The hand's off landlord

Paul and I are heading up to the mountains for a Labor Day Vaca. Being the responsible tenants that we are, we called our landlord to ask if he wanted us to pay next month's rent before we left or if he wouldn't mind waiting till we returned on the 2nd. I should preface the following story with some anonymous details of our landlord.

One, he had our apartment's previous tenant find the new renters, us. Two, he prefers cash. Three, we have yet to meet him at the same place twice.

We called him on the phone and are literally walking out the door to drive to the mountains and he asks if we could pay today rather than wait till we return on Tuesday. We said ok, and where did he want us to meet him. He gave us instructions to another one of his properties, this one called “Smuggler's Cove” and to meet him at 1:30pm. We kill a couple hours and reach the complex at 1:25 and call back to get the condo number. He says it will be the one with work trucks outside and presumably the garage door open. He also waits till now to inform us that someone named Andrew will be receiving the cash. Paul had pulled over on the side of the road to receive these oh-so-specific instructions and 90 seconds into the conversation enters older gentlemen onto the scene. He pulls up to the window and rolls down his passenger window, motioning for Paul to roll his down. Paul obeys but is still on the phone. This is when aforementioned person proceeds to berate Paul for apparently having blocked his ritualistic tight turn onto the Smuggler's property. Clearly Paul is on the phone, as it's up to his left ear. The guy isn't deterred and continues to yell at us while now completely blocking the road to both lanes in desperation to make his point. He starts to angrily wave his cell phone in the air, miming that if we don't move he's calling someone. Paul pulls forward slightly, I guess enough to satisfy the constipated grump who drives off to leave Paul to finish up with our landlord. It still takes us a few loops around the apartment/condo/duplex homes to find the one he was talking about. Paul runs inside, pays the Andrew character, also getting him to sign a torn envelope that he received it, and then we're off for a three-day weekend away from the crazies.

Who's your Daddy?

So this update is long over-due and I have a list of excuses, yadayada yada so let me just get on with it.

We have settled in Boulder Colorado for the time being; at least until life decides to pull the asphalt up to our door again and drop us off again at some other near or distant location. Paul got a job at the Boulder REI and he starts CU Boulder orientation August 18th. On that same day I will begin setting up my classroom/"pod" with my 2 fellow teachers at Boulder Journey School, referred to as BJS. In a long list of ironies that is my life, add to it one more: it is New Zealand's sister school I was previously working at and of which I wonder how related it is...its vaguely similar in that it shares the same basic philosophy of teaching but culture, location and a variety of personalities that make up its framework give it vast differences. (If you are privy enough to know my personal blog, check there for more oddities, or email me for the account.)

Now for an anecdote: Paul and I thought we'd use our time this summer to slam ourselves into shape for living at 5,400' above sea level (1,650 for you metric lovers). Paul has signed up for his first marathon this September and I recently competed in my second triathalon...I'm not going to get nit-picky with sharing details, suffice to say I didn't drown during the swimming and actually crossed the final finish line by myself, (and i use, 'by myself' loosely). The week prior to my tri, Paul suggested we do a training ride from Boulder to Lyons, a town about 18 miles away. I was all for it, especially since there was rumor of a coffee shop and I'm a sucker for beans. The ride was fairly routine including a few butt-numbing hills and we made it to Lyons in good time and start our search for a java shoppe. We spot one on main street. I get the usual, black fully-leaded, and Paul orders his. We choose a table outside for a few reasons: 1, we want to keep an eye on our bikes, 2, we wanted to save fellow patrons from smelling our lycra and 3, we wanted to save fellow patrons from staring at our lycra clad bodies. I sit down while Paul waits inside for his order. Immediately a friendly six-year-old girl hops up on the chair next to me. We start to chat about the lap dog that she just 'rescued' from another patron one table over who is now being dragged by its collar while afore mentioned kindergartner forces her threw a maze of table legs. Paul sits down and we start to ask her about her summer and if she's having fun, etc. Mid conversation she stops, looks at Paul, looks at me and in a voice reserved for secrets among playmates turns to me and asks, "Is he your Dad?" I try not to laugh. Paul shoots me a "not funny" glare. And almost before I can answer the dog-dragging girl is onto another subject. I could look at it two ways, obviously neither is good: she thinks I'm about 10 years old or that Paul is 40. Paul wasn't too excited about her observation but at least it made for a good story.

A toast to you, our beautiful fans!

In all fairness, I will now admit that we have more than 2 readers. I guess I just didn't realize people cared as much as they do. My apologies to you Grandma, the queen of rok, and anyone else offended by our measly count.

I will try to give you the latest update, however many you are.

I have been in Denver for a couple weeks now and Paul just joined me. We returned to the States from New Zealand after some family mishaps and will now be here for at least the next nine months, (nine months has nothing to do with a gestation period, just in case you were thinking that). Paul will be able to take classes at CU Boulder to keep up with his coursework until we are able to return to the magical land of Zealand that is 'New' and I will be teaching, hopefully, at the Bear Park sister school in Boulder. Slightly ironic isn't it?

So, we are officially back. We don't have cell phone plans yet, just in case the masses of fans that we have want to start ringing us off the hizzy, so for now, email us...but we are back and will be updating you on any new crazy accounts that seem to happen to us all too often no matter where we live.

Dog Shi-ca-ca

By now hopefully all two of our readers have caught up on the fact that we are no longer in New Zealand. We have returned to the land of the Obama's, Clinton's and McCain's. We aren't making this political, we are only mentioning this because we thought we might miss this very controversial election, come November, and seeing as neither of the choices are good ones we were not unhappy about missing all the ensuing drama.

But back to the task at hand...updating you, our lone reader. (yes, you Jen.) Other than major family drama that i'll spare you from at this current time, Paul and i celebrated our 1 year anniversary. Our original celebration destination was a toss up between Rotorua Mud Baths in New Zealand that come complete with cabins, tea time and mud OR surfing in Piha (world class beach) and we figured we couldn't go wrong. Our surprise return to the states took us for a loop, a BIG loop, therefore landing us in Indianapolis on our special date and calling in a compromise: the promise of a dog, our very own. Our current problem is: we are a little on the homeless side and its easier to find a bed for two people than a bed for two people and a dog. Not sure why, but not all people are dog lovers, so, we decided on this faux-furry creature for the time being. Our only solace is that we don't have to walk him or pick up his daily poo.

