the reward. For me, simple is better at 34 than it would have been at 22 or 24. Ironically, it's more substantive because it's character and the lessons it imparts are vastly more appreciated and understood. This desire for simplicity, moreover, owes part of its explanation to my character. I'm okay by myself. Unattached. I have to be: if I wasn't, I'd be Boy Interrupted by this point. It's not that I seek to have it that way all the time, but I purposely don't get involved in things simply for the sake of being involved in things. I've met so many people who define themselves through the eyes of another that I'm beginning to wonder if self-esteem is as underperforming these days as Jehovah's Witnesses in Baghdad.

Furthermore, I've always had, since I can remember, a "me vs. the world" chip on my shoulder, which undoubtedly was affected by the competitive drive that burned in me from the moment I could tie my own shoelaces. In all honesty, that chip is not a character trait that I dislike. Hell, even I remind myself of that old Whitesnake song. You know, the one song they had. With the hot chick on the car in the video. Here I Go Again. Right. Let's move on. (If you find my self-esteem after that analogy, please dial +64 021 025 96507. Thank you.)

The yearning for minimalism is also born out from the prerogatives of living abroad--one is in a much better emotional situation if you selectively forget every convenience from home and concentrate instead on the bigger picture. If scrutinized through a psychological prism, living abroad is entirely different than having a vacation overseas. The rose-colored glasses that you put on to frame your experience as you get on the plane for your 2 week holiday are long gone before the 2nd month of residence has elapsed in your new home country. But, that's okay, so long as your expectations don't outrun reality, you learn to accept, adapt, and settle in.

It might suprise some people to learn that the really smart people of this world--not the "genuises" who diagram football plays or who sold stock at the right time in today's casual vocabulary--themselves consciously look to chip away at the edifice of complexity in their search for truth. It's no coincidence that simplicity re-emerges historically as an intellectual guiding light especially among the brilliant. And who better to emulate--from an intellectual perspective, that is--than everyone's favorite frizzy-haired physicist, who used his imaginative aptitude to turn the fundamental concepts of space and time on their heads and once famously said, "everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler." As it turns out, this is actually good advice when living outside the boundaries of your comfort zone. Many others have suggested a similar theme. Leonardo da Vinci was one of the smartest human beings to walk this planet and was quoted as saying, "simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." Coincidental? The list of believers is nearly endless:

Oscar Wilde: "I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of the complex."
Walt Whitman: "Simplicity is the glory of expression."

Tolstoy: "There is no greatness where there is no simplicity, goodness, and truth."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: "In character, in manner, in style, in all things, the supreme excellence is simplicity."

Shakespeare: "Simply the thing that I am shall make me live."

Chopin: "Simplicity is the final achievement. After one has played a vast quantity of notes and more notes, it is simplicity that emerges as the crowning reward."

Plato: "Beauty of style and harmony and grace and good rhythm depend on simplicity."

I guess I've noticed one thing, other than gray hairs, as I move into my mid-30's. I am extremely conscious of taking delight in the small things that provide mini-moments of joy during the course of a day. That is largely attributable not only to being in an unfamiliar environment but, more importantly, to beginning to see with clarity who I am going to be for the rest of my life. That person is enchanted with and takes pleasure in simplicity. Let me explain.

I'll admit to being a bit confused. I turned 34 in New Zealand this past Friday, which is the day before I turned 34 on Friday in the United States. Somewhere on the 12 hour plane ride from Los Angeles to Auckland, I lost Tuesday, September 25th, or rather, I should more accurately say, I probably lived Tuesday, September 25th, but for a very short time. Or maybe like a time machine, once we flew through the International Date Line, which abuts New Zealand, we lost an entire day. I'm not sure where the truth lies, but like Fox Mulder, I know it's out there. Like the Bermuda Triangle with boats or a Black Hole with light, maybe the IDL catches entire days and swallows them whole. I'll have to google it.

Nevertheless, what I do know is that I left the United States on the 24th, watched Ocean's We Should Have Stopped After 11, Blades of Glory and the last installment of the Nobody Would Know Orlando Bloom Save For the Pirates of the Caribbean series, ate a meal or two, slept an hour or two, and landed in Auckland on the 26th of September (which was really the 25th in the States--which means I really left on the 25th in New Zealand. This conundrum will appear on an LSAT test someday).

Einstein had an equation for just this sort of occurrence in his efforts to prove the malleability of spacetime. That's a lie. But, we'll come back to the world's most famous physicist in a few moments (a quick sidenote of irrelevance: read any biography of Einstein and you'll come away feeling alternatively like, "poor Al, pulled in so many directions, by so many people, a victim of his own brilliance" and "THAT guy was the smartest man in 300 years??")

This is all a rather circuitous way of saying that you should seriously consider moving 18 hours away from home so that you can have two birthdays a year, yet age only one. Just don't move to a town of 800, and don't concelebrate your birthday with the Grand Finale of Movember, New Zealand's fundraising bonanza to help cure, as Zorro would say, "ball cancer." I have photographic proof of Movember's allure here in New Zealand. We'll get to that.

I was particularly nostalgic about this birthday, which may or not make sense when you consider that 34 is a rather anonymous number. Perhaps not coincidentally, I'm a rather anonymous human in the annals of Russell-ian history. I'm 34. I'm unmarried. I've been in love once. I think the nostalgia probably had more to do with the lack of an enertaining social outlet here in town than any particular sense of dread at the thought of ageing. Mind you, when I say 'fun,' I mean anything that doesn't involve a) walking to and from work and counting birds as my friends, b) trying to decipher the incoherent late-night philosophical ramblings of drunk Maoris, or c) having the highlight of my day revolve around a glass of red and a 30 minute conversation about the "slim pickings" of the opposite sex here in Russell with my drunk flatmate between the time he comes home from said drinking and the time he stumbles off to bed--only to rinse and repeat the following night. (Our nightly forays into the murkier truths of Russell has my flatmate thinking that I possess a snobbish desire for "superior pickings," as he would say, an obvious form of masochism here in Russell that will inevitably lead some to make conclusions about my sexuality if not rectified soon. Technically, he's right, I'm still riding the High Standard Bandwagon--the one he fell off many moons ago--at least until the town accessorizes with the summer influx that is expected in the next couple of weeks.)
This lack of diversionary excitement, coupled with my crack cocaine-like behavior in the restaurant (let's put it this way: I don't even recognize myself when I'm working; I'm a white Pookie. I'm so entirely different than I normally am that I'm beginning to think about moving to Hollywood to make a go of it), which depletes my Mojo by the end of the dinner shift, has me in my free time like an antisocial turtle ducking under my protective shell. The moral of the story: I'd basically be responsible for the death of Pitcairn Island had I been marooned there. No, wait, that's not it. Christmas can't get here soon enough. Yep, that's it.

