Cheers 2010.
For some reason my mates around here have dubbed me “Mom.” Maybe they think I have the answers to everything, or that I have a Mary Poppins bag, or can make everyone feel better. If I can convince them of this, I’m all for it. When I arrived at Sydney airport on the morning of New Years Eve, I had the best welcome ever. I hadn’t seen Jackie since before Christmas, and her and her mate we were crashing with came to pick me up. I walked out to find a mass of people with eager then disappointed faces when they realized I wasn’t their pick-up. I thought I saw Jackie’s head pop up amongst them, did a double-take, then saw her holding up a sign that said “MOM” with a big cheesy grin. It was awesome. I had missed my Gypsy Jackie.
Priceless reunion.
We had a fairly out of character New Years for the two of us. But I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. We went to the Annie Leibovitz exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art, had coffee, and sat by the pool outside her mate’s flat. We had planned to go out in the evening, then go hit up the fireworks. Instead we made dinner, had champagne and watched Gilmore Girls. Around 8.30pm, we reminded ourselves where we were at, kicked ourselves into gear, and strolled on down to the waterfront. NYE here is similar to NYC, in the fact that people perch FAR too early for their own good. At least in Sydney it’s warm. But then you get sunburnt, dehydrated, or drunk. Or all three. The recommendation for us was to go down to Lavender Bay and McMahon’s Point. We walked down there to find the area closed off to any more people. Fair enough. We decided to muck about the back streets to see if we could find a semi-decent spot, contemplated crashing a few house parties we passed, and then lucked out finding ourselves back at the Bay, walked in, and sat ourselves down in wait. Our view? The bridge, the Opera House lit up behind it, the skyline, and enough of a view to see the other two points of fireworks. Approved! The 2 hours we still had to kill, we spent it watching people (especially entertaining were the 15 year old girls being escorted out by the police for being drunk) and being goobs trying to sync up our ipod listening to each other. The fireworks were pretty epic. Especially over the bridge.
Epic as.
New Years Day we chilled out, went to Fresh Water Beach, out past Manly, and had a yummy Thai dinner over more Gilmore Girls. What a good end to a new beginning.
Playing Father Christmas.
I have been absurdly slack on the update front. I’m not terribly sorry, though. As the amount of things going on here and there and everywhere, have amounted to a mentally and physically busy Rachel! Christmas and New Years were beyond brilliant.
Another warm Christmas… I spent it with Margie and her family on an orchard in the Bay of Plenty, just outside the town of Katikati. That part of the country is stunning. The soil is so rich that everything grows at least twice as lush. And the family! What fun they are, and more welcoming to me than I could’ve asked for.
They have a tradition in the Pyle family that anyone new to the family has to play Father Christmas. So, with the help from Margie, I decked myself out in NZ attire- red gumboots, check; sunnies, check. Margie thought it would be a good idea to drive me the few meters to the front of the house from the garage in her dad’s red car, whilst blowing a whistle to announce Father Christmas’ arrival. The only problem was, she’d never driven it before and it kept stalling. And then we both couldn’t stop breaking out into stitches of laughter. Especially with my foot hanging out the window.
On Dasher and Dancer and Margie!
The Pyle’s were absolute delights. They made sure my veggie needs were met, sometimes cooking two types of mains, and made sure I had all the nutrients I needed. Their family has a completely different lifestyle- as they’re from South Africa. They have a constant sense of adventure and activity- not only do her parents run this orchard, but they just got back from doing two treks in Nepal over a month. Good effort! On Boxing Day we all went for a 7km tramp (aka hike) along the coast, from Waihi Beach, past Orokawa Bay and on to Homunga Bay. A paradise in its own right. I couldn’t stop basking in the heat and the pulse, and the blue of the water! One thing I don’t do is cold water. So when the rest of the family jumped into the sea, I felt obliged. I lasted all of 15 seconds before I ran out in near hysterics. Dramatic, yes, but necessary. My favourite moments of the trip were when we all cooked and ate together. It reminded me so much of my family, that it felt incredibly comfortable to be around them. We sat around the table sharing quotes of the day, moments of the day, live performance of the year, craziest person we met that year, and things we were thankful for. One of the days, Margie and I were out and came back in the house to find Maddy and James (mom and son) dancing to South African tunes in the kitchen. Keith was laughing and taking photos, and Margie and I of course had to join in. It was priceless.
