Lately I've been doing a little experiment. Not for money or any actual scientific data, just curiosity. After my year in New Zealand I've contracted a nameless rare disease which renders me incapable of calling people anything else except "Bro." Pushing myself past the borders of the small island nation at the bottom of the world, I have to ask myself: How will different authority figures around the world respond when called, or referred to as "Bro"?
Note: United States of America Border Security Guards do not like being called "Bro."
Altercation: Small heated debate in the Chicago O'Hare Airport about the safety of the country Laos. I staunchly defended the Lao-wegians and questioned the validity and factual statements of the Important Man Behind The Desk. Turns out he had never even left America and I might have stated that he had no basis whatsoever to be spouting such ridiculous twaddle, and that the people Laos are wonderful and I feel safer there than in America, Bro.
Hypothesis: He could have jailed me for days, yet I regret nothing and would do it again.
I'm always amazed when they let me back into America. Not that I should be, seeing as how I hold and shiny, blue passport and was born here. It's just that I know I'm going to screw with their system and I'm always mildly amused by the thought. So a few weeks ago I sneakily waltzed back into Austin, Texas with my Bro's blazing, to surprise my family and friends. It had been over two years since I was last home so I figured I might as well make a good entrance. My secret-keeper was my stepsister Laura, who picked me up at the airport and took me home. My mother answered the door, burst into tears and tackled me on the front lawn. My stepdad Evan laughed. My brother Sam stood stunned in the middle of a restaurant but thankfully did not tackle me as he's quite a bit taller. My best friends Anja, Ruth and Brittney all screamed, and my stepmom Jasmine screamed louder. To get my dad home she told him that a tree fell on the roof and he was home quickly to find me standing in his backyard. Initially stunned like Sam, he proceeded to not let go of me for a few hours and cried tears of joy, I'm assuming for having his roof intact.
Adjusting to American life has been the real challenge here. People keep asking me what part of Canada I'm from. All my poor, unemployed friends have these shiny, flat, touch screen phones I've never seen before and there are sixteen brand new monstrosities of condos in my beloved downtown area, which I do not recall being asked permission to build. Alas, it seems Austin is growing at a rapid pace without me.
Don't worry though, the Great Spirit of Austin remains. How could it not be? The official city slogan is "Keep Austin Weird." The Omeletry still cranks out a wicked breakfast, Polvos margaritas still kick my ass and I still know every employee at the Posse East, who welcome me back with open arms and a free pitcher of the best beer in Austin. Somehow in between my reunion with Austin I've also managed to get two jobs, which is amusing at best because we all know how I dislike working. So throughout the week you can either find me waiting tables at Cuatros on 24th and San Gabriel or behind the desk at the South Austin Gym on S. Lamar. Cuatros is great because its really chilled out, I can call my boss "Bro" and waiting tables is the easiest job in the world for someone who has the conversation skills of a late-night talk show host. The gym is fun and painful because it's owned by my good friend Randy Palmer and I have started my Thai boxing training again. Which hurts.
And yes, bowing to the technological era taking the U.S. by storm, I have purchased the biggest, cheapest phone I could find. Give me a call at 512-696-2998 if you're in the Austin area. Keep in mind that I'm still getting used to the way of life here, yet refusing to adjust to it on account that it would be bad for my soul. No, I cannot access Facebook from the dinner table, I don't have a car or TV, and I have no idea who that supposedly famous guy walking by is. Although I did accidentally flip off Kanye West yesterday. As I've stated before: I regret nothing.
I'm such a crap American, Bro.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Oktoberfest!
I watched as the small girl's eyes rolled back in her head and she passed out standing up. The tent was too crowded for her to fall left, right, or face-forward, so gravity did its job and she fell backward, knocking over ten people at the closest four tables. It was in this moment that I realized I had to get out of Munich or the Oktoberfest would kill me.
Oktoberfest, stated plainly, is this most incredible thing I have ever witnessed; incredible not always being a positive thing. Imagine six million people trying to cram themselves into twelve tents that can hold a few thousand. Imagine the drunkest you've ever been, next to thousands who have had more to drink than you have. Imagine the fattest man you have ever seen, wearing the shortest shorts you have ever seen, waving a thick, heavy glass beer stein near you head whilst belting out one of Germany's oldest drinking songs. Imagine chaos.
If you look closely, you might even see a girl in the middle wearing a blue checkered dirndl (the traditional German dress). She is standing on a bench that seats six with fifteen people, toasting and singing and dancing with the rest. Her dreadlocks reach halfway down her back now and she is smacking a few people in the face with them as she dances. They don't seem to notice, the energy in the tent is all they can feel. The rhythm, the heartbeat, the central pulse pushes forward, faster and higher, beating the beat of life into every core, until nothing makes sense any longer. Then suddenly, without warning the music stops. The girl's eyes snap back into focus, she raises her glass, holding a litre of the best beer in the world, bellows "PROST!!!" and smashes it into her neighbors glass. The madness continues from there.
All together I did five days at Oktoberfest. At the end I thought I was dying because my liver was trying to kick its way out from the inside. The memories however, I would not trade for anything. I loved standing at a table with other Americans, Canadians, Irish, Germans, Chinese, and Spanish people. I love that I met half of Italy in one afternoon. I love the different cultures, languages, people from all walks of life brought together with the common goal of drinking beer and having a good time. I love that at one point I was concerned about contracting lederhosen poisoning, a highly dangerous malady concerning short leather shorts and suspenders. I love all the best friends I made and forgot in the span of minutes, and the old friends I was fortunate to meet up with. Thank you Martin who let me stay at his place, thank you Jordan and Mara for the dirndls and the beginning, thank you to Crazy Irish John, Mark and Krasna for the end, thank you Vicky and her lovely mother Tina who let me drink water on the fifth night while they drank beer, and thank you to Pete who talked to the death rattle coming out of my throat every morning and didn't laugh too much. I wouldn't have made it without you guys.
My goal for Oktoberfest was to do it right, do it well, and then never do it again. Mission accomplished: nothing on Earth could drag me back there again. Yet I am proud to have survived an exhilarating experience.
Oktoberfest, stated plainly, is this most incredible thing I have ever witnessed; incredible not always being a positive thing. Imagine six million people trying to cram themselves into twelve tents that can hold a few thousand. Imagine the drunkest you've ever been, next to thousands who have had more to drink than you have. Imagine the fattest man you have ever seen, wearing the shortest shorts you have ever seen, waving a thick, heavy glass beer stein near you head whilst belting out one of Germany's oldest drinking songs. Imagine chaos.
If you look closely, you might even see a girl in the middle wearing a blue checkered dirndl (the traditional German dress). She is standing on a bench that seats six with fifteen people, toasting and singing and dancing with the rest. Her dreadlocks reach halfway down her back now and she is smacking a few people in the face with them as she dances. They don't seem to notice, the energy in the tent is all they can feel. The rhythm, the heartbeat, the central pulse pushes forward, faster and higher, beating the beat of life into every core, until nothing makes sense any longer. Then suddenly, without warning the music stops. The girl's eyes snap back into focus, she raises her glass, holding a litre of the best beer in the world, bellows "PROST!!!" and smashes it into her neighbors glass. The madness continues from there.
All together I did five days at Oktoberfest. At the end I thought I was dying because my liver was trying to kick its way out from the inside. The memories however, I would not trade for anything. I loved standing at a table with other Americans, Canadians, Irish, Germans, Chinese, and Spanish people. I love that I met half of Italy in one afternoon. I love the different cultures, languages, people from all walks of life brought together with the common goal of drinking beer and having a good time. I love that at one point I was concerned about contracting lederhosen poisoning, a highly dangerous malady concerning short leather shorts and suspenders. I love all the best friends I made and forgot in the span of minutes, and the old friends I was fortunate to meet up with. Thank you Martin who let me stay at his place, thank you Jordan and Mara for the dirndls and the beginning, thank you to Crazy Irish John, Mark and Krasna for the end, thank you Vicky and her lovely mother Tina who let me drink water on the fifth night while they drank beer, and thank you to Pete who talked to the death rattle coming out of my throat every morning and didn't laugh too much. I wouldn't have made it without you guys.
My goal for Oktoberfest was to do it right, do it well, and then never do it again. Mission accomplished: nothing on Earth could drag me back there again. Yet I am proud to have survived an exhilarating experience.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Mama Mia
A few nights ago I almost died. Serves me right for accepting a dinner invitation from a large Italian family.
Currently I am staying just north of Venice in a town called Conegliano visiting my old friend Sharla, her Italian boyfriend Giorgio and his lovely Italian family. It was his uncle Luciano's 50th birthday and we were all invited out for a meal. It seemed harmless enough, but what do I know?
