Random Observations

I don't do well with moving vehicles...

2009-11-08T12:32:00.000-08:00

The sphere sculpture outside of City Gallery in Wellington

So, after several days in the awesome and artsy city of Wellington--which everyone should visit for at least a few days, I knew I needed to get going. I had put my car up for sale on a website called TradeMe, which is sort of like a combo of Craigslist and eBay of New Zealand. I got my first call on the car about 20 minutes after putting the listing up, and had seven or eight people up in Auckland keen to check it out. So, I knew I had to go to or near Auckland to be able to meet up with these people. That's about an eight-hour drive.

Typically, I procrastinated. I started the day with breakfast in this tiny cafe in an alleyway along the famous Cuba Street (which I never really saw, but it is supposed to be really cool. Looked a little Haight-Ashbury combined with some Marina chic, so it probably is pretty awesome). The owner of the cafe was in a bad mood and it seemed like he was angry we were there rather than happy to serve. It's hard to really describe adequately in writing, but let's just leave it at him being very annoyed his employee used the wrong glass for my Sprite -- which was poured from the dregs of a tired-looking old two-liter bottle. The french toast I had was good, though.

Anyway, the owner seemed to be pretty buddy-buddy with the only other diners, the "band" playing in the poorly-trafficked alleyway. The "band" consisted of a tall, very thin heroin-addict looking guy and his scruffy drummer on the back of a classic truck that had couple of sad balloons tacked onto it. The heroin dude played the piano, and the drummer played the drums. I don't think they practiced much, because it seemed to me they never played the same song at the same time. At the end of each, uh, "performance," a mechanical toy monkey bank with cymbals would move and play, trying to encourage tips. Somehow, I resisted the temptation to do so...

After lunch and wandering around looking at shops and things, I decided to finally go to the city art gallery, which was really cool. It was an exhibition from an Asian modern artist who was, according to the info provided, a contemporary with Andy Warhol in the New York art world. It included displays like giant yellow-and-black spotted balloons shaped like bowling pins in a room full of yellow-and-black polka dots, and a dark room with mirrored walls, water floor and lots of little hanging colored lights, so it's just like a little reflected lights infinity. Way cooler in real life, I promise,

Then I grabbed a bite to eat then tried to figure out where to go and what to do... which took forever, because I am indecisive and like to research things before deciding. So I didn't end up leaving Wellington until like 4 pm, which was rather late. Which meant that I'd be doing half the drive in the dark, late at night (mistake #1). Yay, planning!

I pretty much just kept driving, not really even stopping to rest or eat or anything. So, given that I was very tired to begin with (I had gone to see a great kiwi band, The Black Seeds, the night before, so I was a bit worn out), my mind started to wander and my attention span started to shorten. It got dark, the roads were winding and I didn't really pay attention to the warning signs about fatigued drivers.

Eyes Heavy? STOP Driving

At about 10 o'clock at night, somewhere about 15-20 minutes outside of whatever random town I'd just passed through, and about 40 minutes from the Waitomo Caves ahead of me (for locals reading), I absentmindedly (mistake #2) rounded a curve and was faced with one of the frequent patches of roadwork they're doing. I am not sure how much warning there was -- maybe there were signs hundreds of meters up the road, maybe there weren't. I can't remember. I think, though, that they are doing some resurfacing, because the sealed/paved roads become rock roads. Not hard-packed small gravel-type rocks, either, but big, loose rocks that your wheels can skid over like a ski slope. Having driven over one of these patches earlier, and sort of skidding a bit, I knew that if you go too fast, your car will start drifting and fish-tailing. I found that a bit too nerve-wracking. Wanting to prevent that, I hit the brakes. Hard. Mistake #3.

New lesson! Slamming on the brakes on a rock road at 65mph/110 kph does not prevent loss of control, but in fact facilitates an even greater loss of control. I started skidding to the left and instinctively steered against the skid (mistake #4). That, of course, made the situation worse and I began to spin out to the right, when I finally remembered you have to steer INTO the skid. Not sure if I spun all the way around or not (I was definitely perpendicular to the roadway at one point because I remember my headlights illuminating the embankment along the shoulder), but I was able to recover enough control to at least be facing the right direction, though now on the wrong (i.e., right) side of the road. I was still skidding around a little, but at least I'd slowed down quite a bit.

I then realized that I was headed toward the ditch on the right-hand side of the road. And there was pretty much no way to prevent it because I hadn't really regained full control. I was almost stopped, though, so I was pinning my hopes on the small chance my car my come to a rest just before sliding over. Alternatively, I was hoping I was slowed down enough that I didn't slam into the embankment and seriously damage the car and/or myself (to be honest, I was worried more about the car).

I was lucky. My car stopped a few inches short of hitting the embankment, though the front driver's side was completely in the ditch. The rear wheels were teetering on the edge, but still mostly clung to the roadway. Well, rockway.

I evaluated the situation ("F*@&!!" --pause-- "F*@&!!!") and thought I'd try to see if I could reverse out of there (mistake #5, I guess). That only got me more deeply entrenched into the rocks. I checked my phone -- no service. The last town I could remember, or even house, was at least 10-15 minutes up the road, and my GPS unit didn't seem to indicate anything of note coming up ahead of me. I hadn't seen another car in a long time, either. I was alone, in the dark, for about 10 minutes (which I mostly spent digging through my mountain of crap to find my one, small flashlight/torch to try to figure out where my hazard light controls were because I couldn't find them in my shaken-up state).

After that, a trio of about 20- or 21-year-old deer hunter boys (and one 11-year-old little brother named Max) came by, complete with two dead bucks strapped to their roof. They stopped (slowly and safely, I might add -- novel concept) and asked, "Hey there! How ya going?" "Uh, not particularly well at the moment, aye? Nice deer."

Awesome skid marks, not so awesome resting place for a car

Not too exciting from this point on -- after they jokingly asked if I'd been drinking/"on the piss" (for the record, not a drop!!), they reckoned they could drag my car out from the back, but didn't have a tow rope. Just then a big van full of drunken and stoned brit-punk backpackers came by. They rolled up, beer-laden, leather-clad and cigarette-smoking, and piled out of the van to see how they could help. They were awesome, if for no other reason than their entertainment value. "Hey, did you guys see that car in the ditch?" "Woah, how'd you do that? You aren't even on the right side of the road!" "OH MY GOD, THOSE GUYS KILLED BAMBI, LOOK!!"

Eventually the Bambi-killers ("Yep, we did, and Bambi's gonna be delicious.") organized the rag-tag lot (I admit, I was totally useless) and the 10-12 of us tried to lift the car out of the ditch. Well, after the one backpacker dude with the leather jacket and cigarette hanging out of his mouth sorted out the beer he decided to stash in his coat pocket while lifting the front end of a 1991 Nissan Sentra. Neither his plan to preserve his beer nor the overall plan of carrying the car worked particularly well, especially after they accidentally ripped off the bumper (it's okay, it popped back in). The barefooted girl in the dusty rose-colored silky slip dress and wooly beret-cap over her short, bleach-blonde hair kept insisting she and one friend lifted her car once, but her attempts to rally the car-carry crew failed.

More cars started coming along at this point and one of them, a middle-aged couple with three kids smooshed in their back seat, had a tow rope. The backpackers drifted off in a haze of attempted glory (seriously, though, thanks to whoever you all are) and the husband guy sorted out the mechanics of towing me out while his wife reassured me that everyone makes the braking-too-hard-on-gravel mistake. Then the deer hunters dragged me out, assessed my car and pronounced it "she'll be right," which is the kiwi way of saying it's fine.

We all went on our separate ways, until I saw the hunters on the side of the road a while later and I asked if they needed help. Gladly, they were just taking a break (they asked if I'd like a beer, but I passed on that one. I was doing poorly enough totally sober). I was able to get a picture of them, though, to go along with the one I took at the scene.

Max, one dude, Sam, the other dude (and their dead Bambis)... THANKS!

The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful. I got into Auckland around 1 am, found myself a cheapish Holiday Inn and took a nice long rest. In the morning, I washed the car to make it as pretty as possible, then sold it to the first firm offer/the guy who showed up with cash and the change of ownership papers. I guess if you're going to sell a car, you might as well have an exciting last day with it.