The coastal walkway.
Another bonus to this trip was going to the Original Gypsy Fair. I have officially decided that I could live a life in a caravan, decorated with knitted steps, plant boxes on the windows, and wind chimes made of flattened silverware. I could sew, make, and sell my wares and jam out with the musicians. Margie and I even had a mini ukulele jam in front of the fam. It started out as a few strums, then turned into a full on duo! We covered classics like Folsom Prison Blues, Crazy, No Rain, and Somewhere Over the Rainbow. As ridiculous as we probably sounded, I think we were a hit. My last night with them was spent at a vineyard, with the sun setting, a bottle of red, yummy food, and a live French gypsy jazz group performing outside for all of us. I was spoiled beyond belief.
I could get used to this.
20 things I did in 2010.
Okay, I know this is a bit of an old hat, considering January is closing soon. But forgive a girl for spending more time doing than typing.
1.Visited 6 countries.
2.Drank a lake’s worth of coffee. (At least it seemed like it.)
3. Went skydiving.
4. Celebrated Christmas in July.
5. Went to see a Swedish circus act.
6. Learned how to play the ukulele.
7. Survived the winds of Wellington.
8. Worked at a hostel.
9. Saw a real Kiwi bird.
10. Got a new tattoo.
11. Said a lot of hard goodbyes.
12. Made heaps of new friends from all over the globe.
13. Heard my 2-year old niece tell me she loves me.
14. Didn’t eat anything with meat.
15. Went to a few house parties for people I didn’t know.
16. Swam in the ocean.
17. Traveled solo.
18. Picked up the Kiwi humor.
19. Hand sewed everything I had that needed mending.
20. Realized just how small the world really is.
In which I end the year in typical fashion.
2010. A year of both positive and negative, adventure and relaxation, new friends and places, decisions about my future endeavors and saying hard goodbyes. There were moments I wish I didn’t have to face, but which are trumped by an infinite number of those I wouldn’t trade to take the others away. I’ve learned that home is not necessarily the place I live or even where I grew up, but simply a feeling I get when I find a place I can rest for a while- a place that makes me feel comfortable and happy, where I find myself surrounded by the people I love. It could even be in a bus seat or a tent, or in the taste of sweet corn or the smell of pine trees.
This year I am thankful for the instant trust and connections I have made with people. For those who’ve let me be a part of their lives for however brief a time. And for those who have become a part of me. They have inspired me to make life even more spectacular than I can imagine.
Cheers 2010, for being a friend.
In which I learn to shear a sheep. Sort of.
After the decision to make a spontaneous road trip with Jackie for a day away from the city, we picked the small town of Greytown after recommendations on it being a lovely wee getaway spot in the Wairarapa region of the North Island, surrounded by vineyards and rolling farmland. We drove out and around to the southernmost spot of the north island, to the lighthouse at Cape Palliser. It was a perfect day to ride the winding road along the coast, to almost run out of petrol in a place that was a good 45 minutes away from the nearest filling station (I seem to have a recurring theme here), to walk up the 250 steep steps to the view of the candy cane coloured lighthouse, to freak out over a massive dead bird along the beach, to play my ukulele Zadie and walk amongst a pack of fur seals playing in the water, to listen to a soundtrack of The Shins, The Animals, Velvet Underground and Bowie, and to try on hobbit robes and drink a bottle of white wine at the oddly decorated hotel we booked. The rest of the night followed.
Jax enjoying the view from Cape Palliser.
Sheep shearing, according to Wikipedia, is the process of cutting off and removing the wool from a sheep. It then goes on to list the history and a brief description of how to do it. If you are the type of person who learns by sight, put yourself in Greytown and you can have a first-hand lesson. On a Sunday night. At a bar and hotel called the Turkey Red. By a guy called Jay and his rosy-cheeked mate Kurt. This was Jay and Kurt:
Jay by way of introduction: To Jackie: “Are you my mate Blaire?”
Jackie: “No”
Jay turns away and says nothing more. A little while later…
Jay comes back over and when he asks where we’re from and we say Wellington, he throws up his arms in anger and says, “I hate having to drag information out of people. Why can’t you just say I’m from Wellington, and I work here and do this and that. It takes too much effort!”
When he tells us he and Kurt work at a dairy farm we ask him if he has to work 7 days a week. His response: “No, I work more than that.” Um, okay.