Designer fraternity

Ludolph McGaffin is the named opaquely emblazoned on the glass window of the shop i walk past on my way to work. Its a symmetrically square shop/house. It boasts a well manicured, though tiny, yard and an inviting glow from within. Centrally located cement stairs lead up to the main door while two show windows on either side display the designer gowns of the week on cotton muslin mannequins, one per window. Its a rather classy shop. Surrounded by doctor's office buildings, a police station, St. Mark's Church, a rival preschool and what appears to be a house taken over by alcoholic cockroaches. It sits immediately next to Ludolphs, separated only by shrubs. The yard seems to never have less than 36 beer cans and/or bottles. An abandoned couch sits on the half porch and a pinic table takes up what little lawn the property affords. Graffiti covers the windows and a crack runs through one of them. The first couple times i passed it i thought it was abandoned. I decided it wasn't after noticing how the bottles and cans rotated and the recycle bin on the edge of the sidewalk was always on a new level of full. On the morning after St. Patty's day i had to step over a puddle of puke that appeared to have projected across the lawn and onto the sidewalk, probably originating 5 hours before my daily trek to work. I wondered at how a designer shop ended up next to such a frat pad. I noticed something on the windows of the rubbish abode, the opaque font, identical to the design shoppe next door. I asked the girls at work. Turns out that the designer used to rent what was now the trash house and then the lease ran out so they moved next door. They weren't sure of the details but apparently the previous site of the afore mentioned shop had been left in pristine condition and then decimated about 3 hours after the new tenants moved in. They thought that either the new guys were relatives of the owner or the owner was overseas and was clueless to the demise of his property. Either way, they had sufficiently demolished the place, making it look days away from being condemned. Way to go guys. Bringing down the property value for everyone, even in Newmarket.

What it tastes like

If you want to know what horse feed tastes like or perhaps shredded cardboard with bits of dried sour apricots mixed in it...Buy this box, if you are lucky you'll find a semi-sweet raisin. Good news is its 98% fat free and currently on sale. Bad news is it was no Delite to eat. You'll have jaws so muscular after just one bowl that even Arnold will be jealous.

We are petitioning the company to change their name from 'Sunreal' to 'Sureal'. Or just to simply omit their product off the market entirely...it really wouldn't be that much of a loss. Eating competition athletes have been banned from eating this because it gives them an unfair advantage, its like steroids for your cheeks.

Sounds of my daily commute

Paul usually leaves for the university, or 'Uni' as the peeps refer to it here, 20-30 minutes before i leave for work. I putter around our dime sized apartment, finishing my breakfast, watching the morning news with Paul and Pippa and count out my train fare for my pocket. Then, its out the door to Bear Park, learning center for little ones with small legs and arms and in the process of graduating from nappies to knickers.

The glass door slides shut and a key locks it.
My rubber soled sandals squeak on the slate bridge echoing between the glass sides.
The exit security door beeps its release and i use my entire body weight to push it open.
It slams behind me and re-beeps the lock.
The gravel crunches as i cut across the parking lot.
My soles slap on the stairs as i descend below Britomart and the tunnels and the trains beneath.
The train screeches and clicks on the tracks as it pulls up.
The brakes groan as it stops.
Clinking, moaning, grating of the train as the cars pull and resist one another.
The beep beep beep of the door alarm sounds the ok to open.
The clatter and squeak of the temporary footpath scaffolding as all the pieces groan under the weight of the busy crowd heading off in a myriad of directions.

The espresso machine whirs and steams and i listen for the clink of the ceramic on the wooden table surface as i pass Organic Nutmeg.
The rev of the car engines accelerate up the hill.

The crosswalk chimes the go ahead to go.

The woman with the hula skirt purse and bubblegum pink lipstick's high heels rhythmically click clack on the cement we pass each other.
The miniature button springs squeeze as i push the code to get into the school.
Door hinges noisily protest on rusty hinges.
As i enter, a wave of cries, playful screams, talking, laughing and quietly in the distance, Jack Johnson sings from the cd player in the far corner of the toddler classroom.

My day has begun.

Yeah, that's right, these little kiwis listen to surfer music...

Bear Park

As some of you may have heard, I finally got a teaching job. 'Officially' they have offered me a job as an early childhood educator for the process of my work permit. 'Unofficially' i've been hanging out with little kiddos for a little over 5 weeks now. I work with a team of three other teachers in our classroom since we have the highest count of little persons. We have anywhere from 14-18 kids depending on the amount of time and day of the week the parent wishes their tyke to the come. The way the early level schools work here is the child is transitioned into the classroom at the time of his or her birthday. It has its pluses and minuses. Say you have a couple 5 year olds who have birthdays in January, they'd all start together. Then you have a kid that doesn't turn 5 till March or even April, they wouldn't transition into that class until then. So, while they are now closer to being developmentally equal, they could possibly be socially behind since those kids have already formed relationships with each other. For the most part though i really appreciate their teaching philosophy here and this place, like a good number of European countries, is more family orientated and they take their vacation days religiously. One week, maybe 2 kids are 'on holiday' with their families and the next week another kid is, regardless of actual holiday days. One little girl has been gone with her family the entire time i've been at the learning centre but we get updates from their trip to South Africa that we share with the kids who squeal with delight when they see pictures of her and who fight over who gets to wear her sun hat in the playground.

We apparently have a sister school in Boulder, CO that we have a teacher exchange program with. One of my co-teachers will be heading up there soon for the rest of the year pending her US work visa. I'm not sure how strict they stick to the 'exchange' aspect since i haven't heard news of them sending one down here but small world anyway, huh?

And now that you probably learned more about the education system of a small school on the under, yet beautiful, side of this planet than you ever wanted to know, over and out.

Names omitted to protect the guilty

We now resume our anecdotes of our life down under, but will forever miss the faithful comments of '-just dad'.

Part of the process of working legally down here includes going in to a doctor for that all important 'seal of health' so the government can verify that i'm not going to cause widespread panic with some communicable disease. An appointment was set and my schedule was cleared. Paul had already gotten his pat on the back for good health by a university doctor and returned with a glowing report of how pleasant the experience was. I could only hope mine would be the same.