This chapter of my life began when I quit a good job to satisfy an itch to live abroad. I'm now in my second tour of duty doing just that. Even Bonnie, the Taiwanese cook/dishwasher at the restaurant picked up on this theme last night when we were talking. I could have sworn she got an e-mail from my parents to hit certain talking points. In broken English, "You 34. You have plan? How long you do this? What you do when this over?" I'm not kidding, I thought I was talking to either the human who birthed me or one of those career counselors you see after you take that "So, what does the passionless and uncommitted want to do with the rest of your life?" test. It was my birthday for the love of all that is good in this world, and I'm getting dressed down by a Taiwanese girl whose most substantive contribution to my life to that point was letting me eat a couple extra french fries from her bowl of leftovers in the kitchen. And that's not even a metaphor. Happy Birthday to me!

I tried my best to answer her in simple English, but I was so flustered that she didn't understand why, even at 34, somebody would feel the need, no, the compulsion, to do this, that I reduced the explanation to its most basic constituent: I refuse to live a life with regret.

I can't fault Bonnie, though. To a certain extent, it's not even an explanation that my parents seem to express much sympathy for. As much as they're supportive of me and the adult choices I make, I'm not convinved that they're understanding matches their desire to see me happy. On the phone with them on my birthday, I had the following conversation with them:

Me: "I can't believe I'm 34. "

Mom: "I know, it's just flying by, isn't it?"

Me: "Did you know that I share a birthday with Churchill?"

Dad: "Was Churchill ever a waiter?"

Me: "Maybe in India."

Dad: "Before he was Commander of the Navy?"

As the not-so-astute can see, we don't deal with intimations and inference in the Carroll household. We go for the big ones: incredulity and guilt.

Relying on "gut instinct"--simplicity--to make lifestyle and career choices is probably not the advice you'd hear Dr. Phil give to his masochistic clients. Yet it's exactly what I would tell anyone who was contemplating doing something drastic, something unpredictable, something adventurous. Since I was a young boy, I've always been fascinated with geography (political and natural), demography and cosmology. From the time I can first remember, I've had in me a desire to experience new places, to meet new faces, and to determine for myself how to satisfy the natural curiousity that, for whatever reason, has led me to this chapter in my life. It probably sounds corny, but I hope that when I die (at 112...asleep...in my bed...next to Ms. Teen USA), I'm taken on a grand tour of the cosmos and introduced to the answers for its deepest, most tightly guarded secrets. I'm well aware of how bad that sounds, but nevertheless it's how I want it to be. I can't control that, naturally, but I can control the opportunity to experience a tour of a slightly smaller variety.

So, to answer the question that Bonnie (and others) have about this 34 year old, mid-career, postgraduate waiter in a small town halfway around the world: I don't know. If that's my greatest sin, then I'll take my chances. I refuse to live a life of regret. And, while being married, having children, being stuck in traffic on the same roads twice a day, and dealing with the complexities (and annoyances) of suburban life in America works wonders for the overwhelming majority of people who decide to follow that path, I would be decidedly unhappy doing that. At this point in my life. Now.

Make no mistake, I understand the emotional satisfaction of having a family of my own: I increasingly see more and more friends doing it and it doesn't take Newton to see that my current stage in life is usually reserved for those just celebrating their 24th birthday, as opposed to their 34th. But, I was born three weeks late; I'm a late-bloomer. Always have been and always will be. I doubt that will change.

There are trade-offs in every choice you make. I've decided that I'm willing to live with mine.

In a sense, such a simplistic explanation for living a different "life arc" than the norm satisfies the natural order of things. My Mom says that my parents feel blessed that I was "loaned" to them by God to be a part of their family. If you happen to subscribe to that theory, as many Catholics do, it's a wonderful way to express gratitude--the real object of affection in such sentiment is, quite appropriately and obviously, God. It also strikes me as refreshingly and elegantly simple. It strips away the complications and vagaries that encase the life we build for ourselves by replacing the innate desire to please ourselves with a more Copernican, if you will, desire to please God. It makes Him the center of the universe. It's very simple logic indeed.

If the faithful believe that the meaning of life is to serve and honor God, what better way to do that then to recognize the gifts He bestows in the form of love. And birthdays and their essential meanings are opportunities to do precisely that. At the risk of sounding too Vatican, reducing the byzantine labyrinth of life to its most unaffected fundamental ingredient serves as my excuse for being where I am right now, as opposed to 10 years ago or never. I don't apologize for feeling as if The Big Guy pulled me in this direction: after all, isn't that what we all strive to attune ourselves to--the whisperings of our personal God? I'll take it one step further: that reduction to simplistic reasoning may actually mirror the simplicity with which the entire universe--God's magnificent construct--is made. Which begs the question: who am I to fight the tide of cosmological and physical law?

I've got a bottle of De Bortoli (Australian) Merlot (for $10!) and I'm staring up at a night sky that's holding thousands of stars. Night skies in Russell may not mimick the desert skies of the southwestern U.S. or the even more people-starved, rural settings on the planet, but it's difficult not to be impressed with the breadth and stunning beauty of New Zealand's northland nighttime stellar bonanza. Short of living in the Outback, the Sahara, or Siberia, this is about the best one can do, in exchange for the comforts of civilization. You can see for yourself: here is a satellite rendering of Earth's lights at night: http://antwrp.gsfc.nasa.gov/apod/image/0011/earthlights2_dmsp_big.jpg) and one for Australia and New Zealand, http://www.darksky.org/images/satelite/australia.gif).

Stay with me for a moment as I peel off on a tangent that even Tolkien couldn't recover from. The last 100 years of progress on developing an understanding of the universe's physical laws have been, even to the millions of laymen who follow the subject without venturing into the higher mathematics involved, staggering. The last 25 years have been as equally compelling, for a variety of reasons and discoveries, not the least of which has been the development of a radical new way of looking at God's cosmic playground--our universe. String Theory is a delightfully simple and evocative way of thinking about the very fabric that composes spacetime and all of its matter and energy, from the galaxies in our telescopes right down to you and me.

Before you read any further, you should remember that I'm alone in a darkened room, drinking wine by myself. At night. Naked. Well, not naked, but I am drinking by myself, which means you can automatically discount 2/3 of anything I have to say. That's actually a law, you can look it up.

Nevertheless, String Theory is the latest mathematical incarnation that seeks for its nerdy proponents what many before could not achieve. No, not a social life. Rather, a remedy, no, the remedy, to bridge the chasm between the equations of general relativity (Al's invention--no, not Gore this time--detailing the math and geometry of space--or gravity) and quantum mechanics (the physical laws--guided by probabilistic math--of the subatomic). Essentially, the gap between the physical laws for predicting the behavior of large objects in our universe and those predicting the behavior of the very small. To make a long story short, those two sets of laws clash. Physicists have long worked around the inconvenience of having two separate ways of analyzing the universe and have been very successful in doing so, i.e. the mathematical incongruities haven't precluded the development of either set of laws in isolation.