Kurt just sat there staring off into space and sipping his beer.
Then we ask Jay about his day. His story (said in complete seriousness): “We had a pig shooting competition. Then went back to the bar and weighed them to see who won the biggest. My mate Becky won. She got $1200 in tramping gear, a $900 pig shooting gun, some dog collars, and then had the nerve to say she deserved a drink, and made me buy her one! And I’m so mad because she said she was going to sell it all on TradeMe. Why doesn’t she think of the future? What if her boyfriend in the future needs all those things, then what is he going to do?”
Then came a game of darts. Jay decided to show us his dance moves, and in the process grabbed Kurt and said he was going to teach us to shear a sheep. Poor Kurt had to be the dummy. “First you shear their belly. Then you grab their neck and twist it like this, so they don’t get away. Then you want to watch out down there. And then you flip him over and do his backside.” And so it went. He turned and reached out to Jackie and said, “Okay let me show you how.”
We ran away and hid in our room drinking the rest of our wine and laughing.
A perfect place to perch and pluck a tune on my lovely ukulele Zadie. (Photo courtesy of dear Jax.)
In which I chase away my winter blues.
What better way to make myself merry than to round up the mates and celebrate what we all feel should be just around the corner. Christmas! I suppose it also ties in with my desire to celebrate, as all my best mates and my niece back home have birthdays around this time. My last two weekends have been spent doing the following:
1. Watching the All Blacks beat South Africa in one of the biggest rubgy matches of the year here. It was freezing, raining, and even though I wore five layers, I still felt cold the next day. It’s safe to say, the only thing I know about rugby is that you can only pass backwards. But watching the national anthems sung in different languages, experiencing the haka, and trying to warm myself up with a cup of coffee that took 20 minutes to get (longer than the beer queues!) made it all worth it.
All Blacks at Westpac Stadium
2. Christmas Day! Margie and I festooned their house with streamers, flowers, lights, and Twiggy, our Charlie Brown-esque tree. I picked up some Christmas cd’s at the library (they had to dig some out for my special request), Elf on dvd, and we even did a secret santa gift exchange. The day ended up being beautiful and sunny, but I’m not complaining, as I got to spend it with my extended international family (South Africa, Ireland, Scotland, NZ, and USA were all represented). Our menu included: pumpkin soup, fresh salad, a pea, snow pea, and courgette minty mixture, a stewed cherry tomato buttery goodness, kumara mash with fresh rosemary, chilies, and garlic, and the biggest salmon I’ve ever seen stuffed to the brim with herbs, olives, and lemon zest. We made a pecan pie for dessert and then had sherry and a selection of cheeses, nuts, and dried fruit to top our evening off whilst watching Elf. Despite the fact that not everyone knew each other that well, all our gifts suited each other perfectly. Chris: a bow tie, Ross: a Mr. Grumpy mug, Scottish Rach: a wee music box, Margie: cheeky housewife coasters, Ger: the biggest whoopie cushion I’ve ever seen, Me: an apron with Andy Warhol style sheep on it, and Jackie: an owl pendant and a necklace.
A feast for Monday Club.
3. Cycled along the bays to an area I hadn’t been to before past Island Bay to Owhiro Bay and the Red Rocks, in the sun, happy to be working out again. (I admit to being lazy recently, as most of the time I want to hibernate away in bed!) When I made it to the end of the road, literally, I got off and walked along the beach and sat for awhile staring out to what felt like the end of the earth.
The end of the road at Owhiro Bay.
4. Went to see Black Rebel Motorcycle Club play a gig at a tiny venue. It rocked. Sweat, leather, black smokey eyes, jumping and fist pumping, fights, smashed glass, beer. Despite slightly laryngitis-infused vocals, they sounded tight and the energy was pulsing. Of course I was right up front and center, pushing around with the best of them. Sometimes it’s good to embrace the heat and the lights and forget you exist in the midst of the music.
5. Had my first of five ukulele lessons with my uke Zadie, dear Margie and members of the Wellington International Ukulele Orchestra. Such lovely people who have the patience to take about 50 of us beginners through the learning process of tuning, strumming, and learning chords on the happy instrument. I felt like such a goob with a cheesy grin on my face the whole time. But I managed to get a gold star for my efforts!