Its a two day process. The first day you get evaluated, weighed, measured, x-rayed, and blood drawn. The second day you go back for your report of findings with the doc. I sat in the waiting room till my name was called. I was so engrossed in the book i was reading that Paul had to nudge me to remind me my name was Jessica when the doctor came out. I quickly followed her to the exam room. She lead the way into her room looking over her shoulder briefly to tell me A: she was the doctor and B: take off my shirt. I paused for a second thinking i hadn't heard her correctly. I thought she was just going to hand me my medical certificate and say i was good to go. She got to her desk and then turned abruptly toward me, her face expectant and tone demanding. She repeated herself. Where did this doctor train? Possibly back in Germany when black swastikas flew on red flags? I quickly peeled off my sweaty t-shirt. She had me go through a series of reflex tests and muscle measurements all the while barking at me about my health and immediate family history. She asked if i'd ever had anything major happen to me. I paused for a second thinking she could already read my thoughts and since i fault too often on the side of honesty, and by this point i was scared shirtless i blurted out that i had broken my neck back in '04, then immediately regretted it. I began backtracking. I told her i got the seal of approval from a spine and neurological doctor. The damage was already done and she now even more intensely interrogated and added i needed to take off my pants. I did so while asking if this would affect my visa status and she said she didn't think so but as she banged my knee with the knee knocker my left knee didn't jump as far as my right. It felt like she wasn't hitting it in the correct spot but this new discovery sent her into a tizzy and she wrote down that my left lower extremity reflex was inconsistent. She moved the knocker closer to the center and my leg flew out nearly kicking her in the kneecap. I sighed with relief. Maybe now she'd cross out or change what she wrote...clearly i was ok. Nope. The damage was already done. I was defective.

I'll find out if i'm immigration worthy in a couple more weeks.

PS. since this took so long to post due to lack of internet connection i have now found out that my visa request has now been sent to the medical assessor due to possibly having un-immigratable defects.

A Son's Last Words

My father was a huge man, a giant in both stature and intellect. His 6'4", three hundred pound frame dominated any room and his intelligence was evident in even the most casual of conversations. My grandmother told me he read an entire set of encyclopedias, cover to cover, as a sophomore in high school. Most people knew him as Doctor Taylor, a professional at the top of a lucrative medical career, respected by patients and colleagues alike. I knew him as dad.

He was a master chess player and an amateur astronomer with a fascination for the sky and the great beyond. He was a SCUBA diver, a competitive shooter, and a pilot. He was an outdoors man, a Civil War buff, and a Star Trek-y. He was a man who enjoyed life in all its aspects and lived every moment to the fullest. He had a deep, full belly laugh that was infectious and matched his build and personality perfectly. At night I would hear him laugh from my bedroom as he talked with my mother or watched late night TV. For me, those laughs were reassuring. They acted as a warm security blanket against the doubts of darkness and the cold of night. My mother speaks fondly of his rich singing voice and tells me I would kick in her womb to the rhythm of his songs. Their marriage wasn't easy or perfect, but they stayed together and loved each other to the end. Despite a world set against marriage and the vows of matrimony.

If I sound like a son with an inadequacy complex, then you are probably getting an accurate picture. My father presented an image and lived a life that is hard to live up to. He never meant to pressure me or measure me against his accomplishments, but the self-created pressure was there and still is in many ways. As a teenager and young adult, I resented it to the point of irrational and often undirected anger. I had a hard time finding myself or my place in life; very little fit and what did wasn't good enough (in my eyes) or didn't fully remove me from my father's massive shadow. This inner conflict, which erupted into explosive arguments with my dad, came to an apex when I graduated from high school. He wanted me to go to college and I wanted to do things myself, so I joined the Navy and left with little more than a good-bye. I was gone for four years. When I left, my father was a healthy middle-aged man in the prime of his physical and professional life. When I returned, he was in the ravages of a disease that physically destroyed him.

His illness came as a complicated collage of problems as precise and methodical as the man they attacked. Slowly it stripped him of everything that had surrounded the man I knew as my dad. His physical presence, his hobbies and his career were all taken from him over a very short period of time. Even his beautiful singing voice was reduced to a gravelly whisper. But my dad remained. The loving and doting father he had always been shown even brighter in the face of his daunting illness. For over a decade he struggled through ups and downs, never fully recovering but always getting back up. My father fought for more time with his family and lived to see all of his children married and the arrival of three grandchildren. A few months ago, he told me his illness had been a blessing and that he had fallen in love with our mom all over again.

I didn't get to say good-bye to my dad the night he died. But, if I had been afforded that opportunity, I would have put my arms around him and held him the way he used to hold me when I skinned my knees. I would have said, "I love you dad and in many ways I am you. Your voice, your laugh, and your love will always be with me. If I could take your place, if I could take your illness from you, I would, but God hasn't answered that prayer. So, I will do everything I can to make you proud and live up to your expectations, both expressed and unexpressed. You are my role model and hero. Anything I become or am able to accomplish in this life, I owe to you. By no means were you a perfect father and by no means am I a perfect son; but for all your flaws and for all of mine, you are my best friend and a man of whom I am proud to be called son."