The restaurant was pretty, the company vibrant and the wine continuously flowing from large ceramic jugs. Luciano was kind enough to call ahead and inform the staff that I was vegetarian, and they were ready. The bread sticks and then the fresh baked bread for starters was flowing as continuously as the wine. Next the mouth-watering mushroom bruschetta and then a beautiful plate of grilled eggplant, squash, tomatoes, potatoes, polenta and a large square of freshly melted cheese was delivered to me while the rest were served different cuts of meats, cheeses, spreads and breads. I was just finishing my massive plate, about to sit back satisfied with the meal, when Sharla leans over and informs me that what I had just eaten was the main appetizer and that they would soon bring out the starters for the main meals. Meals. With an 'S'. My face fell.
About that moment Giorgio and his uncle recognize my tortured facial expression and burst into loud Italian laughter before informing the family of my misunderstanding. What followed, after everyone stopped laughing at my expense, was the perfect combination of pleasure and pain. What followed was a nine-course meal of more breads, bruschettas, salads, spiced aubergine, garlic stuffed tomatoes, six or seven different cuts of meat for the other eight members at the table with whole roasted onions and lemons, a lovely, creamy fish plate for me called Baccala with more polenta than I ever dreamed possible, topped off with more breads, meats, cheeses, and potatoes.
Sharla looks at me with pity and shares a pearl of wisdom, clearly a victim of Italian dinners in the past. "Just keep eating until your jaw stops moving. Then you know you're finished."
After a stunning meal sparkled with laughter, I sit back exhausted and rub my poor belly. Espresso appears in front of me, to my delight, and we sit and chat and they poke at my tattoos and ask me questions about traveling. We sit and no food comes, and I am relieved. Bottles of Prosecco, Italian champagne, appear next, and then the cake. The most amazing cake in the world. In my disabled state I could only pick up my fork again, but after the first bite I could have eaten the entire thing. It was fluffy and light, rich and dense. Crispy in places and creamy in others. Lemony and buttery, chocolatey, layers upon layers of bliss. It tasted better than sex, probably closer to what babies taste like. This cake is proof that the Gods exist and love us.
We all lick our plates and sit back again, smiling. About that time my body informs me that it can't handle anymore, and Luciano informs me that the Grappa is on its way. First the regular Grappa, then blueberry. If you don't know what Grappa is, it's the pure alcoholic form from grapes. It tastes like burning rubber, but in a nice way. When they brought out Limoncella, a drink of lemon rind, sugar and more alcohol, my head was spinning and I was done.
The whole event lasted five hours, and I am grateful for having survived. We are invited to another family meal tonight, so in preparation I'm not going to eat anything today. Hopefully they'll have more cake.
Currently I am staying just north of Venice in a town called Conegliano visiting my old friend Sharla, her Italian boyfriend Giorgio and his lovely Italian family. It was his uncle Luciano's 50th birthday and we were all invited out for a meal. It seemed harmless enough, but what do I know?
The restaurant was pretty, the company vibrant and the wine continuously flowing from large ceramic jugs. Luciano was kind enough to call ahead and inform the staff that I was vegetarian, and they were ready. The bread sticks and then the fresh baked bread for starters was flowing as continuously as the wine. Next the mouth-watering mushroom bruschetta and then a beautiful plate of grilled eggplant, squash, tomatoes, potatoes, polenta and a large square of freshly melted cheese was delivered to me while the rest were served different cuts of meats, cheeses, spreads and breads. I was just finishing my massive plate, about to sit back satisfied with the meal, when Sharla leans over and informs me that what I had just eaten was the main appetizer and that they would soon bring out the starters for the main meals. Meals. With an 'S'. My face fell.
About that moment Giorgio and his uncle recognize my tortured facial expression and burst into loud Italian laughter before informing the family of my misunderstanding. What followed, after everyone stopped laughing at my expense, was the perfect combination of pleasure and pain. What followed was a nine-course meal of more breads, bruschettas, salads, spiced aubergine, garlic stuffed tomatoes, six or seven different cuts of meat for the other eight members at the table with whole roasted onions and lemons, a lovely, creamy fish plate for me called Baccala with more polenta than I ever dreamed possible, topped off with more breads, meats, cheeses, and potatoes.
Sharla looks at me with pity and shares a pearl of wisdom, clearly a victim of Italian dinners in the past. "Just keep eating until your jaw stops moving. Then you know you're finished."
After a stunning meal sparkled with laughter, I sit back exhausted and rub my poor belly. Espresso appears in front of me, to my delight, and we sit and chat and they poke at my tattoos and ask me questions about traveling. We sit and no food comes, and I am relieved. Bottles of Prosecco, Italian champagne, appear next, and then the cake. The most amazing cake in the world. In my disabled state I could only pick up my fork again, but after the first bite I could have eaten the entire thing. It was fluffy and light, rich and dense. Crispy in places and creamy in others. Lemony and buttery, chocolatey, layers upon layers of bliss. It tasted better than sex, probably closer to what babies taste like. This cake is proof that the Gods exist and love us.
We all lick our plates and sit back again, smiling. About that time my body informs me that it can't handle anymore, and Luciano informs me that the Grappa is on its way. First the regular Grappa, then blueberry. If you don't know what Grappa is, it's the pure alcoholic form from grapes. It tastes like burning rubber, but in a nice way. When they brought out Limoncella, a drink of lemon rind, sugar and more alcohol, my head was spinning and I was done.
The whole event lasted five hours, and I am grateful for having survived. We are invited to another family meal tonight, so in preparation I'm not going to eat anything today. Hopefully they'll have more cake.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Candy from a Baby
The alarm went off next to my head at 6:20 a.m. I slunk out of bed and lit a candle to see my way down the stairs in the mountain hut. In the kitchen I found what I sought: a large metal pot and long wooden spoon. I tiptoe carefully up the centuries-old staircase and into a room filled with children sleeping peacefully, their innocent little faces just now visible from the rising sun. I love teaching.
BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGABANGBANG!!!!!!
GOOD MORNING CHILDREN!! IT'S 6:30 A.M. TIME TO GET UP UP UP!!!
It was unnecessary to get them up so early. It was also quite unnecessary to wake them up in that fashion. One kid jumped a foot in the air, a few screamed. Most just rolled over and moaned. There was no real reason for doing it, except simply that I said bedtime was at 10:00 and they had stayed up late talking.
I operate on the principle that every action has a reaction. A boy sprayed his deodorant into the girls room, therefore each girl gets a turn spraying the boys room with his own deodorant. The boys walked around with a strange powdery scent for the rest of the week. I find this method extremely fair and entertaining. I'm not a huge fan of rules, and I am definitely not their mother, so they are allowed to swear as long as it's in English. They are allowed to play in the mud if they don't track it in the house, and they can eat all the sugar they want until dinnertime. If I catch them after that, whatever they have is mine. So easy, like taking candy from a baby, literally.
And then, after a week of bonding and fun, they are gone. After a week of testing our boundaries, pushing our limits, living, laughing and working together, these little German children say goodbye and shake my hand. A few I would like to punch in the face and then sterilize, but most I would just like to hug goodbye, and thank them for the time we shared together. But no, I'm in Germany, and they just shake my hand. It's a bit weird.
After four very crazy weeks, eighty-nine children, and eight instructors and language assistants, it's time to leave the tiny village of Baad. Living in the Alps for a month has quite possibly made me weirder than I was before going in, but there's not much I can do about that now. I'm currently siting in Innsbruck, Austria and tomorrow my plan is to head south to Venice, Italy to catch up with Sharla, an old friend I used to work with at Fado in Austin.
Small world, huh?
BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGABANGBANG!!!!!!
GOOD MORNING CHILDREN!! IT'S 6:30 A.M. TIME TO GET UP UP UP!!!
It was unnecessary to get them up so early. It was also quite unnecessary to wake them up in that fashion. One kid jumped a foot in the air, a few screamed. Most just rolled over and moaned. There was no real reason for doing it, except simply that I said bedtime was at 10:00 and they had stayed up late talking.
I operate on the principle that every action has a reaction. A boy sprayed his deodorant into the girls room, therefore each girl gets a turn spraying the boys room with his own deodorant. The boys walked around with a strange powdery scent for the rest of the week. I find this method extremely fair and entertaining. I'm not a huge fan of rules, and I am definitely not their mother, so they are allowed to swear as long as it's in English. They are allowed to play in the mud if they don't track it in the house, and they can eat all the sugar they want until dinnertime. If I catch them after that, whatever they have is mine. So easy, like taking candy from a baby, literally.
And then, after a week of bonding and fun, they are gone. After a week of testing our boundaries, pushing our limits, living, laughing and working together, these little German children say goodbye and shake my hand. A few I would like to punch in the face and then sterilize, but most I would just like to hug goodbye, and thank them for the time we shared together. But no, I'm in Germany, and they just shake my hand. It's a bit weird.
After four very crazy weeks, eighty-nine children, and eight instructors and language assistants, it's time to leave the tiny village of Baad. Living in the Alps for a month has quite possibly made me weirder than I was before going in, but there's not much I can do about that now. I'm currently siting in Innsbruck, Austria and tomorrow my plan is to head south to Venice, Italy to catch up with Sharla, an old friend I used to work with at Fado in Austin.