Wine Eliteism Continues to Annoy Me

2009-09-26T17:20:00.000-07:00

I think one of my first posts on here was a rant about wine industry members or critics lambasting the wine choices of a majority of American consumers. I believe I was spurred on by a posting on a blog called Vinography. And they are at it again, I think about the same topic as last time: the top wines sold on-premise (i.e., in restaurants).

Here's the blog: http://www.vinography.com/archives/2009/09/who_is_the_average_wine_consum.html

I tried to comment there but I kept getting an error message. So this is what I would have said, were I able to say it:

Isn't this almost the exact same thing you said the last time this list came out? And I have the exact same reaction: I wholeheartedly reject the attitude that the popularity of these wines is "sobering" and that "serious wine lovers... wouldn't be caught dead" drinking these brands.

Maybe it's that sort of elitist element that intimidates these enthusiastic wine consumers from pursuing other brands/varietals or increasing consumption. They are afraid of making mistakes and having "serious wine fans" tell them they are wrong and making hideous choices that they "wouldn't be caught dead" drinking. Or they just don't want to be associated with people who snidely give them backhanded compliments.

It constantly mystifies me how the wine industry wants to grow their base while undercutting the opinion and tastes of the consumers they need to attract. It's like a condescending pat on a child's head, sending them off to bed and then laughing at them after they leave the room.

"Aww, how cute. They like Ecco Domani! Ha ha ha ha ha. Maybe someday they'll learn!"

The wine-intimidated American consumers are never going to embrace a product whose most ardent fanatics are insulting and laughing at them. And until these fanatics and critics and writers can admit that any wine consumption is good wine consumption, regardless of the "status" of that wine, AMerican consumers will be intimidated.

This reminds me of a literature class I took in college. Modern Literature, specifically. One day the discussion centered around whether people reading pop-fiction written at around a fifth-grade level (such as Stephen King) is good or bad for "serious" writers and "acclaimed" novels. I had the same position there as I do now: any consumption is good. There's only so much of one thing a person can find, if they're truly interested, and eventually they will want to try something new. And when they do, there's a whole world for them to explore. And if they happen to find something else they like, their tastes will expand.

It's important to note that their tastes EXPAND, not follow someone else's notion of what's "better." If someone can't stand a wine or a novel, it doesn't matter if it's the most highly regarded wine or novel ever created. They can't stand it and will likely come away from the experience thinking that the critics are jerks who dictate from on high about something ridiculously bad.

I encourage people to enjoy what they like, and to keep on enjoying it regardless of what some "more educated" or "more discerning" critics might sneer at them. And with that, I am off to a third-rate rugby match, which I will likely enjoy as much as I would have if it were a full International squad.

The Rest of Golden Bay

2009-09-24T19:23:00.001-07:00

When I wasn't busy being highly creeped out by sheep (see below), I did have a fun-filled day of Golden Bay adventure. Well, not so much adventure as sightseeing, but I wouldn't want to make it sound boring.

I started off by going to a place called Pupu Springs, or Waikoropupu, if you want to get technical. It's the largest spring in Australasia! Enthralling, I know. But, it also has some of the clearest, cleanest water you will see in the world. According to the sign at the place, the only place with clearer water is under an ice shelf on Antarctica or something. I haven't uploaded my pictures, but here's a good idea of what it looks like:

Pretty, isn't it? Apparently people used to be able to snorkel and/or dive at the springs, but there's a really invasive algae that can be transported by not-perfectly-cleaned anything and they've banned it. You can't even put your hand in the water now.

After Pupu Springs, I just sort of drove around. I considered picking up a likely stinky, skinny hippie chick hitchhiker and her groceries, but drove right on past. Then I turned around because she was a skinny hippie chick with groceries standing on the side of a road in the middle of nowhere on a hot day. She was harmless. I took her a few miles to her bike hidden in the bushes up the road. She was, for the record, stinky.

Then I took a wrong turn trying to get to Farewell Spit and ended up near the "Historic Salisbury Swing Bridge." I thought I'd check it out. It was certainly historic. It was built during the gold rush era (1880s), fell into disrepair, fixed, fell into disrepair again, fixed, used after a flood washed out the car bridge in the 80s, fell into disrepair again and supposedly restored in 2004.

(note, not my feet, nor my pictures. Thanks, Flickr!)

Yeah, that didn't seem so "restored" to me. It seemed like two aging planks of wood on a very swingy swing bridge.

I was a bit daunted by the multiple "WARNING: 2 PERSON LOAD LIMIT" signs posted before you got onto the bridge, but I thought it couldn't be that bad. I mean, I was well under the weight limit for skydiving, so surely I wouldn't break a bridge, right? Then I stepped on to the bridge. I've been on swing bridges here in New Zealand before. They are constructed of modern materials, like metal. And they don't swing as much as slightly sway if you move around a lot. This thing started rolling and rocking like that horrible 1940s-era video of that bridge breaking apart in the wind.

I actually got scared. Like, my heart started pounding and and my adrenaline kicked in. Trying to walk over that thing (I would not be defeated by a swing bridge!) was scarier than anything else I've done in New Zealand.

When I was a kid, we used to go to J's Amusements in Guerneville, California every summer. It had a great go-kart track, sometimes had bumper cars, always had a Scrambler and a Tilt-a-Whirl. And they had a roller coaster. The Devil's Coach. The Devil's Coach was a wooden-frame roller coaster that I am almost certain was built in 1923 and left to rot on the grounds of J's Amusements. One of the problems with J's was that it frequently flooded in winter. It seems to me that wood submerged for weeks at a time under water might lose some structural integrity. Yet, every winter, the Devil's Coach sat.

Of course, the owners of J's couldn't just let a big revenue-earning coaster go quiet, so they sold tickets to unsuspecting (and suspecting) children for decades. It wasn't the Devil's Coach, it was the Defying Death Coach. Here's a picture from the top of the sub-par replacement coaster, Mad Mouse (taken years after J's had closed down), which had more or less the same layout:

Each turn at the top of the Devil's Coach shifted the entire structure. The little car felt like it was going to tip over and throw us all to our deaths. It was terrifying, yet thrilling. And dozens of times per summer, I paid $2.50 - $3 for the privilege of possibly hurtling to my death. Maybe this was a snapshot of things to come. The prices got higher and the hurtling to my death options more varied. Like, I guess, jumping out of a plane. I think I've figured out the source of my adventure seeking.

Anyway, the bridge was scary. I moved on quickly. Not so quickly as to test the limits of the rotting, aging planks of wood, but quickly enough. Seriously, though, I don't want to go to that swing bridge again. Maybe I have wood structure-related fears. I'd rather jump out of a plane at 15,000 feet.

After that I went to Wharariki Beach, which was gorgeous and windy. I'll post my own photos of that on facebook in a few days, I guess. Nothing particularly eventful happened that day until I started wandering through paddocks of creepy, terrified sheep.

The Sheepening

2009-09-24T18:41:00.000-07:00

Sheep are creepy. Really, they are.

I realize that sounds ridiculous to anyone who has spent longer than three minutes on a farm, or anyone who has seen a sheep, but they are. Especially if you are walking, at dusk, through paddock after paddock after paddock filled with hundreds and thousands of sheep and lambs, all baa-ing at you like crazed, uh... sheep.

I didn't realize sheep had different voices. Some sheep are deep-baa'ed. Some are squeaky baa'ed. Some stare you down like they are contemplating revenge for all the dastardly things done to them by a lonely farmer or lost, drunken tourist. Some run away, stop, stare at you, then run back to where they started, baa'ing like maniacs the whole way through. Some huff and puff like they are making an obscene phone baa'll. (I need pun-aholoics anonymous).

So, I'm in Golden Bay. It's the northwest part of the South Island. It's known for a unique feature called Farewell Spit, which is a really long strip of sand dunes between the bay and the Tasman Sea. It kind of looks like the beak of a kiwi bird sticking out from the land. I had been wandering/driving around Golden Bay all morning, seeing all sorts of things, none of which were Farewell Spit. So, I set off for that location.