I Love You Dad

Bus Stop Tizzy

now that paul's in school during the week we are trying to make to most of our weekends. this time we were expanding our exploration via ferry. we decided on waiheke island. we weren't sure what we were going to do when we got there but all journeys begin with a single step so we stepped onto the ferry. it filled to max occupation and we started to skim across the water. thirty minutes later we arrived. everyone stood up and resembling a herd of cattle slowly made our way to the exit ramp. as we were inching along down the steps of the top deck i heard american accents behind me. i took a quick glance to see their faces and realized they were talking to the girl immediately on my left and by immediate i mean i could have sipped on the coffee cooler she was holding and she wouldn't have noticed. i looked at her. i'm almost embarrassed to say i knew who she was. none other than the quirky boutique cashier from disney's 'the suite life of zack and cody': miss ashley tisdale. in my defense i'll state that when you are babysitting and the kid is napping and you can't figure out how to explore the other 956 channels for fear of not being able to change it back you often have no other choice but to watch the disney channel. i'm not well versed in the ways of the popular and famous but i'm gonna guess that if some well-known person is on an obscure crowded ferry going to a obscure island with little to no fanfare they probably don't want to be recognized. i could be wrong but i'm thinking they would periodically get sick of being called out in a crowd. i know i would. i was more interested in making conversation merely because they were american and when you're scuttling along like farm animals with absolutely no personal space it sometimes makes it less awkward. sometimes? i turned to one of the guys that was with her and asked him where they were from. he happily responded, 'oh, california'. then he asked me the same question. i told him i was from denver, colorado but recently moved with my husband to auckland. he replied with a 'wow, that's cool' and tapped the girl on the arm saying 'hey, ashley, they're from denver, colorado.' she glanced up and replied with a less than enthusiastic, 'oh, huh'. i asked the guy if they were staying in auckland, he said they were, more specifically at the hyatt. i contemplated joking why they weren't increasing paris' inheritance by staying at the hilton but didn't think it would go over very well. at this point the two bigger guys pulling up the rear were starting to eye me in a bodyguard type protective fashion. so i dropped it by adding 'oh, that's cool'. the foot traffic started to pick up speed so i caught up with paul and we closed in on the exit. we left the ferry in search of adventure. we weren't sure how big the island was but we were pretty sure we didn't want to walk the entire thing. we headed to the rental area of all things on wheels. after discovering all renting options were well beyond what we intended to spend for the day we decided on braving the bus system. we purchased two all-day bus passes for $8 a piece. not bad. now, where to catch a bus. after getting some vague direction from the ticket man we stepped up to edge of the sidewalk. we still must have looked confused (possibly betrayed by the opened map in our hands) because a gentleman came up and asked if we needed help. he said the next bus would be along in 15 minutes but if we didn't want to wait, the next swim-able beach was only a 15 minute walk away. not wanting to waste any time on this beautiful day we decided to walk it. what started out as impatience to wait for a bus turned into an all day hike zig-zagging across the width and breadth of the entire island. we stopped for lunch, we stopped for a swim, we took pictures along the way but every time we stopped for a bus we would wait for what seemed an eternity, no matter how many others were waiting at a particular bus stop. by the end of the day we made it to the other end of the island and since daylight wasn't going to hold out for us we found the next closest bus stop and waited. we waited...and waited...and waited. others came and waited and went. some making conversation with us, some just standing with us but inevitably they would stick out a thumb for a free ride or a taxi ride or start walking. what kind of bus system was this?? we had yet to use our passes and were now determined to wait till a bus came even if that meant till the last supposedly scheduled bus at 11:30 that night. as the sun was sinking and all but a flicker of hope was gone, one screeched to a stop, nearly running us over. we bounced up the steps with excitement and proudly flashed our passes. what had taken us about 6 hours to walk took us about 20 minutes on the return. it was the first vehicle i had been in since arriving over a month ago and it felt like we were breaking the sound barrier. paul said, "my poor wife', giving me a condescending pat, 'you think we're flying when we're only on a bus." it truly is relative. we made it to the ferry landing just as another one was loading. at least the ferries stay on schedule. we found some seats, this time below deck and zoned out, amused at the irony of 'all-day' bus passes. it takes you all day just to catch one. we landed in auckland, exited and walked the five blocks home.

Mission: Follicle Lobber

in paul's effort to cut out barber costs (pun not intended) he wanted to get a hair trimmer. we decided to check out the warehouses supply. if you haven't heard about the warehouse, you now will. we believe its new zealand's version of, dare i say it, wal-mart. there are two locations within walking distance for us, one is four blocks west of us off queen street, the other is a couple miles away on broadway. the farther one is, of course, the better one: clean, neat, huge selection. the closer one is...well...crappy. their shelves are filled with product but the store resembles a forgotten carnival recently ransacked by prepubescent vikings and if you want to track down a sales representative practice first by trying to capture a bunny or a chicken in forest. they thoroughly train in evasive maneuvers. we had only one goal, find and buy a hair trimmer. paul had done some pre-op surveillance so he knew where the desired items were kept. not wanting to waste time we headed directly to the site. the shelf, like the rest, were ransacked and this time not only could we not find one for sale, the one that had been on display was missing, leaving its box and length adapters behind. we didn't like the idea but we knew we were going to have to ask for help. we zoomed in one red-shirt uniformed 'gary'. he caught our gaze and dashed. we followed him to the back-stock doors. you can run gary but you can't hide for long. he came back out and we had him surrounded, all two of us. he suddenly put on a polite customer service smile realizing his running was futile. we asked him if they had any more hair trimmers, in another place? maybe in back-stock?? he searched his obviously vast mental inventory for all of one second and answered with a definite 'no', he chuckled, motioning to the shelves, saying he was waiting for replenishment. as if his only job was to wait on quickly disappearing hair trimmers. we got the message that he now realized his store looked like crap too. ya think? we said thanks and he hurried off. we did another look-a-round. we had a feeling there were more. somewhere. as we were rounding the aisle a second time i looked up on the top shelf where they keep their overstock boxed items. i saw two boxes with the words 'hair trimmer kit' and 'item count: 8'. so up above us were supposedly 16 hair trimmer kits. now, how to get our hands on one. we surveyed for another red-shirt. they had scattered like cockroaches when the kitchen light comes on. we expanded our search. paul found a wheeled ladder 3 aisles down. that would be pretty bold and we weren't sure if we'd get away with that so we were left with one option: monkey style. climb the shelf. i climbed first. i reached the box but it was too heavy and i wouldn't be able to hold on and lower the box at the same time. paul's turn. his height was a severe advantage since he only needed to stand on the second shelf up to reach the top whereas i had to stand on the 4th to merely touch the box. he pulled the box down. another customer wandered into the aisle and ignored our shenanigans. apparently this was common procedure here. we opened the box. ahhhh! victory! we extracted one and made our way to the cashiers. we bought it and headed down the escalators for our champion exit. we high-fived each other and exchanged the words of one controversial borat, "great success!"

Excellent Marketing Tips

I caught the local NZ news this morning. A computer guy was on the set with them, showing them two new computers that his company had just recently developed and released, one being their response to the Mac Book Air and the other one was a Ferrari model of the Acer. I'm not quite sure what sort of response they were going for. The news-persons started to prompt answers for their seemingly necessary questions. It had the same size screen and was roughly the same in weight but that was where the similarities stopped. This bundle of half-witted technology was black, thicker in size, had slower processing and could be purchased for about double what it cost to purchase the 'Air'. I have a feeling they are definitely going to sell a lot of those! Watch out NZ Mac Market, you have got competition! The Ferrari model wasn't much better. They are only releasing 19 for the entire country and if you want to be a lucky Kiwi to own a one-in-nineteen version computer with a car logo on the lid you only have to pay $4,899.00. I'd have to agree with the news gal. It looked tacky. The computer spokesperson seemed like he didn't even like the product, or maybe that he didn't really know anything about them. I'm not sure what kind of presentation he was going for other than perhaps a mildly planned farce. That, or he was sacked by lunchtime. 'Cause after that i could tell you exactly how many they are going to sell. Zero. Nada. Zilch. Oooh, i just thought of something...maybe he works for Apple.

What comes down

Shortly after the flying banana incident a flesh-free orange peel was deposited on our door-step. This past weekend our apartment started to fill with essence of eu du cigarette. I looked out our front door and inches away was a smoking cylinder of death, its red embers flashing. A stiffer breeze and it would have been blown inside to work its magic on a hole in our carpet. Annoyed, i picked it up and dipped it in a nearby puddle. Listening as it sizzled. I tossed its soggy carcass a bit farther out into the courtyard, wanting to get as far away from it as possible. (you might be wondering at this point why we don't just shut our door to stop flying foreign objects from coming in. that would be a good idea except its the only way we have to let fresh air in, and here they don't have screens. anywhere. so if we are to let in fresh air, the door must be open, thus the possibility of other things coming in as well.)

