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.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
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...
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