Beebs' Adventures in the Bush!

Horseback Riding in Warkworth

2010-08-20T04:12:00.000-07:00

M and I went up to Auckland at the beginning of July. My main reason for going up then was because I wanted to visit my friend Hisami, who had come to NZ from Japan to work on a horse ranch. (Hisami is one of those amazing people who quietly goes about doing amazing things with her time and never really boasts about it to anybody. Like, she spent a summer in India and volunteered at Mother Theresa's school for children. "How amazing!" I said, amazed. "What was it like?" Hisami answered, "Well..they beat the kids there.")

I was incredibly excited to go visit Hisami, as I have been missing my Tokyo friends very much.

This is a picture of her ranch:

It was a beautiful and warm winter day. Here in New Zealand, I am finding that the sun in winter isn't the pale, wan variety I am used to elsewhere. You can still very much feel its warmth, and you seek out the baked-golden spots of sun just like you would the cool shadows of shade in summer. Even the winter rays are warm enough to make you want to shed your coat and lay down a blanket.

Warkworth is about an hour's drive north of Auckland through postcard-perfect rolling hills and quaint farms. If you close your eyes and try to imagine the kind of farms you find in illustrated children's books, that is pretty much what the countryside looked like--

vibrant green fields
wide blue sky
weathered red barns
little fluffy sheep
small brown ducks flapping in ponds
E I E I O

We rolled into Warkworth just in time for our scheduled hour long ride. I saw Hisami come out from behind an old shed and we ran towards each other, laughing. Seeing her felt like a rush of home. It was so lovely, in all the recent newness, to be able to feel the comfort of someone familiar, someone with whom I shared a depth born of shared experiences and culture. Newness is exciting, of course, a daily adventure that keeps you on your toes! But I had been feeling a bit...stretched. The constant tide of making impressions and being impressed, the continuous seeking and searching, the effort of keeping my eyes and mind open and alert--all of it is undeniably stimulating and challenging but...!

Sometimes, it's all a bit like putting together a giant new 1,000,000 piece jigsaw puzzle and hitting plateaus of feeling a bit numb, or a bit intimidated. Sometimes, I just want to skip all the trial and error and get to the end--when I can see the whole picture and know how all the pieces fit.

Anyway, the happiness and relief of being reunited with an old friend was good for both of us, I think. Hisami looked beautiful in that I've-been-working-in-the-fresh-air sort of way. She introduced me to the owner of the ranch, and we all gathered round for our safety briefing and instructions before getting on the horses.

I pay very keen attention to these things.

Our very important lesson, however, was over in what seemed like 30 seconds.

"Alright, folks! This is the way you trot walk turn left right stop. Don't get too close behind another horse you might get kicked pay attention to your horse's ears if they lay flat that means they are unhappy, just kick with your legs to get them started, okay thanks let's GO!"

From the brevity and levity of our Beginner Basics 101, I thought that horseback riding was going to be a CINCH. Just like the pony rides at the fair.

We got assigned horses according to our height. M is tall, so he was assigned the ominously named, Terminator. I am short, so I was assigned an old nag named Kiri. At least, I hoped she was an old nag because with my inexperience, I preferred a gentle, one-hoof-in-the-glue-factory type of horse. I was looking forward to a relaxing ride...a paddle-boat gliding on a pond sort of thrill. I don't get off on speed, much. When I ride my bike down steep hills, I have one hand screeching the brakes all the way down. I downhill ski with a backpack full of snacks so I can stop for frequent munchies on the way down.

Anyway, Kiri seemed gentle enough, which was very reassuring. She was a small, dark brown horse--one of the smaller horses--a little nutty kernel of a horse. When I sat on top of her, however, I was surprised at how high it felt. Nothing like the pony rides at the fair. Her mane was surprisingly soft, and I patted her neck awkwardly, introducing myself. I nattered away at her, while Hisami helped Mark onto The Terminator. I took a picture of Kiri's head.

This is Kiri's head:

We set off in a line--Hisami in front on Black Beauty, M on The Terminator in the middle, and me on Kiri bringing up the rear. Things got kind of shaky from the very beginning as I promptly noticed that Kiri did not seem to be heeding some of the IMPORTANT safety instructions that I had taken such keen note of before. All I could hear was the owner's voice warning-- "Don't get too close behind another horse you might get kicked..." playing over and over in my head like alarm bells while I uneasily noticed that Kiri's nose was almost buried in the folds of The Terminator's ass.