It was getting cold and sunset was about an hour away, but I know you can only get about 2.5 kilometers onto the spit before people are no longer allowed to walk on it (it's a marine/bird sanctuary or something). I am not good with kilometers-to-miles conversions, but I think that's about 1.5 miles. An easy walk along the sand and back, I thought. I should have known it wouldn't be easy when I passed the dead shark on the beach.

I can't say it was difficult, but anyone who knows me knows I can get lost going in a straight line. And it may seem nonsensical (equally so to that whole "sheep are creepy" thing) that I could get lost walking on a narrow strip of sand that starts on land and finishes in water, but I managed it.

I saw a sign (and it opened up my eyes, I saw the sign! okay, ending bad 80s tunes interlude). The sign said "Fossil Point" and had an arrow. I read a little about this -- it's a bunch of fossils stuck in rocks or something. It sounded more interesting than the bit I was walking along, which was a bunch of broken shells and occasional pools of water, dead sharks or a live bird or two.

I realized that I was walking from Inner Spit (bay side) to Outer Spit (sea side). Cool. I'd see more ocean, fossils and go home. I got to Outer Spit and it was equally uninteresting to inner spit (there weren't even birds on this side, just dunes. I like waves, but there are better beaches just over the rocky outcrop). I walked along the beach, sunset quickly approaching, hoping to see some sort of indication of where the path back to the carpark (or parking lot, in American) would be. There wasn't any. After about 45 minutes I noticed a tiny little red circle sign. Surely that was marking something. It was -- "BEWARE: THERE IS QUICKSAND ALONG THE ROCKS AT FOSSIL POINT."

So, I'd been walking for like 1.5 hours to see impressions of old dead things in rocks and I'd have to brave quicksand to do it? No thanks. I've seen old dead things in rocks before. And, for that matter, birds on sand. On a positive note, I guess, the gale-force winds blowing sand into my face did provide me with a really cheap exfoliation treatment? This was definitely not the highlight of Golden Bay.

So, after tramping a while through dunes and forest, I finally reached the "carpark -- 25 minutes" sign. Through the sheep farm. This is where sheep get creepy. At first it was cute, all the little lambs frolicking in the meadows. I took some pictures, thinking, "this is so stereotypical New Zealand!" Then the sheep started looking a little ragged, like they'd been handled by deranged sheep shearers (pictures available soon, when I can upload them). Patches of bald sheep, wool hanging off their haunches. Then they started baa'ing. I think they were warning each other, or forming an attack plan.

A few sheep baa'ing isn't scary, I know. But it starts getting weird when there are a dozen sheep baa'ing. Then really weird when it's like 50. When there are hundreds of sheep baa'ing at you from near and far, the sun has set and you're miles away from anyone, walking through acre upon acre of sheep paddock -- it's creepy.

I am not talking deathly, mortifying fear here, like if someone were holding a gun to my head or the Dodgers winning the World Series, but it wasn't comfortable. I felt like I'd stumbled upon the beginnings of a really bad kiwi horror movie (I later found out there is a NZ horror movie called "Black Sheep" about evil, human-attacking sheep).

The thing is, too, you're just sort of wandering through the paddock. There's not a trail or anything, just a guess as to where the next gate will be across the way. And the sheep don't really seem to like people randomly wandering through their home. Some of them were chill, but most of them were baa'ing like I was taking my pet wolf pack for a walk. Add in the weird bird noises and the hundreds of geese and ducks calling each other, it was just all a bit off.

I can't really say anything eventful happened. Mostly just walking through being creeped out and keeping my eye out for the heavy breathing sheep moms (they seemed a bit dicey). The only time I was in actual fear was when I got to the cattle paddock. There were about a dozen cows and calves. Unlike the sheep, who baa'ed manically and ran around randomly, the cow babies grouped themselves and seemed to be running toward me. I was afraid of a full-on calf stampede. They just sort of swarmed around me while I walked through, at this point in sight of the car. I reached the car, finally feeling safe, when I rounded a corner and nearly hit an escaped cow. It grunted and moved away.

I realize this is an anti-climatic ending, but I was talking about creepy sheep. What did you expect would happen?

A View from the Top (of the South)

2009-05-01T19:24:00.000-07:00

Hello again, long ignored blog. I am so sorry to have abandoned you for so long. But I'm back now, and I promise this time will be different. Really. Give me another chance!

Actually, I have been somewhat busy. Well, you'd hope so, given that I haven't written in almost six months. Hopefully I'll be able to update everything in the near future. I have tons of ideas, it's just a matter of sitting down and typing it out.

But this will be a short-and-sweet post. I'm back to blogging.

So, to update since December: I worked in the vineyards in a town called Blenheim and I hated every moment of it. The last day of work was pure bliss. I threw my gloves in the trunk of my car and triumphantly declared that as God as my witness, I would never work in the vineyards again! Then I got a kidney stone and went to the beach. Seriously. Kaikoura, on the east coast. After that, Hanmer Springs, a delightful little mountain town. Christchurch followed, then Lake Tekapo, Mt. Cook and a town with a giant fruit sculpture called Cromwell. The Irish historians among you might find the name interesting given that there is a divide within the town itself between the Northern Ireland-named sections and the Republic of Ireland-named sections.

Somewhere between Mt. Cook and Cromwell (specifically, as I stood on a platform overlooking a glacier in the Mt. Cook township), I got a phone call from Blenheim. Libby, a New Zealander who had spent the summer working in the wine industry in Sonoma and living with a mutual friend, had recently gotten a job at a local winery and wanted to rent a house in Blenheim. She was calling me because she knew I was interested in working in the wine industry and, more specific to her needs, was looking for a flatmate. Despite my earlier hatred of the town, I'd seen the house before I left and loved it despite its over-reliance on a blue color scheme. I agreed to move in.

So, I headed back to Blenheim, stopping for a short visit to Nelson, the city about 90 minutes from Blenheim. Libby had suggested I call a friend of hers who was looking for an employee. Specifically, a vineyard employee for Cloudy Bay winery. Even more specifically, a tractor driver. I may have vowed never to work in a vineyard again, nor had I ever driven a tractor or anything even closely resembling farm equipment (I am not sure I've even driven a pickup truck), but I gave her friend a call. And in the midst of the second quarter of the Super Bowl, I got a call back: I got the job.

Over the next few months I happily worked in the vineyards (seriously -- it was mostly fun!). I singled out the strongest and straightest shoots on baby vines, I dropped rot-infested bunches ahead of harvest and, most fun of all, I drove tractors around in big, giant circles, usually collecting grapes that will become some high-priced Marlborough wines.

Tractor driving, though, is a transient position, and I lost that job at the end of April. Since then, I've been doing a little traveling, starting off in Christchurch, then to Queenstown, Milford Sound, Te Anau, Doubtful Sound, Franz Josef (glacier and township), Hokitika and back to Blenheim a few days ago. Now I'm doing a little writing, a lot of reading and occasionally some listening to Giants games. There's pruning work to be done in the vineyards, and I think in the very near future I will be back, again, for my third stint as a migrant farm worker. New Zealand farm workers, however, get totally gipped. We don't have any taco trucks rolling up for a delightful mid-afternoon snack. That sucks.

That's my life in a nutshell. Hopefully as the weeks go on, you'll read all about things like canyon swinging, glacier hiking and unfortunate drunken Scottish tourist girls stripping in decidedly non-stripping locations. Until then, goodnight.

Interesting Instructions

2008-12-20T16:02:00.001-08:00

Hello again everyone.

So, Eileen asked what exactly I was doing in my vineyard work. It's a newly-planted vineyard, so we had to put up boxes to train the vines into growing up toward the trellis wires, not spread out on the ground like a bush. The vines are in rows of 200, and each worker worked alone on one row. We needed to do three things: "single" the vine, which meant to pluck off all but one shoot, the one that was growing the straightest upward; we had to assemble the training boxes, which were thick plastic sheets with little tabs that you folded over in an interlocking pattern; then we had to put the boxes on the vines and staple the top around the trellis wire. At first it wasn't too difficult, because there was no wind. You could assemble a bunch of boxes, lay them out at the foot of the vines and go from each one, singling and stapling. Then the wind picked up, which blows the boxes all over the vineyard and you have to chase them. So work slowed considerably as I went from vine to vine, assembling, singling, stapling at each one.

