Despite whispered rumors of my death, I’m still very much alive and active. I realize that a new blog post has been long overdue, but I have two reasons for waiting. One, I had my first test and my first assignment back-to-back this past weekend, so priority number one went to studying. Shocking, I know, but more on that later. My second reason for delaying writing a new post is that I’ve been trying to accumulate enough experiences that I deem “blogworthy”. And now since I’m back in Maxtion (a portmanteau of my roommate’s devising) and wielding my pen, it goes without saying that I’ve successfully achieved both of my objectives.
My first adventure takes place last week at the very start of the month. My destination? The Weta Cave. No, I didn’t venture back into glowworm territory, I went to the world-renowned Wellington based movie studio. The Weta Cave is the only portion of Weta Workshop available to the public. The Weta Workshop covers every aspect of filmmaking from costume design, prop making, animation, and almost everything in between. They’ve been responsible for such films as King Kong, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, The Chronicles of Narnia films, and more. Look them up, you’ll see. The studio itself is located on the other side of the bay, so after a lengthy car ride I was dropped off in the middle of a suburb. Confused, I paid the driver and turned the corner. Bam! Right in the middle of suburbia was a full-scale movie studio. As I later found out, virtually all Weta Workshop employees live around the studio effectively forming a small city within a city.
As I stepped through the front doors of the Weta Cave (yes, it is shaped like a cave), I was transported to nerd heaven. I was immediately confronted by the life-size model of Lurtz, the gnarly looking Uruk-hai (bigass orc man) that killed Sean Bean in the first Lord of the Rings movie. Behind him was a wall jam-packed with the weapons used from all three movies. There were bows, axes, swords, shields, armor, and everything. I’d never been so tempted to shoplift in all my life. The only thing that I found disappointing about the Weta Cave was its size. All told, they only had three rooms available for show. Keeping in mind that Weta Workshop is about the size of a military base, you can understand my dismay. Regardless, I enjoyed the film presented to us about the history of the studio and its current projects. It also helped that the manager of the Weta Cave was a dwarf. He may have been a little tall, but I swear that I saw him at the Council of Elrond. Satisfied with my tour of the Weta Cave and encounter with one of the races of Middle Earth, I retired back to Landcross Street.
With my grand adventure for the weekend complete, I settled into a passive, more domestic (read laundry and cooking) until class on Tuesday. And when they resumed, I came to realize something. Despite the numerous failings of the American educational system, I’m remarkably well prepared for New Zealand academics. Maybe it is just Rice that has conditioned me to expect the worst when it comes to exams and to therefore prepare to a degree that some would find absurd, but my first test (Abnormal Psychology) was trivial, almost childishly simplistic. Over this past weekend, my conscience nagged me and convinced me that my hubris was getting the best of me. I love it when I’m wrong. Out of a class numbering around 200, I was one of less than ten that scored a perfect 100%. I write about this partly out of pride, but mainly out of relief. I had no idea what to expect academics-wise when I showed up in the Land of the Long White Cloud, so now I can rest a little easier knowing that I can hang with the best of them.
When I’m not classifying types of schizophrenia for Abnormal Psychology, profiling serial killers and analyzing crime statistics (I know it’s lame, but I feel like an FBI agent when I do), and writing for the non-Asian Joy Luck Club, I’ve poured my time into a new hobby: boxing. That’s right, in a series of attempts to do things very un-Max like, I’ve decided to take up the time-honored tradition of boxing. I recently took out a membership at the local VUW affiliated boxing gym, and have jumped headfirst into training. The gym itself is a little rundown, like the ones in boxing movies, and it’s above an Asian supermarket, so you know it’s legitimate. My trainer is a short, but stout little woman named Jo. She can be as kind as a grandmother, but barks out commands like a drill sergeant when we jump rope. I haven’t had to fight anybody yet, and I doubt I will, but I am satisfied with and very much enjoying learning the technique behind the sport. I’m 90% sure that I’m the only American in the gym and 100% sure that everyone else there can tell I’m a foreigner. Nobody is mean or anything like that, but I think they expect me to pull out a handgun, shotgun a beer, shit a bald eagle, or something equally patriotic. Unfortunately for them, I go solely for the purpose of learning and getting a good workout. If I do manage to KO somebody, whether purposefully or accidentally, I’ll be sure to write about it.
This most recent weekend, after finishing a paper about the particularly ghastly crimes of American serial killer Edmund Kemper, I decided that I’d had enough violence and death for one weekend. So to clear my head, I went for a walk through Wellington’s Botanical Gardens. Despite being winter, they really were quite nice, and I’m sure they are even more beautiful in the summer. The weather was cold, but the sun was shining and there were no clouds in sight as I strolled by exotic ferns and trees with unpronounceable Maori names. I saw a sign pointing out the path to Parliament, and on a whim I took it. Finally I was free of psychopaths, dismemberment, and corpses. Seeing as I worked in a morgue before I left, even I found the last item ironic. And then the irony swelled to ridiculous proportions as I rounded a corner and found myself in a cemetery. In order to get through to Parliament, I had to walk through not one, not two, but three cemeteries. My journey through the land of dead was brief thankfully, and I found myself in front of the large beehive shaped structure the kiwis call Parliament. I’d meant to take a tour of the place, but turned away when I saw the list of prohibited items on tours that included backpacks and cameras. I had already smuggled alcohol into a sporting event, so I decided not to take my chances again. Plus, if I do go to Parliament and smuggle something, you can safely bet that it’s going to be beer. In my opinion, political decision making, unlike driving, is best done intoxicated. I’m pretty sure Winston Churchill would agree with me.
My last stop of the day, because of a particularly persistent and persuasive influence in my life, was the trolley car. Wellington is often compared to San Francisco, and one of the many similarities they share is a cable car system. As luck would have it, the trolley car has a stop right outside of Parliament, and I really didn’t feel like walking uphill and through more dead people. I got on behind an Asian family so decked out in stereotypical tourist gear (maps, fanny packs, the whole package) that they made me feel like a local. The ride itself was uneventful. Nobody hijacked it and forced it to keep over a speed of 55 mph or anything like that, so I was able to take it easy.
I’ve been to The Library (the cocktail lounge, not the university building) several times now, and have been exploring new bars weekly. I have to say, J.J. Murphy’s (my flatmate Hanah’s workplace) and The Library are still my favorites. Still, my search for the Holy Grail of bars goes on.
I know that I promised photos in the last post, and they will show up eventually, but bear in mind that I am a writer (or at least I like to think of myself as one) first, and a photographer second. Until then, I’ve got a mid-semester break (two weeks away!) to plan, so more stories should be coming in soon. In the meantime, I’ll keep watch over Wellington, its watchful protector, its silent guardian. Because I’m not the hero it needs, I’m the one it probably shouldn’t have given a visa to.
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