If I had a car, I’d take a road trip every other weekend. Number one, you get to see more of the country (or any for that matter). Number two, you’d make more friends if you ask for tag-alongs. Number three, they’re a sure-fire way to have fun.
Being the geeky Americans that we are, I recruited my new friend Jackie from Virginia to escape the winds and rain of Wellie for a weekend away up to Taranaki, that just so happened to coincide with the celebrations back in the good old U.S. of A. What better way than to go be independent? It turned into one near-perfect (near for reasons you’ll read later), Mother Nature blessed weekend. I’m used to one fine day out of a two week stretch, but we nabbed a full three days of sun! The drive up north to New Plymouth was lovely. Our Nissan Sunny, dubbed ‘Oh, Susanna!’ treated us well and Jackie did a gold star winning job of picking out a stellar playlist that included some classics like The Beatles and Simon & Garfunkel. Well done, Jax. We popped off along the way to get (what we later learned was) some world famous fish ‘n chips at George’s in Wanganui. We waited in the queue with the locals, watching the jokes between the regulars and employees, seeing them fold up the newspapers around orders in the mechanical way of experience. The woman behind the counter with her greasy apron and hair net. The sound of batter being deep friend in oil. Oh, chippies, how delicious you are.
One thing I’m still not used to is trying to decipher how long to guestimate for arrival times with the whole metric system. Give me some credit for trying, though! At least it’s more of an overestimation than under. We phoned the hostel thinking we’d be about twenty minutes past their reception closing time of 8pm (the first sign of small town life), and ended up arriving in the next ten minutes. Carole, the doll of a woman who owns the place, laughed it off and not only gave us our own room for the same price, but told us to go to one Irish pub, where we’d meet and surely be welcomed by an Irish couple who’d been living there for the last six months. How could we not?
I have learned that sometimes the best way to integrate yourself into a situation is to just walk up and say hi. Well, Jackie and I walked into Rosie O’Grady’s pub and found a whole heap of 6 people standing around one table next to the bar. And no one else around. I sensed Jackie’s hesitation, but knew regardless of the lack of people, we should stay and introduce ourselves to the lovely couple and have some chat. We ordered our bevvies with the rather larger than life bartender and I walked over to the table. “Hiya! Since you are the only ones in here, we’re just going to shimmy on into your group, if you don’t mind?” Nay, bother! Celine and Danny, the couple from County Down in Northern Ireland, welcomed us in and took over the conversation. They’re the kind of couple that you can’t help but enjoy as they constantly shout at and take the piss out of each other, in a loving way you understand. Funny as, they were. The whole night was a bit strange and made us laugh. Cheesy music (Purple Rain), chat (“Why here? You turned left, didn’t you? You should never turn left, keep going north to Auckland.”), and jokes (Danny couldn’t get over the fact that I knew who Tommy Teirnan was, and practically shouted his approval to the pub). Celine introduced me to her Irish attitude and the female version of hurling, camogie, both of which made me realise you should never underestimate the power of a small woman with a hurling stick. Paul, their other Irish mate, was short, ginger, flushed, and friendly. Mike, from England, reminded me of a bald teddy bear and apparently walks 45 minutes to Rosie’s, which is his local pub, because according to him that’s how bad New Plymouth is in terms of nightlife. There was also a Kiwi guy at the table, who I never got the name of, who walked around in his oil stained blue work jumpsuit, but who also bought us free drinks. It was fun to watch them all get a bit slurry.
We went into the weekend without any plans, because as we’ve learned, most of what you do in NZ is weather dependent. Saturday greeted us a teensy bit cloudy. But we decided to venture out to Mt. Taranaki, as it would probably only get worse. First things first, though! Lucky me, Jackie is as much a coffee fiend as I am, and our priority was finding the hot cafe in town. One of my favorite moments of the trip happened when I went to ask the gal at reception if she knew where a good coffee shop was. Her eyes lit up and with rosy cheeks and a smile on her face she said, “I’ve been waiting for someone to ask me that since I started working here!” It was around this time that I had to face the realisation that I am officially addicted to the coffee here. Thus we had a date with Chaos. (The name of the cafe…)
The drive up through Egmont National Park to Mt. Taranaki frustrated us, as we couldn’t see the tip of the volcano. There was one stubborn cloud forlornly sticking to its post of cover. When we got out of the car we did our best to will that away. After a bit of huffing and puffing it worked and lo and behold! Snow capped Mt. Taranaki stood against blue skies. Singing ensued.
