My new bike is fab. The freedom and access it gives me is invigorating. I even has a little Styrofoam box on the back of the bike for stuff. I head out to explore the village of Martinborough and get some badly needed groceries.
My first stop is the bank where Clare the teller gives me the low down on using a bank card in NZ. It seems most outside machines are contracted through a company so if my card gets eaten I may not see it again. She does find a way to get me some funds on my Visa card and I am flush again, albeit over budget. It is austerity time, which means meals in my flat, no more shouting meals for new found mates, and lots of touring the countryside with what is commonly known as a 'push bike'. Clare hands me some Kiwi bills, the exchange rate is favourable, a blessing that will help me balance the budget. I thank her and step out the door only to be confronted by a short little man with a Cheshire cat grin and a wool cap perched on his head standing near my bike. This is Tony a.k.a. Galloping Gums. I know him instantly even though this is the first time we've met.
"Allo mate I've just come about to see 'ow yer gettin on" It is a mix of Liverpudlian and Kiwi dialects that greet me, I struggle to understand what he just said as I straddle the bike.
"Hello Tony I can't thank you enough for lending me your bike" I reply.
"That's awright think nawfin of it, it's my pleasha. Where's yer helmet? Ef the coppers see ya it'll be a ticket straight away" He warns. Before I can even reply a police car pulls up and a female copper gets out with a ticket book in her hand.
"Is that your bike sir?" She inquires looking me right in the eye.
Before I can respond Tony speaks up. "Uh it's my bike officer, the young fella was just usin' it to git 'round a bit, he don't know about the 'elmut law he's from Canader." Tony smiles at the copper, as my turns crimson red.
"Yes I just got here from Canada and to be honest I left the helmet at home I apologise." The grovelling works and the ticket book is put away. The copper warns me that it is the law in New Zealand and I must comply. She drives off and Tony winks at me.
"I knew she was cumin' ova so I figured I'd mess about is all. I don't like coppa's." Tony's 5'1.5" frame is puffed up, proud of his accomplishment fending off the copper. "Yah I'm not a big fan of the cops either Tony, how about we go for a beer and..." Before I can finish, Tony who hasn't heard a word I said launches into a story about Seamus a giant of a man and a notorious Irish gangster that rubbed some poor Italian blokes face into a brick wall. Fifteen minutes later I am still standing outside the bank, I don't think old galloping gums has stopped to even take a breath. In the end Seamus had one his lungs ripped out by Tony and a few of his mates none of the gruesome details were spared in the retelling of the tale.
Once again I broach the subject of shouting him a beer (Kiwi term for buying your mate a beer or dinner or whatever) as it would infinitely more comfortable sitting down with a cold one as opposed to standing on the bank steps while locals parade in and out staring strangely at Tony's latest victim. I eventually pry myself free with the promise to catch up tomorrow. I run some errands and get some groceries wobbling back to my flat balancing two bags of groceries on the handlebars. The Martinborough Hotel dominates the main intersection, around the corner a nifty little butcher shop, library, a take away fish and chip shop, and a small grocery store most buildings dating back to late 1800's when Martinborough was a farm supply town. Today it is one of several wine producing regions in New Zealand and a boutique town for Wellingtonians to slip away for weekend retreats. I spend the balance of my day cycling from vineyard to vineyard tasting the best the region has to offer.
I haven't forgotten my promise to Tony and the next day stop in at his house leaning my bike against the long forgotten white picket fence painting flecking off, supporting a moss covered mail box. He is delighted to see me, an ear to ear grin spreads across his face.
"C'mon in mate." The spartan surroundings belie the real existence of many seniors living on the edge of poverty. On one wall is a large picture of a woman on a flying carpet superimposed over a picture of Taj Mahal. Just below it a quote "You don't stop doing things because you're getting old, you get old because you stop doing things."
"So how are you getting on Steve?" The always cheery voice draws my attention away from the wall. A tiny cot like bed occupies one corner of the room, a couple of chairs with a miniature end table are the center piece of the room.
"Good Tony very well, I can't thank you enough I couldn't believe the price of renting a bike. Those robber barons at the Cafe want $35 a day for a push bike."
"Yes, well you know the thing about dealing with a charrrracter like Seamus is you have to bloody careful 'e doesn't find you that's how I come to New Zealand mate." He has launched into another story in the blink of an eye. An hour later I manage to get one sentence in edgewise. "Could we not go to the pub and finish the story?" I am almost pleading. Tony shakes his head and confesses that he has no money for a pint.
"Tony it's on me and as a matter of fact I want to give you this for loaning me the bike." I pull out a couple of twenties to give him but he refuses. "I'll tell you wha' shout me a beer and it'll all be good mate." With that we are off. Two hours later I leave the pub, Galloping Gums hardly drank any of his beer, he was too busy talking to drink. My ears are ringing but at least we were sitting down this time.
Over the next few weeks Tony and I would share many of his stories over a pint. To be honest I enjoyed the time we sat and I listened. Tony did me a huge favour shouting me his personal bike and only form of transportation, the least I could do was listen or attempt to listen while he shared his life experiences. I will miss my new mate but as Maree a neighbour told me you can't help but drift off while ole Galloping Gums is prattling on, the irony is he doesn't even notice.
Tony is a retired tool and dye maker in his early 70's and one of the many characters I meet on my travels discovering my New Zealand. I spent quite a few afternoons with my new mate shouting a beer, learning to fly fish and listening.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Finding Middlearth
I wake and try to shake the cobwebs off, morning was never my pleasure. Jenn has already left I heard the door click, got up and started packing.
I wondered what was in store for me in Martinborough. What would the Potters be like? I had experienced a level of comfort at the hostel, at times awkward, however the social contact with other travellers had offset the moments of insecurity. I struggled with my bags and wrestled them on to the elevator it was going to be a long day that had only just begun.