Of course, I reacted by drawing upon the knowledge I gained from my 10 second steering lesson. I jerked awkwardly on Kiri's reins and called out to Hisami, "I think I'm too close to Terminator!", my voice ending in a quiver that sounded a bit shrill, even to me. Hisami just told me to slow down, which I tried to say I was attempting to do, but somehow my continued flapping and pulling on the reins was not communicating anything to my horse. I did manage to pull Kiri over to the side a bit, though, and just as I was starting to feel relieved, she turned and bit The Terminator on the butt.

The Terminator (and M) barely registered the bite, but I was shocked. Not only was it rude, but I was thinking that Kiri was pretty bold to fuck with a horse named The Terminator. Still, the incident seemed to blow over with little reaction from anyone, so I tried to let it go and enjoy the amazing scenery. To be honest, however, my eye kept drifting back to the proximity of The Terminator's smooth, chestnut-brown, ENORMOUS bum and I wondered what constituted a safe distance away from it.

We got up to the top of a small hill and stopped at what looked like a water trough. All the horses gathered for a drink with Kiri and I joining last. As we approached the trough, though, I saw Kiri's ears suddenly bristle and cock back like rattlesnakes posed to strike. Before I could say, "Hey...whoa...she looks unhap--", she snorted, bolted, and snapped her jaws at the head of Hisami's horse!

Hisami made a face at Kiri and trotted away laughing it off. My heart, on the other hand, was racing and I was feeling more than a bit jumpy, wondering if this was all going to end like some horrible medieval battle scene--Kiri rearing on her hind legs, bucking me off, my limp body trampled and dragged by my clearly insane and possibly rabid horse. As we ambled off again, I called on my Horse Girl knowledge and tried to speak in soothing tones to Kiri, all the while keeping an eye on looming horse buttocks and twitchy horse ears. Every time we got too near an ass, I would start twitching in an epileptic fit and go all ape-shit on the reins.

Needless to say, Kiri wasn't diggin' that.

Kiri, being a smart horse, caught on really quickly. She knew I was inexperienced and nervous, and she started to take advantage of that. As Hisami and M moved into a trot, Kiri defiantly ignored my kicking feet and veered off to the side of the path and started casually munching on some grass.

"You need to be FIRM!!" Hisami shouted to me. "Pull on the reins! She knows you aren't controlling her!"

"NO, KIRI!" I said firmly. I yanked on the reins. "NO!!" Kiri gave me a dirty look but reluctantly plodded on...I could feel her resentment building. I suddenly thought that Kiri was a bit like that stubborn student that comes along and does everything to test your limits. You need to show the student, firmly but compassionately, that the boundaries are there for a reason and you will not be pushed beyond them. The thing is, I KNOW how to assert myself in a classroom...and it is definitely not through kicking flanks and yanking on leather reins! I didn't know how to be firm with a horse, and anything I did, I felt like Kiri could see right through it. I was timid with my kicks, nervous with the reins...I would say, "Good girl" in soft tones and then suddenly freak out and wail, "What the---NOOOOOOOO, Kiri!" In short, I was all over the shop.

By the time we got to the field where we were all supposed to try trotting--maybe a cantor--a gallop even...Kiri knew who was boss (she was). Hisami said to start trotting, and she and Mark gave a kick and were immediately off on the path--their horses' manes flying in the wind, the air filled with the cloppety-clop of their hooves. I, on the other hand, ALSO gave my horse a kick...and instead of following them in swift pursuit, feeling the ground rushing beneath my feet, I found myself feebly bobbing up and down chirping, "GO! GO, KIRI!" on a horse that felt more resolutely rigid than a Merry-go-Round statue.

"GOOO, KIRI!" kick, kick "GO!" Kiri looked back at me once, maybe twice, and I can only describe her gaze as: withering. We took a final photo.

I had fun. I really did. As jittery as I was, there was a part of me laughing inside the entire time. I gave Kiri three carrots after the ride and her horse lips were surprisingly soft and gentle.

