The Duke of Wellington

Despite countless hills, confusing street names, and my own disturbingly poor sense of direction, I’ve managed to successfully navigate myself through the city and back to my computer. The more I wander the streets of this city, the more I fall in love with it. It’s not that the architecture is amazing or that the weather is great (far from it, actually), there is just something here that is, for lack of a better word, charming. Maybe they’re putting something in the water, but whatever it is, I love it.

My first experience with VUW (directly, at least) was International Orientation. We were a predominantly American group, but I’m pretty sure we had some representation from each continent (I’m pretty sure there was a penguin in the room, or then again, maybe I was just insanely bored). Now I won’t say that the information that was presented wasn’t useful, I definitely learned a few helpful tidbits, but I had heard most of their spiel during my past week with AustraLearn. The most amusing segment of the day came in the form of cultural orientation. Sure, most of it consisted of the fact that kiwis are a lot less hurried and a lot more laid back than most cultures and that a “biscuit” is a cookie here in New Zealand, but the highlight of the cultural segment was dealing with cultural miscommunication. As soon as the speaker pulled up the YouTube window on the projector, I knew it could only be one thing: Flight of the Conchords. For those unfamiliar with the pair, the Flight of the Conchords is a comedy/music duo consisting of Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie (both VUW graduates, so fingers crossed for an alumni show). The two kiwi comedians are accomplished songwriters, musicians (both play guitar), and actors (in addition to having their own HBO comedy series, both have been in multiple films, Bret actually having a small in role in the Lord of the Rings movies). The clips the presenter showed us involved Bret and Jemaine overcoming the prejudices against kiwis in America (prejudices which actually turned out to be against Australians). Thanks to the fab… two, I am fully prepared to overcome any cultural miscommunication.

Next up was handling enrollment. I had actually already enrolled online about a month ago, but I needed to go through a few more hurdles before I was considered a full UVic student. The lady who handled the enrollment seminar was perhaps the most incompetent woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet with. Every question that we asked her was answered with a confident, “I can’t help you there. You’ll have to ask the Faculties.” The Faculties, while sounding like the name of some omnipotent tribunal, are representatives from the various departments who would give the final authorization for our selected courses. It would have to wait until tomorrow though, because the Shadow Council would not convene until tomorrow. On that note, orientation adjourned.

The rest of the day was spent preparing for the birthday of the kiwimate (the kiwi roommate of an international student) across the street. The party itself was to happen at my humble flat, because the kiwimate in question had lived there previously and all the kiwimates (I’m beginning to suspect that they have their own little club or Faculties, if you will) agreed that 11 Landcross St is the best place to have a party. Personally, I was thrilled with the choice. My little house on the cliff was going to be filled with kiwi accented cries of “Cheers, mate!” and "Thanks heaps!" Plus, having an American at your party is considered cool here, and the more you have the cooler your party is. Never have I contributed so much by doing so little. You can quote me on that if you like.

The party itself was a smashing success. The guests were numerous and the wine was plentiful. For those of you who don’t know, New Zealand has a thriving wine industry, bottling some of the finest, most elegant wines out there. Unfortunately, my wallet won’t let me obtain those, but seeing as Wellington is almost in the dead center of wine country, I can still find some good ones at a reasonable price. I actually found a rather nice Pinot gris that is pleasing to both my palate and meager budget. I may become a wine snob yet (minus the pretentiousness though, I hope).

A couple hours later, and the party moved from my flat to the town. Wednesday night is student’s night in Wellington, so the city is flooded with the young and the restless (and the seeking-to-be-intoxicated). I threw on my jacket and was whisked away on a night that is fuzzy in my mind still. Not because I drank too much (definitely not enough for some of the places we visited, but because I was pulled, often literally, back and forth in between groups begging me to join them at the clubs. I was a hot commodity in limited quantity, and all because of my nationality. (Insert frenzied chanting of, “USA! USA! USA!” here)

The one place I managed to get the name of before being sucked into was The Basement. True to its name, the club was in the basement, a basement with enough strobe lights to be considered a health hazard. The club was packed to its limits, and I was sure that I was going to get my wallet stolen with the number of people I had to squeeze by. Fortunately, such was not the case. After only 30 seconds on the dance floor, my companions deemed the club unacceptable and I was whisked off to nameless club after nameless club.