Although the train station was only a 15 minute walk, I knew I would never make it with my pile of bags, so I bit the bullet and called a cab. I settled down at the station and enjoyed a freshly baked cheese scone and green tea. A brave pigeon fluttered down and solicited a piece of my breakfast. It fearlessly takes the tasty morsel from my hand. We repeated this until it became evident that this bird would double it's present weight if I continued, so I turned my back and soon it was off to find another easy mark. An elegant looking elderly lady sits across from me and we chat she is also on the Masterton Train heading to her rural cottage in the picturesque Wairarapa countryside. A kindly conductor takes my bags and we board the train. The Kiwi line wanders through the surrounding hills and into a long tunnel to emerge on the other side of what seems to be another world. Rolling hills painted a vivid emerald green expose long lines of vineyards which characterize the region.
The train stops at Featherstone and I say goodbye to my temporary travelling companion, we exchange addresses and she welcomes me to visit them at their Wellington condo on the hillside part of the million dollar real estate which rings the city. I am amazed at the price of real estate in NZ much more costly than at home. The local transport is well co-ordinated as I step off the train the Martinborough bus awaits, I am whisked off to the Potter's flat. My heart is racing as we have not met and really only exchanged a few emails. As fields fly by I stare out the bus window the land is flat here a valley wedged between rolling hills. Sheep dot the landscape the first I have seen since arriving. This is farm and wine country an eclectic mix of rural folks and weekend cottagers. I have a picture in my mind of what the Potter's will look like.
The bus drops me at what is basically a one street town which everything emanates from the village square. The town was a sleepily little rural hamlet dominated by the Martinborough Hotel until the 1980's when vineyards became a profitable form of agriculture in the region. Once again I struggle with my baggage and trundle off the bus the top suitcase tipping over in the process, as I reach down to grab it the rucksack perched on my bag slides off and thumps to the ground, I must look absolutely pathetic to the locals watching from the service station. With my bags piled against a wall I slide down to the pavement, book in hand to wait for the Potter's. I had barely finished the second page when I hear a voice calling "Steve". I look up to see the beaming smile and Rosy cheeks of a lady who looks like the quintessential mum. Right behind her is another wonderful smile framed by a while beard. These are my hosts the Potter's - Jancis and David. They offer to take my bags however given the weight, I take responsibility for loading them into the trunk and we are off.
As the town recedes in the rear view mirror I begin to wonder exactly where I am going. In any other part of the world one would wonder if I am being led away to be shaken down, and robbed of all my worldly possessions. This is New Zealand and I am reminded that the Potter's did say they lived in the country. It is now becoming infinitely clear why they queried me regarding renting a car I am in for a long walk to get to the town square, stores and pubs.
We pull into the driveway of the home they affectionately anointed Middlearth. The Potter's settled here in the early 80's building a home they wanted to be as self-sufficient as possible. It is wonderfully quiet and peaceful a stark contrast to the hustle of my recent urban digs. I have my own flat on the side of the house. After a quick tour by my hosts I am left to settle. Before they leave through a common door I ask them if they know anyone who might have a bike. Jancis volunteers to make a few calls.
The bed with lovely starched white sheets beckons and I slide into a little bit of heaven. What a contrast to the spring laden spartan mattresses of the hostel covered by paper thin sheets and a less than generous blanket. I am dead tired and quickly drift off only to awake to a setting sun and a rather cold flat. Right, no central heating it has to be 12 degrees in here, I crank the small space heater coaxing some warmth as it ticks to life. The Potter's invite me over for a glass of wine so I change and walk around to the front of the house. A series of sliding glass doors allow plenty of sunlight illuminating the comfortable living room supported by ancient looking barn beams. The house is beautiful, David tells me he and the postman did most of the work over a number of years. For a period of time the Potter's farmed with sheep, a pig, some cows, a hive of bees and a donkey. Aside from the odd rusting farm machinery and weathered sheds the last vestige of the farm is the donkey which wanders out back.
We have just finished a toast to travelling and sharing life's experiences when a whippet appears at the sliding glass doors followed by her master an attractive bespectacled neighbour and friend. Maree has walked up to the Potter's with her dog Rose to bring me a bike to use while I am visiting. This is fortuitous as bike hires are expensive here $35/day!!!! Maree joins us and Rose hops up on the couch burying her head in her masters lap. We chat and soon I am feeling the effect of the wine and last nights poor sleep.
Another toast and I am back in my flat, book in hand revelling in my new found heaven. I push aside a feeling of intense loneliness as I am too tired. I am truly on my own now the challenge will be coping with my new situation. Tomorrow will be an interesting start to my rural NZ adventure.
I wondered what was in store for me in Martinborough. What would the Potters be like? I had experienced a level of comfort at the hostel, at times awkward, however the social contact with other travellers had offset the moments of insecurity. I struggled with my bags and wrestled them on to the elevator it was going to be a long day that had only just begun.
Although the train station was only a 15 minute walk, I knew I would never make it with my pile of bags, so I bit the bullet and called a cab. I settled down at the station and enjoyed a freshly baked cheese scone and green tea. A brave pigeon fluttered down and solicited a piece of my breakfast. It fearlessly takes the tasty morsel from my hand. We repeated this until it became evident that this bird would double it's present weight if I continued, so I turned my back and soon it was off to find another easy mark. An elegant looking elderly lady sits across from me and we chat she is also on the Masterton Train heading to her rural cottage in the picturesque Wairarapa countryside. A kindly conductor takes my bags and we board the train. The Kiwi line wanders through the surrounding hills and into a long tunnel to emerge on the other side of what seems to be another world. Rolling hills painted a vivid emerald green expose long lines of vineyards which characterize the region.
The train stops at Featherstone and I say goodbye to my temporary travelling companion, we exchange addresses and she welcomes me to visit them at their Wellington condo on the hillside part of the million dollar real estate which rings the city. I am amazed at the price of real estate in NZ much more costly than at home. The local transport is well co-ordinated as I step off the train the Martinborough bus awaits, I am whisked off to the Potter's flat. My heart is racing as we have not met and really only exchanged a few emails. As fields fly by I stare out the bus window the land is flat here a valley wedged between rolling hills. Sheep dot the landscape the first I have seen since arriving. This is farm and wine country an eclectic mix of rural folks and weekend cottagers. I have a picture in my mind of what the Potter's will look like.