However, it would be as big an understatement as saying "Lindsay likes cocaine" or "Katie Holmes was brainwashed by Maverick" or "Ted Kennedy likes to drink and drive" to suggest that it is every theoretical physicists' dream to conjure up a Unified Theory; one set of laws that describe all of the workings of our universe, from Einstein's theory of gravity (how mass and energy affect the geometry of space and how space affects the movement of matter and energy) to the smallest indivisible length of space (a Planck length, or 1.6 meters x 10 to the -35th power). I hope it's not Al Gore in the next year, because not only would it be the greatest scientific achievement of all time, but then he'd have to stand next to George W. again and share National Geographic's Most Awkward Handshake Of All Time Redux.(http://fe14.news.re3.yahoo.com/s/nm/20071126/pl_nm/bush_gore_dc;_ylt=Av3mFH69EJoGdBjD6zwbw_YXr7sF)
Yet, there's an indescribably compelling need for scientists to find the most basic components of the universe and consequently to believe that the universe functions according to an underlying set of laws that demonstrate no conflict between the laws of the large and the small whatesoever (to this end, a new particle accelerator is due to begin test runs early next year. I haven't been this excited since Michael Jackson broke out the "moonwalk" back in '83. The Large Hadron Collider near Geneva will be the world's largest particle accelerator and may be able to test some of the predictions made by String Theory by smashing protons at speeds up to 99.999999% the speed of light to help understand conditions a fraction of a second after the Big Bang. Oh, by the way, the laboratory near Geneva where the collider is being built is largely responsible for the creation of the Internet...sorry Al. http://www.hitmill.com/internet/web_history.html)

Like Einstein, contemporary physicists search for a simpler explanation for the universe's often times complex manifestations of general relativity and probabilistic quantum mechanics. To that extent, a theory that explains the entire workings of the universe, all the way back to time zero, to include gravity on quantum (very small) scales, would be a discovery greater than those of 1915, the year Einstein reshaped our understanding of the universe itself.

Basically, it would be the greatest scientific resume ever written. It would be akin to a 22 year old breaking a backboard after a dunk at the end of Game 7 to win the NBA Championship and then walking off the court and announcing his retirement. Or winning American Idol and then announcing on live T.V. that you've decided to enter porn because it carries more weight. Or fathering a baby with Aishwarya Rai (http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2004/12/29/60minutes/main663862.shtml) and then joining a monastery. It just can't be topped. While it might be fun to try (with the last one, especially), you know and the world knows that you've peaked like Edmund Hillary (a Kiwi, by the way) and it's all downhill from there. Just like Henry Thomas, who played Elliot in E.T. Game over. You can't top "E.T. phone home," and you can't top saying goodbye to the little guy while the spaceship waits in the woods.

I swear, I'm not drunk.

String theory posits that the fundamental particle constituents (protons, electrons, neutrons) of our universe as well as the known messenger particles of the four forces (electromagnetism, the weak nuclear force, the strong nuclear force, and gravity)--photons, bosons, and the theoretical graviton--are nothing more than, well, strings, whose different vibrational patterns evince the properties we associate with both the particles of the Standard model and the four laws enunciated above. For reasons I won't get into here, as you're already asleep, String Theory has the potential to bridge the two sets of laws. Here's the catch, though: the only way the math works in String Theory is if we live in an 11 dimensional universe. That's 7 extra spatial dimensions all around us that are too small for current technology to detect. Maybe too small to ever directly detect.

The point is that the world and the universe may be much grander and simpler than imagined. Grander because the world we experience--and the part of the universe we can see-- may indeed be a tiny fraction of what may really exist, if we can see only 3 of the 10 spatial dimensions purported to exist (on a much larger spatial scale, Leonard Susskind's "The Cosmic Landscape" is a good introduction on the ramifications of a multiverse--the idea that our universe is one of an infinite amount of universes. Just ignore, if you'd like, his robust atheism). Simpler because the whole thing could very well be constructed of incredibly small nonzero-sized strings. In essence, the universe may be a rich tapestry of almost thread-like material playing out a symphony of existence as its observers live oblivious to its majestic grandeur. That, to me, whether String Theory is true or not, is the beauty of quantum mechanics: that we live in, well, a facade of sorts. What we sensually experience (classical physical laws) is decidedly not how the universe has chosen to operate (by probability). In quantum physics, what you see is not what you get.

What does this have anything to do with anything? Well, probably nothing, because String Theory is mostly theoretical at this point and its mathematics are too complicated for even string theorists to deal with directly (so they use approximations). But...what if the universe is governed by laws that are, even to Britney and Paris, simple to visualize. As Hungarian born American nuclear physicist Edward Teller said, "the main purpose of science is simplicity and as we understand more things, everything is becoming simpler." Ask most people what gravity is and they wouldn't be able to describe it; they'd give artful demonstrations of its effects, rather than an understanding of its character. But, ask a Texas blonde about String Theory, and one day they might be able to give a close approximation of its simplicity (neglecting its extraordinarily complex mathematical underpinnings, of course).

The point? The universe does indeed operate in a way we are mostly oblivious to. But, it could also be strikingly simple, too. And wouldn't that be the most refined answer one could give to questions of your (reasoned) choices: simplicity is a universal principle, and I am just following its decree.

I've chosen at the moment to move away from the signposts that most judge their lives by: the complexities of career, love, and acquisitiveness. I've decided to put Chapter 3 where most people would put Chapter 4. I have made an arbiter named simplicity my best friend and most trusted advisor. Don't blame me: I have surrendered to the laws of the universe.

To my mind, we're nothing more than the backwash of a stellar explosion, at least in a physical sense. The gravitational accretion of stellar dust is our ecumenical history. We're not just a part of the universe, observers from a distance; we are the universe, a small, seemingly inconsequential part of the cosmos but nevertheless created from a progenitor of primordial soup and as intimately tied to its cycle of birth and death as any of its other, more violent, inhabitants.

Why shouldn't our reasoning, comprised of neurological processes enabled by universal evolution, complement our cosmological environment?

Henry David Thoreau said it, well, much more simply: "Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined. As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness."

Had enough? Okay. On to a few pictures. Suffice it to say that life in Russell, over the course of the last 3 weeks, has settled into a routine. It, along with my sojourn into the unknown, is really of simple stock. My medulla oblongata is dominating at this juncture--I'm entirely autonomic at this point. I breathe. I live. I am. I'm also fairly certain that the cabin fever that right now is nothing more than an annoyance will inexorably evolve into a full-blown outbreak of Ebola before the end of the year. Welcome to picturesque Russell!

This is called "getting into character." Mere mortals could never understand the philosophical and emotionally intense process by which one transforms into the person he portrays. It's called method acting, people. And it involves multiple glasses of wine, a shoulder thrust, and some serious attitude. Amateurs need not apply.

The neat part about this is that if Mark removed the hat and cape and dropped the sword, he could double as a Benihana chef.

