I’ve been going through my posts recently, and I’ve noticed a trend. Everything I have written so far is an episodic format. I’ve been telling myself that I’ve been waiting to write a new post, because I needed to accumulate new stories. And that worked… for a while. I’ve come to the conclusion that every day can’t be a tale of intrigue and expense. I just don’t have the budget for that. There are just going to be some days where my biggest achievement is showering before noon. So instead of waiting for the days of intrigue to pile up into a story, I’ve decided to jot down some moments. They are in no particular order and are in no way tied together. These tidbits didn’t tie in particularly well with any of my last posts or were too short for a post of their own. Some are experiences I’ve actually sought out, and others are from just being there. Some are recent, some happened months ago. But here they are now for your reading pleasure: my lost chapters.
1. I breathed into my hands to warm them up. The Kiwi Paka parking lot wasn’t exactly the warmest spot in Rotorua. I was regretting not bringing a hat for my ears when I heard it. Damn was I grateful that I didn’t bring that hat, otherwise I wouldn’t have heard this gem.
Random Bus Driver: “I tell you what, bro, I’m so hungry that I could eat the ass out of a low flying duck.”
Shakespearian in its obscenity. Potent and more than a little disturbing in its imagery. I almost asked this foul-mouthed poet if he could repeat the phrase just so I could make sure that I heard right. Where had he come across this phrase? Did he use it frequently? Was this an exclusively kiwi colloquialism? Have any ducks suffered (or enjoyed, I don’t know how ducks swing) the experience of flying too close to you? I am sure that if I said this anywhere, from a family baptism to an Irish dockworker’s union meeting, it would earn me the stares of all in the room. I haven’t had the chance to use it yet (saving it for a wedding toast or national TV appearance), but I am glad to have it tucked safely away in my repertoire.
2. I wandered down Cuba Street, my eyes jumping from sign to sign. Hopefully they would light upon one promising good food for my growling stomach. My hopes weren’t particularly high for finding any. My one-hour nap that afternoon had turned into a six, so the hour was late. The dinner rush had long since passed, and the bar crowd hadn’t yet descended upon the city leaving the streets empty. I was caught in some sort of sustenance provider limbo. I rounded the corner, lost in my own thoughts, and was hit by an explosion of music.
Hari Krishnas. I couldn’t believe it. I thought they only existed in the Airplane movies and episodes of Scrubs, but here they were standing, actually more like prancing, before me. I was awe-struck. They skipped, they sang, they smiled, and every person on their side of the street quickly switched sidewalks. These guys were the real deal. They were even wearing robes and rocking the shaved head look. I became entranced by the fresh tambourine beats they were laying down. Meanwhile, everyone around me moved on like the crowd of dancing, bald men and women were invisible.
It may have been an everyday occurrence for these people, but where I’m from, these things just don't happen. Torn by inner conflict, I stood in the middle of the pathway like an asshole. Part of me wanted to go up to them and ask them for a flower (they were giving them out, thus further solidifying their legitimacy in my book). Another part told me to pull a Balloon Boy and hide. And yet another part of me wanted to join them. I wouldn’t have gone so far as shaving my head, but I would have skipped and sang and reveled in their whimsical fuckery just as much as the next guy.
But before I could decide, they were gone. The silence of the night had replaced their childlike laughter and the beat of the tambourine. My heart sank. And then my stomach growled. That’s when I saw the Indian restaurant. Surely it must have been some kind of sign. The place was one letter away from the spelling of my hometown to boot.
So it is to the Hari Krishnas that I extend my thanks. You may have not led me to enlightenment or salvation, but you did lead me to an Indian restaurant.
3. I walked into a club (I don’t remember the name nor do I want to) late one Saturday night. The inside looked like a Lady GaGa music video complete with dancers in eccentric costumes. I got scared. I left said club.
4. I have seen the same son-of-a-bitch riding his unicycle around Wellington at least five times. Each time I see him it is always out of the corner of my eye, except for the last time. This most recent sighting involved him pedaling uphill with a bottle of wine in each hand and groceries on his back. He had hair as long as his beard, like a young Dumbledore or something. And if he didn’t have that casual, smug look on his face I would have deemed him a champion.