The bus drops me at what is basically a one street town which everything emanates from the village square. The town was a sleepily little rural hamlet dominated by the Martinborough Hotel until the 1980's when vineyards became a profitable form of agriculture in the region. Once again I struggle with my baggage and trundle off the bus the top suitcase tipping over in the process, as I reach down to grab it the rucksack perched on my bag slides off and thumps to the ground, I must look absolutely pathetic to the locals watching from the service station. With my bags piled against a wall I slide down to the pavement, book in hand to wait for the Potter's. I had barely finished the second page when I hear a voice calling "Steve". I look up to see the beaming smile and Rosy cheeks of a lady who looks like the quintessential mum. Right behind her is another wonderful smile framed by a while beard. These are my hosts the Potter's - Jancis and David. They offer to take my bags however given the weight, I take responsibility for loading them into the trunk and we are off.
As the town recedes in the rear view mirror I begin to wonder exactly where I am going. In any other part of the world one would wonder if I am being led away to be shaken down, and robbed of all my worldly possessions. This is New Zealand and I am reminded that the Potter's did say they lived in the country. It is now becoming infinitely clear why they queried me regarding renting a car I am in for a long walk to get to the town square, stores and pubs.
We pull into the driveway of the home they affectionately anointed Middlearth. The Potter's settled here in the early 80's building a home they wanted to be as self-sufficient as possible. It is wonderfully quiet and peaceful a stark contrast to the hustle of my recent urban digs. I have my own flat on the side of the house. After a quick tour by my hosts I am left to settle. Before they leave through a common door I ask them if they know anyone who might have a bike. Jancis volunteers to make a few calls.
The bed with lovely starched white sheets beckons and I slide into a little bit of heaven. What a contrast to the spring laden spartan mattresses of the hostel covered by paper thin sheets and a less than generous blanket. I am dead tired and quickly drift off only to awake to a setting sun and a rather cold flat. Right, no central heating it has to be 12 degrees in here, I crank the small space heater coaxing some warmth as it ticks to life. The Potter's invite me over for a glass of wine so I change and walk around to the front of the house. A series of sliding glass doors allow plenty of sunlight illuminating the comfortable living room supported by ancient looking barn beams. The house is beautiful, David tells me he and the postman did most of the work over a number of years. For a period of time the Potter's farmed with sheep, a pig, some cows, a hive of bees and a donkey. Aside from the odd rusting farm machinery and weathered sheds the last vestige of the farm is the donkey which wanders out back.
We have just finished a toast to travelling and sharing life's experiences when a whippet appears at the sliding glass doors followed by her master an attractive bespectacled neighbour and friend. Maree has walked up to the Potter's with her dog Rose to bring me a bike to use while I am visiting. This is fortuitous as bike hires are expensive here $35/day!!!! Maree joins us and Rose hops up on the couch burying her head in her masters lap. We chat and soon I am feeling the effect of the wine and last nights poor sleep.
Another toast and I am back in my flat, book in hand revelling in my new found heaven. I push aside a feeling of intense loneliness as I am too tired. I am truly on my own now the challenge will be coping with my new situation. Tomorrow will be an interesting start to my rural NZ adventure.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Mad about Tango
Peter wakes me at about 6am to bid adieu and continue his travels, that leaves Jenn the mystery roomie and myself. I have a brief moment of neurosis about how to handle the morning routine with a strange woman in the same room. Buck up, I tell myself, worry about that later I drift off to sleep. It is cool in the room, no central heating so I pull the covers up and restore the ear plugs. It is not recommended to travel without them and definitely not when you're hosteling.
My fears quickly disipate as I hear Jenn get up and leave the room, I assume she has gone to the females only shower down the hall. I quickly bolt out of bed, race to the loo, do my thing and dive back under the covers. I feel like a schoolboy and I am not sure why. Jenn returns and I cover my head on alert for another all clear. I listen as she cleans her teeth and take a chance that she is dressed, all is good. We chat for a few moments, she is a nice young gal a lit grad student on a research grant travelling the island. I invite her to join me for the tango exhibition in the afternoon. She's very interested as she is involved with ballroom dancing back home, I promise to leave her a note with the time and location of the dance. Off she goes and up I get. I am just pulling on my boxers when the door opens I dive back into bed red faced. She retrieves something she obviously forgot, the door closes again, this time I wait a beat or two and hop out of bed.
I wander Cuba Street it is a wonderful mix of street performers, pubs, sushi restaurants and small funky shops. I am to meet Jane of the Tango at the Italiano Cafe. I arrive early and start with a green tea wondering how the hell I will know who Jane is. A woman arrives and sits at a table next to me. Is this Jane who is mad about Tango? I wait for whats seems to be an eternity before I lean over and ask the obvious question. "No" is the frosty answer as the woman looks slightly paranoid moving further away from me. I didn't realize I was such a scary guy. I settle back and wait, Jane is late but from what I understand she has a rather hectic sked. The door opens and a blonde attractive woman wearing black leggings and a skirt wanders in. Could this be Jane the self annointed tango queen. No, it can't be as she stops to say hello to a distinguished gent sitting over by the door. I will later find out he is an Oscar winning filmmaker and a tango affectionado, a regular dance partner of Janes.
She turns and walks my way "Steve?" She smiles. "Yes" I rather awkwardly respond struggling to get up having sunk deep into the worn out settee. The table wobbles and my tea spills over the rim of my cup. I give up and stay seated, Jane drops effortlessly into the seat beside me apologises and orders a tea. We chat, exchange pleasantries, compare journeys in life and then I'm invited to the afternoon Tango. I profess to know little about the dance, however I am curious as to whether there might be a small documentary project in the making. We agree to rendezvous later and I ask if Jenn can join us. "No worries" she replies and we part ways to meet up later.
I wander back down Cuba Street, musicians and buskers work the early afternoon crowds. A guy rolls around on an enormous hoop, another strums a guitar, a meditation group chant on a small platform and a young artist peddles her wares. It is lightly raining but that does little to deter those that hustle passersby for a few dollars. At the dorm Jenn is perched on her bed reading, we chat, and I confirm our Tango experience. I have been warned that there will be no dancing for guests as true Tango addicts want partners that can lead appropriately. No problem I'll be quite happy to take some picts and enjoy a glass of wine while learning about this fascinating dance.