Speaking of Japan, our favorite French chef recently told me that Tokyo was just announced to have collected the most amount of Michelin stars--"the" restaurant rating for gourmet dining--of any city in the world. http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,22790128-5013605,00.html. Granted, with 30 million people, the world's largest city should represent a decent mathematical probability to achieve the label of "Food Capital of the World." Nevertheless, it just goes to show that the Japanese know their culinary stuff. I would congratulate them, you know, for being a peaceful ally with good baseball players and pretty girls, but they're too busy killing Willy and maiming Flipper in the name of "science." I get really upset with them, usually around lunchtime when I'm eating a tuna fish sandwich.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/7101829.stm
http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-fg-whaling24nov24,0,1247872.story http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn7551.html

This is my flatmate. Move over Antonio Banderas, there's a new superhero in town. This has got to be the creepiest Zorro I've ever seen. I can't decide if he's trying out to be conductor of the London Symphony, or dreaming of his life as a gay porn star. What's going on with the left hand? A fist clenched in rage over the oppression of the good people of Mexican California, no doubt. Zorro even bought women's shoes for the end-of-Movember moustached costume contest on the 30th. With his three inch heels, our rapier-wielding populist graced the height of an overgrown gnome.

To be fair, I shouldn't give him grief for looking like an impending arrest for pedophilia. He went all out to raise money for my prostate. Any man that can help my prostate without digitally exploring my nether regions is okay with me.

That's Bonnie, the Taiwanese Guilt Trip in the middle, and Lenka, the Czech girl who should put on her resume under Skills, "giggling." We look happy to be starting another dinner shift, but I'm drunk, Bonnie is listening to a Taiwanese motivational speaker, and Lenka looks like she's being held hostage by a Gimp in a snuff film. Could that body language be any colder? Who took a dump in the punchbowl?

In reality, Bonnie isn't listening to a motivational speaker. Somebody said a three-syllable word in English, because that's usually the response you get from her under such circumstances. No worries, though. It didn't stop me from teaching her about East and West Coast rap in the kitchen today, though. Complete with diagrams and everything. All I got in response was a facial expression unseen since Richard Dreyfuss had a close encounter of the third kind. She may not know what "mustard" is, but she sure as hell knows who Tupac and Biggie were. Represent.

Lenka and Suzanna, the Czech chicks who work the back garden bar at Zee Gables. They hid the umbilical cord that attaches them, so you'll just have to trust me when I say it's always there. I pimp the blue shirt a bit better than these two, if I do say so myself. But what they lack in pizzaz, they make up for with breasts. And that, my friends, is the only thing that matters in customer service. Mammaries. The lesson? It's not what you know, it's how much cleavage you can show.

It's dinnertime at the back bar. I'd suggest a reservation.

"Simplicity is making the journey of this life with just baggage enough" --Charles Dudley Warner, American essayist and novelist, 1829-1900.

On dolphins and death

2007-11-10T20:56:00.001-08:00

Get a feel for the weather. It's drizzling. It had been raining and windy for three straight days. The temperature hovers in the mid-50s. The sea is choppy. I am thinking about how not to vomit on my camera or the old lady next to me as we near the end of The Ultimate Bay Adventure (a perk for working in the restaurant--the tour company lets local restaurant staff go free so that they can talk it up to the tourists)--3 hours looking for and following dolphins, 3 hours on Urupukapuka Island, and finally 2 hours getting to and coming back from the Hole in the Rock. The boat arrives at its penultimate destination--the Hole in the Rock--and I focus my rain-splattered lens on blue boat seats. Actually, the boat is heaving back and forth, even as I try not to. This is not a picture of the Hole in the Rock. It's a picture of the nearby coastline--the white speck on the hill is the Cape Brett Lighthouse, lighting the entrance to the Bay of Islands (http://www.doc.govt.nz/templates/PlaceProfile.aspx?id=34370). You know how ice skaters are told to focus on one spot when they spin really fast in that move called "spinning really fast?" I'm doing the same thing. I'm focusing on the lighthouse and not the fact that I almost pushed a woman off the observation deck when I fell into her as the boat rocked on the sea side of the Hole.

This is sort of what I imagine the vestibule of Hell to look like.

Besides almost committing Involuntary Manslaughter, I'm looking for the ghost of William Wallace on those hills. As I've cited before, "every man dies, not every man really lives." I feel like I kind of accomplished both on this trip.

There we go. Hey, this is an award winner. The Hole in the Rock. It's 60 feet high. That's all I remember the captain saying. I was too busy wondering if my backpack was a flotation device. The swells on the other side of the boat had me thinking about my swimming skills. "Would the boat suck me down like Leo di Caprio said it would in Titanic?" The boat usually goes through the Hole, but the sea was too rough on this day. The boat sat here--rocking--for a good 15 minutes so that everybody could get superfluous pictures, just like I got (I took a lot more pictures, which will be published in the appendix of my forthcoming book, "How To Survive For One Year on Peanut Butter and Jelly and Tuna Fish.") Unseen here is the fact that the rock itself is a few hundred feet high and looms over you as your boat occasionally reverses to avoid breaking apart on the rock itself. However, the captain (I like to call him Phlegyas) did take us on a 5 minute circumnavigation of the rock, which entailed going out on the seaward side of the rock. Swells were probably around 8 feet. Beverages in the bar area of the boat fell to the floor during our little roller coaster ride to the brink of death. I had two thoughts at this point: how long can I tread water before turning blue and sinking and would the tour company bring families out on the anniversary of the tragedy to throw flowers in the watery grave site? I think the latter would be a nice touch.

It doesn't look that big. But it is. If you look long enough through the hole, you'll starve to death.

A cave entrance astride the hole. Or is it The Hole? Maybe the Hole? Anyway, here is the conversation those two guys had on the front of the boat. In case you don't know, I have supernatural auditory skills.

"Hey, check out that cave."

"Yeah, nice."

"Let's get my bald spot in that guy's picture up there."

"Ok."

"Maybe the reflection off my chrome dome will turn the left side of his picture into something Carol Anne ran away from in Poltergeist."

"I think I see the Jesus' face in the rock. Or is it Che?"

This photograph is akin to taking a picture of a window of the Hearst Castle and then saying, "you'll have to trust me. It's a really nice house."

"Scotland's daughters and sons are yours no more!"

Just humor me. It's late.

I half expected a sign to be hung above the opening: "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

Virgil's in the bathroom throwing up.

This would have been the award winner, had I had in my possession something with which to dry the lens. Seeing as how the drizzle was coming down nearly parallel to the ocean, I did the best I could. If I'm going to capture the moment for you, I'm going to need to be better prepared. I'll need sponsorship. Do it now before Hillary gets in office, raises taxes, and gives all your money to her Illegal Alien Healthcare Program with Full Prescription Coverage and Citizenship Plus Starter Money For Your New Life In My Pseudo Socialist Utopia.

This is a self-portrait that I will call "Swallowing My Own Vomit." After 5 hours on a boat that skimmed through seas enlivened with 3 full days of wind and rain, it's time to get me back to my rightful place on the Darwinian ladder--dry ground. I love dolphins--who doesn't, beside the Japanese who probably kill them for kicks while hunting whale--and I liked Urupukapuka Island, the rest stop halfway through my maritime adventure (that I kept repeating to myself as a source of amusement), but 10 more minutes of swell and I'm going to pollute Flipper's playground with a banana-tuna fish combination that even krill wouldn't touch.