The one other club that stands out in my mind from the night has since become an enemy of mine: Kitty O’Shea’s. The place is an Irish bar in the middle of town, and it seemed more like my scene than any of the other places we had visited, so I was excited. I presented my ID at the door, and looked anxiously over the bouncer’s shoulder at my awaiting land of fun and beer.

“Sorry, sir, but I can’t let you in because of your shoes,” the bouncer said. My jaw dropped. Surely, he must jest, because I could see paradise just behind him and just beyond my reach. The rather formidable Maori man assured me that he was completely serious, and that I could not enter because of my shoes (What is it with these people and shoes?). I looked down at my gray New Balance sneakers just to make sure that nobody had strapped a time bomb to them or drawn some ethnically offensive graffiti drawn on them. Clean as a whistle. Just a week ago my shoes had been considered a fine gift for a village chieftain, but here at some obscure Irish bar they were considered a misdemeanor. I would have scowled if I hadn’t been so tired. Instead, I grunted, shrugged, and told my new friends that I would be retiring for the night. And so my offensive shoes and I decided to call it a night.

The walk back from Kitty O’Shea’s to 11 Landcross St is upwards of thirty minutes and entirely uphill, so I stand confident in my decision to take a taxi. I chatted with large Maori women who was my driver about God knows what until the little sedan finally pulled up in front of my flat. Tipping here is not a custom, nor is it expected, so I was thankful that my tired brain didn’t have to do any math. Lights out, heater on, eyes closed. Good night.

Do you remember that game at the carnival where you had to throw the little plastic ring over the neck of a bottle? They have it set up with all the bottles in a square, and it is damn near impossible to win. My point is that my living room looked like that bottle setup the next morning. Not in shape or anything, but just the actual number of bottles scattered about. Still in my pajamas and with blurry eyes, I started collecting bottles in a plastic bag. Not one minute into working, Hanah joined in followed by my two other flatmates, Shane and Molly, both American and both New Yorkers. In about ten minutes, an amount of time I still find astonishing, we managed to clean up the entire flat. Somewhere in that time between picking up bottles in our pajamas and taking out the trash without socks, I think we all bonded. I was certain that campfire songs were to follow, but alas, no such luck.

The next few days found me at my computer or with a computer as the weather turned from cold to cold and rainy. My eyes had had enough of having raindrops slung into them by the harsh winds here, so I was pretty much under house arrest by Mother Nature. Despite the harsh conditions, Hanah and I managed to make a flat grocery trip to Moore Wilson’s. Moore Wilson’s is New Zealand’s answer to America’s Sam’s. The name of the game was bulk. Our most notable purchase included 90 eggs. That’s right, 90 of those suckers. Anybody up for a twelve-egg omelet?

The one night that was clear I spent in a movie theater. Not a very cultural experience, right? Wrong. The movie in question was “Boy”, described by kiwis as one of the most New Zealand films ever made, capturing the very essence of the nation. Describing the film to others has proved difficult thus far. The boy of the title is a young Maori boy named “Alamein”, but known by his nickname, “Boy” (hence the title). His hobbies include spending time with his pet goat, pining for an older girl named Chardonnay, and Michael Jackson. Boy’s life is interrupted with the sudden reappearance of his ne’er do well father, Alamein Sr.. The story is all at once funny (I definitely got a vaguely Napoleon Dynamite-esque vibe from it) and heartbreaking. If you want to really know New Zealand, watch this film. But be warned, their accents are thick and some (I definitely can think of a few people within my own family) will not be able to understand some of the actors.

The week ended with, you guessed it, another night on the town. This one, however, was a lot more memorable. Our group this time was composed almost entirely of Americans, and we had one destination in mind: Boogie Wonderland. Like the Basement, the club looked a lot like you would expect a place named Boogie Wonderland would. Light up dance floor? Check. Disco Ball? Guys in Village People costumes? Definitely check. And without ever actually seeing a 70’s porn movie, I can say with certainty that the furniture must have come straight from one of the sets. The place was so retro, that I was taken aback by it all. I mean, even the bartenders were wearing bellbottoms, for Christ’s sake. But it got even better. At the back of the club was a semi-hidden entrance to another bar named Alice’s. Alice’s, Wonderland, get it? Alice’s was more of a cocktail lounge, and eschewed the 70’s theme in favor of the Alice in Wonderland story. I think my favorite part of Alice’s had to be the fact that all the drinks were served in little teakettles. Where is my top hat when I need it? Before I got a better chance to explore, a bouncer approached one of my friends. I was curious as to what my face had looked like when I was told my shoes were not good enough for Kitty O’Shea’s, and that curiosity was satiated when my friend was given the same line. I empathized with her. I felt a pang of guilt as I looked down at my own nice, dress shoes (fool me once, and I change shoes), and realized that I hadn’t reminded her of my fateful trip to Kitty O’Shea’s. a few of us decided to leave the bar with her and find another place.