At the appointed hour we met up with Jane and the trio of us troop off to the dance. Jane is deeply disappointed with the turnout, a spotty few couples move slowly across the floor. I meet instructors Vio and Sergee. Suzanne another friend and Tango mate of Janes sweeps into the room looking like she stepped off the front page of Vogue Magazine. The dress is natty and high end, I sit and watch from a corner, the footwork is amazing, the music lovely and the decor elegant. There is an obvious gender imbalance as more women sit around and wait to be asked for a dance. Competition is always keen for the few males who are deemed good enough to lead. In the Tango the male leads, the female adds the flourishes and colour to the dance.
The room slowly starts to fill and dancers take to the floor. Delicate footwork abounds, legs bent couples lean in to each other, toes point drawing circles only to travel up their partners leg. Skirts swirl, faces frozen in concentrated gazes absent of smiles. A flashy couple trace patterns on each others legs, he turns her sideways, she clamps her leg on his thigh, they stare into each others eyes. A foot drawn back thrusts into the air, suddenly they are off across the floor in one flowing rhythmic embrace.
Jane bemoans the fact that there is a serious dearth of males willing and able to dance. She has been dancing for less than a year, at times up to three dances a week with a lesson thrown in for good measure. I reply that perhaps if the females were less critical and more open to new partners on the dance floor that issue may be put to rest. She smiles and acknowledges my point.
After a couple of hours I grow tired of sitting and watching, Jenn picks up on the opportunity to depart and we head back to the hostel. She thanks me for inviting her, we part company. I collect my wash and get ready for my departure. I feel settled having had a few days of city life it is time to depart in the morning for my Martinborough flat at the Potters. The rain has finally stopped and I wander the darkened streets taking picts.
My fears quickly disipate as I hear Jenn get up and leave the room, I assume she has gone to the females only shower down the hall. I quickly bolt out of bed, race to the loo, do my thing and dive back under the covers. I feel like a schoolboy and I am not sure why. Jenn returns and I cover my head on alert for another all clear. I listen as she cleans her teeth and take a chance that she is dressed, all is good. We chat for a few moments, she is a nice young gal a lit grad student on a research grant travelling the island. I invite her to join me for the tango exhibition in the afternoon. She's very interested as she is involved with ballroom dancing back home, I promise to leave her a note with the time and location of the dance. Off she goes and up I get. I am just pulling on my boxers when the door opens I dive back into bed red faced. She retrieves something she obviously forgot, the door closes again, this time I wait a beat or two and hop out of bed.
I wander Cuba Street it is a wonderful mix of street performers, pubs, sushi restaurants and small funky shops. I am to meet Jane of the Tango at the Italiano Cafe. I arrive early and start with a green tea wondering how the hell I will know who Jane is. A woman arrives and sits at a table next to me. Is this Jane who is mad about Tango? I wait for whats seems to be an eternity before I lean over and ask the obvious question. "No" is the frosty answer as the woman looks slightly paranoid moving further away from me. I didn't realize I was such a scary guy. I settle back and wait, Jane is late but from what I understand she has a rather hectic sked. The door opens and a blonde attractive woman wearing black leggings and a skirt wanders in. Could this be Jane the self annointed tango queen. No, it can't be as she stops to say hello to a distinguished gent sitting over by the door. I will later find out he is an Oscar winning filmmaker and a tango affectionado, a regular dance partner of Janes.
She turns and walks my way "Steve?" She smiles. "Yes" I rather awkwardly respond struggling to get up having sunk deep into the worn out settee. The table wobbles and my tea spills over the rim of my cup. I give up and stay seated, Jane drops effortlessly into the seat beside me apologises and orders a tea. We chat, exchange pleasantries, compare journeys in life and then I'm invited to the afternoon Tango. I profess to know little about the dance, however I am curious as to whether there might be a small documentary project in the making. We agree to rendezvous later and I ask if Jenn can join us. "No worries" she replies and we part ways to meet up later.
I wander back down Cuba Street, musicians and buskers work the early afternoon crowds. A guy rolls around on an enormous hoop, another strums a guitar, a meditation group chant on a small platform and a young artist peddles her wares. It is lightly raining but that does little to deter those that hustle passersby for a few dollars. At the dorm Jenn is perched on her bed reading, we chat, and I confirm our Tango experience. I have been warned that there will be no dancing for guests as true Tango addicts want partners that can lead appropriately. No problem I'll be quite happy to take some picts and enjoy a glass of wine while learning about this fascinating dance.
At the appointed hour we met up with Jane and the trio of us troop off to the dance. Jane is deeply disappointed with the turnout, a spotty few couples move slowly across the floor. I meet instructors Vio and Sergee. Suzanne another friend and Tango mate of Janes sweeps into the room looking like she stepped off the front page of Vogue Magazine. The dress is natty and high end, I sit and watch from a corner, the footwork is amazing, the music lovely and the decor elegant. There is an obvious gender imbalance as more women sit around and wait to be asked for a dance. Competition is always keen for the few males who are deemed good enough to lead. In the Tango the male leads, the female adds the flourishes and colour to the dance.
The room slowly starts to fill and dancers take to the floor. Delicate footwork abounds, legs bent couples lean in to each other, toes point drawing circles only to travel up their partners leg. Skirts swirl, faces frozen in concentrated gazes absent of smiles. A flashy couple trace patterns on each others legs, he turns her sideways, she clamps her leg on his thigh, they stare into each others eyes. A foot drawn back thrusts into the air, suddenly they are off across the floor in one flowing rhythmic embrace.
Jane bemoans the fact that there is a serious dearth of males willing and able to dance. She has been dancing for less than a year, at times up to three dances a week with a lesson thrown in for good measure. I reply that perhaps if the females were less critical and more open to new partners on the dance floor that issue may be put to rest. She smiles and acknowledges my point.