Small world, huh?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Mountains of Patience
She's speaking to me again in German. She knows I don't speak German. It's 7:00 am, I am physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted and all I want is three cups of coffee, but Silvia our robust, smiling cook continues on with our morning ritual. '"Guten morgen Silvia....ja.....ja....kaffee, bitte......danke....." I say. Great peals of laughter disappear into the kitchen for my jug of coffee. On returning it is always the same, something to the effect of "Ra-hell, you still don't understand German yet? You've been here a week! Tomorrow I try again." And then the jolly woman erupts in laughter once more.
The change from living in my van in New Zealand to teaching German children English in the Alps has been extreme. My work day starts at 7:00, we get between 30-40 kids up, ages 9-16 and usher them down to breakfast. We play English games in the morning, then are usually off hiking, rock climbing, and doing high ropes courses in the afternoons. Dinner at 6:00, then an intense hour of physical exercise I like to call "fun time" and if we exhaust them enough they'll be in bed by 11:00. My "free time" are the hours I get to sleep in between when the children go to bed and when they wake up again. As you might imagine, it's very full on.
Although quite stressful at times, I'm having a lot of fun. I wake up every morning and look up to the stunning green alps that technically belong to Austria. I'm living in a village of about 50 people called Baad in the Kleinwasertal, which is a funny area in that it's a part of Austria but only accessible from the Germany side due to the towering Alps blocking any sort of road. I'm leaning German slowly and understand more than I speak, but it can be frustrating being the only teacher/instructor there that only speaks English. My Vietnamese has not helped me one bit.
The kids, for the most part, are great. I pretty much let them do what they want as long as they aren't too loud, and operate under the basic principles that when you grow up it is socially unacceptable to be muddy so have fun now kiddos! I find that I'm not here to be a parent, but more of a mentor giving out some good, general information about life they might not get from their parents or school teachers. However, that does not mean that I'm any good at it. Enter Maxim, age 12:
"Rachel, what is a booty call?"
I choke reflexively, not knowing if I heard him correctly. I look over at Jordan, one of the other teachers, who is wide-eyed and thanking the Gods she was not the one asked.
"Well...errr...Maxim. Well, when two people love each other..."
At that Jordan cracks up laughing and I have to laugh because how am I supposed to explain this?? I have to tell him because if I don't he'll hear it from another kid and will undoubtedly be misinformed. I have to tell him because I used to hate it when people said "I'll tell you when you're older." I have to tell him because it's the right thing to do. And I did.
Maybe I'm cut out for this, maybe not. Patience has been my best friend thus far, and I haven't beaten any of the kids yet so that's a good sign. Although I have come close.
The change from living in my van in New Zealand to teaching German children English in the Alps has been extreme. My work day starts at 7:00, we get between 30-40 kids up, ages 9-16 and usher them down to breakfast. We play English games in the morning, then are usually off hiking, rock climbing, and doing high ropes courses in the afternoons. Dinner at 6:00, then an intense hour of physical exercise I like to call "fun time" and if we exhaust them enough they'll be in bed by 11:00. My "free time" are the hours I get to sleep in between when the children go to bed and when they wake up again. As you might imagine, it's very full on.
Although quite stressful at times, I'm having a lot of fun. I wake up every morning and look up to the stunning green alps that technically belong to Austria. I'm living in a village of about 50 people called Baad in the Kleinwasertal, which is a funny area in that it's a part of Austria but only accessible from the Germany side due to the towering Alps blocking any sort of road. I'm leaning German slowly and understand more than I speak, but it can be frustrating being the only teacher/instructor there that only speaks English. My Vietnamese has not helped me one bit.
The kids, for the most part, are great. I pretty much let them do what they want as long as they aren't too loud, and operate under the basic principles that when you grow up it is socially unacceptable to be muddy so have fun now kiddos! I find that I'm not here to be a parent, but more of a mentor giving out some good, general information about life they might not get from their parents or school teachers. However, that does not mean that I'm any good at it. Enter Maxim, age 12:
"Rachel, what is a booty call?"
I choke reflexively, not knowing if I heard him correctly. I look over at Jordan, one of the other teachers, who is wide-eyed and thanking the Gods she was not the one asked.
"Well...errr...Maxim. Well, when two people love each other..."
At that Jordan cracks up laughing and I have to laugh because how am I supposed to explain this?? I have to tell him because if I don't he'll hear it from another kid and will undoubtedly be misinformed. I have to tell him because I used to hate it when people said "I'll tell you when you're older." I have to tell him because it's the right thing to do. And I did.
Maybe I'm cut out for this, maybe not. Patience has been my best friend thus far, and I haven't beaten any of the kids yet so that's a good sign. Although I have come close.
Wandering Downfall
It's 5:00 am and I can't sleep.
Maybe it's because I'm still a bit jetlagged from the 41 straight hours of travel I recently survived. From Auckland to Hong Kong to London to Munich by plane, to a small town called Immenstadt by train and then to a tiny village called Kranzegg by car in the middle of the mountains in southern Germany. Somewhere in between I pulled a classic Rachel move and lost my wallet and a little bit of my heart. The wallet I can find through the airlines, the heart piece I'm pretty sure I left in New Zealand and will be much more difficult to retrieve.
Or maybe I'm awake because my head is flooded with memories from the last month. Pete, Crazy Carl and I left Queenstown at the beginning of July, boosted up to say goodbye to Nelson and my Kiwi family there then headed to the North Island. A few days out and about in Wellington with James and Stina, through Napier to Taupo with it's beautiful lake and hot springs, up to Rotorua which smells like rotten eggs, and west to Raglan, a small hippie community and surfers paradise. (*Note: If I ever dissdisappear the face of the Earth, you can find me in Raglan.) Up through Auckland to Whangarei, Kerikeri, Paihia, Kaitaia and all the way to Cape Reinga, the northernmost point of New Zealand. Back down and around the Coromandel Peninsula for a few days and back to Auckland to pick up my shiny new passport and sell Crazy Carl with a tearful goodbye. Harder still was saying goodbye to Pete at the airport and leaving the land I have grown to love and think of as my home.
Why I tend to leave the people I care about most at airports I will never know. That will be my ultimate downfall, the fact that I have got on every single bus, train and plane I have ever bought a ticket for. How many times should I have stayed? How many happy lives could I have had, if not for this insatiable urge to move, travel and grow? Whether it's a genetic defect or just itchy feet, it drains me physically, mentally and emotionally every single time I go. It's heart-wrenching to know, as I step on the plane, that I might never come back or see those special people who have made me a better person ever again. It's one of many sacrifices I have had to make, again and again, to enjoy the freedoms I enjoy and the life I have chosen to lead. And here I am, staring out the window at the sunny, green countryside of Germany, smiling and looking forward to my next adventure.
Tomorrow I leave to start work as a language assistant in a kids summer camp. I don't have a clue what I'm supposed to do, but that's nothing new is it?
Maybe it's because I'm still a bit jetlagged from the 41 straight hours of travel I recently survived. From Auckland to Hong Kong to London to Munich by plane, to a small town called Immenstadt by train and then to a tiny village called Kranzegg by car in the middle of the mountains in southern Germany. Somewhere in between I pulled a classic Rachel move and lost my wallet and a little bit of my heart. The wallet I can find through the airlines, the heart piece I'm pretty sure I left in New Zealand and will be much more difficult to retrieve.
Or maybe I'm awake because my head is flooded with memories from the last month. Pete, Crazy Carl and I left Queenstown at the beginning of July, boosted up to say goodbye to Nelson and my Kiwi family there then headed to the North Island. A few days out and about in Wellington with James and Stina, through Napier to Taupo with it's beautiful lake and hot springs, up to Rotorua which smells like rotten eggs, and west to Raglan, a small hippie community and surfers paradise. (*Note: If I ever dissdisappear the face of the Earth, you can find me in Raglan.) Up through Auckland to Whangarei, Kerikeri, Paihia, Kaitaia and all the way to Cape Reinga, the northernmost point of New Zealand. Back down and around the Coromandel Peninsula for a few days and back to Auckland to pick up my shiny new passport and sell Crazy Carl with a tearful goodbye. Harder still was saying goodbye to Pete at the airport and leaving the land I have grown to love and think of as my home.
Why I tend to leave the people I care about most at airports I will never know. That will be my ultimate downfall, the fact that I have got on every single bus, train and plane I have ever bought a ticket for. How many times should I have stayed? How many happy lives could I have had, if not for this insatiable urge to move, travel and grow? Whether it's a genetic defect or just itchy feet, it drains me physically, mentally and emotionally every single time I go. It's heart-wrenching to know, as I step on the plane, that I might never come back or see those special people who have made me a better person ever again. It's one of many sacrifices I have had to make, again and again, to enjoy the freedoms I enjoy and the life I have chosen to lead. And here I am, staring out the window at the sunny, green countryside of Germany, smiling and looking forward to my next adventure.