5. A few of my friends were going to spend the evening at the San Francisco Bathhouse (a club, no nudity or anything else that might be implied by the name) to support one of the girls who lived in their building who was going to be playing guitar there that night. I had just finished a paper, so I figured I should go out and celebrate. The club had a number of acoustic guitar players on their set list to mark the end of their month long salute to folk acoustical music.
I like folk music as much as the next guy, Gordon Lightfoot, Bob Dylan, and guys like that are great in my book. That being said, the show wasn’t really my scene. I distinctly remember one song about the artist’s fondness for putting her hands on bare patches of earth. I know I shouldn’t judge and just respect the artist and all, but I couldn’t help raising an eyebrow for that number. The highlight of the night was a soulful, acoustic cover of Lady GaGa’s “Bad Romance”. With the words slowed down and without the pounding bass, I noticed that the lyrics were pretty out there. Oh, no, wait. I knew that the first time I heard the song. My bad. Game on.
6. I saw three very white kids breakdancing in a plaza down by the waterfront. I found their lack of skill disturbing.
7. After my first night of mid-trimester break, I celebrated. Hard. Admittedly, I shouldn’t have started drinking wine at 6:00 when I planned on going out at 10:00, but hindsight is 20/20. No memory losses or worshiping of the porcelain god, I’m happy to report, but enough to inspire some interesting actions upon return from one of my neighbor’s birthday party. Did I make a series of embarrassing phone calls? No. Did I set something on fire? Try again. Get into a fight? Don’t think so. So what did I do?
If you guessed built a massive pillow fort in my living room, then you are a damn good guesser. Years of extensive training and natural MacGyver-like instincts guided my hands (and wine, lots of wine) resulting in the towering Fort Kickass!. I am sure if the monkeys from 2001: A Space Odyssey had been there, they would have worshipped it like the monolith it was. My American roommates were duly impressed with Fort Kickass! when they individually returned from their nights out, while Hanah, though impressed, was more confused than anything upon returning home to find that a pillow stronghold had been constructed in the lounge. Their authority would not have been recognized in Fort Kickass! even if they had been annoyed. I spent the remainder of the night memorizing the “Ducks Fly Together” speech from The Mighty Ducks and trying to adopt a puppy online. I succeeded in only one of these endeavors. If my roommates weren’t aware that they were living with a kindergartener earlier, they sure as hell are now.
8. One of my first nights out in Wellington, I stumbled into a snippet of a conversation that I desperately would have liked to have heard in its entirety. It was only 9:00 in the evening in what was shaping up to be a very calm Wednesday night. I had just left some bar (The Establishment, I think it was) and was heading to another when I passed a cabstand. Two girls wearing plastic, bright purple top hats that read “Happy New Year” (keep in mind that this was July) were trying and failing to position themselves in the backseat of a cab. One was only vaguely aware of what was happening and the other alternated between shouting at the cab driver and her friend. The poor cabby had an expression on his face that was a cross between, “Please don’t puke on me” and “I’m regretting every life decision that I’ve ever made”. By itself, the picture was amusing. The audio pushed it into the realm of classics.
Random Still Functioning Drunk Chick: “I’ll see if we can get the pool cue back later, but just be glad that your ear stopped bleeding!”
Now imagine hearing that in a kiwi accent, and tell me that you don’t want to know what happened. If I hadn’t been afraid of the yelling drunk girl giving me a swift kick to the crotch (she had on a wicked looking pair of stilettos, so my fear was justified), I would have gotten into the cab with them just to find out the context of the aforementioned quote. Alas, I watched longingly as they sped off into the night, probably to go steal a tiger from Mike Tyson or something. I can only hope to have an adventure equal to theirs in obscurity and scope.
My eyes are open and constantly searching for the next story in my ongoing collection of scenes from Wellington. In a couple of days I’ll be heading off to Christchurch to embark on a truly epic tour of the South Island, so tales of my adventures and my musings will be in abundance. And as long I have readers, my pen will be at the ready.
P.S. – If anybody has any requests or ideas for things for me to do and write about here in New Zealand, please leave a comment. I’m open to ideas, and I would also be more than willing to cover new topics in my posts if it would make my readership happy.
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