After a couple of hours I grow tired of sitting and watching, Jenn picks up on the opportunity to depart and we head back to the hostel. She thanks me for inviting her, we part company. I collect my wash and get ready for my departure. I feel settled having had a few days of city life it is time to depart in the morning for my Martinborough flat at the Potters. The rain has finally stopped and I wander the darkened streets taking picts.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Co-ed roomies
Day 3
My new roomie is Peter a young fellow from Florida. I take him on a walk to find a jacket, seems to be a common need this time of year for those of us from away. A cold breeze confronts us as we turn and walk up Cuba St. My stomach reminds me that breakfast should be a priority and we stop at a funky little cafe called Fidels. Yes that's right I went to Fidels Cafe on Cuba St!
After a huge breakfast that almost consumed my entire budget for the day we part company and Pete heads off to the Museum and the scenic Wellie Waterfront. I continue to wander and spot a poster promoting a Greenpeace fundraiser for the Sea Shepperd later that evening. When I get back to the dorm there is yet another suitcase and back pack so we have another roomie. When Pete gets back he informs me that Jenn from South Carolina has joined us. I am gobsmacked, the co-ed part of dorm living never really registered. This promises to be very interesting, oh well I will deal with that all in it's own time.
Mike at the front desk tells me I have to cruise Courtenay St. later that night as Saturday is party night and is quite a spectacle to watch. He also helps me figure out how to make a phone call and I get in touch with "the tango queen". Jane is "mad about tango" and has invited me to join her tomorrow to watch one of the worlds most complex and intense dances. We meet at Cafe Italiano and make the arrangements for the next day. I wonder once again about the new roomie but she is not there when I make it back to the dorm. I grab a quick bite and worry about my finances I am seriously over my daily budget it is time to start cutting back.
After a rest I head out and make my way to the Sea Shepperd fund raiser. It is an eclectic mix of characters and personalities. I meet Captain Peter, he regales me with tales of the S.S. being rammed by a Japanese whaling ship and sunk several times by mercenaries. He is a gregarious chap with a huge smile and bald pate the ceiling lights glisten off the top of his head as he swills back a beer and motions to another crew mate to join the conversation. I finish my beer, the budget only allows for one, Peter is snagged for a photo and autograph, as I don't know a soul in the place I make my exit. I walk the waterfront and marvel at Kiwi ingenuity, how they have taken an industrial dockside wasteland and turned it into an architectural design masterpiece. The Museum sits on the wharf area, a site that used to home to an old hotel which they put on rails and moved across the street. According to Deano, my film tour guide, almost all of the buildings in Wellie are on pads to absorb shocks from earthquakes. It seems that the entire country sits on three major fault lines.
It is the witching hour and time to saunter up to Courtenay Place. I am not disappointed, the sidewalks are jammed at 1 a.m. with young over dressed revellers who are very very drunk. They merrily fling their arms around passers by wishing all the best. I wonder what they will be feeling like in the morning, yes I do remember those days of misspent youth. Ironically there are no fights and everyone seems to be very happy. Around another corner I can hear screams. Curious I hurry down the street to find a caged four person metal jail bobbing up and down for at least five or six stories on huge rubber bands. The Bungee ride takes inebriated patrons up and down like a huge yo-yo for several minutes.
I am jostled to the side as more revellers strut past in mini-mini skirts, jackets and ties I have never seen so many overdressed young people in my life it is amusing to watch. Around 1am I wander back to the dorm. I stealthily slide into bed wondering who is on the top bunk. A head pops up obviously Jenn, I apologise and we all drift off dreaming of our own NZ. The morning is going to be very interesting, a co-ed dorm who would have thought.
My new roomie is Peter a young fellow from Florida. I take him on a walk to find a jacket, seems to be a common need this time of year for those of us from away. A cold breeze confronts us as we turn and walk up Cuba St. My stomach reminds me that breakfast should be a priority and we stop at a funky little cafe called Fidels. Yes that's right I went to Fidels Cafe on Cuba St!
After a huge breakfast that almost consumed my entire budget for the day we part company and Pete heads off to the Museum and the scenic Wellie Waterfront. I continue to wander and spot a poster promoting a Greenpeace fundraiser for the Sea Shepperd later that evening. When I get back to the dorm there is yet another suitcase and back pack so we have another roomie. When Pete gets back he informs me that Jenn from South Carolina has joined us. I am gobsmacked, the co-ed part of dorm living never really registered. This promises to be very interesting, oh well I will deal with that all in it's own time.
Mike at the front desk tells me I have to cruise Courtenay St. later that night as Saturday is party night and is quite a spectacle to watch. He also helps me figure out how to make a phone call and I get in touch with "the tango queen". Jane is "mad about tango" and has invited me to join her tomorrow to watch one of the worlds most complex and intense dances. We meet at Cafe Italiano and make the arrangements for the next day. I wonder once again about the new roomie but she is not there when I make it back to the dorm. I grab a quick bite and worry about my finances I am seriously over my daily budget it is time to start cutting back.
After a rest I head out and make my way to the Sea Shepperd fund raiser. It is an eclectic mix of characters and personalities. I meet Captain Peter, he regales me with tales of the S.S. being rammed by a Japanese whaling ship and sunk several times by mercenaries. He is a gregarious chap with a huge smile and bald pate the ceiling lights glisten off the top of his head as he swills back a beer and motions to another crew mate to join the conversation. I finish my beer, the budget only allows for one, Peter is snagged for a photo and autograph, as I don't know a soul in the place I make my exit. I walk the waterfront and marvel at Kiwi ingenuity, how they have taken an industrial dockside wasteland and turned it into an architectural design masterpiece. The Museum sits on the wharf area, a site that used to home to an old hotel which they put on rails and moved across the street. According to Deano, my film tour guide, almost all of the buildings in Wellie are on pads to absorb shocks from earthquakes. It seems that the entire country sits on three major fault lines.
It is the witching hour and time to saunter up to Courtenay Place. I am not disappointed, the sidewalks are jammed at 1 a.m. with young over dressed revellers who are very very drunk. They merrily fling their arms around passers by wishing all the best. I wonder what they will be feeling like in the morning, yes I do remember those days of misspent youth. Ironically there are no fights and everyone seems to be very happy. Around another corner I can hear screams. Curious I hurry down the street to find a caged four person metal jail bobbing up and down for at least five or six stories on huge rubber bands. The Bungee ride takes inebriated patrons up and down like a huge yo-yo for several minutes.
