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

We're off to see...

We're off like a dirty, stinky, sweaty pair of socks. We officially left Colorado. Our remainder of meager belongings and last bits of wedding appliances that we couldn't bear to part with are now securely wrapped in boxes awaiting the New Zealand shipping boys in the confines of a climate controlled 2nd story storage closet. And we are in Virginia with what Christmas gifts and clothes we could stuff into two over sized duffels, two barely zipped travel packs, a wheeled carry-on, and an enormous stretching, ripping red Christmas target bag (which looked like Garfield had a party in it and tried to break out.)

We arrived at DIA yesterday morning to discover that one of our wheeled duffels was 15lbs over the limit and we would now owe AirTran $25 and the prospect of our fly fishing rod getting through security looked grim, according to an annoyed yet forcibly cheery customer service attendant. She even added, with a smile, that we would probably miss our flight if they decided that they wouldn't let it on the plane. How nice.

Security went quite smoothly and nobody even questioned the rod's presence. (Take that, Debbie Downer!)

Our first flight, we sat next to a chatty retired Marine who was on his way, with his wife and kids, to Miami to embark on their first ever family cruise. He was very stoked. Our second flight was less upbeat. The male attendant assigned to our section was quite enamoured with the gentleman across our aisle. He was sending out some serious i-like-you vibes as well as i'm-desperate-for-you-to-like-me-back. I don't believe the passenger, even though, clearly of the same gender preferential genre, shared the return sentiment. It was almost comical if it wasn't so blatantly obvious. He talked to him while motioning the safety protocols. He handed us our beverages and minuscule snacks all the while giving 21E the "puss-in-boots" imploring look. He was still staring when he came by with the last trash run and I had to actually grab the bag to make sure the cup made it in, even though he was holding it out to me.

We made it to Richmond. Our bags obediently came off of the conveyor and we lugged them to the rental car pick-up. In the midst of everything we've been working on and taking care of the past 3 months, pre-arranging a rental car was not one of them. Our bad. Since Christmas is pending and just because they can, they take all your money and your left kidney with a deposit of your gallbladder that is only returned upon return of the rental car and that is purely contingent on it having no nicks, scratches, or smudges and that is with the insurance. Key in hand we continued to huff and haul our belongings in the direction of our dearly paid for wheels, passing a smirking cop who looked suspiciously at the vast amount of our belongings in tow. Coming to the space marked B13 (that should've been a clue right there) we had to do a double take. Before us crouched the chariot of all things impractical with a trunk big enough to hold maybe a carton of milk and a can of wasabi peas: The Dodge Caliber. Somebody was not thinking about toting anything around when they designed this car, and i think that they hadn't really considered even driving it around since the rear-view mirror took up the entire view of what little you could see from the front windshield. You could see where you'd been and what was behind you but, by George, you were not gonna see where you were going. And really, its just a car, who needs to see where they are going?

We smashed, pushed, re-arranged 5 times, squished our luggage into the "trunk" and the back seat and got into the front and meditated for a moment on how the heck we were going to be able to pick up Becky and Seth and all their luggage the next day. We came up with a solution: put their luggage inside on our laps and tie them to the roof. Satisfied, we lurched off in the direction of our friend's home, also known as Casa de Brocks.

First Annual Amish Classic Turkey Trot

In my previous post i mentioned where we currently are, the armpit of Amish Country, more exactly, in a house on a hill just off Tater Road, turning right off Greasy Gravy Lane. (i am not making this up folks.)

I realize that the epitome of Thanksgiving, for most in this country, stands on the vast consumption of turkey, its lesser known sidekick dishes and as the name reveals, giving thanks. For me, i'd like to add to that pyramid: The Turkey Trot. Most major cities host the race. Cities such as Denver, Indianapolis, and a random town in Arkansas have it every year, rain or snow. The small town of Paoli, Indiana however does not. I kinda see why. Being that the majority of its inhabitants are horse and buggy riding, cow and goat milking, farming, sheep shearing personages i highly doubted they would rally for a race with the same zest as they would for a barn raising. They already choose to work a little harder for the basic comforts of life. I can't quite see them out there in their beards, bonnets and black dresses filing up to the starting line for a 5k. I understood. I still wanted a race.

Paul and i got up Thursday morning and promptly put on our exercise duds. Steven, our brother-in-law, greeted me with, "Who would want to run when they could sit?" I retorted with, "Who would want to sit when they could run." (I secretly understood his point.) We stepped outside and the wind greeted us with the chilly blast to the face. Tradition has gotta start somewhere so we headed toward Tater Road.

Our pace came nowhere close to say, a, performance enhanced Marion Jones but it was a beautifully crisp Thanksgiving day and we were running our Turkey Trot. We had thought we might run the country block but after about 2 1/2 kilometers we weren't coming to any crossroads so after a couple more trots we pulled a 180 and headed back to mashed potatoes, fresh cranberry sauce, steamed veggies and a very large hunk of triptophan in the oven. Who, less than 3 days ago, was running his own little trot in a very well cared for farmyard.

Road Trippin'

I have summoned the courage to step out from the shadow of my husband's curious writing abilities and add a bit more to our slightly read blog.

We are currently in Paoli, Indiana, the armpit of Amish Country. It's not important that you know where we are or even that this particular place exists except to add the necessary fact that 5/11ths of Paul's immediate family live here and the rest of us converged upon this place for the triptophan ridden holiday we commonly refer to as Thanksgiving. Paul and i left Denver this past Monday and decided, for the fun of it, to drive out here and fly back. The fact that his sister is buying his car from him is a minor detail.

Paul drove and i amused him to keep him awake; even when i was sleeping apparently, something about drool and talking in my sleep. We sang songs, told each other stories, and played the alphabet game forward and backward. Several times. We stopped only to refuel and empty our bladders. About 3am Tuesday morning we paused for one such break and bumped into some Midwestern hospitality. Paul filled up the tank and then we walked inside to find a restroom. We didn't see any obvious bathroom signage so Paul asked the invisible attendant, "Where are the restrooms?" From the back hall we heard a grumpy retort, "The ONE restroom is back here." Paul motioned for me to go first. I stepped into the small hall which had been turned into a stocking room. I was unsure, even upon entering the hallway, where this phantom room of rest was. The man was standing in front of a door. "Well, are you gonna go or what?" After another surveying moment i wondered at the door, but the man was still standing in front of it. Did he want me to push him out the way or squeeze behind him? He looked at me annoyingly. I guessed the latter, so i squeezed past him. Inside, finally, i realized it was once a public loo, but apparently the attendant had not been notified. By now i didn't care. One thought, "must go pee". Second thought, "Check for toilet paper". None, nada, zip, not one square left. I contemplated performing the hovercraft maneuver but its no secret that my legs are of the shorter variety, this toilet was unusually tall, plus i just wasn't in the mood to drip dry. I stepped back out, prepared to face the wrath of Grumpy Gas Grumperson. "Uh, sir, its out of toilet paper." I prepared not in vain. "Well, sh#%, of course it is." He scuffled into hall #2 and pretended to search. "Uh, can't seem to find any and...nope, don't have any." I hurried out to Paul. I brought him up to speed in about 3 seconds and in about 8 seconds we were back in the car and in search of another place. We found respite at a 24-hour-country- home-cookin' restaurant, whose water closet was not in much better shape than the previous but it did have TP so i didn't complain. Five minutes later we were back on the road again. Three and half hours later we made it to the Taylors, in Paoli, Indiana.