Tomorrow I leave to start work as a language assistant in a kids summer camp. I don't have a clue what I'm supposed to do, but that's nothing new is it?
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Living on the Edge
Like an abusive relationship I get thrown to the ground and get up for more. Telltale signs of beatings surface in the form of bruises on my knees and tailbone area. I avoid questioning as to why my clothes are ripped and torn. Mountain, you are a cruel mistress.
While we're all here, lets take a minute to laugh at the Texan who decided to learn how to snowboard. At first it seemed a good idea, some of my closest friends being snowboard instructors and me living in Queenstown, one of the best places in the world for it. Plus there was the "cool factor." Snowboarders always look so smooth and confident, striding with purpose and so sure of their passion that I wanted to be in their Cool Kid Club. Little did I know the price I would pay for my vanity.
Day one we gather at Zeb and Andys house before going up Coronet Peak, the mountain closest to Queenstown. As preparation for my first lesson, Andy sits me down in front of the TV and I play Shaun White Snowboarding on the XBox for a few minutes. If you don't know who Shaun White is either, don't ask a snowboarder. They will get angry. Up on the mountain which wasn't even open yet, we hike up a bit and Zeb very patiently teaches me the basics of sliding, turning, braking and falling. I am absolute crap but stubborn as hell, so for the next few days we spent our mornings hiking up, boarding down, and hiking back up again. Bruises and pains start to appear, as do the beginnings of addiction. It was then I realized I was in serious trouble, because snowboarding is a seriously expensive addiction.
So far I have been very lucky with gear, or perhaps destiny had taken hold once again. On the mountain I need a set of thermals, a waterproof snowboarding jacket and pants, boots, bindings, board, goggles, gloves, and an assortment of hats, hoodies, scarves, wool socks and hankerchiefs to cover my entire body and shield me from the icy torrent. All of this came to me quite serendipidously through several friends, except the boots which I bought used and cheap. With my first ever collection of winter gear I was ready for the start of the season, or so I thought. While I'm being physically abused by the kiddie slope on the first day on the lifts, Andy breaks his collarbone at the top and is instantly out for six weeks. The reality that I could get seriously injured sets in, and I finish earlier than usual and go over to Pete's house to borrow his BMX helmet which I have been wearing religiously ever since.
I know the helmet kicks my "cool factor" down a few notches, but we all know I'm not cool anyway. The mountain fashion scene is a strage beast and I want no part in it. I am there to snowboard in my secondhand gear and I don't want anyone watching me while I do it, which is exactly the opposite thought of everyone else there. The "snow bunnies" walk around wearing makeup and designer gear that they would ruin if they actually got on the lift, all the guys are wearing oversized, baggy shirts and pants that they're about to trip on, and there's a weird new trend to wear mismatching flourescent outfits that I just don't understand because it looks pretty ridiculous and hurts my eyes. I blame the Australians for that one.
In total I did five days on the lifts (not counting my training days) of Coronet Peak and The Remarkables, another mountain near town. I connect my turns now, I shred, I board on the greens and some blues, and I am so addicted to this crazy sport that I am concerned for my sanity and wellbeing. I have never visualized myself being a mountain person, but two months of boarding and I am beginning to love them. I've started saying weird things like "Epic shred aye bro! Sweet as ride!" whatever that means. The cold is bearable when the sun is shining and the mountain is covered with powder. How snow has the ability to be so soft and so hard at the same time I will never know, but we have made peace and I smile whenever I fall, knowing that the mountain is simply putting me in my place when I get a bit too cocky.
For now, these beginnings will have to do. Today is my last day in Queenstown, and it will be sorely missed. Tomorrow Crazy Carl, Pete and I are driving up to Nelson to say goodbye to the beautiful people I have grown to love there and think of as family. I only have one month left here in New Zealand until they boot me out, so I'm going to check out the North Island before catching my flight to Germany on July 27th, thus starting a new adventure and falling in love with life all over again.
And as Zeb always says: "If you're living on the edge, you're not taking up too much space."
While we're all here, lets take a minute to laugh at the Texan who decided to learn how to snowboard. At first it seemed a good idea, some of my closest friends being snowboard instructors and me living in Queenstown, one of the best places in the world for it. Plus there was the "cool factor." Snowboarders always look so smooth and confident, striding with purpose and so sure of their passion that I wanted to be in their Cool Kid Club. Little did I know the price I would pay for my vanity.
Day one we gather at Zeb and Andys house before going up Coronet Peak, the mountain closest to Queenstown. As preparation for my first lesson, Andy sits me down in front of the TV and I play Shaun White Snowboarding on the XBox for a few minutes. If you don't know who Shaun White is either, don't ask a snowboarder. They will get angry. Up on the mountain which wasn't even open yet, we hike up a bit and Zeb very patiently teaches me the basics of sliding, turning, braking and falling. I am absolute crap but stubborn as hell, so for the next few days we spent our mornings hiking up, boarding down, and hiking back up again. Bruises and pains start to appear, as do the beginnings of addiction. It was then I realized I was in serious trouble, because snowboarding is a seriously expensive addiction.
So far I have been very lucky with gear, or perhaps destiny had taken hold once again. On the mountain I need a set of thermals, a waterproof snowboarding jacket and pants, boots, bindings, board, goggles, gloves, and an assortment of hats, hoodies, scarves, wool socks and hankerchiefs to cover my entire body and shield me from the icy torrent. All of this came to me quite serendipidously through several friends, except the boots which I bought used and cheap. With my first ever collection of winter gear I was ready for the start of the season, or so I thought. While I'm being physically abused by the kiddie slope on the first day on the lifts, Andy breaks his collarbone at the top and is instantly out for six weeks. The reality that I could get seriously injured sets in, and I finish earlier than usual and go over to Pete's house to borrow his BMX helmet which I have been wearing religiously ever since.
I know the helmet kicks my "cool factor" down a few notches, but we all know I'm not cool anyway. The mountain fashion scene is a strage beast and I want no part in it. I am there to snowboard in my secondhand gear and I don't want anyone watching me while I do it, which is exactly the opposite thought of everyone else there. The "snow bunnies" walk around wearing makeup and designer gear that they would ruin if they actually got on the lift, all the guys are wearing oversized, baggy shirts and pants that they're about to trip on, and there's a weird new trend to wear mismatching flourescent outfits that I just don't understand because it looks pretty ridiculous and hurts my eyes. I blame the Australians for that one.
In total I did five days on the lifts (not counting my training days) of Coronet Peak and The Remarkables, another mountain near town. I connect my turns now, I shred, I board on the greens and some blues, and I am so addicted to this crazy sport that I am concerned for my sanity and wellbeing. I have never visualized myself being a mountain person, but two months of boarding and I am beginning to love them. I've started saying weird things like "Epic shred aye bro! Sweet as ride!" whatever that means. The cold is bearable when the sun is shining and the mountain is covered with powder. How snow has the ability to be so soft and so hard at the same time I will never know, but we have made peace and I smile whenever I fall, knowing that the mountain is simply putting me in my place when I get a bit too cocky.
For now, these beginnings will have to do. Today is my last day in Queenstown, and it will be sorely missed. Tomorrow Crazy Carl, Pete and I are driving up to Nelson to say goodbye to the beautiful people I have grown to love there and think of as family. I only have one month left here in New Zealand until they boot me out, so I'm going to check out the North Island before catching my flight to Germany on July 27th, thus starting a new adventure and falling in love with life all over again.
And as Zeb always says: "If you're living on the edge, you're not taking up too much space."
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
How 'bout them apples!
It's not easy to admit when an apple gets the better of you. There I am, standing at the top of my ladder frustrated, exhausted, and trying to reach the last, highest apple I'll pick that day. I swear loudly, tug at it roughly and as it falls into my hand the branch which no longer has the weight of the apple holding it down rears back and slaps me fully across the face. Never again will I speak harshly to a piece of fruit, because I think it heard me.
This has been a week filled with first-time experiences for me. First time to do a full day of manual work. First time to talk to an apple. First time to get my arse kicked by a tree. Not that I have problems with manual labor, or conversations with fruit for that matter, I've just chosen occupations where daily injuries are usually at a minimum level. My body is not used to such treatment: I am battered and bruised, my back and shoulders are constantly sore, my hands look like they're about to fall off, my feet are falling off, and I'm having a surprisingly good time.
Every day this past week I've been up by six in the morning, which is easy to do when you're in bed by eight every night. As the sun rises, I drive to the orchard and soak up the beauty of the morning. I'm currently living in Marahau, a small community of about two hundred hippies living on the edge of the Abel Tasman National Park. Marahau consists of two streets, a kayak tour company, a bar, and the most stunning scenery that always manages to take my breath away. From there Carl and I drive over the hill to Riwaka, an even smaller "town" where the apples are waiting to be picked. Our crew consists of Neil, our Scottish foreman and a motley crew from Sweden, Germany, Brazil, Argentina, Chile, America and New Zealand. After general morning pleasantries I pop in my earphones, put my apple basket over my head and shoulders and head off to my row for the day.