I am jostled to the side as more revellers strut past in mini-mini skirts, jackets and ties I have never seen so many overdressed young people in my life it is amusing to watch. Around 1am I wander back to the dorm. I stealthily slide into bed wondering who is on the top bunk. A head pops up obviously Jenn, I apologise and we all drift off dreaming of our own NZ. The morning is going to be very interesting, a co-ed dorm who would have thought.
Day 2
It is 9:00a.m. Friday New Zealand time which means somewhere along the way I lost a day. Outside the plane window I caught a glimpse of the South Islands snow capped peaks rising out of sanguid blue waters, rippling brown hills roll off into the distance, below is my NZ.
I feel pretty good, thanks to a sleeping pill last night, surprisingly awake. Ready for what I am not sure. No place to stay and a whole new world to explore, one step at a time I remind myself. I wander the Wellie airport still not quite believing I am here. I almost forget to p u my luggage. Rollin, rollin, rollin keep that luggage rollin I delicately balance my pile of luggage while trying to keep my backpack from sliding off my shoulder. A cool welcoming breeze buffets me as I exit the sliding doors. After a few inquiries I am off to a Backpacker's, the Kiwi version of a hostel, in the shuttle van.
It is a beautiful sunny day and my batteries are fully charged. I disembark at Nomads Hostel and am immeadiately struck by the number of young people checking in. I suddenly feel very old and out of place. Mike at the front desk greets me with a warm smile as I inquire about a room the cheapest is dorm style @ $27/night. "No worries" Mike assures as he hands me the plastic pass and a dinner voucher. One catch, the room won't be ready until 1:00p.m.
"You can throw your bags in the storage room and make yourself at home" He points me in the direction of the common area. I change in the laundry bathroom and although I am in need of shower I feel pretty good. A chalk board in the lobby catches my eye. It reads
Deano's Wellie film tour join our enigmatic host for a Lord of the Rings film locations, studio and Wellington sights tour. Bus leaves at 11am.
I glance at my watch it's just before ten, Mike books me a spot on the bus - cool this is going to be fun.
The bus turns out to be Deano's wife's Toyota van, there are only two of us, myself and Sarah a 26 yr old net ball coach from England on a working holiday. We hop into Deano's van and get a brief overview of the sights we are about to see. Deano is an actor, who claims he doesn't need the money but does the tours to keep busy and amuse himself. He normally wouldn't take just two of us but for some reason he does. He had a role in Avatar ( a film which I had no desire to see, I don't share this with Deano). Our first stop is WETA the digital effects studio which did the effects work on a number of Peter Jackson films and other notables like Steven Spielberg. As we watch the studio reel in a private screening room I start to nod off, fortunately the lights come up and save the day and my dignity. Outside I step off the curb and barely miss being clipped by a car. "You've got to watch yourself a lot of the boys around here make pretty good money and drive too fast in their Italian sports cars" Deano cautions in his clipped NZ accent. Duly noted Deano.
Off to the next location we drive past Peter Jackson's house. Unfortunately he isn't home Deano continues with his tour guide monologue. I am reminded that actors do love a stage - anywhere. The sly smile belies an effervescent personality I wonder how he does this tour day in and day out. Apparently Peter Jackson plowed a lot of his own money from Lord of the Rings into the industry here building sound stages and partnering with other NZ filmmakers. At the end of the tour Deano offers a little free advice. "Don't go to sleep now wait until tonight and you'll wake up in the morning on the local time schedule."
We part company and I head up to my dorm room. I try the bed it is noisier than a trampoline, every time I move the springs sing a song. As I sort out my suitcases and fish around for warmer clothes I realize I forgot to pack my jacket. No worries I'll find something here. I saunter up Cuba Street and window shop, nothing under $300, damn why did I forget one of the most important items in my wardrobe. I eventually find a green semi-water proof fatigue style jacket in a used clothing store for $50 and I feel infinitely warmer. It is cool here Kiwi winter, day time highs struggle to reach 12 -13 degrees Celsius in the evening the temps dip to 2 or 3 degrees.
The flight and long day catch up to me and I head back to the hostel. When I get back to the room another set of luggage is parked in the far corner, apparently I have a roomie. Too tired to care I fall into bed as I drift off to sleep the lights flick on and my roomie arrives. Exhausted I roll over facing the wall and go back to sleep I'll meet him in the morning.
It is 9:00a.m. Friday New Zealand time which means somewhere along the way I lost a day. Outside the plane window I caught a glimpse of the South Islands snow capped peaks rising out of sanguid blue waters, rippling brown hills roll off into the distance, below is my NZ.
I feel pretty good, thanks to a sleeping pill last night, surprisingly awake. Ready for what I am not sure. No place to stay and a whole new world to explore, one step at a time I remind myself. I wander the Wellie airport still not quite believing I am here. I almost forget to p u my luggage. Rollin, rollin, rollin keep that luggage rollin I delicately balance my pile of luggage while trying to keep my backpack from sliding off my shoulder. A cool welcoming breeze buffets me as I exit the sliding doors. After a few inquiries I am off to a Backpacker's, the Kiwi version of a hostel, in the shuttle van.
It is a beautiful sunny day and my batteries are fully charged. I disembark at Nomads Hostel and am immeadiately struck by the number of young people checking in. I suddenly feel very old and out of place. Mike at the front desk greets me with a warm smile as I inquire about a room the cheapest is dorm style @ $27/night. "No worries" Mike assures as he hands me the plastic pass and a dinner voucher. One catch, the room won't be ready until 1:00p.m.
"You can throw your bags in the storage room and make yourself at home" He points me in the direction of the common area. I change in the laundry bathroom and although I am in need of shower I feel pretty good. A chalk board in the lobby catches my eye. It reads
Deano's Wellie film tour join our enigmatic host for a Lord of the Rings film locations, studio and Wellington sights tour. Bus leaves at 11am.
I glance at my watch it's just before ten, Mike books me a spot on the bus - cool this is going to be fun.