An assembly line, where some workers went down the rows and singled the vines, other workers assembled boxes and other workers placed and stapled the boxes would have been far quicker. At least I think it would be, anyway. Assembly lines seem to be designed to be efficient.

Also, they had a safety overview before we started working. It was a lot to take in all at once. They told us things I never would have thought about if they hadn't warned us to be careful about it. Like, for example, "always wear shoes in the vineyard" and "wash your hands before eating." Are these really things they have to tell people? WTF?!?

Today I'm going to rent some movies and get a pedicure. Excitement abounds in New Zealand, doesn't it?

Cheers,
Mare :)

Surrounded

2008-12-19T00:05:00.000-08:00

Last night the town I'm currently staying in, Blenheim, held their annual Christmas festival. It involved brass band renditions of "La Vida Loca" (yes, the Ricky Martin song), people dancing with scarves in a circle and fireworks. The fireworks were nice. Not a huge display (it's a tiny town, so I wasn't expecting a New Yorkish display), but a nice little show. The weird part was that I was standing in a fairly large crowd of people (like 100 or so) and it was stony silence the entire show. A little kid was asking his mother what makes them catch on fire or something, but there was no oohing or awwwing. It was kind of weird.

There's an ad on television for a show on later tonight: Rick and Steve are the happiest gay couple around. What is THAT about? Is it a sitcom? A documentary?

Right now it's elf. I love elf. I'm watching it with a room full of foreigners. This is typical everywhere I go. I'm getting sick of other languages. Maybe because they are all so different. There are some Asians talking, someone who sounds vaguely Russian/Czech or something and some Germans. Supposedly there's a Scottish person here. Not much in the way of conversational opportunities. :(

Today I got my first real NZ job (one that required a tax ID number and everything). I am not sure why they needed the tax information. It's hard to tax nothing. It was a speed-based pay scale, which is never a good prospect for me. The only thing I do quickly is being slow. So... after eight hours of work, without stopping for lunch because I was already so slow, I earned a whopping $70 or so. That's around $40 US. Before the 20 percent tax cut. :( I'm only going to do this for a few days. Nobody else is hiring so close to Christmas.

Anyway, I've gotta go. I just got the two-minute warning beep!

Cheers everyone!

Mare :)

The Menacing Scooter

2008-12-16T04:55:00.000-08:00

So, I keep promising to write about what happens when I try to drive a scooter around a small, rainy island. I feel like the story's been built up too much with all the weeks of anticipation, but I'll still write about it.

I've always liked scooters/mopeds. They seem so fun and zippy. The kinds of vehicles that happy, smiling people use to whip around fabulous cities while wearing fantastic clothes. You know, like Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck during their Roman Holiday.

Look at their smiling, happy faces and fabulous clothes. You would hardly know she was a princess secretly on the loose and he a rogue reporter trying to get a story. They're on a Vespa! They have no cares in the world!

Well, me with a Suzuki on Waiheke Island... we just don't have that sort of cinematic magic. We have more of an abusive relationship. I'd take Suzu lovingly out on the road for adventure and fun, but he just tossed me to the ground. I'd bandage my boo-boos, only for Suzu to do it again.

The relationship started out well (they always do...). We were a bit timid at first. I was afraid to make a mistake and get hurt, Suzu was afraid of being dismantled and destroyed. But after a

few laps around the proverbial (or literal, in this case) parking lot, we set off for our first real adventure.

We went to the beach. Look how cute Suzu was, so shiny and clean, relaxing next to a tree. Looking back now, I can see signs of the danger to come. The tiny, thin wheels. The duct tape along Suzu's side. The scratches and dings along the front. The rain clouds overhead. The mandatory helmet. I realize now that Suzu has a pattern of abuse. A few minor repairs and, boom, right back out there, luring unsuspecting tourists into a trap.

But I didn't know this at the time. I was having fun. I was zipping around a fabulous island, getting lost in the experience (and the roads). I roamed. I didn't need a plan. I didn't need a map (mostly because maps are entirely useless in my hands).

Things started to go wrong when we stopped at a winery. Suzu didn't seem to care, even in the face of long, paint-chipping gravel driveways. We took it slow. Things seemed fine. We both agreed before we even started off that I wouldn't be drinking. I was just there to check out the vineyards, see how the tasting room staff worked. Take a break and some photos.

We had barely arrived when Suzu made a friend, a Kymco named Kai (seriously, the scooter had a name). I noticed Kai as we drove in, thought Suzu might like it if I parked next to him. Kai knows the Roman Holiday lifestyle. Kai lives it, spending his time lazing about in the sun on the decks of a yacht, hanging around in exotic ports around the world. While Kai and Suzu rested, I talked with Kai's drivers, Ben and Kayt. We compared scooters. We all agreed that Kai -- bigger, flashier and more powerful -- was a better-looking scooter. I think Suzu got a little jealous.

Mere moments after Ben and Kayt left, Suzu and I had our first real problems. It was a very confusing time in our relationship. I can't say that Suzu was completely at fault. I asked too much of Suzu. I moved too fast... toward a building with far too many windows and sliding glass doors. I knew that if I didn't act fast to save our burgeoning little relationship, there would be major, expensive, painful trouble. I panicked. I wavered. I lost my control, momentarily forgetting which side was the brake and which was the accelerator.

I tried to save the moment, but Suzu just couldn't get a grip. We were on rocky ground. I tried to turn it around, head towards the safety and fun of the open, paved road. It was too late. I had to bail out.

Suzu threw me to the ground. I broke my fall with my right hand and my left elbow. The heel of my palm was bleeding and sore, and my elbow scratched and scraped. My leg was tangled under the weight of Suzu's engine, my foot turned precariously at a very wrong angle. I shifted, freeing my foot, but Suzu landed again, hard, on my leg. I kicked him away and searched for help. The winery had closed, the employees were on their way home. I was able to attract someone's attention, though, and she took me in, cleaned me up. She warned me about the dangers of scooters like Suzu, how they tend to lose their grip and how there's nothing I can do to change it when it happens. Still, I had nowhere else to go.

I went back to Suzu, who was dejected and hurt, still lying there on the ground. I picked Suzu up. I checked him out, made sure there was nothing missing or broken. I dusted him off. I promised not to forget the controls again. Suzu whined and stalled at first, but it wasn't long before we started up again.

I was timid, though, afraid to push Suzu too far. I didn't move too fast this time. We got through the rough patch, then I decided to head to another beach. At this point, I needed some space, some time away from Suzu. I was no longer confident that we'd get through our relationship without someone getting hurt. I even moved all my possessions out of Suzu's under-seat storage. I didn't trust that Suzu could keep them safe, so I took them with me to the beach.

Unfortunately, it was around this time that things turned dark. Black clouds filled the sky and the sun disappeared. Problems or not, I needed to go back to Suzu. I'd made a promise that morning that I would bring Suzu home safely. With the threat of rain, I knew the promise would be hard to keep, especially given the mistrust that I had built up.

Things at this point are a bit of a blur. It was just the same thing over and over again. Literally. I was lost and unhappy, perhaps inattentive and impatient. We were ending up on the same path, again and again. An endless, giant circle. I was trying to find my way to the dump Suzu scooter shed, but the map was useless and there was nobody around to turn to for help. Things got very tense as the rain started to fall. I put on my expensive and brand-new rain jacket and wished for windshield wipers on my sunglasses.

I was hungry, tired and soaking wet as we finally approached Suzu's home. I made a quick stop at a local store to pick up something to eat. I knew that after I dumped Suzu, I had a long ferry ride back to the mainland. I was not going anywhere for a while, so to speak, so I got a Snickers. I stashed it in Suzu's dashboard basket thing. We were barely on friendly terms at this point. All I wanted to do was to get away from Suzu. I wanted the safety and warmth of the ferry. I was meant to ride the waves, not the scooters.

Suzu had enough. Enough of me, enough of the rain, enough of the pressure of trying to perform despite the problems and mistakes in our relationship. It was poetic justice, I guess, where we finally ended up. The scooter shed was in sight, the scooter shed manager waiting to take Suzu back. I thought we were going to end things rather amicably. I was wrong.