Have the local seagulls picked up the nasty habit? i feared this incident had human velocity behind it.

Up above us the two towering apartment buildings were talking to each other. Building 3, sixth floor 2-bedroom apartment was a Canadian from Vancouver Island trying to get himself invited over to building 4, apartment 716 for drinks. He shares his apartment with his girlfriend and another guy and they have been here for a couple months and haven't had a chance to meet any friends. I only know this because he was telling them all this. Scratch that, yelling them all this. It was the patrons to a certain 716 that were flicking their unwanted cancer sticks down and to our doorstep and trying to gracefully evade the obvious invite. I thought about buzzing myself up and bringing them an ash tray as a welcoming gift and asking them to stop throwing their crap down. Paul said he'd only let me go up if they threw another one down.

I perched myself on our doorstep for the next two minutes, peering into the dark night until i was bleary-eyed and exhausted and paul suggested i give up my vigil and come to bed. Oh 716, one of these days i'll meet you. I'll meet you with an ash tray or the patch in my hand, it all depends on my mood, peeps, it all depends on my mood.

The race is on

Well, its not really a race, per say. maybe a journey? a trek? a hike? a tramp, if you will? Anyway...hubbub aside. Today is Paul's first day of school. Obviously not first day of school ever, if that were true he would be quite literate and intuitive for someone who had never any formal training. Its the first day of med school. I met up with Paul at Albert Park with some grub and to get his half-day report. So far classes are going smoothly. The older students are already congregating in the front of the classrooms and they almost need riot control police for masses of humanity breathing in and out of rooms to hallways to rooms during class switches. He's received 2 more study volumes from his professors is expecting another one this afternoon and packed out his mountainsmith day bag that he had to cave and get a backpack during a class break. Current weather is a high of 21C, wind of 6km/hr, partly cloudy and a forecast of 0% chance of rain by 4 o'clock.

Keeping you up to date and in the know this is Jessy Taylor reporting live from University of Auckland Central Campus. Back to you, Reader.

Incognito

We Americans are odd creatures. It seems over the past few years we've almost been scared into blending to point of getting annoyed when we are discovered. Sure, you get the occasional girl or guy that all too happy to share their entire life story in one breath with anyone who'll listen, but on the whole, especially when traveling, we shrink from being discovered as a red, white and blue kid. I met one such dude yesterday. I was coming up to a cross-walk, anxious to catch up to Paul who was already in the student lounge talking to his parents on Skype. Already waiting for the walk signal was a guy wearing Chacos and an REI messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Call-out time! (hehe heh.) I came up on his left.

"Where in the States are you from?"
Startled that anyone was even talking to him, "I'm from the United S..." realizing a second into his answer what i had asked him. "Uh, Virginia" "How did you know?" He scowled.
"Your chacos." and then i added, "and your REI bag."
He still looked perturbed. The little green walk man lit up. We started to cross.
"Where are you from?" Now realizing he could actually start a conversation.
"Colorado" i paused, "Denver" (to solidify my rights to know all things Chaco and REIish)
He headed straight as i turned left to cross over the next street to get to Paul. He paused for a second.
"They don't have Chacos here?" He had shock in his voice, not sure if it was because he suddenly faced with the prospect of never finding a second pair here or because he'd been clearly type-casted.
"Nope, I figured you were either Canadian or American, then your bag sealed the deal."
He slowly walked straight ahead, bewildered.
"Have a nice day."
"Uh, same, uh, to you."

I think he ran back to his room to switch his shoes and bag. Who knows though, maybe the comfort of his sandals and his sturdy bag won out over his embarrassment.

Was that mean of me? I was getting bored and needed a bit of amusement, but c'mon, at least it wasn't as embarrassing as my tramping bit.

Guess what?! New additions

No, not kids. Get your mind out of the gutter.

In addition to our mattress, which we so proudly prosed about in a previous post, and a most fantastic lovingly shared Antarctica mug that Lucas bequeathed to us (that i drink from on days that end in "y" and Paul uses the other times), we've added a few more items to Apartment 133. We now own a small pot, 2 bowls and 2 plates. While it was fun to create ways to eat using the packaging that our food came in it didn't always work to our benefit (carpet fuzz in food is not the ideal condiment) and we deemed some more dishes would be useful. Pictured here:

Ode to the Bed

match set of mattress and boxspring
oh soft one, we have so longed for.

you brought us joy when we pushed
pulled heaved you through our door.

for four long weeks we have dreamt of you
while we yet slept on the rock hard floor.

paul voiced, "the carpet's not so bad"
but it got harder as the nights onward wore.

we love you dear soft feathery bed
right down to your fluff-a-lumptious core.

you were named well, oh, sleepyhead
serenity vitality; the label you bore.

the dusty flannel sheets that wrap you
were crap from the time they left the store.

oh bed, you are worthy of only legend
mythical fairytale; mystical lore.

bed, we adore your quilted soul
with a love that increases evermore.

and thanks to you oh wondrous bed
our backs, our spines are no longer sore.

Sail away...

As our consolation prize for not being able to afford 2 train tickets we went for a spin with Eric-a, Bullfrog, Tonka, and Geezer the People Pleaser. By spin i mean a sail around the Auckland Harbor and the Bay of Islands in an America Cup Race Boat. IT WAS AMAZING! (please read the last line in a high-pitch monotone robot voice to get the full effect.)

Say what?!

Now that we are starting to venture out into actual conversations with people other than ourselves we are beginning to learn a bit more about pronunciations and idioms of the kiwi language. Its been awkward. We live off Quay Street. Even though our address is Dockside Lane, our actual building faces Quay Street. We went to a church yesterday. It took us an hour and twenty minutes to walk there but we made it in time for the service. After the service was meet and greet/tea and biscuit time. The parishioners were really friendly and not the least bit hesitant at correcting our pronunciations of things. They asked where we lived. We told them Quay Street. They looked at us blankly. We said down by the docks. They corrected us by saying, "Oh, the ports, (uh, yeah, the ports...what's the difference??) Quay Street." We pronounced it Quay, rhymes with Ray. They pronounced it Key, rhymes with Knee. The worst part about this was that i didn't pick up on it, because of their accents until we had actually left the church to hike home. As we were scaling down a hill-side field desperate to find a short-cut Paul said, "Did you realize they pronounce Quay Street, Key Street?" No, i hadn't. As Paul was talking to an older gentlemen, i overheard the conversation. They were talking about hiking down on the south island. The older gentleman used the word tramping instead of hiking. I knew what he meant and desperate to fit in, being a former REI employee and avid hiker, i burst in "Tramping is my life!" The older gentleman was delighted. Paul had to choke back the snickers and keep from spewing tea all over the place. And so continued my awkward moment pregnant with awkward moments. Good grief.