The bus turns out to be Deano's wife's Toyota van, there are only two of us, myself and Sarah a 26 yr old net ball coach from England on a working holiday. We hop into Deano's van and get a brief overview of the sights we are about to see. Deano is an actor, who claims he doesn't need the money but does the tours to keep busy and amuse himself. He normally wouldn't take just two of us but for some reason he does. He had a role in Avatar ( a film which I had no desire to see, I don't share this with Deano). Our first stop is WETA the digital effects studio which did the effects work on a number of Peter Jackson films and other notables like Steven Spielberg. As we watch the studio reel in a private screening room I start to nod off, fortunately the lights come up and save the day and my dignity. Outside I step off the curb and barely miss being clipped by a car. "You've got to watch yourself a lot of the boys around here make pretty good money and drive too fast in their Italian sports cars" Deano cautions in his clipped NZ accent. Duly noted Deano.
Off to the next location we drive past Peter Jackson's house. Unfortunately he isn't home Deano continues with his tour guide monologue. I am reminded that actors do love a stage - anywhere. The sly smile belies an effervescent personality I wonder how he does this tour day in and day out. Apparently Peter Jackson plowed a lot of his own money from Lord of the Rings into the industry here building sound stages and partnering with other NZ filmmakers. At the end of the tour Deano offers a little free advice. "Don't go to sleep now wait until tonight and you'll wake up in the morning on the local time schedule."
We part company and I head up to my dorm room. I try the bed it is noisier than a trampoline, every time I move the springs sing a song. As I sort out my suitcases and fish around for warmer clothes I realize I forgot to pack my jacket. No worries I'll find something here. I saunter up Cuba Street and window shop, nothing under $300, damn why did I forget one of the most important items in my wardrobe. I eventually find a green semi-water proof fatigue style jacket in a used clothing store for $50 and I feel infinitely warmer. It is cool here Kiwi winter, day time highs struggle to reach 12 -13 degrees Celsius in the evening the temps dip to 2 or 3 degrees.
The flight and long day catch up to me and I head back to the hostel. When I get back to the room another set of luggage is parked in the far corner, apparently I have a roomie. Too tired to care I fall into bed as I drift off to sleep the lights flick on and my roomie arrives. Exhausted I roll over facing the wall and go back to sleep I'll meet him in the morning.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Getting here is half the fun
It took more than a dozen years to make the trek to the island of my dreams.
"You'll love New Zealand buddy" those resassurances came from many of my CBC colleagues in Cape Breton Nova Scotia truly one of the most beautiful islands in the world. A place I have regretted leaving for my other career in the very flat prairies.
"If you like it here you'll love the Kiwi nation." Everyone kept telling over and over finally I decided to go and find my NZ.
So after qualifying to work in NZ, I decided last winter on a particularly bad day at work to book my trip. First I searched for a place to live for a month after watching "The Holiday" where the principal characters exchange homes on HomeExchange.com I decided to do the same. Within minutes I found a flat in Martinborough NZ a little over an hour from Wellie (Wellington). I then booked a discount flight and the deed was done.
The next morning I questioned what I had done. Going halfway around the world trying to find a place in middle of the NZ countryside trusting that all would go well, I was placing myself in the hands of fate and the travel gods. Not to mention I would have to do the trip on a miserly budget of approximately $85/day. Could it be done?
My hosts the Potters kindly explained that I was coming over in the dead of winter. "It is cold here it's our winter and we don't have central heating as you do in Canada" they warned.
"No problem I am a hearty Canuck if you have even suffered through our Manitoba winters not much in the way of cold weather can dishearten us." Was my naive reply. I would soon be corrected on that misnomer.
The place was mine for the month of August. The trip was booked the details done, at least so I thought. I put the trip out of my mind and finished off the school year. Suddenly my departure date loomed large I had my stash of Canadiana packed, the obligatory ID, almost $2500 in cash, and 2 reasonable suitcases. After a stop in Chicago to bother my brother and his family I was off on my dream holiday. Armed with a few sleeping pills for the plane, a care package courtesy of my sister in law, and a lot of bravado my adventure began. My bro escorted me to the right counter (he knows my penchance for wandering and wanted to make sure I made it out of the city. I caught my LA flight.
I am not a comfortable flier as a matter of fact I loathe flying, love being there, it is the getting there aspect which makes my stomach churn and my head ache. I managed in spite of myself and landed in lala land, it had been many years since I had been to Hollywood my last sojourn was a six month screenwriting contract that didn't work out. I wandered the airport after passing through security I somehow managed to leave the secure area and had to do the security process a second time. One of the chaps at the x-ray machine gave me the once over with the look of "do you like doing security checks?" I just kept moving with a half hearted smile. Jacket off, shoes off, and then I was selected for the full body scan, I was horrified.
Once at the gate, I had somewhat in the neighbourhood of 8 hrs to kill so I hopped on the net and tried to skype my bro. No luck, damn now what? I really needed to get some contact info from my email as I was supposed to go tangoing that wknd in Wellie. A walk about with my luggage led me past the Air NZ VIP lounge. Hmmm they'll have a computer I thought and stepped through the sliding glass door into the world of the privileged. I approached a chap behind the desk.
"Would you mind if I checked some important email I am on the Air NZ flight to Aukland" I inquired.
He looked down at me, obviously approved and let me in. It does help at times to wear a sports jacket and slacks when travelling as much as it is a pain in the ass to manage nice clothes keeping them natty if you know what I mean. I roll my luggage past the free booze, food, showers and luxuriously appointed leather chairs. In short order I had my contacts off the computer. I forgot to leave though and wandered around settling in a comfy chair with a Kiwi newspaper and a drink. This is the life I thought ah I wonder what the proletariat are doing? I savoured the good life reading and people watching wondering what some of these folks do that makes them VIP's living the good life. After about an hour I wandered up to the reception desk to ask a question forgetting my tenuous status in the first place. The greeting I got shocked me.
"Are YOU still here? " The booking agents eyes bored through me with obvious disdain. I was oblivious to his demeanour and was taken aback at the affront to my dignity.
"I beg your pardon" I blurted out the top suitcase sliding off my luggage pile.
"You told you wanted to check your email for a few minutes" He snarled.