Farewell, Mt. Taranaki!
Since the day picked up rather than get worse, we drove down to Oakura, where the river meets the sea, along the Surf Highway and grabbed our second coffee (slap my wrist now), hit up the local surf shop, and had a stroll along the beach. Then we did a bit of the coastal walkway back in New Plymouth, sat on some rocks by the water, and talked. That night we hung out with our new mates, and had the laugh of our lives at how funny the whole place seemed to us. We both wondered what we ever did back in our small town lives. The first bar we went to had a live cover band that must have known we were there, as they played American Idiot by Green Day. We couldn’t get over the locals, a mix of young guys trying to play it cool and the older crowd, wearing biker gear, mullets, and bandanas, singing along to every song. Our next destination was a high class destination. A club that had a 70′s style dance floor, complete with light up tiles and people who didn’t know how to dance. My favorite was this guy decked out in his nerdiest, bow tie and all. I love New Plymouth.
Sunday we were up early, had our date with Chaos, and went for a stroll in Pukekura Park. It was a lovely wee park, complete with a Japanese influenced hill, ducks and ponds, a water wheel, and swings. The drive to Wanganui was sweet and reminded me of being back home (except for Mt. Taranaki on our left in the foreground, and the sea to our right), with cows and farms and hardly anyone around. Wanganui was a town I could see myself spending a little bit of time in. It’s right on a river by the sea, has one main road that has all sorts of quaint little shops, an old style cinema, cafes and pubs. Though, you’d be lucky to find more than a pub or restaurant open after 4pm! To celebrate the 4th, we did our best to find bits here and there to remind us of back home. We stood next to a bonfire on the black sand beaches, made veggie sausages with ketchup, chips, and potato salad, and then went and saw Toy Story 3 at the cinema. It was perfect. The cinema was classic. I think it only had three screens and very few seats. When we walked into ours, no one else was around, and “Dancing Queen” was playing. What else could I do? I dropped my things and started dancing down the aisles and up on the stage. I showed Jackie I learned how to roll on the ground in the contemporary dance classes I’d taken. And I managed to scare a couple of young girls walking by who were too frightened to come into the theatre until I stopped dancing. Good thing I’m not from there.
Making us feel at home.
Monday’s drive back was the bit that made this weekend near-perfect. We should have known it couldn’t all end up peachy keen. No more than twenty minutes outside of Wellington, I’d stopped at a roundabout to give way to traffic, when bam. We were rear-ended. Really? We laughed it off, because what else could we do? We pulled over and the driver of the car was this young guy, probably 17, who despite his cool, chilled out demeanour, was probably crying inside. I phoned the police, as it was a rental car and needed to be reported. Fortunately none of us were hurt and it was relatively minor damage. The police officer joked around heaps, thought Jackie and I were sisters, and said the kid was on the phone to daddy, and therefore was anything but cool about it. I now have to wait a good couple of months to get my excess back from the insurance company. Poor Oh, Susanna! and poor me!
Oh, Susanna! after the damage had been done.
In case you want to see more photos, check this out.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=181530&id=656643796&l=48952fc13c
In which I introduce you to the Monday Club.
I know I said a cast list of the Rowena’s characters would come next, but it will have to wait. A bit more insight into my geekyness.
My Happy Monday:
6.30am: (That must look like an oxymoron next to the words happy and Monday, eh?) Alarm goes off and if I’m clever enough, I’ll have showered the previous day and can hit snooze for another ten minutes (though, it is wise not to fall asleep whilst resetting your alarm in these instances, as I have done). Not to mention the little bit of warmth left under my duvet, since insulation in New Zealand hasn’t been discovered yet, from my best mate Hottie, the hot water bottle.
7.22am: Hop onto the bus from Seatoun (what a great name) into Newtown, prior to most 9-5-ers, waking up to the likes of the Phantom Band or the National, and watching the sunrise along the bays.
7.50am: Arrive at Te Whaea and open up reception.
8am-1pm: Entertain myself and those around the desk with help, ideas, and a wee bit of nonsense. Of course, that also means getting the job done. That’s what work is like within the performing arts cards.
1.15pm: Always end up leaving a bit late, and loving the feeling that I was busy enough to not get everything done, but knowing it will happen the next day.