So the deal is...

This weekend we had planned for an unplanned adventure. The idea was to pack one bag between us with some survival necessities and take the Friday evening train to anywhere south of here and stay till Sunday evening. We packed a bag and headed out. There are two train stations. One, 3 blocks west of us. One, 2 blocks east. I always thought the one east of us was the real deal. The one that connected us to the rest of New Zealand. Paul maintained that the one west of us, Britomart, was the new deal and the other deal was history. We headed to Britomart. We now both think the other deal is the main deal. We also now think that we'll have to wait till after tourist season to go anywhere since it currently costs two kidneys (my left, his right) for two people to go anywhere but here. We retreated to our humble abode and reconsidered our plan for the weekend. It seems every other weekend is some sailing/boating/yachting celebration so we took a walk to the Viaduct Harbor to witness the festivities. Its no surprise Auckland is nicknamed the City of Sails, home to the largest harbor in the southern hemisphere where over 2,000 boats are currently docked. (Enough with the trivia facts.) We stood there and watched some boats go by. There were tents in one of the parking lots hosting refuge to some 20 dragon boat teams that had just finished competing and were now celebrating. We meandered through them unnoticed. There was a sudden stir and teams ran to the fence with cameras. We looked up. Paul started chuckling. Me, being slow on the uptake took a bit longer to figure out what was so hilarious. A small sailboat was motoring behind a rent-a-cruise ferry. Tied to the mast by his shirt, was apparently the loser of some bet or race. He was thread less except for his shirt behind him and his shorts down around his ankles. His buddies were laughing. One even stood at the front snapping photos to capture this breezy moment. We made mental notes (not mental pictures) to never enter a competition with any friends we made down here who owned or rented sailboats. We could end up on the mast in the buff in front of hundreds of spectators. And that would be the raw deal. (sorry...no x-rated picture)

The Bar

Our search was on again. This time for a solicitor/barrister, or a justice of the peace for those of us who thought of solicitors as those annoying door-to-door persons asking for money or assistance or a buyer for their product or religion. No, they aren't those here. Here they are the kind of people you go to if you need a copy of an important document certified that it is indeed the full and complete copy of said document. I needed one of those. My international teaching qualification papers finally came through signifying that i am indeed qualified in the country of New Zealand to teach levels tot to teenager. The next step was to apply to the teachers council for my actual license to teach. We were directed in several various directions by some very helpful blokes and gals and not making any progress except to discover yet more streets we hadn't walked on yet. We came to a building devoted to nothing but solicitors/barristers and lawyers. Oh, goody. Surely we'll get someone who can stamp my papers and send me on my merry way. We worked our way up the elevators in a very unscientific fashion. Getting off on whatever floors the other "lift" patrons didn't. Floor 2. All on lunch. Floor 5. Out. Floor 3. Locked up for the day. (bizarre schedules, these keepers of the laws) Floor 8. Mr. Thwaite. Wait till you meet Mr. Thwaite. Heaven forbid you ever get to. He couldn't help us, he was too busy but literally forced the telephone book into my hands, and phone into Paul's and then switching, saying no that i should call he should look it up. All the while babbling somewhat incoherently about living in the States at one time and only ever paying taxes to Reagan. I called the first number, wouldn't be available to stamp anything until Thursday. We said, ok, hung up, told Mr. Thwaite thanks and proceeded to leave. He demanded we call another number telling us that the person we called would have been the last one he would have recommended. (excellent! you should have said so to begin with.) We called the next number. No answer. At this point we were itching to escape the tiny cramped getting stuffier by the second place of work. I gave Paul the look. He knew what i meant. Paul put on such a convincing performance i almost believed he actually got a hold of someone. We said thanks again, he was satisfied we had the help coming we needed and let us depart, we skipped the rest of the building. The following two places weren't going to have anyone to sign my papers till Thursday as well. Thursday seemed to be the significant day for that sort of thing so we stopped. Thursday we decided to try a little closer to home and walked across the street and up a bit coming to a very friendly barrister with a magnificent handlebar mustache. He signed and stamped right away, no questions asked no money charged. I have a renewed appreciation for gentlemen with handlebar mustaches. My great-grandfather had one, fairly magnificent one as well. Good story that goes along with it too. Ask my dad.

He lost the game

Our new residence is fairly quiet, other than bananas falling from the sky, we're just not getting the consistent material we were at the hostel. Today we created a bit of our own.

For the past week Paul has been hemming and hawing at whether he should shave his head. I think part novelty, part convenience. Yesterday when we had finished our morning run and were scaling the concrete steps towards our flat he said, "I'm going to bic it today." I'd heard this before so while excited, it was a still not going to believe till i saw it sort of thing. He stalled again.

For those of you that don't know the game, "Settlers of Catan", its pretty fun. Its one that Seth and Becky got us addicted to and one that we in turn addicted Doug and Melanie to. (The gift that keeps on giving, still waiting to hear whether Jen and Kyle bought it for themselves.) Since Beck and Seth are currently absentee we've had no other choice then to play against each other. Its not a dungeons and dragons sub-culture or anything, believe me, i know the difference and am currently sitting in the student lounge witnessing a convention of about 5 major games going on. Sorry, i digress. So while Paul was setting up our game today, he announced, if i lose, i'll bic it. Game on.

It was a 20 point game and close the entire way, until, after gaining the monopoly on sheep, i skipped ahead 4 points securing my victory and a new haircut for Paul.

He was a good sport.

Splat

Like a banana falling out of the sky, oh wait, it is a banana falling from the sky.

(And here we all thought banana splits and ice cream sundaes were a harsh way to go.)