Once I got over the pure exhaustion of the first few days, I realize how much I like apple picking. I show up and leave when I want, I get to be outside all day, I can listen to my music or chat to the other pickers, and I decide how much I'll make that day based on how hard I work. Sure picking apples can be menial and tedious, but I find that every day is different and full of challenges. Plus the sheer volume keeps it interesting. We get paid per bin, which is a giant wooden crate that must be filled to the brim. I can fit about one hundred apples in my bag, and each bin takes about twenty five bags. If I finish four bins that means I picked roughy ten thousand apples that day, which might explain why I've gone a bit loopy and entered into polite conversation with an inanimate object.
What amazes me even more is that I've never put much thought into where apples come from. As if they magically appear in the large bin in the supermarket, perfectly round and red, I have never really wondered who picked the fruit and vegetables I buy at the store. Who worked six days a week for minimum wage in rain or shine to bring me this crisp, delightful apple? And for that matter who milked the cow and harvested the coffee beans for my coffee? Who slaved in the paddies to bring me rice to accompany my vegetables bought at the market? Next time you go grocery shopping have a look where everything was from, and maybe offer up a small prayer of appreciation to the Gods that you were born on the receiving end of things, that you were born in a country of priviledge, and that you have the luxury to take these seemingly small things for granted. And if there are New Zealand apples there, I humbly ask that you offer up a smile for me and buy the Fugi, not the Braeburns, because I'll get paid more.
Zen and the Art of Van Maintenance
About a week ago I was having a little lie down and thinking about life. About how knowledge comes and goes, how some of it comes naturally and logically, while some comes through study or instruction. This may not seem like an odd moment, in fact it would have been quite normal had I not been lying under my van covered in grease with a mechanics jumper on.
Carl was sick and I couldn't help him. My basic car maintenance knowledge didn't help much because he has gas, oil and water and didn't need a tire change. I was in way over my head. Even more scary was the prospect of having to go to a mechanic where I would undoubtedly be overcharged for a minor problem and join the mass of suckers helping to pay off his holiday home. Stress found its way and snuggled up under my shoulder blade. Helplessness washed over me.
For travelers there is an ever-present awareness of being overcharged. I accept my fate in the face of poverty, or if I just can't be bothered, but usually a small amount of effort wields great results and is nicer to my wallet. In Viet Nam, for example, they are much more willing to negotiate extortionate prices if you can haggle in their numbers, so all I had to do was learn a few words to better my situation, my purse and make a Vietnamese person crack up laughing all at once! So I set about the task of speaking the language of mechanics, hoping it would help me out. After all, communication is all we have to bring this whole crazy world together.
My friend Rowan used to study auto electrician stuff so I dragged Carl over to his place for help. He said he would help and teach me if I actually paid attention, which is fair. We started by cleaning all of my spark plugs, thinking it was an electrical problem. I learned that Carl has four cylinders and eight spark plugs, which are all hard to get out, clean, and get back in. I learned that the distributor distributes electric spark from the coil to each spark plug in correct firing order. I learned that the carburetor blends an even air-fuel ratio for the engine. I learned that brake fluid is very important and that I should fill mine soon. I learned how to put my bumper back on.
After this exciting adventure in auto maintenance Carl drove for two whole days. Then the problems started again and Rowan calls back to say he is out of town but maybe it's the fuel pump. Stress ball back. Sensations of being overwhelmed flooding back. There is a mechanic a few streets away so Carl and I crawl down there and miraculously make it, and I drop every word I have just learned from Rowan so as to be only minimally taken advantage of. Tony the mechanic thinks it might be the disgusting fuel filter. I learn about fuel filters, go and buy a new one myself and we put it in together. Tony only charges me twenty bucks on account that I am an apt pupil.
Carl runs smoothly for a week, then dies again. I rip all of my hair out. My German hitchhiker Stephan and I push him to the nearest mechanic and I explain my woes. The three of us take the whole front of the van apart to check out the fuel pump. I am getting very greasy so I go put on a mechanics jumper I happen to have in the van, a lasting relic of the Wild Foods Festival. Graham the mechanic cracks up laughing and finally we are speaking the same language. I learned that there are manual and electric fuel pumps. I learned that there are external pumps and internal pumps. Mine is located internally within my fuel tank, and that I how I came to be lying down covered in grease thinking about all of my new-found knowledge while taking out my fuel tank, which is massive and very, very heavy. .
Now we get down to the real questions like why am I only learning this now after twenty-four years of life? Maybe it's the first time I've wanted to learn, but most likely it's because every other time I've had car problems I just call my Dad and he uses his magic Dad Powers to fix it! Good car care doesn't seem like the most popular information to pass from father to daughter, but hell, it's important.
Fathers of the World: Please teach your daughters about cars. Someday you might not be there to save the day and they will have to do it themselves.
To be honest, this has been one of the best adventures yet. I spent a month driving all over the South Island of New Zealand. (**Click on the link below to follow on the map) From Nelson I went up into Golden Bay to visit friends in Takaka. Then I picked up my friend Pernilla and we drove down the west coast, through Westport, to Barrytown, population 37, with one street, one beach, and one bar. If sand flies were angels, the west coast would be heaven....stunning and itchy. Heading south we drove through Greymouth to Hokitika for the Wild Foods Festival which should be listed as one of the 100 Things To Do Before You Die type thing. Everyone goes in a costume (enter Pernilla's mechanic jumpsuit) and eats weird food and drinks weird local beer and drinks. Don't try the Mountain Oysters (ie goat testicles). From there Pernilla went back to Nelson and I headed further south with Paul from Germany and Chris from Oregon. Interesting story about Chris, we met two years in a hostel in Panama. He recognized me from across a parking lot! This is a small, small world. So we went down to Franz Josef and Fox Glaciers for some hiking, then down to Wanaka and over to Queenstown. There we seperated and I went to stay with Zeb, one of the "family" from Nelson. He's a white water raft guide, and he took me along for a day of amazing rafting, which I found out I'm really bad at. I stayed in Q-town a lot longer than expected, but finally escaped to Dunedin, only to be reunited with Paul and another guy from the festival named Ben. There three of us went all the way to the southernmost tip of the south island in an area called the Catlins. Imagine waking up on a perfect, deserted beach next to a group of sea lions, seals, penguins, dolphins or albatross and you might have an inkling of what we saw. Three days down there in paradise, then I dropped the boys off in Dunedin and rocketed up the east coast through Oamaru, Timaru, a night in Christchurch where I finally found a Vietnamese food restaurant where I could order my food in Vietnamese to a very stunned waiter. One day in Akaroa to see Hector dolphins, the smallest, rarest dolphins in the world, then up through Kaikoura where you can see seals sunning on the side of the coastal highway, and back to Nelson for the goodbye party of my darling Mishaela that I promised I'd be at. And here I am.
Quite an adventure for Carl and I, plus a couple thousand kilometers. I'm hardly surprised he needed a new fuel pump after all that! Currently I'm working at an orchard picking apples, but that is a different story entirely. To be continued...
Monday, March 8, 2010
Flying High
As I got to the door I was physically shaking with fear and regret. The ride had been beautiful, but I was now starting to question my motives and my sanity. Legs out the door, the wind slaps me in the face. I blew a kiss to the camera, waved "Hi Mom!" and was pushed out of a plane traveling at an altitude of 12,000 feet. I free fell 8,000 feet in fifty seconds. That's a mile and a half. That's a football field every two seconds.
The first few seconds were the worst. My body was not accepting my new environment and was rebelling. I felt twisted inside out, could not comprehend the meaning of my surroundings, could not scream as my mouth filled with rushing air. James tapped me on the shoulder. My logical brain said that meant to let go of the harness I was gripping with Hulk-like strength. I freed my hands, spread out my arms and with a jolt of clarity I was on top of the world looking down at its most breathtaking scene. It was the most amazing feeling I have ever felt, and my only regret is that it might be a while before I reach it again. I was flying.
The beginning of this story really starts about an hour before I was pushed out of the plane. I have been visiting friends in Motueka and Kaiteriteri for the last few days, relaxing and swimming at the beach, socializing in the evenings when they finished work. My friend Dan came down from Takaka to do his skydiving course and I decided to leave the beach to go watch. The wide-eyed expression of pure bliss as he came down from his first jump of the day made me start to question my staunch policy on not jumping out of planes.The first twenty times I said "No!" I truly, truly meant them, yet he slowly and stealthily convinced me to go on the next jump with him anyway. Something in his smirk did the trick, something in his eyes that said "I know something you don't," and from that moment I was hooked. I've written before about Fear vs. Curiosity, and how my damned Curiosity always gets the better of me. There's just no fighting that pushy, stubborn, ever-present need to experience and grow, even if I have to plummet to my death to find out.