1.30pm: Meet up with the gorgeous Jackie (from Virginia) at a coffee shop of our liking. This day was my personal fave- Midnight Espresso. Such an eclectic, psychedelic atmosphere and such strong espresso that I’ve grown quite an addiction for. We spend the next couple of hours chatting about life in Welly, boys, travels, and not always being happy-go-lucky, and plan a trip for 4th of July weekend.
6pm: Take my first jazz class in ages and relish in the stretching and movements, and pas de bourrées, dancing to Lady Gaga and early J. Lo.
7.30pm: A small group of friends decided to start a club. It formed one fine Monday evening, the only day and time that all of us could actually meet up, over a shared, delish Indian meal. We realised that two Scots, a French gal, and an American gal actually got on famously and had more than just a few interesting things to say, and heaps of laughs to share. In just three meetings, we’d expanded to a force we couldn’t have foreseen.
So this Monday, I met up with our ever growing number of members in the miraculous Monday Club- for Malaysian Meal take away and Mary Poppins night! We all love a bit of alliteration. Not only are the cats involved some of neatest people alive, we’ve branched to a fabulous seven countries in only three weeks. They are: Scotland, France, USA, New Zealand, Germany, England, and Estonia. And of course everyone contributed some lovely, quirky quality. Chris, the Kiwi host, provided wine in tea cups and other assorted mugs. We munched on our Malaysian whilst chatting (and for me, knitting) and then watched the spectacle that is Mary Poppins. Who could resist the temptation to hum along and bounce their toes and laugh aloud? My fave part was going out to cut the lemon cake I’d bought for all nine of us into perfect slices and running in just as Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious came on, and dancing around whilst singing and handing out slices of cake. I’d even brought my tartan umbrella to act as a prop for the night. It was a jolly night with Mary.
Rach (Scotland) & Rach (US) - Monday Club founders
Here’s a link to my Wellington photo album:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=147348&id=656643796&l=7da42bb97f
In which I give you a picture of the crazy house.
Rowena’s. All ye be warned. If there were a movie about this hostel, a few aptly named titles might be: Hotel Rowena (think The Eagles), It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad Hostel, or One Flew Over Rowena’s Nest. At outward glance, it looks rather charming. The paint is colorful, if fading and peeling and the signs are a bit crooked, there are hand painted murals on the inside walls and the house is surrounded by shrubbery of all sorts that probably haven’t been pruned in a decade. There’s an actual till at reception and a pool table that’s broken in the lounge.
View from Rowena's front porch.
When I first moved in I slept in a couple different dorm rooms, outfitted with children’s red metal bunk beds that twang with every move, and an eclectic choice of duvet covers. There are washers and dryers that only work when they see fit, and an iron that leaks. Each stair has a particular creak to them and the walls are so thin you can hear the person breathe at the other end of the hall. After a couple of weeks a single room opened up, which oddly enough was cheaper than sleeping with the masses, and I moved into my cell. Literally, it was tiny. It fit one of the most miniscule single beds I’ve ever seen this side of a toddler’s age, a built in wardrobe and set of drawers, and a wooden chair snuggled up in the corner. When all said and done, it was probably about 7 feet by not even 5 feet., with the potential to be torturous to sleep in. But I somehow managed to make it almost romantic, in that bohemian type of way, with my tapestry hung on the one lone wall, a few scarves draped here and there, a stuffed owl I sewed together, and a lit incense stick to take away the musty smell of age.
The shared toilets and showers were mediocre at best, but I’ve learned after squatting in the dingiest of spaces in Asia, that I can stomach pretty much anything now. Though, that doesn’t mean I enjoyed walking in to brush my teeth and finding one of the many older residents (yes, residents, though they prefer to be termed “long term”) standing there to relieve himself with the door completely ajar, knowing half the time he probably missed the hole. The showers were quite good, though getting them to the right temperature and not scalding or freezing took a trained hand. The squeaky black bath mats just outside provided a soundtrack to the drying off portion of the event. After a few go’s, I risked the heart attack possibility of the elders and walked to the showers in my towel. It was a guaranteed eye averter if nothing else.
The kitchen left much to be desired. What kind of place doesn’t provide an oven?! Nothing but a microwave and burners. Needless to say, I barely cooked whilst I was there. I made a couple pots of soup and a few stir-fries here and there. I think it also had to do with the fact that half the time the dishes would only be barely rinsed. I also had a few loaves of bread and some instant coffee nabbed, despite the labeled cubbyhole.