Paul and i were sitting on the floor of our apartment watching "Stranger than Fiction" on the laptop. Our sliding glass door was pulled back about a foot and a half. The afternoon breeze made the temperature perfect. Will Ferrell was just about to give the object of his affection some flours when a banana threw itself on our doorstep. It chucked its mushy remains just inside the door, partially on the carpet and what didn't splatter immediately on the wall to its right, flew inside about another 5 feet toward us and our clothes. What the heck?@#$! I sat frozen and stunned. I'd never witnessed the aftermath of a fruit committing suicide, let alone on our doorstep. Paul was quicker to action. He leapt up before i had even processed what had happened. He jumped over the sickened remains and ran out to our porch. He looked up towards the sky, probably searching for the catalyst since neither of us were aware of bananas ever moving on their own accord. (Although, there were those bananas back in the 90's that climbed stairs in pajamas...) At this point i was on my feet, looking up as well. No one lives above us and by that i mean they couldn't, unless they wanted to camp out on our roof. We have neighbors directly to our right and immediately perpendicular to them, -a high-rise of eight stories filled with more neighbors. Using my CSI skills, i judged the direction of the splatter and correlated trajectory of this cousin to the plantain deeming that it came from one of the higher apartments. It just seemed so shocking that someone would actually do that on purpose. But where did the banana come from? We looked at the above apartments, spying for doors opening or closing, checking to see if anyone was peering down when a really really big New Zealand seagull, called a skua, flew overhead carrying a red snapper. The fish suddenly tumbled free. The skua swooped down to catch it. Our view was obscured by the buildings so we weren't able to witness its recovery. It gave us our explanation though. The banana preferred to take its life into its own hands than fall prey to the torturous talons of the bird. It hurtled itself over 80 feet down, a sight more appalling than i could have imagined.

Spin cycle

It felt like we were studying for a major final exam. We're no IBM computer engineers but we thought we could handle the technical aspect of operating a washing machine. Oh, how wrong we were. Not only were we defeated by a common household appliance but we got our butts handed to us. Robocops got nothing on our new state of the art washer/drying machine. No, not a stackable...an all in one. One compact, complex, completely frustrating piece of technological wizardry. We think, once we conquer "It" it will be to our benefit but for now, this Thing is taking charge of what It wants our clothes to look like, smell like and feel like. It sits in the corner of our bathroom, neatly tucked away behind our bathroom door. It stands no higher than 3 feet, looking ever so innocent. It washes, dries and has a 5 1/2 star energy rating. The theory is: you put your clothes in and 4 hours later out comes the cleanest, driest, best smelling unmentionables you can imagine. The problem is: the multiple flashing light and buttons don't translate to anything either of us has ever used before. There are symbols which we interpreted as some ancient form of Sanskrit and various numbers that only serve to intimidate. We dug out the manual. Yes, that's right, two self-sufficient stubborn first-borns broke down (nearly to the point of tears) and humbly studied.

The first load produced clean, yet very damp clothes. We couldn't get the drier to come on again without it washing them all over again. And, while fun, we didn't feel like testing its water saving ability for a second time. We laid the soggy linen across our apartment floor. Gluttons for punishment we attempted a second load. Soap, clothes, shut door, lock, push buttons, begin. One would think it was simple. It wasn't. This time, 6 hours later, we woke up to clean and this time dry but hopelessly, desperately, impossibly wrinkled t-shirts, shorts, skirts and intimates. We almost thought someone had come in during the night and switched out our clothes. They were unrecognizable. When we work up enough sweat and stink in our current clothes we'll attempt a third load. We'll get it right one of these days.

Someone once said, "Third times a charm". That was probably uttered before there were washing/drying contraptions. We can hope though. We can hope.

what to do?

Since our fun money is currently in a holding tank and we've exhausted the cities freebee bits i was trying to think of ways to stave off boredom. I shared one of my ideas with Paul. He told me to consider the long-term effects before we made any rash decisions, maybe give it a year or two. I thought about it for a bit. He's right. Having children merely to avoid being bored is not the best idea i've ever had.

The hunt

The bits and pieces we gathered from the short conversations with locals on our long walks were giving us the impression that we needed to find an apartment before many more were snatched. I had forgotten how necessary my cell phone was and how searching for a place to live was becoming even harder without one. The residences here are quite secure. I appreciate that, especially after tea time with SWAT last fall. The rub is how to even talk to anyone to get inside to find out how to use that security to our benefit. Being that Paul and i are the self-sufficient stubborn types, it was going to take a little humility or an open door or a lot of leg work to get a roof over our heads. Or all three. We'll brief you on the highlights since we've spent the past two and half days searching. In our search for food we happened upon The Docks Apartments. The office was open so we walked in. Mr. Santer offered to show us a one bedroom since a 2 was out of our price-range, first the unfurnished, then the furnished. The unfurnished was tight, and by tight i mean really, really small. I've said it before, Americans take their square footage for granted. He showed us the furnished. We tried hard not to laugh. The furniture looked like it was made out of matchsticks and the couch was size: Paul-and-half-of-one-of-my-butt-cheeks. The bed, well, we'd have to take turns sleeping on it and when it was Paul's shift he'd have to be diagonal. Picture the scene from the movie "Elf" and you'll have an idea. We thanked him for his time and started to work the rest of the city in a zig-zag sort of formation. Our quest gave us one thing...a scale of comparison for fair prices and weeded out our need for a furnished apartment. We'll take our chances with what sticks we can find once we've secured a roof. We walked some more. We came upon the The Towers, or what Paul refers to as "The over-priced holes jetting into the sky". The Tower actually consists of two elevator shafts, each surrounded by a series of cubbie-holes, called apartments. The guy at the desk handed us a key stating the tenant hadn't checked in yet so we could inspect it for ourselves, and added that water, electric, phone and a weekly cleaning was all included for $350NZD a week. We found the elevator, easily, since it was the mitochondria of the cell, and rode up to the 8th floor. The door immediately opened to a hot-plate, a sink the size of a cereal bowl, and the smell of pee. Immediately (and i mean immediately) off of the kitchen was a room with a double bed, a larger room with a twin bed and a toilet room. I was trying to think positively when i suggested it wasn't so bad and that we could turn one of the rooms into a study/living room/guest bedroom and the other just a bedroom. Paul was thinking realistically when he pointed out that you couldn't stand at one end without touching someone standing at the other end. Then we discovered something even more alarming. We noticed the numbers on the bedroom doors (if you could call them that) and realized...we were standing in two apartments at the same time. While quite impressed that we could be in two places at once, we were equally unimpressed that we would actually be sharing our spit of a kitchen and whiff of a toilet with someone else. We returned the key and ran. After more searching and examining and inspecting and walking so much i wanted to take my legs off and carry them we decided we still liked The Docks the best and the price they were asking was actually looking more and more reasonable. We sent an email the Mr. Santer stating we were interested in the unfurnished one bedroom and we'd be by Monday to apply. Sunday, in another attempt to explore the city and blister our blisters we unintentionally ended up at The Docks. Surprised the office was open we walked in to inquire. Mr. Santer hadn't gotten our email but that if we wanted a place we should probably get it ASAP since the two he showed us last week were already gone and he had one left that he had just shown to another lady only minutes before. (I knew he wasn't lying since i'd seen her leave and confirm the apt no. as she did, unless...it was just an elaborate performance) He showed us Apt. 133. After all we'd been through, it looked like paradise. "What do we need to do to get it?" (Thinking we needed our visas and credit approvals and such.) "Just sign some paperwork, pay the fees and its yours."