As an ancillary, this photo serves as a stunning rebuke to all those conspiracy theorists who don't believe I'm actually in New Zealand. Look, there I am. You know how the U.S. Military puts out a photo of terrorist leaders that have been killed by U.S. forces? The sheet covering everything but the bruised and sometimes sewn up face? Well, a big reason for that is because the Arab culture is one of conspiracy theory--if the picture weren't displayed as proof of death, the Iraqi population would be inclined to believe in any superhuman mythology about the leader that al-Qa'ida (or its mouthpiece al-Jazeera) wanted to propagate. Instead, they get a picture that says, "here's your big, tough leader. Dead. Now what?" Well, here's my (living) version. "Here's your big, tough buddy. Alive. Swallowing my lunch for a second time. In the Southern Hemisphere."

Speaking of conspiracy theorists, the French chef is a believer in visitors from space. One of his first questions to me was not about anything related to me or what I might bring to his business, but rather was, "zo, what do you zink of Rozwell, huh?" I served a Mormon couple from Utah a couple of weeks ago and in the course of our conversation she let it be known that they think the U.S. Government was responsible for 9/11. "Welcome to Air Disconnect, I'm Captain Smith, we'll be flying over the Cuckoo's Nest today." "Reality, meet the Mormons. Mormons, say 'hello' to Reality." So much proselytizing, so little rational thought. I guess the word "reason" had no translation from the gold plates and never made it into the Book of Mormon. I suppose UBL's confession isn't worth much these days. He can't win for trying.

I wanted to signal my incredulity at their blind distaste for the truth by rubbing their lamb rump on my rump, but I was late for my X-Files Fanclub chat on the Al Gore Internet. I was this close to telling them that Oliver Stone had it wrong--it wasn't the U.S. Military-Industrial Complex and LBJ who killed JFK, it was also Jackie Kennedy, Vince Lombardi, and Canada, too.

Anybody who has worked for or with the U.S. Government (obviously no one in Hollywood) knows how truly preposterous the notion is of multiple agencies planning, carrying out, and covering up a presidential assassination and/or 9/11 and/or a fake moon landing. You can't get three persons from different agencies to agree on a lunch order, much less the biggest conspiracy the United States has ever known. Our biggest secret keepers are the biggest leakers in government! To a lesser extent, you still hear whispers about FDR's purported foreknowledge about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. This despite the overwhelming evidence and admitted participation of the truly guilty.

So, it begs the question: why are people so inclined to think the worst about their own government? Are some people just that jaded? That desperate to be different that they'd subscribe to the ridiculous just to validate themselves as "free-thinkers" or "pseudo-intellectual revolutionaries." Are they really "cutting-edge" or just willing to proudly herd themselves over the edge of Sanity cliff for the sake of not appearing to be the victim of groupthink?

In concrete terms, I think it's simply easier to channel the overall negative emotional reaction to certain traumatic events (Iraq and Vietnam, for example) into a blanket condemnation that ascribes to its target the worst vices one can think of. Ironically, I think that is a hallmark of a kind of hybrid intellectual-emotional adolescence which stubbornly refuses to acknowledge--in the case of 9/11, Vietnam, or JFK, for example--evil because it would mean that the person or administration or organization that responds soberly to evil is, at the very least, right in doing so. This despite a distaste for the protagonist that is so ingrained and well developed that nothing he/she/they do can alter that perception that everything he/she/they touch(es) inevitably turns to lead. Once you add in the sometimes subtle, sometimes not-so-subtle complexities of creating, executing, and analyzing foreign policy, there arises an even greater chasm between any of the different sides to an issue. Lastly, it's nearly impossible to falsify a conspiracy theory. Can I prove that Area 51 doesn't hold the remains of aliens from other worlds? Would anyone trust the government, even if given full access to the base? Of course not.

I also think that people want to believe in the boogeyman. People need to explain the unexplainable. It's human. I'm dying to know what Bill Murray said to Scarlett Johannsen at the end of "Lost in Translation." It's mysterious and imaginative. What kind of compromising pictures does Keanu Reeves have on Hollywood elite that allows him to make enormous sums of money acting? It's perplexing and curious. Why did the international basketball association steal the 1972 Olympic Gold Medal from the United States and give it to the Evil Empire (or is it The Evil Empire?) It's a miscarriage of justice.

These are all truly bad examples.

In conspiracy cases, however, wide-scale propagation is also dangerous, because the slippery slope continues getting greased up, all but ensuring that one day conspiracy theory will indeed substitute for history rather than serve as its curious understudy.

None of this, however, can substitute for the fact that neither my screwed up equilibrium issue nor my screwed up stomach are designed for rough seas. My new hero is James Cook.

I wonder, though, if he really was the most well-travelled man of the 18th Century. Maybe his charts are all a lie. Maybe the Pacific wasn't charted before Google came along. Maybe a reptilian alien species met the Nazis on their moon base and charted the planet instead.

Flipper! Okay, so the weather was pretty miserable--raining and cool. But not 5 minutes out of Russell we came across a pod of dolphins. These were about 30 or so of the 300-400 who make this part of the Bay of Islands home. We followed them for about an hour as they leisurely swam around the boat, occasionally showing off by jumping in the air. I feel like a 12 year old. But, seriously. Dolphins. Are. Cool.

A few days later a woman came into the restaurant and I inquired about her dolphin adventure. She frowned and said that they never did find any during their trip. But then her face lit up and she said, "but we did see orca!"

Cool.

So it's that time of year when whales can be seen in the local bays. I'm hopeful that somehow I'll be able to manage a sighting, but unless they come further into the bay--which they sometimes do, surprisingly enough--so that I can see them from the restaurant, it might just remain on my wish list until a later date (perhaps down on the South Island).

Anyway, no wonder that lady didn't see any dolphins. They skedaddle out of the bay before having a chance to be on the menu.

Sailors may think it's a mermaid, but I know better. It's my next tuna sandwich.

This one was Photography magazine's 2007 Silver Medal winner for Best Picture of Something Aquatic Right Beneath The Surface That I Can See But You Can't--South Pacific category.

You should see the Gold Medal Winner. A Tongan. Brilliant work involving Mussels in 8 feet of cloudy water.

From this angle, I was half-tempted to stick a fire extinguisher in their mouths and shoot it.

But then one of them looked at me and smiled.

Dolphins. Are. Cool.

Now you can certainly see dolphins in the U.S.--Florida, for example, has plenty of them. But I don't get out on boats often, and I don't get to see them in the wild as they swim with the boat often. And I don't get to New Zealand often.

So. There.

More crappy pics

2007-11-10T13:52:00.001-08:00

Amen, brother.

So, think curling on grass while inebriated. That's generally what lawn bowling is all about. This is the lone piece of artwork in my flat. The State Department called and promised to renounce my citizenship if I ever wore that much white. Basically, with my sunless complexion, I'd be transparent and thus a security risk.