"Oh yes I seem to have forgotten my apologies I'll leave thanks" I stuttered my face turning a crimson colour, I was truly embarrassed imagining all eyes in the room where on me.
"Well I am charging you $55 US for using this lounge." Was the haughty response.
"I'll get my charge card and pay the bill no problem." I was determined to mitigate the issue at hand by simply paying the bill. I dug around for my plastic, luggage sliding to the floor my rucksack falling off my back I was truly struggling. He lost patience with me and left to attend to something else. His mate working at another terminal smiled at me.
"Once you pay you are welcome to stay sir." He smoothed over the awkward moment.
"No I am too embarrassed" I stammered "I'll be leaving now." I produced my charge card which he waved away.
"If you aren't staying no worries about paying mate have a good day." The smile was genuine and I relaxed. "Thank you." Was all I could manage and left.
My first kiwi encounter had been less than stellar I wondered if this was a harbinger of things to come. I joined my fellow passengers downstairs in the uncomfortable chairs.
The flight was late. Why am I going to NZ on my own? The question had been plaguing me since I left. I had nowhere to stay in Wellie until I could get to my country flat what the hell was I doing and where was I going to live for the wknd???
"You'll love New Zealand buddy" those resassurances came from many of my CBC colleagues in Cape Breton Nova Scotia truly one of the most beautiful islands in the world. A place I have regretted leaving for my other career in the very flat prairies.
"If you like it here you'll love the Kiwi nation." Everyone kept telling over and over finally I decided to go and find my NZ.
So after qualifying to work in NZ, I decided last winter on a particularly bad day at work to book my trip. First I searched for a place to live for a month after watching "The Holiday" where the principal characters exchange homes on HomeExchange.com I decided to do the same. Within minutes I found a flat in Martinborough NZ a little over an hour from Wellie (Wellington). I then booked a discount flight and the deed was done.
The next morning I questioned what I had done. Going halfway around the world trying to find a place in middle of the NZ countryside trusting that all would go well, I was placing myself in the hands of fate and the travel gods. Not to mention I would have to do the trip on a miserly budget of approximately $85/day. Could it be done?
My hosts the Potters kindly explained that I was coming over in the dead of winter. "It is cold here it's our winter and we don't have central heating as you do in Canada" they warned.
"No problem I am a hearty Canuck if you have even suffered through our Manitoba winters not much in the way of cold weather can dishearten us." Was my naive reply. I would soon be corrected on that misnomer.
The place was mine for the month of August. The trip was booked the details done, at least so I thought. I put the trip out of my mind and finished off the school year. Suddenly my departure date loomed large I had my stash of Canadiana packed, the obligatory ID, almost $2500 in cash, and 2 reasonable suitcases. After a stop in Chicago to bother my brother and his family I was off on my dream holiday. Armed with a few sleeping pills for the plane, a care package courtesy of my sister in law, and a lot of bravado my adventure began. My bro escorted me to the right counter (he knows my penchance for wandering and wanted to make sure I made it out of the city. I caught my LA flight.
I am not a comfortable flier as a matter of fact I loathe flying, love being there, it is the getting there aspect which makes my stomach churn and my head ache. I managed in spite of myself and landed in lala land, it had been many years since I had been to Hollywood my last sojourn was a six month screenwriting contract that didn't work out. I wandered the airport after passing through security I somehow managed to leave the secure area and had to do the security process a second time. One of the chaps at the x-ray machine gave me the once over with the look of "do you like doing security checks?" I just kept moving with a half hearted smile. Jacket off, shoes off, and then I was selected for the full body scan, I was horrified.
Once at the gate, I had somewhat in the neighbourhood of 8 hrs to kill so I hopped on the net and tried to skype my bro. No luck, damn now what? I really needed to get some contact info from my email as I was supposed to go tangoing that wknd in Wellie. A walk about with my luggage led me past the Air NZ VIP lounge. Hmmm they'll have a computer I thought and stepped through the sliding glass door into the world of the privileged. I approached a chap behind the desk.
"Would you mind if I checked some important email I am on the Air NZ flight to Aukland" I inquired.
He looked down at me, obviously approved and let me in. It does help at times to wear a sports jacket and slacks when travelling as much as it is a pain in the ass to manage nice clothes keeping them natty if you know what I mean. I roll my luggage past the free booze, food, showers and luxuriously appointed leather chairs. In short order I had my contacts off the computer. I forgot to leave though and wandered around settling in a comfy chair with a Kiwi newspaper and a drink. This is the life I thought ah I wonder what the proletariat are doing? I savoured the good life reading and people watching wondering what some of these folks do that makes them VIP's living the good life. After about an hour I wandered up to the reception desk to ask a question forgetting my tenuous status in the first place. The greeting I got shocked me.
"Are YOU still here? " The booking agents eyes bored through me with obvious disdain. I was oblivious to his demeanour and was taken aback at the affront to my dignity.
"I beg your pardon" I blurted out the top suitcase sliding off my luggage pile.
"You told you wanted to check your email for a few minutes" He snarled.
"Oh yes I seem to have forgotten my apologies I'll leave thanks" I stuttered my face turning a crimson colour, I was truly embarrassed imagining all eyes in the room where on me.
"Well I am charging you $55 US for using this lounge." Was the haughty response.
"I'll get my charge card and pay the bill no problem." I was determined to mitigate the issue at hand by simply paying the bill. I dug around for my plastic, luggage sliding to the floor my rucksack falling off my back I was truly struggling. He lost patience with me and left to attend to something else. His mate working at another terminal smiled at me.
"Once you pay you are welcome to stay sir." He smoothed over the awkward moment.
"No I am too embarrassed" I stammered "I'll be leaving now." I produced my charge card which he waved away.
"If you aren't staying no worries about paying mate have a good day." The smile was genuine and I relaxed. "Thank you." Was all I could manage and left.
My first kiwi encounter had been less than stellar I wondered if this was a harbinger of things to come. I joined my fellow passengers downstairs in the uncomfortable chairs.
The flight was late. Why am I going to NZ on my own? The question had been plaguing me since I left. I had nowhere to stay in Wellie until I could get to my country flat what the hell was I doing and where was I going to live for the wknd???
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