That other place happened to by Maya. Maya looked a lot like the inside of a Laser Tag place, so I was (understandably, I hope) disappointed when I wasn't presented with a laser gun and chest piece upon entering. Less than five minutes inside, and I had grown tired of the place. My friend Kyle, equally unenthused with our venue choice, left the club to seek our fortunes elsewhere.

We couldn’t have taken more than fifty steps outside before we got into a conversation with a pair of kiwi girls. Nobody just stops and talks to you on the streets back home unless they are homeless or have less than noble intentions, so this was a novelty to me. They invited us to a bar called The Shot Shack with them, and we being two eager, young American boys, were more than happy to oblige. We squeezed our way through the crowds and up to the bar, chatting happily all the way. The girls kept gushing on and on about our American accents, so I’m pretty sure that both Kyle and myself were walking with a little swagger in our steps when we ordered shots, the bar’s specialty, for ourselves and the girls. The drinks were dirt-cheap and we wanted to appear gentlemen, because we are, so we asked them what was good. What we were served is called, and pardon my language, a Quick Fuck. Vulgar, yes, but also surprisingly tasty. Not being a fan of shots myself, I was surprised at how well the mixture of Bailey’s Irish Cream and Midori melon liqueur went down. Before I had even set my shot glass down, the girls were ready to take us to a new club.

What happened next inspires feelings of bitterness, but mainly amusement, as I recall it now. We stood in line outside of the club, Hope Bros., with the girls standing in front of us, and Kyle and I just happy to be there. And then it happened. While the bouncers checked my ID alongside Kyle’s, the girls, already in the club, split. I think Kyle might have genuinely been furious at their hasty departure, but I couldn’t help laughing. We ordered Quick Fucks and that is exactly what we got, we were quickly fucked over. Kyle grumbled under his breath as I led him to the bar. He ordered and downed two whisky shots before we departed. We thought that it was probably a good time to cool our jets, so we headed over to The Library.

The Library does indeed have books, but this library was a cocktail lounge. Passing the bouncer who looked suspiciously like Rasputin (does that guy ever die?), we went up a staircase and came face to face with a bookshelf. The bookshelf then swung open to reveal paradise. Being a man of words (I’m writing this now after all), I was instantly smitten with the place. The walls were composed entirely of bookshelves jammed with books. The lights were that perfect amount of dim, and the furniture looked like it could have come from Henry James’s parlor. I felt like I should have been wearing my smoking jacket just being there. Needless to say, I was in heaven.

Kyle’s mood lightened as we ordered drinks, and marveled at our surroundings. My fingers were itching for my keyboard and a word processor, as I looked at all the titles cramming the shelves around us. I didn’t really pay attention to what I ordered, just having what Kyle had, but the drink was still a welcome relief. Like my companion, it was just slightly bitter.

Mellowed out from The Library, we decided that we would visit my kiwi flatmate, Hanah, at her work. Hanah works as a bartender at J.J. Murphy’s, an Irish bar on Cuba Street, one of the hippest places in the city. Hanah flashed me a smile as we parted the crowd and ordered up at the bar, and I was pleased to see that Hanah was the one who made my drink. She told me to say goodbye when I left as Kyle and I made our way to one of the booths to listen to the live band play. Despite being duped earlier, I chalked the night up as a success as I sipped my drink and listened to kiwi versions of Oasis’s “Wonderwall” and the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Under the Bridge".

Once again, I took a cab home (they are surprisingly cheap here) as my week drew to a close. Classes start this week, and I’m honestly pretty excited to give New Zealand academia a shot. I just hope this school is ready for me… and my unacceptable shoes.