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.