I turned into the parking lot, my much-anticipated final maneuver. I don't know if it was the rain, the road, the tires or the driving, but my glee was very short-lived. Suzu slipped out from under me. Suzu moved back toward the road, I hurtled forward toward the scooter shed.

The Snickers was thrown free from the wreckage, not even a scratch or a wrinkle. I was not so lucky. I had no time to break my fall, really. Just enough to throw my hands out to protect my face. I landed hard on the pavement, sliding forward on my arms. Suzu wouldn't quite let me go, bouncing off my legs before settling back on them.

I crawled free of Suzu and assessed the damage. The bandage on my hand had split in two. My wound was reopened and now filled with tiny pebbles. My elbows and forearms were aching, and my brand new, three-layer rainproof jacket had road rash and was torn in a few small places. My left knee and leg, which had taken the brunt of the fall and scooter weight, were especially painful. The possessions I'd re-stored in the underseat compartment were strewn about -- the lock had failed and the seat had flown open. The Snickers was a good five feet away, near a puddle.

Suzu's duct tape was torn and there was perhaps another scratch or two, but there was minimal damage. I suppose it's because I broke the fall and prevented Suzu from fully crashing into the ground. Lucky Suzu.

In the end, I walked Suzu back to the shed, fought back tears (of pain, not sadness) while signing the appropriate return paperwork and limped over to the ferry station. When I got back to the hostel, I realized my left knee was swollen to about twice the size of my right knee and I was already developing several bruises (including a weird bright red one on the top of my hand, which I am guessing was some sort of non-broken-skin scrape or something).

Fortunately, though, I wasn't seriously hurt. My knee displayed a lovely array of colors over the next 10 days or so, and my shins and arms were full of bruises. The most annoying and painful injury was the little scrape on my palm, actually, but that's pretty much healed now. Just a little sensitive.

I have no plans to see Suzu again. My dreams of Roman Holiday bliss have been shattered.

Kiwi Hostel Reviews

2008-12-16T01:35:00.000-08:00

So, I've spent pretty much all of my time in the last month or so living in hostels. If anyone wants to come on down, here's a quick review of where I've stayed and how I've liked them:

Freeman's B&B, Auckland: This was my first hostel, but it was really more of a B&B. I had my own private room, which was great. The place could use some updates (the kitchen is tiny and the range/oven are outdated), but overall I loved this place. It's things like free Internet and, even better, free in-room wireless. It was spotlessly cleaned every morning (like, workers on their hands and knees scrubbing floors clean... every day!). Plus, the owner is one of the hardest-working, most helpful people I've met since I got here. I can't say enough good things about her.

Auckland International Backpackers: Unfortunately, I stayed longer in Auckland than I anticipated, so Freeman's was fully booked and I had to leave. I moved to this place for two nights. On the positive side, I had a double bed in a private room and free linens. On the bad side, the room reeked of gag-inducing gross floral/orange air freshener. I tried to open the windows, only to discover that the "window" was actually just a separation between my room and another room. There were blinds on the other side and the window was bolted shut. Finally, the showers were moldy and I am still unsure as to the cleanliness of the linens. I prefer to not think about it.

Auckland Central Backpackers (ACB): Um... well, it had a bed for me (a bed with a thin, lumpy mattress). And there was a locker in the room so nobody would steal my stuff. And a large (but expensive) Internet lounge. That's about as positive as I can get. It was oppressively hot, there were no windows, we were packed into the dorm room like sardines and the bathrooms were grody. To the MAX.

Kiwi Paka, Waitomo: Great! Big four-bed dorm rooms with no bunks, bedside lights and a big lounge with a pool table (which I never used, but still). It was also very clean, had great kitchen facilities and an on-site restaurant with pretty good food. I had to pay for sheets and a blanket, though. And the door was really, really squeaky, and they all slammed shut. In the morning there were slamming doors all up and down the corridors. Fun!

Blarney's Rock, Rotorua: It was above a bar and restaurant (which I never stepped into, actually). It was clean. It was quiet. The beds were good. There was a big central lounge that you had to pass through to get to the rooms, so it was good for conversational opportunities. The managers (a couple) lived on-site... and the guy would spend his evenings and nights sitting in the back of the room, drinking beers. He suggested really random DVDs, like the Meredith Baxter-Birney 1980s movie-of-the-week about a murderous wife. When the movies were over, he'd turn on Maori-language news and pass out on the couch. He had "Black Pride" tattooed on his hands, among many other homemade-looking tattoos. He was nice and helpful (and did my laundry because we weren't allowed to do it ourselves, which was creepy), but it just seemed a little bit weird to me.

The Windsor Lodge, Whakatane: Again, really clean place (except for the cockroaches in the kitchen). Modern, too. It was nice. It also had a big courtyard/bbq area in addition to a big lounge. It was nice having the open spaces because the dorm rooms were teeny tiny. The four-bed dorm room barely fit two sets of bunk beds, so add luggage and it's hard to move around. I can't imagine four people actually staying in those rooms. Pack light!

Harborside? in Tauranga: I am not sure Harborside is this place's name, but it's right alongside the harbor on a very popular street. This place sucked. A Canadian girl who's been hitchhiking

around NZ for two months said it was the worst place she'd been. It is the only place where Snow didn't get taken out of my backpack. They didn't provide sheets or anything, so I slept under my towel. The best part of this place was the carrot cake I got from the German girl who was in the same room.

Wally's Backpackers, Napier: Totally awesome! There are two different houses and a cottage, so it was a bit confusing (i.e., I got lost trying to get back to the room -- totally sober, btw!). Very sociable place, with a big TV lounge and great patio that many of the guests used frequently. It seems like a lot of the people staying there are long-term residents, so people knew each other. I had a lot of fun here. The only weird bit was the number of couples making out in the public areas. Paw each other in private instead of on the couch while the rest of the room is trying to watch a movie!

Kate's Place, Martinborough: Great place. It's a homestay rather than a hostel, which means that we're staying in the owner's house. She's great, there's free Internet and the kitchen has lots of spices and things you can use. The best part is the awesome beds with real mattresses (as opposed to the usual thin futon crap). And the fact I had a four-bed room all to myself!

New Zealand is Weird

2008-12-15T23:42:00.000-08:00

Hello again!

Well, New Zealand really isn't weird, but there are some things here that definitely are weird. Like, for example, the current fashion style for teenage boys. For one, they favor neon-tinged clothing. Usually white t-shirts with neon decorative details. That isn't so bad (though the 1985 flashbacks can be disturbing), but what is awful is the hair. I mean really, truly a terrible mistake that they will all regret in five years.

In keeping with the 1980s theme, they seem to favor the mullet. This is bad enough on its own, but they've made it infinitely worse by fashioning it into a mowhawk. It's the mow-mullet. Often dyed with a variety of colors. Most prefer blonde, but many others choose one of many colors of the rainbow. I will try to take photos so you call all experience the horror for yourselves.

Another horror I've just discovered within the last few hours: apparently the slang for weed here is "tinney." Seriously. The dreadlocked backpackers staying in my current hostel were discussing among themselves texting someone to make sure they got their tinney tomorrow. After verifying that they were, indeed, discussing drugs, I revealed that my last name is Tinney. They were impressed that my last name is slang for intoxication all over the world (in England, where one of them is from, a "tinny" is a can of beer).

Earlier today, they were discussing celebrities and their drug use. Apparently they aren't using the right kind of drugs. Then they told me all about this "really mystical" drug called DMT or something. It's something (a chemical, I guess) that we release when we sleep. "And lizards have heaps of it, too. They even develop a third eye to protect it, inside their skulls. It's really amazing."

I'm leaving tomorrow.

There's a giant Santa Claus on the side of a building in Auckland. It's three or four stories high, if not larger. It looks like it was made out of paper mache. By the blind chick from Lionel Richie's "Hello" video. In other words, mangled. Furthering this frightening appearance is the fact that it "beckons" the children. His index finger moves, gesturing all to come near. It looks like a giant, three-story child molester dressed up in a Santa costume. Apparently it also used to wink. WTF, New Zealand?