I've always considered myself somewhat of a pansy, except for the tattoo thing, so this definitely rates high on my Weird-o-meter, right up there with hiking up an active volcano in Guatemala wearing only flip flops as protection from the lava, the first time I ever went scuba diving and realized I could breathe under water, and riding a giant dirtbike through the mountains of Northern Viet Nam.Whether it was the bravest thing I have ever done, or the stupidest, I'm not sure. Random acts of spontaneity has always been my blessing and my curse, but I am glad for my moment in the clouds. I guess now all that's left is the age-old conundrum...What's next?
Rachel
(and Crazy Carl)
Monday, March 1, 2010
Crazy Carl
I'm so in love. Not this puppy love nonsense, but that blissfully painful, butterflies-in-stomach, head over heels love. He's tall, dark and handsome. He's big and strong. I can snuggle up with him and feel safe at night. I've spent a lot of money on him, he loves a good oil down, and he doesn't mind if I drive. He's nineteen years old. His name is Carl. Crazy Carl. He's my new van.
I think I've graduated to the next level of my nomadic destiny and now live in a van. Carl is a '91 Nissan Largo, the seats fold down to make a bed and I'm dressing him up for the long haul through New Zealand. Actually I'm turning into one of those crazy ladies that scavengers through the recycling center (aka dump) muttering and trying to find cheap crap to kit out my van to make it liveable. I got into a fight with an elderly lady over a set of drawers yesterday, but screaming "I seen 'em first!" in a crazy Texas accent drove her away, which I will need to keep in mind. I'm currently on the hunt for a mattress and when I find the right one I hope to God there's no old lady there because I will take her ass out. All this erratic behavoir stems from February 11th, exactly six months to the day I have been in New Zealand. Something about that day was different, so I quit both of my jobs, got a massive tattoo on my left leg and bought a van. Slightly different to my three month anniversary when I went and purchased clothes hangers, something I don't think I've ever done before either.
That was when the wind changed. The wind. The dreaded, uprooting, chaotic, wind. When it changes there is nothing I can do except bow to its force and blow along with it. Fighting it is futile. It knows no comfort, warmth, logic or boundaries. It promises adventure, excitement, and thrill of the unknown. For those of us who chose to follow the wind, pity us and envy us. We own nothing and have everything. I feel comfortable with this lifestyle choice of mine and have embraced van-life with open arms, hoping it will embrace me too.
I walked into the bar to give my two weeks notice. Of course some sort of explanation is usually needed, but I was met with blank, confused faces when I simply replied, "the wind changed." So I launched into my "This Is The Longest I've Stayed Anywhere Ever And Now It's Time To Go" speech. Logic strikes again! I stroll over to the yoga studio and turn in my two weeks notice. "The winds changed." Knowing eyes and head nods give their approval and their blessing for my upcoming journey.
People keep asking me when and where I am going. North? South? East? West? I smile, shrug, and am happy. Blissfully happy. I don't know where I'm going, I only know where I have been. Probably I'm headed to a beach. "But what will you do??!?," they ask, stunned. I will do nothing, and I will be content. Who said you always have to do something? Doing nothing is one of my favorite things, and I'm getting very good at it. I've successfully shocked half the population of Nelson, which isn't saying much because it's such a small town. People I haven't seen in ages or hardly knew are showing up at my work to say goodbye, so apparently word has spread. I've tried talking a few friends into coming with me but to little or no avail, as per usual. It's ok though, because now that Carl and I have found each other it might get a little awkward with a third wheel.
I'll be kicking around Nelson for a few more days trying to sort out my life which never works no matter how many times I try. The amount of times I have uprooted from a place I am comfortable in does not matter, it is always hard. It is always scary. Being ok with uncertainty is the only way to get by, and I know that one day in the very near future, I will wake up, hop into the front seat and drive away, leaving friends and family that I dearly love but knowing that it is for the best.
"In the wake of your goodbye I linger,
Clinging to what might have been,
As the sun shines through the cold the truth come windward fold,
Let yourself start all over again.
In the wake of your goodbye I linger,
Reaching with my heart and soul,
But the shines through the cold and the truth come windward fold.
Don't let yourself.
Don't forget yourself.
Got to know what you're running from before you know where you running to,
What you leave behind.
I'll be gone when the morning comes,
Sun gonna paint a view,
Colors in your life."
-Big BW, Fat Freddy's Drop
I think I've graduated to the next level of my nomadic destiny and now live in a van. Carl is a '91 Nissan Largo, the seats fold down to make a bed and I'm dressing him up for the long haul through New Zealand. Actually I'm turning into one of those crazy ladies that scavengers through the recycling center (aka dump) muttering and trying to find cheap crap to kit out my van to make it liveable. I got into a fight with an elderly lady over a set of drawers yesterday, but screaming "I seen 'em first!" in a crazy Texas accent drove her away, which I will need to keep in mind. I'm currently on the hunt for a mattress and when I find the right one I hope to God there's no old lady there because I will take her ass out. All this erratic behavoir stems from February 11th, exactly six months to the day I have been in New Zealand. Something about that day was different, so I quit both of my jobs, got a massive tattoo on my left leg and bought a van. Slightly different to my three month anniversary when I went and purchased clothes hangers, something I don't think I've ever done before either.
That was when the wind changed. The wind. The dreaded, uprooting, chaotic, wind. When it changes there is nothing I can do except bow to its force and blow along with it. Fighting it is futile. It knows no comfort, warmth, logic or boundaries. It promises adventure, excitement, and thrill of the unknown. For those of us who chose to follow the wind, pity us and envy us. We own nothing and have everything. I feel comfortable with this lifestyle choice of mine and have embraced van-life with open arms, hoping it will embrace me too.
I walked into the bar to give my two weeks notice. Of course some sort of explanation is usually needed, but I was met with blank, confused faces when I simply replied, "the wind changed." So I launched into my "This Is The Longest I've Stayed Anywhere Ever And Now It's Time To Go" speech. Logic strikes again! I stroll over to the yoga studio and turn in my two weeks notice. "The winds changed." Knowing eyes and head nods give their approval and their blessing for my upcoming journey.
People keep asking me when and where I am going. North? South? East? West? I smile, shrug, and am happy. Blissfully happy. I don't know where I'm going, I only know where I have been. Probably I'm headed to a beach. "But what will you do??!?," they ask, stunned. I will do nothing, and I will be content. Who said you always have to do something? Doing nothing is one of my favorite things, and I'm getting very good at it. I've successfully shocked half the population of Nelson, which isn't saying much because it's such a small town. People I haven't seen in ages or hardly knew are showing up at my work to say goodbye, so apparently word has spread. I've tried talking a few friends into coming with me but to little or no avail, as per usual. It's ok though, because now that Carl and I have found each other it might get a little awkward with a third wheel.
I'll be kicking around Nelson for a few more days trying to sort out my life which never works no matter how many times I try. The amount of times I have uprooted from a place I am comfortable in does not matter, it is always hard. It is always scary. Being ok with uncertainty is the only way to get by, and I know that one day in the very near future, I will wake up, hop into the front seat and drive away, leaving friends and family that I dearly love but knowing that it is for the best.
"In the wake of your goodbye I linger,
Clinging to what might have been,
As the sun shines through the cold the truth come windward fold,
Let yourself start all over again.
In the wake of your goodbye I linger,
Reaching with my heart and soul,
But the shines through the cold and the truth come windward fold.
Don't let yourself.
Don't forget yourself.
Got to know what you're running from before you know where you running to,
What you leave behind.
I'll be gone when the morning comes,
Sun gonna paint a view,
Colors in your life."
-Big BW, Fat Freddy's Drop
Happy Jamming
As the new year has come and gone, I find myself looking back on a prosperous 2009 and the promising future of 2010. I feel that my experiences around New Years Eve and New Years Day tend to set the theme for my upcoming year. Last year, for example, my brother Sam and I were cruising the beaches of southern Thailand by day, taking full advantage of the nightlife and kicked off the New Year in Ko Pha Ngan up "The Mountain" at one of the biggest parties in the world. Looking back, this has definitely been a wild year.
The last five months in New Zealand have been a gift and a half. The one thing I wish I could share the most with each and every one of you is the music that comes from these small but vibrant islands. My favorite band, Fat Freddys Drop, played on New Years Eve and I have absolutely no idea how I got the 31st and the 1st off work bartending at a busy bar, so I'll just chalk it up to divine intervention. In the afternoon I took off with Ryan and Kendall out to Marahau to swim in the sea, hike around the Abel Tasman National park and relax on the beach. Then we drove back a small ways to Riwaka, population 108, to see the show at the infamous Riwaka Hotel.
