Postcards from New Zealand: Day Nineteen

Today, we began a road trip to the Northlands, the northernmost part of New Zealand's North Island. Once we were out of the city, we started to notice an inordinate amount of roadkill—a creature every 100 meters it seemed. We passed a fresh kill at top speed and Aldo said "HOLY SHIT did you see the size of that squirrel?" I said, "That was a fox." It was, indeed, the size of a small fox, with longer forelegs than any squirrel could ever have. After arguing for some time as to whether squirrels have elbows (I erroneously insisted that they didn't), we saw another one, upon whose entrails a hawk was feasting, and slowed to examine it. It was a possum. New Zealand's possums aren't the same as American opossums; they have big bushy tails and snubbier noses; they are also not as road-savvy, it seems.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Eighteen

Tonight we went to dinner with friends at No. 1 Chinese Seafood BBQ. We had been there before and seen other families ordering lobsters, which are brought to the table live for inspection before the meal. New Zealand doesn't actually have lobsters; these are enormous, misappellated crayfish, and they have no front pincers. Tonight, we ordered one, neglecting to enquire after the "market price" quoted on the menu. When the waitress brought the living creature out for us to approve, she mentioned the price: $88 NZ per kilo; this one was 2.4 kilos. We promptly un-ordered it.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Seventeen

Today I stayed home to make another attempt at washing. This time, things went well: the machine finished its cycle promptly after 90 minutes, there was no rain, and the sheets were dry after an hour in the sun. On a sunny day, there is something strangely pleasing about hanging laundry on a line, socks with socks, shirts alongside shirts, underpants marching neatly in a row with other underpants, and a certain satisfaction in knowing that the clothespin has fastened the cotton tightly to the line, so that it won't twist up or slide down.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Sixteen

Today I was sick and I didn't do anything. I sat on Graham's couch and let the snot come out of my nose. If you are going to be sick in Auckland, Graham's living room is a good place to be; the sun comes in through the bay windows, and there are shelves of books and seashells and hand-glazed pottery for your eyes to listlessly explore as you sip red bush tea on the red couch. It's very cozy.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Fifteen

At brunch, we had seen an "apple and feijoa" smoothie on the menu. We asked our waitress, "What's feijoa?" but she could only tell us the obvious: a fruit—saying that it was rather particular and hard to describe. At night, Aldo went to the main house to pay our rent, and returned with two hands full of green, sweet smelling pods—tiny footballs with an umbilicus at one end, surrounded by a stiff crown of tiny leaves. Feijoa, from the tree in the garden, courtesy of our lovely hosts. He cut one in half and scooped out the inside with a spoon: pear and guava. Firm but yielding, aromatic and sweet, a delicately structured lattice infused with tropical juice.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Fourteen

Today we adventured to Whatipu (say FAH-ti-poo—the Maori "wh" is pronounced as an "f"), an expansive beach around the bend from Karekare. It's likely easier to reach Whatipu by foot, walking along Karekare's shore until they become Whatipu's, but ill-planning creatures that we are, we took the car, which meant driving all the way up and all the way back down and all around a mountain for 40 minutes, on a gravel road to boot. This should be considered my formal request that that road, and all roads, be paved. Was it worth it? I didn't personally find Whatipu as compelling as Karekare, although it was at Whatipu that we ran the 100 meter dash from the dunes to the shore and into the waves, stark naked, with no one there to see.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Thirteen

Today we went to the fish market, where you can pick out whatever whole, fresh fish you want and bring it to the chopping station, where they'll prepare it for your kitchen according to your orders. The man working the station wears white rubber galoshes, rubber gloves, and a white rubber apron. He scaled our snapper as tentatively as you might sand six coats of cracked paint off a banister, and after he'd gutted the thing, he used the side of his knife to swipe the pile of entrails to the floor. Then he pulled out a hose and flushed the inside of the creature clean, making a power-wash pass over the counter. All this was done in under ninety seconds, but I was transfixed.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Twelve

Tonight, we had mussels and Belgian beer at the pub. Kiwis are particularly proud of their mussels, which are bigger than the ones you get in the States, with green shells instead of black. The flesh ranges from a pale and pearly pinkish white to a creamy, almost lurid orange; they're chewy and taste a bit fishy. I generally find seafood to have a kind of celestial delicacy, but these mollusks are for mortal masticators.

Music: Massive Attack at the Vector Arena

I haven't been to a big show like this in a while, so found myself rather overwhelmed by the smoke and flashing lights and beer-swilling/spilling teeny-boppers pushing past me; I must be getting old. That said, Massive Attack put on a high-intensity show, considering they're even older than I am. They gave equal weight to their new album Heligoland and 1990s favorites like Teardrop, Angel, Safe From Harm, Unfinished Sympathy, and Karmacoma; the new songs are generally harder and more guitar-driven than the older dreamy grooves I prefer.

An enormous LED panel dominated the band's rotating cast of vocalists, and at times I wasn't sure whether the audience was cheering for the musicians or the light show. All Music Guide's first bullet point describes Massive Attack's mood as "druggy," so I suppose I should have been less offended by the textual accompaniment to their first song, in which the LED wall flashed name after name of recreational drug, flicking quickly through and then briefly pausing (ecstasy-cannabis-PCP-methamphetamines-HEROIN) as if an unlucky slot machine. The general remainder of LED accompaniment comprised the sort of pseudo-socially responsible headlines/hyper-leftist yellow journalism that is appealing to immature anti-establishment rockstars. I'm "anti-war" myself, but I don't think it's responsible to flash tidbits like "head in a bag" and "just doing our job" on the screen during a trip-hop show, at the beginning of which you've advertised the use of dangerous drugs whose cultivation and trade are deeply connected with the international violence and oppression you're criticizing. Nor is it just to compare the British PM's gardening expenses with the GDP of small African nations, unless you are also going to include for comparison the budget for your tour's LED set design. I will accept responsible political activism from an intelligent band like Radiohead, but couldn't help but feel like Massive Attack was clinging, in a very un-nuanced way, to Thom Yorke's coattails.

So long as I kept my eyes off the stage and on my dance partner, I enjoyed myself. Ultimately, my experience with Massive Attack is as a Tricky fan, so I was disappointed he didn't show (though the presence of Martina, whose voice I know from Tricky albums, totally made the show). When they ended the encore set with Karmacoma, even though I was dancing, I was itching to get home and listen to Overcome, Tricky's far superior version.

Postcards from New Zealand: Day Eleven

Our hosts are out of town for a few days, and have asked us to feed the chickens in their absence. Because Aldo is generally busy cooking for me at chicken feeding times, I intended to take this duty for myself, even though I find the chickens to be nasty little things, and I loathe their beaks and claws. And so, I filled the little plastic box with three handfuls of pellets, two of corn, as instructed, and brought the box over to the trampoline, under which the chickens are fed. My aim was to pour the grain out into an upturned plastic garbage can lid, as instructed, but the feathered beasts were hungry, and had been stalking me since my stint at the feed bags. Smarter than I expected, they knew why I was there. They followed me, a horrible gurgling in their throats, their beaks and claws dangerously close to my bare legs and naked feet. I stepped away, but they followed. I suddenly realized that I was being chased around the yard by three chickens. "Chickens!" I shouted, "Learn to fear me!" But they did not. My only escape was to fling the feed out onto the ground, far from where I stood. They scurried to it, leaving me at last at ease.