I wish that were the only thing I've noticed that seems designed to terrify rather than delight children. The Christmas window display at the largest department store in Auckland, for example. Again, mangled elfin puppets that looked like they would scurry into your homes and steal your possessions and pets. And a Rudolph with half a face. I guess they ran out of paper mache before they could finish the snout, so they just put a mouth on it. I didn't even take a picture of it. I don't want to scare my readers.

On an entirely different topic, there are some new labor laws here in New Zealand. Apparently they are implementing a 90-day trial period for all employees. I saw the Labor Secretary or something discussing it on TV. "This will help employers. If a woman, for example, were to become pregnant during this trial period, the employers would be able to dismiss those sorts of people without being accused of sexual discrimination." Um, those sorts of people? Whether or not it's within the 90-day trial, isn't it still sexual discrimination?

Oh, random story. Today I was going into town, planning to drive because it was pouring rain. Another girl at the hostel, from Hong Kong, was also going into town. She doesn't have a car, so I gave her a ride. In the car, she asked if I was from Germany. Now, I seem to have developed some Madonna-esque pseudo-accent resulting in everyone thinking I'm from Canada, but I definitely don't sound like a German! She explained by saying, "Oh! Sorry. It's just that you're all white, with the same hair color. You all look the same... I can't tell you all apart." To be fair, this country is crawling with Germans and I am a teeny bit German. So there you go.

Uh, let's see. I hate going to the grocery store because I don't know many of the brands and can't decide what to buy. I wonder, "Is this bread good? Do people like this one better? Should I go for the Pam's cheese or the other brand? Should I buy the Kraft peanut butter because it's a company that also exists in the states so they probably know what it should taste like? Why are there so many brands of jam?!? What in God's name is a capsicum?!?"

The answer to the last one is green pepper. I discovered that when I tried to get green peppers on my Subway sandwich and was met with a blank stare. This was better than the time I was ordering a burrito and couldn't understand the heavily-accented burrito builder. She kept asking if I wanted a certain ingredient. I finally answered, "I don't know what that is. I'm sorry." The mystery ingredient: vegetables. Um, oops. I do know what those are.

Well, that's enough randomness for now. Next: hostel reviews!

Quick Update

2008-12-10T23:45:00.000-08:00

I have two minutes (I just got the two-minute beep warning), so I have to make this quick.

I'm having a good time, though I am wondering what the deal is with bananas and bacon as a topping for pancakes/waffles/other breakfast items.

I have tons to update with when I don't have two minutes -- I went Zorbing (rolling down a hill in a giant plastic ball filled with water), luging (rolling down a hill sitting on a little cart with steering), caving (which involved no rolling whatsoever, but there was crawling, floating down underground rivers with glowworms overhead and dropping into caves via ropes) and thermal activity exploring (which also involved no rolling, but lots of sulfuric acid that smelled like rotten eggs... awesome!). Tomorrow I think I am going to the mountains where Lord of the Rings was filmed, which means nothing to me because I haven't seen it. That's the plan anyway. Tonight... hanging out with some people I met at the hostel (who are going with me tomorrow... I'm driving them. With my trusty sidekick, Aussie Lee. Lee is also known as "Navman," my GPS system. Anyone who has ever waited for me while I wandered/drove around lost knows that this was a very good investment. I've still managed to get lost with Lee (though he was an annoying American woman's voice at the time), but that was because I entered in the slightly wrong address/Lee didn't have the street I was actually going to programmed into his system.

Anyway, I miss everyone and need everyone to send me their addresses (home, not email)... otherwise, no postcards for you!

Well, I've got to be rolling along now. Cheers everyone! Merry Christmas!

Love,
Mary-Colleen :)

My Address

2008-12-02T14:48:00.000-08:00

Hello again everyone!

So, I've been asked for my address a few times so I thought I'd give it to you all. You can mail me things at the Work New Zealand program, and they will forward all my mail to my current address (assuming I ever get out of Auckland, that is!).

The only difficult part is when you write my name, make sure my last name is underlined (which I can't do on this blog post... I can only bold or italicize).

Mary-Colleen Tinney
c/o IEP-Work NZ
PO Box 1786
Shortland Street
Auckland
New Zealand

If you want to send me a package, use this address:
Mary-Colleen Tinney
Level 10
220 Queen Street
Auckland
New Zealand

Okay, I've gotta run... I'm trying to run a bunch of errands before I head down to the harbor and maybe get some work. Not wine industry stuff, but I have been well trained for it: menial labor. Being a daughter of Jackie, I certainly know how to clean! I will be sure no boat perimeter will be left uncleaned!

The boat's leaving soon, but they're possibly willing to pay me, plus room and board (food, laundry, etc.). Kayt is working it out for me... apparently in her free time from working, she's trying to start a recruitment agency. I'm a project. She's awesome! All of the people on the boat are awesome!

Cheers everyone! Miss you all!!

Mare :)

Truly Random Observations

2008-11-30T17:22:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone! I've been stuck without free Internet for the last several days, so that's why there's a lack of updates. I'm at a free place now, though, so I'll give a few comments.

First of all, I've just spent the last hour or so reading U.S.-based wine blogs (keeping up with the industry and all). I had to be a little more respectful when I was working in the wine media, but now that I'm a freelancer (of sorts), I am going to be a bit more open with my opinions about some aspects of the industry. If you're bored by discussions of my work, feel free to skip ahead. But, if you drink wine or are at all interested in the workings of the industry, I'd be curious to get your feedback.

There was a list on a certain blog about the most popular wines in the U.S. and at U.S. restaurants. This included some arrogant commentary about how "humbling" and "sobering" the lists were. Basically, to be more blunt, it was about how sad it is that Americans enjoy Kendall Jackson, Gallo or other large wine companies/brands. The blogger (and most, if not all, his readers) described how they would never choose such pedestrian wines. To be fair, the blogger did admit his elite wine tastes are outside the norm and that consumers wouldn't buy the wines if they didn't like them. Still, the contempt was obvious, from the author and the following comments. One person suggested that those who do enjoy the listed wines/feel they are of great quality "should be executed via drowning in a vat of the wine suggested as a 'pinnacle of quality.'"

Give me a break. That's just so incredibly arrogant and a perfect example of why people are intimidated by the category. As pointed out, the list does reflect the large business side of wine -- and the tastes of the general American public. Being pretentious and elitist about these wines does absolutely nothing to broaden the market, though. Instead of the mocking, how about working to dispel the commonly-held belief by many consumers that wine is complicated and wine people are arrogant and will judge them by their choices?

It's a huge disservice to the industry to arrogantly set yourselves apart from the mass-produced and mass-distributed wines. For the vast majority of consumers, it's all wine and they're looking for a tasty one at a certain price point. That category is served largely by huge, corporate-owned wineries. Wine is complicated and confusing enough, and that's true even if you aren't entirely aware about the smaller, boutique producers (who are the vast majority of the 6,000+ U.S. wineries).

Yeah, KJ and Yellow Tail and Gallo aren't the apex of the wine industry. Yes, there are higher-quality wines out there. However, I was once told that "there are no bad wines, just less complicated ones." Assuming the wine doesn't have an actual fault, that's true.

For those smaller producers, teaching consumers that while their preferred KJ wines are good, their own winery offers something unique and different that a larger winery cannot offer. How those large brands need to be consistent in flavor across huge quantities of wine (millions of cases, even) and that volume doesn't really allow for an individual expression of an area or a vineyard or even perhaps the winemaker. However, a winery producing 700 cases has the opportunity to do so. That the winemaker is free to experiment with flavors and blends. Or however they feel that their winery is of a higher quality or is different/unique from the consumer's favorite supermarket brand. I don't think arrogance and elitism sells more wine, unless the winery is targeting the tiny segment of insufferable wine snobs.

Yeah, there are some pretty basic wines out there, and there are things out there that I would not drink... at every price point. It's about the flavor and what the consumer enjoys. If they enjoy a $4 bottle of a five-million case brand, good for them. If they really learn to enjoy wine, then they'll most likely want to explore beyond just that brand.

