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.