On an unrelated note, it's "Movember" here in New Zealand. Men grow moustaches this month and get upper-lip hair sponsorship, with proceeds going to support men's health issues. As my flatmate says, "ball cancer." He really means prostate cancer, but he's usually drunk, so we won't quibble. And he's English. Anyway, my flatmate, who has a clean-shaven head, has a full-on 70's Ron Jeremy porn 'stache going on, mid-Movember. Pretty impressive. I should get a picture. I gleefully asked his parents during a recent phone call what it's like to have a son who puts on his resume, "pizza boy." I heard only an awkward silence and what I imagine a stroke sounds like. Evidently, they're pretty old. I was shaving the other day and left my 'stache intact for a brief mo-ment. Needless to say, I looked like a mo-ron. Mo likely, a mo-clown. A pedophiliac clown. "Awful" is not a strong enough adjective to describe my face with lip hair. I would have had elementary school minimum-distance restraining orders put out against me as soon as I left the house. Hitler looked better than I did. I called it the "Chernobyl" before consigning it to the drain.

Whoops, the one day I didn't make my bed. Shucks. Notice, if you will, the post-Modernist touch that I've created in my abode. It says to the discerning eye, "I'm busy, I've got places to go and people to see. I'm somebody." To others, "I'm lazy." Also notice the portable radiator that I've borrowed from the common room. New Zealand housing is notoriuosly cold and damp as few houses older than 5 or 6 years have any insulation in them. Welcome to the First World! It's colder inside the house than it is outside. Combine this with the four television channels that Kiwis receive, and it's no wonder they're all outside bonding with nature. It's either that or chronic bronchitis.

Christ Church in Russell is the burial ground for the seven British seamen from the H.M.S. Hazard who were killed in Russell in 1845 fighting a local Maori chief during the early colonization/"we're just here to help you get settled" days. The maori leader had cut down the British flagstaff atop a nearby hill on three separate occasions in defiance of the European presence here in the Bay of Islands. On the fourth occasion, and after a sneak attack from the chief's followers on the small British garrison here, a battle ensued, and six men from the Hazard were killed. The captain of the boat drowned and he too is buried on church grounds. The British retreated to the boat anchored in the bay, and then proceeded to shell the small town from offshore as the victorious Maoris looted the stores.

I like the poem that is etched into the young sailors' tombstone.

"The warlike of the Isles,

The men of field and wave!

Are not the rocks their funeral piles,

The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! Track the deep,

Free, free, the white sails spread!

Wave may not foam nor wild wind sweep,

Where rest not England's dead."

In another unrelated note, a 19 year old German drowned in the bay a few days ago after he tried to swim from a local beach to one of the small islands a few hundred meters offshore. Police divers found him the next day in about 8 feet of water. The bay looks pretty. It is pretty. Turqouise is pretty. But it's also a recipe for disaster, especially as the water temperature hovers around 60 and the strong tides push further out to sea. The moral of the story? As with women, the prettier it is on the outside, the more dangerous they are beneath the surface. The bay, like a pretty girl, is fickle. It is only because they can get away with it: there will always be other men and other swimmers. I have an entire philosophy on this, but not enough room to type it.

Long story short: always, always ask the locals.

The backyard "Garden" bar at zee Gables. It had rained for three days straight and the sail which acts as a source of shade when the sun is out instead acted as a reminder of pressure and gravity as the weight of the water caused its collapse. The lesson here: when you have a sail in your backyard, think angles. Zee Gables will overcome.

Atop Flagstaff Hill in Russell. Awesome views around the entire peninsula. These pictures won't do it justice. Maybe it's the photographer. Next time you're in Russell, climb the hill. There's a one-in-three chance you'll be run over by a local on the way up, but the reward will be that much more poignant. If you survive the climb up, you'll actually get a preview of what your soul will see as it ascends skyward after getting hit on the way back down.

The vegetation is luscious.

Incorporate that word into everyday speech and be the Belle of the Ball.

Why spend $4,000 or $5,000 a night for the view at the Eagle's Nest when you can hold this picture in your bosom as you sleep on my couch? Or depending on how you look, in my bed.

What's the funny part of the Flagstaff Hill story? Well, after 3 weeks, I finally made it to the top. Mind you, I live at the bottom of the hill. And look what greets me at the top. "Area closed: Flagpole upgrade." That'll be the name of my band. Either that or "Nuns in Public," or "Penguin Waddle," or something happy like that. I've got a bunch of possibilities, actually. When I finally access my right brain and acquire some artistic talent, I'll be ready to go.

Not to be outdone, the sundial atop Flagstaff Hill waits joyously as visitors ascend the hill and visit this site thinking it's the flagstaff part of Flagstaff Hill. Yet, it's just a random sundial, whose feelings are probably hurt because everybody usually goes to the flagstaff and ignores the precious sunset information on his iron frame. I'm not saying I thought this was the flagstaff part of the hill, but I did stand there for 15 minutes wondering how that resembled a flagstaff, only to be clued in when I was going back down the hill and passed the "Flagpole Upgrade" sign. This is a reminder that I have a postgraduate education. Seriously. I have the loans to prove it. Anyway, the next time you're in Russell, the flagstaff should be upgraded (to what, I don't know) and you probably won't suffer a precipitous loss of self-esteem when you confuse a sundial with a flagpole.

Kiwi History du Jour

2007-11-08T00:44:00.000-08:00

So, what's the big deal about a Russell street sign, you ask? This dead-end leads you to
the Eagle's Nest. No, not Hitler's getaway. The world-famous 5-star "Heaven on Earth" luxury retreat that will set the discerning traveller back about $4000 a night. At the Eagle's Nest, they'll leave the light on for you. Then charge you for it.
www.luxuryretreats.com/villa-page/ind/108740.asp

You know you want one of these signs in your neighborhhod.

Above: The inside of Christ Church. What's so special about Christ Church? Patience, young Skywalker.

It's a cold winter's night. You're by yourself, drinking a bottle of wine by candlelight, wrapped in a blanket because you can't afford Iranian oil. You're doing the only thing that will keep you sane: you're memorizing Trivial Pursuit cards. Question: Name the town where you can explore the only remaining building of the first Catholic mission in Western Oceania. You quickly disqualify the answer you had for Eastern and Central Oceania and blurt out..."Russell, New Zealand!" You win nothing but the respect of the ghost of Pompallier.

Quick history note for the disinterested: it's the late 1830's and Marist priests from Lyon, France arrive in the Bay of Islands to spread the good word, beat the Protestants in rugby, and hit it off with young Maori boys. Okay, the last two aren't true, but the Marists did show up across the bay in Paihia, where they found the heathens...I mean, our Protestant brethren already busy trying to convert the indigenous tribes in the area. So, Father Pompallier moved across to Russell to open up a printery that would eventually print 40,000 books over the next few years containing the prayers of the Catholic Church. The fair-minded Protestants labeled Russell "Hell Site," and named their little slice of paradise 4kms away "Heaven Site." Who knew heaven and hell were so close? From this beginning Russell evolves to become affilliated with the 19th-century nickname "hellhole of the Pacific." The self-confessed "Chauvinistic Yankee," John Brown Williams, would later say about Russell, "of all the holes I've ever visited, this is certainly the vilest." The lawlessness of the Maori and foreign sailors created a "sink of infamy and disgrace." Russell...meet Philadelphia.

