And so passes a pivotal moment in a young student’s life, his first week at his new school. I was sort of expecting/hoping for something from Dazed and Confused or a John Hughes movie, but alas, nothing so story worthy. Before I get into my first impressions, I think I should walk you through my schedule. I take a whopping total of three, count ‘em, three courses (called papers here). These courses are: Criminal Behavior and Investigations – A Psychological Approach, Abnormal Psychology, and Creative Nonfiction Writing. Here is how they break down in a more typical format:
CRIM: T TH 10:00 – 12:00
PSYC: T TH F 1:10 – 2:00
CREW: F 9:30 -12:00
Looks a little more familiar, right? I also have a one-hour psychology lab on Wednesday afternoons, but I’m not complaining. I have a lot of time on my hands, time which I plan to spend writing and doing things worthy of being recorded. But I digress, back to school.
I walked into the criminology classroom, unsure of what to expect. I’ve taken psychology courses and I’ve taken criminology classes, but have never had the two combined. I took a seat in one of the front rows and pulled out my trusty pen and paper. Hopefully, with several episodes of Criminal Minds and a few murder mystery novels under my belt, I would ace the course. The professor, a relatively young guy with dark, wavy hair and sleek glasses, spoke in an undeniably kiwi accent. Like most kiwi professors, he insisted on being addressed by his first name. The kiwis are a casual people, and formal titles are relatively foreign amongst them. I tried to suppress a smile (because of the accent, not the subject matter) as my professor explained to us the details of New Zealand’s most prolific killer, David Gray. Mr. Gray, a gun nut and hermit with some paranoid delusions of persecution, went on a shooting rampage through his small village, killing at least a dozen people before he was stopped. I’m not going to make a joke here, because as cynical and insensitive as I am, even I’m not that bad. I’ve heard of these things happening in America before, even recently in the United Kingdom, but I still find it hard to imagine that something like that could happen here in New Zealand. We went on to discuss the ins and outs of juvenile offenders and the crime statistics associated with delinquency, and then were told that classes on Thursday would be labs and the first one would be next week. No class Thursday morning? Sweet as. Anyway, on to greener, or at least less psychopathic/criminal, pastures.
Next up on the list is Abnormal Psychology. My first observation about the class: it’s freaking huge, like, the size of my ego huge. A young woman stepped up to the podium and announced that our professor, John, was currently in a conference in Melbourne, Australia and would be there for the rest of the week. Class was still in session though, and the woman, Kirsty, informed us that she would be our lecturer for the rest of the week. After only a few minutes of lecturing, a number of things became apparent. Firstly, Kirsty was a new lecturer. She admitted this during Friday’s class, actually, but despite being a novice, her lectures were both entertaining and educational. The second thing that became apparent was Kirsty’s admiration for our absent lecturer, John. In addition to being Kirsty’s thesis adviser, John is apparently somewhat of a rockstar here at Victoria. He is both brilliant and a rebel, even though I can’t imagine that a psychology professor can be that much of an outlaw. Still, you have to have some influence in the office, if you can totally skip the first week of work without complaints. My third and final observation was less a question of education than ergonomics. The desks here suck, plain and simple. Not only does the writing surface slant 45°, but it is also about an inch away from the edge of the seat. Only Mini Me would be comfortable in that desk (even though he would have to stand up on the seat to reach the desk surface, but that is beside the point). All of that aside, the class is great. So far we have covered the evolution of medical treatments for mental illnesses, everything from invention of corn flakes to discourage masturbation to Freud and his penchant for cocaine. None of the subject material of my courses has been particularly cheery so far, eh?
Friday morning eventually rolled around and with it, my final paper. I showed up to the class early, as is my habit at the start of a semester (showing up late the first day of class doesn’t make a particularly good impression). As the rest of the class started to trickle in, I grew more and more convinced that I was in the wrong classroom. Sure there were two other students my age (a guy and a girl), but out of the twelve of us, nine were middle-aged women. I had stumbled into the goddamned Ya-Ya Sisterhood. The lecturer himself, Harry, is possibly the most British man I have ever encountered. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a tattoo of the Union Jack. He looked like he had stumbled out of a Harry Potter movie. Harry is bald except for a shock of blond-gray fringe shooting out of the side of his head like flames. Loafers, a habit of saying, “jolly good”, and I’m pretty sure he was wearing tweed. So between the kiwis and the Englishman, I was the lone American of the group, a Hemmingway among… um… kiwi writers. The first test of our mettle was a simple writing exercise describing an experience in the living room of our childhoods. Now I don’t consider myself a phenomenal writer by any stretch (I’ll get better with time, I promise), but after reading our pieces out loud, I realized something. I can compete with these people. I know writing isn’t a competition, but I was worried that my writing would seem, well, sophomoric compared to the scribblings of the elderly Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. But I can rest easy, my English professors have taught me well.
And so after another bout with Abnormal Psychology, the weekend arrived. For me, that meant only one thing: All Blacks vs. South Africa. The All Blacks, New Zealand’s national rugby team, are the pride of the country. The players’ pictures are pasted up everywhere advertizing everything from underwear to soft drinks. These guys are rockstars. And for good reason. The All Blacks have a winning record comparable to the Harlem Globetrotters. They are big, they are scary, and they can haka and play rugby like no one’s business. I was as giddy as a schoolgirl at the Twilight premiere (oddly enough, a 23 year-old man was found dead in the movie theater the morning after the premiere of the latest Twilight film here in Wellington).