We have an apartment and we still can't get a library card. This is an unusual country.

Daytime, we got one for you.

"So what was your favorite argument last night?" (These are the first words out of Paul's mouth this morning.)
"Um, probably the Brit and the Indian cab driver." "Yours?" (These are mine.)
"The two Italians."
"I don't remember that one, must of slept through it."
"How 'bout the cat-fight?"
"That was the loudest."

We've been at the hostel for 3 nights now and even though our days are filled with walking the city for hours and all the wonders that brings, it's our nights that contain the most blog-worthy commentary on life in Auckland. We're considering writing a series for CBS entitled "Out My Hostel Window". We think we'll get a daytime drama spot. You know the ones, with love, broken hearts and various people mysteriously coming back from the dead. The cat fight started with 2 main characters and one girl standing there. Girls A and B yelled it out for a bit then A walked away leaving C to defend A to B; something about bad names and insinuating something about her not being in a gang when indeed she was. Not sure, just that it was loud and long. The Brit and the cab driver was more intriguing. The Brit asked the cabbie about when the bus would come again to take him to the airport. Cabbie informed him that the bus had stopped running a couple hours ago. Brit asked if he could bring him, Cabbie said maybe but that he already was taking someone and would still charge him full price. The next part of the conversation got really quiet so i can only guess as to what words were exchanged. All i do know is that about 45 seconds later the cabbie yelled at the top of his lungs, "I AM NOT YOUR PORNO!" An interesting statement in and of itself. Even more curious since he grabbed the Brit by the arm and dragged him to the other side of the street and told him not to talk to him anymore and to find a different cab.

While we enjoy the blog material conveniently at our window sill, we crave a full night's sleep. We found an apartment and signed the papers today. We love it. (More to follow with description and pictures.) Suffice to say for now, we are beginning to see how much we'd taken square footage for granted. We found our Mouse House, but at least its our Mouse House on Wednesday and for the following 6 months of Wednesdays.

Hostel Environment

We feel the need to share with you our hostel living situation. If you have ever tried to fit yourself, your 6'2" hairy husband, and 4 larger than life duffels into a mop closet then you'll have an idea of what living in an Auckland youth hostel is like. Paul had pre-arranged for a double bedroom. I don't want to even ask what a single looks like. The double bed is pressed against four walls and they still find the space for a desk. Put our bags on the floor and you have to leap from the door to the bed. (which actually isn't that far.) What would be the head of the bed is an open window. I say open because we'd suffocate if we closed it, being that we consume all the available oxygen in the room with each breath. There is no screen, so i worry every night that my pillow is going to fall out to the street sidewalk 10 feet below. In the nights that have followed i've realized i needn't have worried since the usually quiet street becomes mardi gras central at 10pm and ends with a cacophony of birds at sunrise. All i would need to say is "Hey mate, do you mind tossing my pillow back up?" "Cheers!"

Last night was especially interesting and educational as we were able to observe and listen to with extreme clarity (that would rival any Dolby Digital surround sound), a kiwi's version of "getting dissed" at say, oh, about 2am.

Actual conversation:
girl kiwi: "Oy!" "Do you have a light?"
boy kiwi: "I don't smoke."
g: "Good Boy!" (pause as she rethinks her approach) "Do you want to go clubbing?"
b: "I can't, I'm working."
g: "Are you the security guard?" (Finally noticing his uniform)
b: "Yes"
g: "Do you want to go clubbing tomorrow night then?"
b: "No, i work tomorrow too."
g: "oh." (dejectedly exits scene)

Today we searched in earnest for apartments.

flew to summertime

We are two pasty-white, travel-weary souls stumbling around a foreign city, trying desperately to blend in amongst tanned, eclectically dressed locals who call this place home. Like the orphans tripping through the fur coats in the Wardrobe, we had found the time portal from winter into summer and a land entirely unknown to us. We traded our jeans and winter jackets for shorts and t-shirts. We found comfort in the fact that we weren't the only non-kiwis. Neither of us expected the incredible Asian population here. It makes complete sense but i don't think, in the midst of packing and preparing for this journey, we'd stopped to even consider it. Exhausted, we weaved through the masses on Queen St. in search of food, both feeling overwhelmed and wondering how clearly we thought this venture through. After a night of rest, or stone-dead slumber if we're being completely honest, the city took on a more promising hue. (i awoke with not one but both arms completely useless.) We donned our running shoes and crossed Grafton Bridge toward the medical school. We found what we think is Auckland's version of Central Park. It is absolutely gorgeous. After climbing the hill toward the Museum we had a view of the northwest harbor and ocean. We crossed over toward the south side rugby fields and the district beyond. You can't flick a flea and not hit a cafe/coffee shop. I couldn't believe the sheer number of starbucks on queen st. and now on the other side of Grafton Bridge were even more privately owned cafe establishments. Wearing our exercise duds we skipped the first two, observing ties and high-heels. We settled on "Jones the Grocer". Which may be too early to tell, but could very possibly become our new favorite specialty shoppe. We selected two fresh cranberry/maple syrup muffins and lattes to-go (i mean, take-away) and walked back to the park to sit and process the last 48 hours. We are still reeling but not feeling quite so frantic. Last night we had acquired a loaf of bread, peanut butter, boysenberry jam and fresh strawberries. We sat on a bench outside of the UofA International building. Lacking utensils, we spread the pb&j with our fingers. Sparrows gathered at our feet, waiting not in vain for crumbs. Spending the past month at my grandparents house, which should probably be given national recognition as a premier coastal bird sanctuary, had given me a new affection for our feathered friends who skittishly hopped near our feet. I tossed chunks of crust. One brave beaked fellow grabbed a piece from my fingers. Another two shared a piece between them. The rest practiced their agility at grabbing crumbs and flying to the rooftops to indulge. I think word spread over night because by this morning we were discovered and implored by some new winged buggers, who this time waited in vain. It's a little harder to give up a cranberry muffin than a crust of bread. Disappointed they returned to their friends on the other side of the bridge to call them imaginative liars.

A Quote to Live By:

I ran across this quote again and it changed my view of the world again. So, I thought I'd share it with you.

We can do no great things; only small things with great love

-Mother Teresa