More importantly, after Pompallier's arrival in Russell, the Protestants write the heretofore disinterested Queen of England telling her that the French Catholics were here. Not much time later, British warships sail into the bay and the Treaty of Waitangi is signed, which still today serves as the basis for relations between the government and the Maori people.

In hindsight, Pompallier gets an "A" for effort and was probably a shoo-in through the Pearly Gates. He fought the good fight. He beat the Jehovah's Witnesses here. In a related bit, a recent study came out that names New Zealand women as the World Champion in number of lovers for a lifetime. The world average was 7. New Zealand women on average have 20. I thought I would share this.

Thankfully, Pompallier can rest easy--his target audience weighed on average 300 pounds.

Anyway, there's a nice little tour of how Pompallier and a few fellow priests individually handmade the prayer books for the Maori as well as the labor-intensive process by which they made leather in the tannery portion of the house. The next time you're in Russell, check it out.

And there's the reason New Zealand became a part of the British Commonwealth. The Pompallier House. I think I have some mustard named after this guy.

Right: The balcony inside tiny Christ Church. If

you look closely, you can see the ghosts of its long-dead parishioners praying to a Catholic God.

Alex Trebek: "This is the oldest church in New Zealand."

You: "Christ Church, Russell, New Zealand."

Alex Trebek: "You're a beast."

Russell pics

2007-10-26T20:08:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-26T05:15:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-25T18:37:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-25T02:22:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-23T19:57:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-14T14:22:00.001-07:00

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...

2007-10-05T22:09:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-10-04T19:59:00.001-07:00

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.

2007-10-01T19:57:00.000-07:00

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."

From Auckland to Wellington

2007-09-29T14:26:00.000-07:00

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!

E Noho Ra Auckland

2007-09-27T14:34:00.000-07:00

"Goodbye, Auckland."

I squeezed in a (free) half-day tour of Auckland yesterday. There are two major bus companies here who cater to the backpacker and they both offer free day tours of the city as a chance to sell you on their bigger trip packages around both islands. This is a backpacker-oriented country in that most of the people who arrive here are young and eager to forge their own unique path through the country. That naturally means that everyone I've met thus far is a transient--each has their own timeline, their peculiar to-do and to-see list; hence, their own path. Many come with friends, some alone. A lot of English and Germans make the long trip.

Auckland is a beautiful city, even if it lacks the charm you'd expect upon landing at its airport. One of the first things the bus tour operator said to us yesterday was, "get out of Auckland." Indeed.

My dorm-mates and I (all 6 of us--three girls, three guys) went out for a quick drink last night. As everyone is on a tight budget, one drink at $7 NZD (nearly $5USD) is all anyone can afford at this point. Do you know how hard it is for me to have just one beer? It's like a heroin addict being satisfied with one cigarette. Ain't happenin'. But the budget is as flexible as Mr. Tin Man prior to Dorothy's arrival. So, one drink it was. Everyone arrived at the same time, so we're all a bit jet-lagged. That means, in bed by 9pm, up, showered, and ready to go by 7am. Two of my dorm-mates left for the northern part of the north island this morning and my Scottish buddy--who I had recite to me lines from Braveheart--is likely leaving tonight for Christchurch on the South Island.

"You can take my life, but you will never take my freedom!"

So, though Auckland has one-quarter of this country's population, it's time to leave it behind for now. I'm off to Wellington tomorrow morning for an all-day bus trip to the country's capital. One-third the size of Auckland, it reportedly boasts more charisma, more flair, and more charm than its larger counterpart. We'll see about that. Anyway, we'll be job-searching in Welly, hoping to find something that can get me out of a hostel and into a more normal living arrangement. Quickly. Living out of a bag? Not so much for CT. Contrast that with my Scottish buddy ("every man dies, not every man really lives"), who has actually slept on the roof of an American truck stop because he was too broke to afford a hostel during his worldly adventures and too wet to sleep on the recently-watered truck stop lawn. I guess if you want the experience badly enough, you'll do just about anything to make it work.

I would be on a plane so fast...

Well, that's about it for now. I'll be in touch from Wellington. Here's to a job...

CT

Kia Ora from Aotearoa

2007-09-25T17:31:00.000-07:00

Kia Ora!

So, after a 4 hour, 15 minute flight from Atlanta to Los Angeles, a 9 hour layover at LAX, and then a 12 hour, 15 minute flight from L.A. to Auckland, I am now officially in New Zealand.

And I'm tired.

And, truth be told, homesick.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: the hardest part of this whole process was not deciding to make the trip, but to make the trip with the knowledge that I know NOBODY here.

I have yet to see much of Auckland as I was busy for a couple of hours today attending an orientation from the company that sponsored my Visa--tax information, bank account information, travel, activities, weather, geography, etc. The first thing on my list to-do is to check-in to the hostel and then open a bank account. The moral of the orientation story was not so subtle: get out of Auckland. Pick a place to visit, if you like it, find cheap accommodation and stay for work. Daunting, if you think about it. Showing up in a foreign country and sauntering away from the big city to the more pastoral and quaint parts of the country. Again, knowing nobody.

I've also got to brush my teeth.

So, now that I'm actually here, what am I thinking? Well, there really shouldn't be any mystery to this: I feel today the same way I felt when I landed in Prague. My mind is saying, "what did you do?" I'm naturally homesick, because I'm out of my comfort zone. I miss my family; saying I was going to miss them was only words back in Atlanta.

And I'm tired. I'm 16 hours behind where I was yesterday (or was it two days ago?). I had hoped some food would help me before I showed up for the information session, and so I had a sausage McMuffin from McDonald's. It didn't work. I hate this feeling.

I trust I'll feel better tomorrow. Today is the very epitome of "culture shock," even if New Zealand is every bit as Western as any other country that falls under that designation. Today is the day I keep asking myself, "okay, now what?"

And the only answer is to take baby steps. Open a bank account. Find a job soon. A flat. Acquire a sense of normalcy, a routine in which I can rely on others who are in a similar position as me.
Decide if it's Auckland or somewhere else. Do NOT think that this feeling will last very long.

I've got to go check-in to my hostel and find the right branch (for "migrants") for my new bank.

CT

The Fear of the Unknown

2007-09-23T20:40:00.000-07:00

Almost to a man (and woman), the first thing people ask when I say, "New Zealand," is "why?"

Sitting here the night before the trip, I think ahead to what a four hour flight to L.A., followed by an eight hour layover, then a 12 hour flight to Auckland will do to my sense of adventure. To my body odor. To my general distaste for people. But I then force my mind to jump back into my Lonely Planet: New Zealand and I begin to believe again that I HAVE to do this.