Does that mean they need to explore over to a $25 bottle of finely-crafted boutique wine? No. I'd be happy if they migrated to another $4 producer, then maybe a few $6 producers, etc. It's not all about increasing the dollar amounts people are spending on wine -- it's about making moderate wine consumption a normal, accepted part of a healthy lifestyle. The wine industry needs more consumers who consistently buy and enjoy wine, not just the current consumers spending more money on the bottles they buy.

Okay, wine rant over!

So, random NZ observations. Apparently, in November, there is a marketing campaign/cancer awareness activity known as Movember. It involves men growing mustaches, and apparently this season, the 1970s-porn-star look was all the rage. In fact, the more porn-starish the better, it seemed. I am happy Movember is over, but I suspect there will be lingering porn 'staches for at least the next couple of weeks. I suppose it's not surprising to learn that it is all an effort to raise awareness (and funds?) for prostate cancer. I mean, nothing says prostate cancer like a porn 'stache, right?

Service is horrible here. Really bad. I've sat there waiting for a bill for like 20 minutes. Alone. At a table with nothing but me and an empty water glass. Then I was overcharged. I have also failed to receive a few salads/starters. I guess it's saving me money and calories, but I'm hungry! Tipping is unusual here, and I haven't exactly been breaking that trend. If I get all my ordered food and the check in a reasonable amount of time, I'll throw in a dollar or two.

The dollar, by the way, is very cheap for us Americans. Currently I can buy a NZ dollar for about 54 cents American. The entire country is 45 percent off!! Which is great, because the country is expensive! Especially for things like sunscreen, which is like the most important item you could possibly have in all of New Zealand.

I didn't bring nearly enough sunscreen. Remember that whole Ozone layer hole thing? It's here. Just to the south, to be specific. You start burning to a crisp within like 15 minutes. New Zealand has the second-highest rates of skin cancer in the world, behind Australia. Because NZ is further south and the sun is even stronger, I am guessing it's because NZ is colder than Australia and, thus, less time is spent on outdoor activities. Luckily, I've not been burned yet... maybe slightly pinkish, but that's it. I start with a 45, then I add a 70 and reapply constantly. I have also been wearing that khaki hat if I'm outside for longer than 30 minutes. If you're reading this, send sunscreen -- it's like $18-$25 U.S. for a spray bottle of Neutrogena.

I met some people the other day on Waiheke Island -- Kayt and Ben. They've been fantastic! They live/work on a yacht down in the harbor. It's owned by some California businessman. I've even hung out on the yacht! They even woke up very early on Sunday morning to take me down to the weekly car fair, then spent the rest of their morning helping me pick out a car.

I haven't taken ownership yet (they've got to do some legal stuff first), but tomorrow I will be the proud owner of a 1991 Nissan Sentra hatchback. White. It's hot. It cost like $1,000 U.S. I'm happy!

Another random observation: Seemingly everywhere you go in Auckland involves walking up a steep hill or 75, so I've been getting lots of exercise. Once I get out of here, I'll be doing even more. Hiking, biking, etc.

I've gotta get offline right now, but once I get home and have Internet access, I'll upload some more photos and write some more blogs!

I hope everyone had a happy Thanksgiving! I spent the NZ Thursday wandering around the city, lost (I ended up on the top of a mountain and meeting a fun Irishman named Barry). I spent the NZ Friday/US Thanksgiving Day searching for cars online and followed it with a semi-decent Indian meal. Not quite the same as turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes... and there's no pumpkin pie! It was sort of sad. Send pumpkin pie, too!

Cheers and I love you!
Mare :)

A Virtual Slide Show

2008-11-26T07:08:00.001-08:00

This is just a bunch of photos so you can see what I'm seeing! Enjoy!!
This is clearly me, standing on a hill far away from the city. This is the same day I jumped off the the Sky Tower. I can tell by my outfit and hideous hair. Specifically, I was at a place called Devonport, which is across the bay from Auckland. The hill I'm on is called Mt. Victoria, so I guess it's actually a mountain. In the past, it was a Maori settlement area and then a military site. There's a big giant gun at the top just in case someone wanted to attack Auckland. It was test fired once and some people's windows broke so it was never used again.

They do, however, also have Smurf housing up there. Smurftastic view, isn't it?

I did notice that Devonport pretty much seemed exactly like Petaluma. Tons of Victorian houses.

Auckland from the water -- I went on a "Harbor Cruise." Pretty, huh?

This is another Cruise photo, this time of the Auckland Harbor Bridge. Auckland is supposedly known as the "City of Sails," so I figured I should get a sailboat into the picture.

Or a million sailboats.

So, after having enough of being outside and having hideous hair, I bought a hat and went back up to the Sky Tower for sunset. A few self-portraits:
Get used to the hat... it's the only one I have. I just bought a hairdryer, though, so I don't have to continually hide my hair in shame.

Finally, another Scooter Preview. These were taken about 15 minutes after I rented the scooter, when I still thought it was going to be exciting and fun.

Taking a long leap off a tall building

2008-11-23T19:33:00.000-08:00

Hello again! I am so sorry it's been so long. I have tons of updates though! I'll go in chronological order, so the following adventure was on my third day here in Auckland:

So, there is a very high tower in New Zealand, called the Sky Tower. It's apparently the highest tower in the Southern Hemisphere (which is a really big Hemisphere). The tower's pictured to the left, a view from the ground up. There's a few more below (such as me geekily standing in front of the observation deck window, and a view from a little glass window they put in the floor).

This tower is the greatest thing to happen to my navigational abilities since GPS systems were invented. Pretty much no matter where you are in Auckland, you can see it. Everywhere I go is based on the location of the tower. Of course, half the time I'm going nowhere near the tower and am traveling 15 or 20 minutes out of my way by using it as a navigation guide.

One of the things New Zealand is famous for, though, is their adventure sports (as opposed to what I'm famous for, which is aimlessly wandering, lost and almost certainly late, vainly pulling out maps trying to figure out how I screwed up walking 50 feet to the next block).

I figured I needed to get in on the adventure action. Hurtling myself off the Sky Tower, a drop of around 630 feet or so, seemed to be a good option. Not being particularly interested in falling to my death, though, I decided to go for the "attached safely to several wires" option, called the Sky Jump (http://www.skyjump.co.nz/).

So, basically, with the Sky Jump, they harness you up and attach you to a cable attached halfway between two other cables that go down to the landing pad on the ground. The center cable is attached to a roller contraption in a little room in the tower.

It's sort of a cross between a bungee jump, a belay down a rope (like into a cave or over a cliff) and base jumping (which is when people parachute off tall buildings or whatever instead of out of an airplane). Because I am a very low-level adventure seeker, this seemed to be right on my level.

Not only are you attached to two cables alongside of you (which I assume had some sort of brake failsafe), but you are also attached both in front and in back to the cable in the little room at the top. Even though it feels like you're freefalling, you aren't actually doing so. Plus, I googled "Sky Jump deaths" before I went and didn't find anything. No major injuries, either. So that was nice.

Of course, none of that really means anything when you're standing 630 feet in the air, staring down at the ground (see middle photo) with nothing but what now seem like flimsy-looking cables to keep you from plummeting to your death. They throw you off the walkway thing that you can see in the top photo. The walkway is a few floors above the room in the third photo (where it looks like I'm holding onto the guardrails for dear life... a day before I decided to hurl myself off the building).

There are a few things, however, that were able to distract me from being nervous. For one, they made me put my hair into a ponytail, but also made me take off the clip holding my bangs back. Not that the bang-less look is particularly attractive (see third photo again), but because I was without a hair dryer, my bangs will curl up and stick out all over the place. So, by unleashing these bangs to the world, the end result was that I looked like the lovechild of one of those "Addicted to Love" chicks (click me!) and Nick Nolte's mug shot (eek!). Secondly, they make you wear hideous powder blue-and-yellow jumpsuits, so you're dressed like a really, really crappy and unsuccessful superhero.

Normally fashion and hair style wouldn't be my main concern before jumping off a very tall building, but this particular jump is photographed and video taped so you can spend even more money on needless souvenirs when you get down to the bottom. Speaking of which, if someone out there reading this knows how I can upload the DVD I purchased onto YouTube, please let me know. I'd like to show you all how ridiculous I looked.