Two thousand people crowded into a tent for the show; it was maddness. I started up at the front of the stage but there were just too many people pushing to see that I bailed out the side for cover and a space to dance. The show was amazing, although not what I thought it would be. At most concerts you go to these days the band gets up, sings their CD and that's that. Fat Freddy's got up and just started jamming with every instrument I could think of. They are not a pump-your-fist-in-the-air-and-dance-wildly band, they are reggae, jazz, blues, funk, and soul. So instead of the maddness of years past, I sauntered slowly into the New Year with 2,000 other calm, dancing souls. Surrounded by so many of my friends, it was a magical evening indeed. I decided then and there that the theme of the 2010 would be Grace. Lord knows I need some.
Fat Freddys Drop, Roadie: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=29MgzHUhHws
We all made it back to Ryan's stationwagon in one piece and the three of us tried to sleep there for the night without much luck, along with numerous other stationwagons, vans, tents, and a boat coincidentally named Grace, alongside the highway. The night was cold and the morning was baking hot, in true New Zealand style weather. We packed up early and skipped into Motueka for some breakfast then headed back to Nelson. Ryan and I dropped Kendall off and then proceeded to Part 2 of our New Year adventure. It took two hours to reach the tiny town of Inangahua, located precisely in the middle of nowhere in the mountains. Inangahua means 'whitebait' in Maori, and if your eyes are wandering you'll miss the town entirely. If you're eyes are peeled for a massive 4-day drum and bass festival, you'll see the little sign and turn left down the dirt road.
The Phat Club in Nelson town is the place to go see some great music. It's small, you always have a good view and some dancing space, plus the doorguy Paddy is a good mate of mine so I usually get to skip in for free. Every year the owners put on a festival in the mountains and name it after the upcoming year, hence the name Phat 10. Tickets are $250 dollars, bring your tent or a van to sleep in, food for 4-5 days and enough clothing for intense heat, freezing cold, rain, mud and wind. As usual I was ridiculously unprepared. Since we showed up on the last day of the festival Paddy put my name on the guest list and we breezed in for free, sleep-deprived, exhausted and ready to dance. In about five minutes I found everyone I knew, including Paddy who was doing security at the bar and looked a bit rough, seeing as how he hadn't slept in three days. Beer in hand, sun shining, I run into Pernilla, my crazy Swedish friend, as the melodious voices of the Black Seeds fill the air. It couldn't have been a more perfect moment.
Black Seeds, So True: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDyUcmoIkl0
I've seen the Black Seeds three times, and they are spot on every time. Why miss good reggae when it's coming to you? After Black Seeds was Tiki Taane, former lead singer of Salmonella Dub, and then Kora, a group of brothers that only get together occasionally to play some wicked reggae and dub-step. They are absolutely amazing and were my favorite show of the day. After the reggae and dub-step the festival kicked up a notch with Drum-n-Bass!!! Lineup for the rest of the evening and into the morning was Dose, Bulletprookf with MC Tek, State of Mind with MC Woody, Concord Dawn, Klute...and then my memory goes a bit hazy. Pernilla and I had stuck together and danced almost ten hours when the freezing rain came down. I was barefoot.
Tiki, Faded: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=74Q-oAar5DY
Kora, Burning: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qkRKbdUyvqo
I need to say a few things about D&B music. I didn't really ever like it until I hit New Zealand. I called it 'Angry Music'. There is something about it though, something expressive in the random sounds and how they fit together, a heavy bassline or a good break beat. What I really like though, is how you dance to it. There is a freedom moving on your own, not needing or wanting a partner. In moving the way your body sees fit to move at that moment, in the way there is no judgement, the music flows through you. If you want to pump your fist in the air, do it. If you want to dance around like a chimpanze, sweet as. If all you can manage is a worm-like finger roll, that's also ok. If you stumble or fall, all is good because now you have a new dance move. I was covered in mud, wet from the rain, sweating from the dancing and happy as ever, although I feel my Grace had gone right out the window by that point. I'm surprisingly ok with that. Have a wee listen to the music, keep an open mind and remember that it is now 2010 and that music will transform and grow as we do.
Concord Dawn, Morning Light: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_TW__7lqo2E
State of Mind, Sun King: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=imp0BqHBxyQ
After we could no longer stand we retreated to the bonfire to sit down, but decided sanctuary would be back at the tent, where we could still hear the music until nine a.m. I got a few hours of sleep, finally, and then Ryan showed up in the morning after crashing in his mate's tent. We left before the crowds and got back home to Nelson a few hours later. My bed has never felt so soft, nor my shower so warm. After a solid week of work we had another day of music last saturday, another Phat Club production called Summer Six. The lineup was Optimus Gryme, a dub-step DJ, Nathan Haines, mostly instrumental folk-type music, P-Money, a hip hop artist, Black Seeds, woohoo!!!, Katchafire, one of my all-time favorite bands and excellent reggae music plus I have a ridiculous crush on the lead singer, and Concord Dawn, again woohoo!!! After eight hours of dancing in the intense NZ sun I was exhausted and half-dead once more. It's these shows, this music that makes my time here amazing. Nelson would be just a little town if it weren't for the music that came here and the sun that shines. Such a perfect place for me. Here's some more music, all of it from New Zealand. I hope you take some time and listen to the samples, and maybe some more after that. If we cannot share music then we cannot grow, so I'm passing on what others have passed to me, knowing that it will do you a world of good.
Katchafire, Who You With: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nf9TJ9K6I9Q
Shapeshifter, Long White Cloud: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHnMcRUQP7U
Salmonella Dub, Love Your Ways: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EntFU6BWkro Push On Thru: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHYIHqSq4JQ
Happy jamming in the New Year
The last five months in New Zealand have been a gift and a half. The one thing I wish I could share the most with each and every one of you is the music that comes from these small but vibrant islands. My favorite band, Fat Freddys Drop, played on New Years Eve and I have absolutely no idea how I got the 31st and the 1st off work bartending at a busy bar, so I'll just chalk it up to divine intervention. In the afternoon I took off with Ryan and Kendall out to Marahau to swim in the sea, hike around the Abel Tasman National park and relax on the beach. Then we drove back a small ways to Riwaka, population 108, to see the show at the infamous Riwaka Hotel.
Two thousand people crowded into a tent for the show; it was maddness. I started up at the front of the stage but there were just too many people pushing to see that I bailed out the side for cover and a space to dance. The show was amazing, although not what I thought it would be. At most concerts you go to these days the band gets up, sings their CD and that's that. Fat Freddy's got up and just started jamming with every instrument I could think of. They are not a pump-your-fist-in-the-air-and-dance-wildly band, they are reggae, jazz, blues, funk, and soul. So instead of the maddness of years past, I sauntered slowly into the New Year with 2,000 other calm, dancing souls. Surrounded by so many of my friends, it was a magical evening indeed. I decided then and there that the theme of the 2010 would be Grace. Lord knows I need some.
Fat Freddys Drop, Roadie: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=29MgzHUhHws
We all made it back to Ryan's stationwagon in one piece and the three of us tried to sleep there for the night without much luck, along with numerous other stationwagons, vans, tents, and a boat coincidentally named Grace, alongside the highway. The night was cold and the morning was baking hot, in true New Zealand style weather. We packed up early and skipped into Motueka for some breakfast then headed back to Nelson. Ryan and I dropped Kendall off and then proceeded to Part 2 of our New Year adventure. It took two hours to reach the tiny town of Inangahua, located precisely in the middle of nowhere in the mountains. Inangahua means 'whitebait' in Maori, and if your eyes are wandering you'll miss the town entirely. If you're eyes are peeled for a massive 4-day drum and bass festival, you'll see the little sign and turn left down the dirt road.
The Phat Club in Nelson town is the place to go see some great music. It's small, you always have a good view and some dancing space, plus the doorguy Paddy is a good mate of mine so I usually get to skip in for free. Every year the owners put on a festival in the mountains and name it after the upcoming year, hence the name Phat 10. Tickets are $250 dollars, bring your tent or a van to sleep in, food for 4-5 days and enough clothing for intense heat, freezing cold, rain, mud and wind. As usual I was ridiculously unprepared. Since we showed up on the last day of the festival Paddy put my name on the guest list and we breezed in for free, sleep-deprived, exhausted and ready to dance. In about five minutes I found everyone I knew, including Paddy who was doing security at the bar and looked a bit rough, seeing as how he hadn't slept in three days. Beer in hand, sun shining, I run into Pernilla, my crazy Swedish friend, as the melodious voices of the Black Seeds fill the air. It couldn't have been a more perfect moment.
Black Seeds, So True: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDyUcmoIkl0
I've seen the Black Seeds three times, and they are spot on every time. Why miss good reggae when it's coming to you? After Black Seeds was Tiki Taane, former lead singer of Salmonella Dub, and then Kora, a group of brothers that only get together occasionally to play some wicked reggae and dub-step. They are absolutely amazing and were my favorite show of the day. After the reggae and dub-step the festival kicked up a notch with Drum-n-Bass!!! Lineup for the rest of the evening and into the morning was Dose, Bulletprookf with MC Tek, State of Mind with MC Woody, Concord Dawn, Klute...and then my memory goes a bit hazy. Pernilla and I had stuck together and danced almost ten hours when the freezing rain came down. I was barefoot.
