Postcards from New Zealand: Day Forty-Seven

You may have noticed that I'm not blogging many books in the past month or two; this is because I'm reading an immense tome, Bertrand Russell's History of Western Philosophy. I was reading about Hegel's metaphysics on Graham's red couch this afternoon, as the sun set, and once it became too dark, rather than turning on lights, I closed the book and looked out the window, which offers a rather open view with some nice trees up close, and a highway in the distance. I rather like the highway there, though other people might think it an eyesore. The cars and trucks move across it at just the right speed for thinking, and tonight, the clouds were moving above it in the same direction, at a speed slower, but still palpable. I pondered like this for quite some time, until Graham came home and I announced to him, in the dark, that I was throwing all metaphysics out the window.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Forty-Six

Tonight, before our kung fu class, Aldo said, "Do you want to go for a little run in that field?" Some people have so much energy that they need to exercise before they do their exercise. Generally, I'm the kind of girl who, if I go for a little run in the field, I will not be doing anything else for three days afterward, but of course I acquiesced. An empty field just after twilight is a magical thing. The grass is wet and makes a squeaking sound under your shoes. You can't really see the ground, so you just have to trust that there isn't a hole right there. Without a track, you try to follow the person in front of you, who in the dark, as he gets farther and farther away, is just a blinking ghost. He knows how close or far you are without looking back, because it's so quiet out that he can hear your breath.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Forty-Five

Here is another washing story, as Wednesday is wash day. I was more excited to do wash than usual today, since I had bought more clothespins at the Pak'n'Save. This would enable me to hang all the underpants and all the socks and all the shirts and all the pants all in neat rows all at one time, rather than having to take half-dry things inside to finish drying because I ran out of pins and the wind was to strong to hang clothes without them. Everything was going well until I took in our white bed sheet, which had been, yes, pooped on by a bird, twice. Despite the aesthetic pleasure of socks with socks, and underpants with underpants, marching in rows on the line, bird poop casts a vote for the environmentally unfriendly dryer. If the environment cared to be a bit more mindful of my wash, I would be willing to reconsider.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Forty-Four

Today, our hosts gave us a lettuce. Robin had been asking for a few days, "Do you want a lettuce?", and I admit to being a bit confused as to why they would be in possession of a lettuce they did not want. There was also some linguistic confusion arising from the phrase "a lettuce," rather than just "lettuce," "some lettuce," or "a head of lettuce," but that was secondary. But when, today, he gave me the lettuce, I realized it had grown in their garden. Food that you have grown yourself in your backyard is still a bit foreign to me. That said, it was a beautiful lettuce: a pale, pearly green, with long, gentle* leaves that were surprisingly crisp for their delicacy.

*I know it seems quite odd to describe a lettuce leaf as gentle, but if you had held this lettuce, you would understand.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Forty-Three

Tonight, we stopped at a roadside Indian joint for dinner, which we had seen packed with Indians on prior occasions. It turned out to be a fast-food kind of joint, but we were tired, so we ate. Every corner had a flat screen television broadcasting Indian television, which was remarkably informed by American television. We watched an Indian soap-opera, which, though it included a Bollywood-style song performed by a woman for her moping husband, appeared to be taking place in a Manhattan super-deluxe loft. We watched commercials for a vedic televangelist program, and for an Indian So You Think You Can Dance? show, which offered a one-armed break dancer.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Forty-Two

How do you know, assessing a beach, whether the tide is coming in or going out? Today, we went to Karekare to practice our kung fu, and Aldo chose a spot right by the water, where the sand is packed hard. I trekked far, far away from the waves to put down our stuff in a safe place, and he said, "Why are you putting it all the way over there? The tide is way out." I said that, since the sand near the water was dry, the tide was coming in. We've been to Karekare when the tide was going out, and it leaves a deep slick of reflective water on the sand. But, he didn't believe me, and moved our things closer. So, two hours later, when we weren't paying attention, the water came up and licked all of our things with its waves.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Forty-One

Today, we went to the farmer's market. We had left the house in a hurry, and only brought sixty dollars with us, not realizing we would buy a few big-ticket items (olive oil, peanut butter) and possibly need a bit more cash if were going to sit down for a coffee afterwards. With only eleven dollars left (eleven kiwi dollars is about eight American), we decided to blow it all at the veggie stand, and just go back home for more money before caffeinating. But vegetables are so cheap here that we couldn't spend all of our money, even though we bought a giant pile of greens. We only managed to spend seven kiwi dollars, on four meals worth of veggies.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Forty

Today, we got a new rental car and found ourselves listening to the radio, where we found the kiwi version of NPR. There was a report on a bomb scare in what sounded like our little neighborhood. It turns out that the suspicious devices strapped to a bridge were merely pinhole cameras, hung there by a college student doing an art project, who called the police to tell them so as soon as he saw word of the scare on television. This announcement was made by the chief of police, who admitted that he didn't know much about what bombs looked like.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Thirty-Nine

Today, Aldo drove into the city on his own and I stayed home with some friends who had their own vehicle. I was going to take the train into the city on my own, but they realized they needed to go in as well for an errand, so I caught a ride with them. They're visiting from the States as well, so they had rented a van with a bed and kitchenette in back, so that they can sleep on the road (I'm not hearty enough for that, I don't think). The van only technically seats two, so for the 30 minute drive into the city, I swayed back and forth on the edge of their bed, feeling mildly seasick.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Thirty-Eight

Today I stayed home alone, but it was nice out and I wanted to take my book for a walk to this the Packing Shed, a garden cafe in our neighborhood. But, I didn't have any money, and there's no bank in walking distance, and this place is a far cry from Starbucks, where you pay with your credit card. After pulling change out of every pants pocket, I was only twenty cents short of what I knew I needed for a "flat white," a kiwi cappuccino (there is no "regular" coffee here, just "long black," which is like a big espresso, and "flat white," which is like a wet cappuccino). Luckily, I found twenty cents in the laundry room when I went to change the washing.