The TV room had familiar looking couches with dips in the most comfortable spots, cushions with filling dripping out, and a dvd player that only worked half the time and even then sounded like it was about to lift off into space.
It’s only now that I’m taking the time to write about it that I realize just how impossible it seems I’d have stayed there as long as I did. Or especially how it is that some people have been there for a year or more. Though, I suppose you could see it as a reflection of who that was.
I’ll end with a bit of credit to its name, though. It’s in a fantastic location and provided some stunning sunsets and sunrises. Not to mention the slightly out of tune piano in the dining room for all to use. I had a few sing-a-longs with it myself!
Stay tuned for a cast list.
Pretending I can play!
In which I land on my feet.
I’m a working girl again.
I suppose you could include check ins and closing up of the hostel in which I reside as a job, or tossing salads together for two weeks, two hours a day, at a tiny cafe. But for the sake of my story, I’m not. Though, cleaning up after people and their used dishes and what not is not the most dainty of professions, and one for which I now have the utmost respect for anyone who does in any way, especially at a the hostel, where heaps of people choose to ignore the fact they’re sharing a kitchen with a plethora of strangers day in and day out. And that just because he or she may love a hearty slab of steak dripping with fat that spews all over the counters and cooking rings, doesn’t mean that someone like myself who survives on the veggies of the world will enjoy wiping down that greasy goop. I digress on my soap box, I apologize.
How it should read: I’m a working girl in a job that could actually progress into something promising.
After working at the salad shop, putting pumpkins, potatoes, and other various ingredients together, spending my days chopping up nothing but box upon box of red peppers (which one must note they weirdly call capsicums here—and almost taking off the tip of my thumb using a sharp knife as I’m not used them any more because all the knives at the hostel require brute force to use, they’re so dull), or literally cutting up five kilograms of sun-dried tomatoes with a pair of scissors, I got a call about a job. A job I really wanted, suited to me perfectly. I already mentioned it, but the job is working 25 hours a week as receptionist for the location that houses the New Zealand School of Dance and Toi Whakaari Drama School.
How in the world I lacked any first day jitters when I started my new job, after not working for six and a half months, well, that’s a math problem for a genius to solve. My first week was spent in training, learning a few odds and ends about how things run there. It’s the type of position, though, other than being shown where things are kept and how to process payments and such, that is best learned by doing. I admit I don’t like having to ask what to do, but I am forgiving myself when an issue arrives, especially when everyone is more than willing to help out and be patient with me whilst I find my way. Even when I got a key stuck in the rolling hatch door to the reception area on my third day in, they didn’t kick me out or shout and point fingers. They could have considering I hadn’t signed the contract yet. But, in my defense, I’d only been shown once quickly where the key was (not on the key ring that housed every other key), and I wasn’t supposed to be alone yet, but the other woman phoned in to say she’d slept through her alarm.
Reasons to love my job after only the first week:
1. Everyone is as crazy as me, so when I break out into song randomly or sound a bit geeky, it looks relatively normal.
2. My boss has already spoken with me to several creative types out there, which may lead to exciting possibilities, and has already nabbed me a free ticket to see the city’s production of Miss Saigon.
3. Bret McKenzie walked in on my fourth day to have a lesson with one of the voice and speech tutors here. (For all those not in the know, he’s from the fantastically funny Flight of the Conchords.)
4. There are a few teachers at the school who are either from or have lived in Ohio, including one who spent time in Yellow Springs! Sam, I’m still trying to figure out if he knows you.
5. I can walk to work in twenty minutes, there’s a gym, I get cuppa breaks (tea or coffee provided), I get to see performances for free, and I’m surrounded by drama– guaranteed to always provided entertainment.
6. It’s a kick in the bum to keep going to auditions and remind myself how much I love performing and anything related to it.
What I love about Wellington work ethics, and generally speaking the city itself, is that there’s always time for a conversation. Whenever you walk into a shop or bank, or when you first see a coworker or friend, it always begins with “What are you up to?” or “What did you get up to last night or at the weekend?” And people are usually genuine in their queries. You never know when the answers might lead to a common ground of sorts, or a networking opportunity, or a new friend even.
I can be just as creative as the joe who made these tea cup bird feeders!