Tiki, Faded: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=74Q-oAar5DY
Kora, Burning: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qkRKbdUyvqo
I need to say a few things about D&B music. I didn't really ever like it until I hit New Zealand. I called it 'Angry Music'. There is something about it though, something expressive in the random sounds and how they fit together, a heavy bassline or a good break beat. What I really like though, is how you dance to it. There is a freedom moving on your own, not needing or wanting a partner. In moving the way your body sees fit to move at that moment, in the way there is no judgement, the music flows through you. If you want to pump your fist in the air, do it. If you want to dance around like a chimpanze, sweet as. If all you can manage is a worm-like finger roll, that's also ok. If you stumble or fall, all is good because now you have a new dance move. I was covered in mud, wet from the rain, sweating from the dancing and happy as ever, although I feel my Grace had gone right out the window by that point. I'm surprisingly ok with that. Have a wee listen to the music, keep an open mind and remember that it is now 2010 and that music will transform and grow as we do.
Concord Dawn, Morning Light: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_TW__7lqo2E
State of Mind, Sun King: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=imp0BqHBxyQ
After we could no longer stand we retreated to the bonfire to sit down, but decided sanctuary would be back at the tent, where we could still hear the music until nine a.m. I got a few hours of sleep, finally, and then Ryan showed up in the morning after crashing in his mate's tent. We left before the crowds and got back home to Nelson a few hours later. My bed has never felt so soft, nor my shower so warm. After a solid week of work we had another day of music last saturday, another Phat Club production called Summer Six. The lineup was Optimus Gryme, a dub-step DJ, Nathan Haines, mostly instrumental folk-type music, P-Money, a hip hop artist, Black Seeds, woohoo!!!, Katchafire, one of my all-time favorite bands and excellent reggae music plus I have a ridiculous crush on the lead singer, and Concord Dawn, again woohoo!!! After eight hours of dancing in the intense NZ sun I was exhausted and half-dead once more. It's these shows, this music that makes my time here amazing. Nelson would be just a little town if it weren't for the music that came here and the sun that shines. Such a perfect place for me. Here's some more music, all of it from New Zealand. I hope you take some time and listen to the samples, and maybe some more after that. If we cannot share music then we cannot grow, so I'm passing on what others have passed to me, knowing that it will do you a world of good.
Katchafire, Who You With: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nf9TJ9K6I9Q
Shapeshifter, Long White Cloud: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHnMcRUQP7U
Salmonella Dub, Love Your Ways: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EntFU6BWkro Push On Thru: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHYIHqSq4JQ
Happy jamming in the New Year
Children vs. Hangovers
Life has taken me through many twists and turns these last four months spent in New Zealand. Not that I was expecting anything different, just that being a total workaholic and constantly surrounded by children never seemed like a viable reality for me to take part of. Yet here I am. Today is my first full day off in three and a half weeks, in which I have been working sixty-odd hours per week at my three jobs. In the mornings I wake up around 7:00 and bicycle to school and teach/ mentor teenagers with some severe issues. Although stressful, physically and emotionally draining, it's the little things that make the job worth it. A kid finishing the program and going up in the world, a kid passing a drug test, a heartfelt conversation or a hug make all the difference in the world. Today is the first day of summer holidays, so although I will miss them I am very grateful for six weeks off. School finishes in the afternoon then I'm off to the pub I bartend in downtown, unless I have a massage client booked at the yoga studio I also work for. The Vic Brewbar is where I have spent most evenings working this past month. The reason I went to apply for a job there was because in giant letters on the wall is painted
"If we're really nice to Mother Nature, she'll make us some beer."
How perfect is that?? Macs beer is a local beer, made all naturally with the goodness the Earth provides. I love it, and it's a great place to work. So from there I'm usually biking home around 11-12 at night and then I get up at 7:00 a.m. again and do it all over. I don't usually have to get up at seven, I get woken up by Ryan who is accompanying an Alvin and the Chipmunks sing-along on his harmonica.
Living with children, working with children, then coming home to children again has been a challenging few months here in Nelson, New Zealand. I wake up to the melodious sounds of Ryan, age five, stomping around the house singing and Lilly, age 0.11, gleefully scooting about with a squished banana in hand and playing with her train that sings "I've been working on the railroad" once every forty seconds. The little innocents squwak about with smiles on their faces as Rebecca and I slump on the couch, third cup of coffee in hand, heads pounding and exhausted.
Let me rephrase, I'm slumped on the couch overwhelmed, Rebecca is Super Mom. Living here has been such a learning experience for me, and filled with so many pleasures I didn't know existed. Watching Ryan learn how to read and helping him learn, watching his mind expand when you teach him new things is pretty awesome. Once I asked him what he thought the meaning of life is. He sat down and had a good long think before coming back to tell me that The Meaning Of Life Is To Play With Toys. Correct, indeed. Watching Lilly go from scooting herself around silently to now pulling herself to standing and learning how to talk in only three months is almost like a miracle. She is my little ray of sunshine, my fairy princess, and more flexible than a yogi master. She is always happy, always smiling, always wanting to play, dance and clap, and is a total thrill junky. She wants to swing higher and faster, loves being upside down and giggles the whole way through. She's going to be a skydiving yoga instructor. So funny that a year ago I was cringing at the sight of babies. Maybe it's something in the water here. Maybe I'm growing up.
The only negative thing I can say is that children have no respect for a hangover and they should teach silence in schools.
Summer is coming to Nelson, and with it all the festivals and live music I could ever want. I take my hat off to New Zealand musicians, you are all amazing. My relationship ended three months ago and the music has helped me to get back on my feet again. Talk about learning curves, love is something they should teach in schools as well. I have somehow survived my first Round boxing with love, picked myself up off the mat and know that Round Two will come when it comes, and perhaps I will be a bit wiser the next time. In the meantime, I will continue to dance, work, play with my kids and love my life. The Music Gods have blessed me with tickets to see Fat Freddys Drop on New Years Eve and I cannot ask for more.
Happy Holidays to you all, may the sun shine for you Christmas Day, and may the moon never fade on New Years Eve night.
"If we're really nice to Mother Nature, she'll make us some beer."
How perfect is that?? Macs beer is a local beer, made all naturally with the goodness the Earth provides. I love it, and it's a great place to work. So from there I'm usually biking home around 11-12 at night and then I get up at 7:00 a.m. again and do it all over. I don't usually have to get up at seven, I get woken up by Ryan who is accompanying an Alvin and the Chipmunks sing-along on his harmonica.
Living with children, working with children, then coming home to children again has been a challenging few months here in Nelson, New Zealand. I wake up to the melodious sounds of Ryan, age five, stomping around the house singing and Lilly, age 0.11, gleefully scooting about with a squished banana in hand and playing with her train that sings "I've been working on the railroad" once every forty seconds. The little innocents squwak about with smiles on their faces as Rebecca and I slump on the couch, third cup of coffee in hand, heads pounding and exhausted.
Let me rephrase, I'm slumped on the couch overwhelmed, Rebecca is Super Mom. Living here has been such a learning experience for me, and filled with so many pleasures I didn't know existed. Watching Ryan learn how to read and helping him learn, watching his mind expand when you teach him new things is pretty awesome. Once I asked him what he thought the meaning of life is. He sat down and had a good long think before coming back to tell me that The Meaning Of Life Is To Play With Toys. Correct, indeed. Watching Lilly go from scooting herself around silently to now pulling herself to standing and learning how to talk in only three months is almost like a miracle. She is my little ray of sunshine, my fairy princess, and more flexible than a yogi master. She is always happy, always smiling, always wanting to play, dance and clap, and is a total thrill junky. She wants to swing higher and faster, loves being upside down and giggles the whole way through. She's going to be a skydiving yoga instructor. So funny that a year ago I was cringing at the sight of babies. Maybe it's something in the water here. Maybe I'm growing up.
The only negative thing I can say is that children have no respect for a hangover and they should teach silence in schools.
Summer is coming to Nelson, and with it all the festivals and live music I could ever want. I take my hat off to New Zealand musicians, you are all amazing. My relationship ended three months ago and the music has helped me to get back on my feet again. Talk about learning curves, love is something they should teach in schools as well. I have somehow survived my first Round boxing with love, picked myself up off the mat and know that Round Two will come when it comes, and perhaps I will be a bit wiser the next time. In the meantime, I will continue to dance, work, play with my kids and love my life. The Music Gods have blessed me with tickets to see Fat Freddys Drop on New Years Eve and I cannot ask for more.
Happy Holidays to you all, may the sun shine for you Christmas Day, and may the moon never fade on New Years Eve night.
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