Secondly, they parade you and your stupid outfit through the lobby of the Sky Center (or whatever they call the giant hotel/casino/restaurant/movie theater/tourist information/tower entrance/entertainment complex). So, for the second time in less than a week, I had people openly gaping at me as I passed humiliatingly by them. From wheelchair-bound to tower jumper in a matter of hours! It's a miracle!!

So, after they parade you through the lobby and send you up to the jump deck, you hang out in a little holding cage for a few minutes while they get everything prepared and you get ready to vomit and/or cry while fleeing from the room. I was told that I looked very calm, but it was really just controlled panic. I figured wailing and weeping might be a bit too over-dramatic.

They spend a good deal of time attaching you to the cables (checking and rechecking safety stuff, which is very reassuring), then after making you pose for a photo, they have you grab some cables at the top and lean forward with pretty much all your weight. They're still holding onto you, too, but this was by far the most terrifying part of the experience. You're leaning out there, staring down at certain un-cabled death and every instinct you have is to get the hell away from the ledge. Meanwhile, an overly peppy dude with floppy hair excitedly announces your impending jump to the loudspeakers at the base of the tower. They give you a happy countdown. Three... Two... One!! THERE SHE GOES!!!! I kept holding onto the cables for another beat and then did, indeed, go.

It's a small drop at first, though, because they stop you after five meters (no clue how many feet that is) so they can take another picture, this time from above, with you hanging hundreds of feet above the city. This requires, though, that you look back up at the floppy-haired worker dude. Which I could not manage to do. So while floppy-hair keeps excitedly instructing me how to look up at him, I'm confusedly flailing around in the air. Imagine a bug flipped over on its back or panicked doggie paddling. While wearing a powder-blue and yellow crappy superhero jumpsuit. Attached to giant strings.

After I managed to look up at floppy-do for my photographic masterpiece, there's a final flail or two and then I'm headed down. the rest of the jump was pretty uneventful. It's fun. It was short. I did take in the scenery as I fell, and it's pretty exciting feeling to be falling through the air (while attached to cables). I don't remember too many specifics other than "don't land on your bad foot, don't land on your bad foot, don't land on your bad foot..." The video will reflect that as I descended, I had my knees bent as instructed in preparation for the landing impact and that I, concentrating as I was on not landing on my bad foot, kept my good foot bent and instead landed on my bad foot. Which hurt, so I really ended up landing on my knees.

All in all, it was very fun. And because the entire country is around 45 percent off because of the exchange rates between US and NZ dollars, it was fairly cheap, too. I'd do it again, but it would sort of be a waste of money. I have no further plans to jump out of any airplanes or other tall structures.

I did, however, have plans to go to a cute little island off the coast of Auckland, where I wanted to rent a scooter and zip happily around from sunny idyllic beach to sunny idyllic beach. I didn't realize, though, that those cute little scooters are instruments of torture and destruction. But I'm tired now and want to go to sleep, so that story will have to wait until tomorrow.

Scamming My Way into Auckland

2008-11-18T19:48:00.000-08:00

Hello again everyone!!

I am here. It's overcast and a bit cold. Apparently it's been unseasonably cold these last few days -- someone told me it was snowing on the South Island.

So, a couple of travel-related stories. First, on my flight from SFO to LAX, the guy sitting in front of me was a wine importer. They have a few properties down here and he promised to email me with some contacts for here. Awesome!

Secondly, I did the sort-of-scammy thing and played up my foot injury, with my post-surgical boot on and an obvious limp and everything (so, about where I actually was three weeks ago). I was aiming for a bit of extra room in coach (like next to an empty seat or two, if they had any) or maybe a free upgrade. They told me at SFO that the flight is completely full and the only options I had were a single middle seat or the last row with an extra seat (so next to the bathrooms and doesn't recline that much). I opted for the back row. On my way in, the greeter flight attendant asked if I'd like a wheelchair when I arrived. I said no, it was fine, that I'm able to walk, just with a limp (or not, when I'm not trying to win sympathy upgrades on flights, but I failed to mention that).

So, I get to the back row and it's an empty four-seat bank all for me... and everyone else on the plane is packed in like sardines. I didn't see a single empty space. I don't know how that worked exactly (maybe the SF gate agent moved things around?). I didn't protest, but I did feel quite guilty as I raised the armrests and sprawled out, surrounded by pillows and blankets, with my foot elevated. My toe did hurt, especially when I didn't have it elevated, but I am not sure if that's because of the flight/swelling or psychosomatic guilt pains. Since I was in prime "stretch your legs/wait for the restroom and chat with fellow passengers" territory, I overheard many envious/unhappy/annoyed comments.

Toward the end of the flight, the greeter flight attendant comes to tell me she's arranged a wheelchair for me upon our arrival. I tried to decline again, but she just told me to wait there. I didn't know what else to do, so I limp off the plane (can't give it up now!) and they wheel me away from the gate... (I really wish I had a picture -- it was me, sitting in a wheelchair in the departure hallway, with my huge purse, small computer bag and big, heavy carry-on bag sitting on my lap). I get transferred into a golf cart and we start off, as passers by continually stared at me, probably wondering what exactly was so wrong that I needed to be wheeled and/or carted around. I wanted nothing more than to get up and run far, far away from my guilt and the golf cart, but every time I tried to leave and tell them I'd be fine, they'd stop me from going. I was hoping they'd let me free at the immigration checkpoint. Nope... they switched me back to wheelchair and a tiny, petite girl was charged with wheeling me through the airport.

Now, baggage claim was the experience I was really dreading. I'm here in NZ for a long time, right? So I brought two huge, heavy suitcases (like 50-60 pounds each) -- including a big REI backpack. For someone who supposedly can't walk. So, I sat there, still covered in carry ons, totally mortified, waiting for this tiny girl to retrieve these huge, heavy suitcases that probably weigh more than she does. I meekly tried to explain that I can walk and I would, indeed be fine. At this point, I was wishing she'd just give the chair a good push and let me wheel silently away from this horrifically embarrassing experience, but no luck. Apparently once you're in those wheelchairs they won't let you out.

After the tiny girl struggled and strained to load my suitcases onto a luggage cart, we head off to customs. She's pushing me, I'm pushing the luggage cart. Like a train. We breezed through customs (wheelchairs get no-waiting service) and we arrived at another security screening. The chair attendant had to load my five bags onto and back off the conveyor, then we headed out to the terminal. She's now pushing the luggage cart and I've taken over the wheelchair management, trying to quickly wheel myself out of this shameful experience. Having never wheelchaired myself before, though I ran into a little trouble navigating around the final turn leading into the terminal, prompting the cute couple from Florida who were walking behind us to jump in and assist in wheeling me around.

I thought for sure they'd release me at the terminal, but no luck. Not only was the wheelchair assistant girl not letting me go until I'd organized transportation to my hostel, the Florida woman and her boyfriend "refuse to leave until you know exactly where you're going." I knew I had to get a shuttle, I just wasn't sure which one. I knew it was a "just grab the _______ shuttle" deal, so I thought I would figure it out once I arrived. But, I didn't consider having a crew of two Floridians, two luggage trolleys, a wheelchair and an extremely petite wheelchair attendant. After having to wait at two information booths (allowing plenty of time to make awkward conversation with each other), I figured out the details and they all head off to deliver me to the Auckland SuperShuttle.

The good news, I guess, is that my "injured" foot meant that after the short walk from the curb to the check-in counter in San Francisco, I didn't even touch my big suitcases until they were in my room at the hostel. The Shuttle driver and my merry band of helpful wheelchair assistants loaded them at the airport, the shuttle driver unloaded them at the hostel and the hostel owner wouldn't allow me and my wonky foot to carry them down the flight of stairs to my room.

Oh, my room is very small but functional. It isn't wide enough for a double bed, but it fits a big TV and two giant and three small suitcases, so yay.

My Room

Cheers!
Mare :)

PS: NZ is a day ahead (so Wednesday instead of your Tuesday), but in terms of hours, we're three hours behind (so, it's 1:15 on Wednesday here, but 4:15 on Tuesday back in California).