Why New Zealand? Because it's probably one of the few places that people who have travelled the world HAVEN'T been to. Because the landscape is breathtaking. Because the people are nice. Because I'm American and don't want to have to communicate in anything other than English. Ha. Because it's the adventure capital of the world. There are literally dozens of different things that you can do to risk life and limb and live to tell (or blog) about it. Because the evil Sauron was defeated so it's safe for me to go. Because I have to get out of my comfort zone. Doing so is one of the few ways that I can actually learn something about myself. I'm not talking about Seven Years in Tibet self-awareness; simply, little things about flexibility that I can use later on when I want to commit an act of road-rage.

I don't know what I'll be doing in terms of a job, to answer your question (see my parents hyperventilate, see them reaching for brown paper bag). Not yet. I won't know a soul when I get there. I'm anxious, nervous, scared, excited, and hopeful. I imagine it's like going to the Prom. With a blind date who is "outgoing with a nice personality."

People tell me that I'm courageous because I don't have any plans once I arrive (besides finding a job--see parents calming down). For me, however, courage should be reserved for acts of selflessness, because it's so easy to be selfish in a world (or country) designed increasingly to satisfy our demands for convenience with every transient desire. I'm not courageous. What I am, if you ask my parents, is demented. Or lost. One of the two. Probably more the latter than the former. But I'm really not lost, either. I know what I want, and what I want is to see, to explore, to experience...in short, to live. For some, that means picking the kids up at school and driving through traffic to get home for dinner. For others, it means flying to the other side of the world.

Life is about timing. And this chapter in mine needs to be written NOW, if for no other reason than the fact that I have outstanding warrants for my arrest and I need to leave the country immediately.

Just kidding.

(The real question would be: what would your friends' warrants be for?)

I'm off to bed. It's going to be a long day tomorrow. I'll be in touch from the other side of the unknown.

I can't wait.

CT

A Crooked Path to Somewhere

2007-09-16T20:03:00.000-07:00

Hello. That's me on the left. For anyone who got lost on the Internet looking for porn and who doesn't know me, I'm C.T.

Do you like my bucolic photo? Better yet, do you like my neck plant?

Okay, to be fair, if this were Dances With Wolves, you could call me Smiles With Back Flora. But then you'd have to invite me in to your teepee and give me two donkeys, your white woman and a share of the Little Bighorn Casino.

To prove how Teddy Roosevelt I am, please, fear not Global Warmers, vegans, and horticulturalists of the world: I've had the plant surgically removed from the back of my head and it is now resting comfortably with other ex-neck plants in a Northern Virginia townhouse. Tell Chief Ten Bears that I'm quite sure somebody from Mexico is tending to its every need as you read. It coexists symbiotically with the tonka.

Speaking of plants, I'm a blogging seedling, a virgin, if you will. Oxygen deprived and sated with carbon dioxide, I've begun a blog, light-headed and headed overseas. Why does the world need another blog? It's like Frodo needing another awkward man-hobbit stare from Rudy as the latter professes his platonic love for the former in the shadow of Mt. Doom (wait for the connection...). Just as we squirmed when those two held eye contact for about 17 seconds too long, you're probably squirming with the thought of another self-centered, emotionally myopic, and parochial blog.

Welcome to my blog!

In short, it's a question for which I have no answer. What I do know is that like Frodo, I'm off to New Zealand in one week's time. Whereas everyone's favorite hobbit was all about saving Middle Earth, I have a more selfish reason for going. I can. I'm lucky. I'm lucky because I've made pretty decent choices on this crooked path to somewhere and I have a supportive--if not apprehensive--family and wildly encouraging--let me know when you have a couch--friends. "There and Back Again" was Bilbo's title to his book of adventure with dwarves and wizards and dragons in The Lord of the Rings. It's time for a sequel, I thought, only this time we'll add an addendum: "There and Back Again: With No Misspellings."

Or "CT in NZ." Whatever.

Okay, so I'm just like every other person in the Western world as it seems the entire Western world is blogging. In fact, I'm pretty sure Constantinople fell because too many people were blogging on their parchments and not enough were watching the hundreds of thousands of Turks marching up to the gates. I might be the last person not currently living in Burma or North Korea to have a blog and if it weren't for Don, I most certainly would be. But now's the time...

What makes this one unique, you ask? Well, I'm not that unique, to be honest. I don't think most people are. Oh, everyone has different tastes and opinions and idiosyncrasies and predilections, but people's emotional constitution is, I think, essentially very similar. The other stuff is window dressing. Life is fairly simple, we simply make it unfairly complicated. You've heard the saying, "I'm unique. Just like everyone else?" Well, I'm probably just like everyone else. I'm just in a unique position as I'm 16 flight hours away from the other side of the world--the Land of the Long White Cloud, the designation given to New Zealand by its original indigenous people--the pygmies. I mean, Maoris. Yes, I'm late for my cultural sensitivity class. Regardless, it should be an exciting time as I'm out to prove that not all Americans are inward-looking, self-absorbed, philosophical neanderthals. Some of us are just self-absorbed.

One reason I enjoy history so much is because it provides an escape for the mind. We're usually pretty taken with the day-to-day routines of our lives, so history for me is akin to jumping into a binded paper wormhole to be transported back to the very environment I'm reading about. It's a roundabout way of saying that truth is actually stranger than fiction and history allows me to lead a double life, so to speak. At least in my mind for a brief time. But now, I feel like I'm actually jumping into the history book with this trip. There's a sensuality to New Zealand that evokes in me romantic thoughts of isolation amid a geographical paradise. I'd be willing to bet that the 12 hour flight from Los Angeles to Auckland will reinforce that sense of isolation.

The extent of my blogging conceit is limited to a desire for others who care about me--and for whom I care a great deal--to share a little bit of my adventure. And to convince you to come and visit me. The Vegas line on the over/under for number of visitors to see CT in NZ is currently .5. That's right. One-half of one person. Even 18th Century slaves got 3/5ths in the Constitution. All of this means that only one person needs to visit to bring Vegas to its knees. Remember: big risk, big reward.

"Hello. That's me on the left," thus begins one of a google of rather anonymous and eponymous blogs that weaves together to form the tapestry of our probabalistic quantum blogging universe. This blog is indeed a very small--a quantum--thing to share. In reality, it's pretty insignificant. But besides perhaps providing free accommodation (or directions to a hotel), it's about all I can do from the South Pacific.

I have no illusions of writing grandeur nor do I aspire to write about some sort of contrived self-discovery. I'm going to New Zealand because I'm curious. I always have been. About different people, cultures, and geography. I like doing something different, sure, but I've learned as I've gotten a little older the extent to which I dislike regret. And I would regret it if I didn't go (more on this in the next post).

Maybe New Zealand won't be that place I have envisioned in my mind's eye--the country constantly talked about as one of the most beautiful in the world. Maybe it will. Either way, I'm hopeful that you too can be transported, if only for a few minutes on occasion, into the adventure that is Aotorea.

C.T.