I started my big day by going to Westpac Stadium to pick up my ticket. I’ll start by saying this: that walk was a bitch. There were no steep hills or anything like that, and the walk would have been pleasant… except for the rain. I normally like the rain. Reading during a rainstorm is one of the most relaxing pastimes I can imagine, but having raindrops thrown into your eyes like baseballs from a pitching machine is about the exact opposite, especially for three hours. I must have looked like Hell, because the guy in the ticket booth jumped when I shuffled up to the counter. Regardless, he handed me my ticket and told me to have a good time as I wearily made my way back into the rain.
Next stop, All Blacks merchandise. There was no way in Hell that I would show up to that game without visual proof of my support for the team. The store (there is actually an entire chain of All Blacks merchandise stores) was easy enough to find. I just followed the black clothing and instead of ending up at some Goth (the pale, black clothing wearing kind, not the barbarian kind) bar or S&M club, I thankfully ended up at the front of one of the stores. Now my original plan was to buy a jersey, and I got so far as trying one on, and in addition to the jersey being… unflattering to my build, the price is what hurt the most. I took one look at the price tag, and it was like an All Black tackled me. $180? There was no way my wallet could handle that. Instead I settled for a nice All Blacks beanie for a cool $15. Hooray for college budgeting!
I had the ticket, I had the paraphernalia, there was only one thing left to do to prepare for the big game. Pizza time. Right down the street from my flat is what the manager of the place described as the busiest pizza place in New Zealand and Australia. The restaurant is called Hell’s Fully Fury. I first heard of it when I noticed their menu tacked up on the notice board in my flat’s entryway. The pizzas all had amusing and appropriately themed names such as Underworld, Minion, Brimstone, and all of the seven deadly sins (except for pride, for reasons unknown to me). In my opinion, the pizzas were as great as their names. I ordered an Underworld, a seafood pizza (get it?), and was not at all disappointed. I had brought two bottles of wine, white and red, to the restaurant, yet all classiness was voided by the fact that I had forgotten a cup. I sipped sparingly, because I knew I was going to need some for the game.
Interesting fact: outside liquor is prohibited in Westpac Stadium. Whoops. I raced to the stadium in a cab, blissfully unaware of this interesting little piece of information. I shouldn’t say blissfully, because my eyes were glued to the clock. I was not going to miss the All Blacks’ traditional pre-game haka, of that I was damn sure. I ended up getting out of the taxi in mid-traffic, and running the rest of the way. Roger Bannister would have been impressed. Then the announcement came on as I made my way through the crowd and toward the gate. My ears pricked up at the words, “prohibited items include alcohol-“. Damn. I stepped into the bag check security line. I felt like a Columbian drug mule must have felt (minus the lump of heroin in my rectum) as I set my bag on the counter. The woman looked in my bag. For once, luck was on my side. I had forgotten that I had put my pizza leftovers in my backpack, and by some freak twist of karma/fate, the box completely covered both my bottles of wine. The security officer barely glanced into my bag before giving me a dismissive way through the gates. I had just experienced the great American tradition of smuggling alcohol into a large scale sporting event, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t feel a little patriotic.
I made it to my seat panting, and sat between two middle-aged kiwi couples. As soon as I sat down, I knew I was lucky. I had paid top dollar for my ticket, and was it ever worth it. I sat midfield; right at the 50-meter line about 15-20 rows back. I had a perfect view of pretty much everything. Let the games begin.
As soon as the Springboks (the South African team) lined up to face the All Blacks, the stadium got dead quiet. The players took their positions, and their captain roared out in Maori. I was a little disappointed to see that they didn’t perform their traditional “Ka Mate” haka, but was a little assuaged when I found out the haka they performed, the Kapa O Pango, is a haka they reserve almost exclusively for the Springboks. When they finished, I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. I would almost say that the entire trip to New Zealand, and definitely worth the trip to the stadium earlier, was worth it just to see that haka. And then the game started.
I don’t claim to know the rules of rugby. I understand most of the concepts, but some aspects elude me. All of the fouls sounded like horribly vulgar sex acts to me, but I learned the gist of the game pretty quickly. When I didn’t understand, which was often, I just cheered when the kiwis around me cheered. And I drank. Being at a rugby game, I felt it was only appropriate to do so. I was nervous at first and did my best to drink from the bottle with a little subtlety (a feat I now consider impossible). Then I met the gaze of an old man. He was one of those men who looked like he had seen ages in a lifetime. It was as if he stepped straight out of the pages of The Old Man and the Sea. Eternity swirled in his eyes and white hair, cascading like waves, flowed from the top of his head. I felt a pang of guilt as my hand froze, the bottle still in midair. His wrinkled face broke into a smile of understanding. He nodded in approval as I continued to drink. I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: I love this country.
The game itself was spectacular. Those men are modern warriors. As fast as they are strong, I would never EVER want to get on the bad side of any of them. The atmosphere was electric as the players sprinted full tilt down the field. Rugby truly is a sport of kings, or at least the sport of gentlemen. Really intimidating, gigantic gentlemen. The game ended in an All Blacks victory, as expected. Still, the kiwis were thrilled. Upon hearing my accent when I left the stadium, the kiwis in the crowd around me eagerly asked me how I enjoyed the game. I even got a picture with some of the more intensely painted fans (black and white skulls) before I left.
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