Try This

2010-07-31T02:32:00.000-07:00

Roasted Pumpkin and Fennel Salad

Ingredients:
half a Buttercup Squash or Japanese Kabocha
Fennel Bulb
Pumpkin Seeds
half a Red Onion
olive oil
White Balsamic Vinegar (or white wine vinegar)
blanched spinach
feta cheese
salt
pepper

Roast up the pumpkin, fennel and red onion.
Toss in the spinach, pumpkin seeds, and feta.
Drizzle on the dressing (made of olive oil and vinegar)
Eat!

Yum, yum, yum.

What I Learned from Karaoke Culture

2010-07-26T21:50:00.000-07:00

Well, I just accidentally admitted to about half of you on Facebook that I believe myself to be a shitty writer. Yikes. That just kinda slipped out. Shitty is a harsh word...but I have always been my own worst critic. For those of you who write, make music, paint, act...I am sure you know what that is like, right? Right?? Surely, I am not the only one who puts something out there and then cringes, waiting for the rotten tomatoes to just come flying through the air. I debated for ages about this blog because I knew, KNEW, that I would put pressure on myself to be brilliant...and that isn't even what this is all about. I just wanna...you know...keep in touch with y'all and have a little fun. But the minute I hit "publish post" and reread what I've written, I think, "Oh, ick. I hate that."

Anyway, this is not a call for compliments or reassurances of the contrary. I am just being honest. I love to write and feel comfortable writing for audiences of one. But just as loving animals doesn't make me good with them, loving to write doesn't make me good at that either. It's just something I continue to DO, like all amateur artists feel they must DO, i think, regardless of the risk of seeming ridiculous.

I have a lot of good friends who are AMAZING writers. They make me weep and laugh out loud--all in the space of a paragraph. Before I met them, I fancied myself a Writer. I wrote stories all through grade school and won creative writing competitions every year. I think my mother still has those stories in a box somewhere. My Young Authors Seminar award-winning tales include:

"The Old Man" (psychological thriller)
"My Trip to Dozax" (science-fiction), and
"Unicorns" (porn).

After I moved out of my small town and started to meet truly talented writers, I think I felt this quiet acceptance...I am not a Writer, I told myself. I am a writer. It was disheartening, but a bit of a relief. No more pressure. lt's just something I do now, and continue to do, even if I feel ridiculous.

(Just kidding about the porn, by the way. You know I was kidding, right?)

I remember taking a poetry class with some of these writer friends in college. They were incredibly talented, even back then. We had to read our poetry in front of the class every week, and listening to them, I was just in awe of how well their words FIT. How their writing could make me feel. I also vividly remember the collective impact particularly "bad" poetry would have on the class. Like the time Miss Emo got up and passionately read,

"EMPTY.
My heart is EMPTY.
You make me empty, empty,
empty, empty
empty empty
empty..."

You could see everyone shudder as a wave of silent, suppressed groans passed through the classroom and people ducked their heads down to keep from meeting her eyes. As I also cringed inwardly and bit the sides of my cheeks raw, I slowly started to recognize a terrifying awareness spreading through my entire being.

Is that ME?

I never stopped writing stories, but I stopped sharing them. I traded in my pen and paper for a guitar, and then spent the next decade writing songs and trying to get the balls to sing in front of people. Like writing, I loved singing and songwriting too...but convinced of my meager skills, I felt that performing in front of others would be like subjecting them to my own version of "EMPTY...empty, empty, empty, empty." I also was firmly convinced that in America, there is an Unspoken Rule for musicians. This Unspoken Rule is the attitude that if you aren't any good, then you have no right to be up there on a stage. People may argue this with me, but I hear this sentiment echoed in the countless critical thoughts people express when they go see live music. It's the equivalent of seeing a couple in love, kissing in public and then shouting at them, "Get a room!" God forbid, if someone dares get on a stage in America and suck, you know there will be plenty of people thinking that they should just save it for the shower, dude. Do it at home, for pity's sake, don't make US listen to that crap. I've seen people openly roll their eyes and snort when someone was playing. I have even seen a woman UNPLUG A MAN'S BASS while he was performing because she wanted the bar's DJ to play dance music instead.

So, yeah. SCARY.

I did manage to be brave enough to perform a few times though, all the while bracing myself for--gosh, not even blatant disapproval, but even thought of cool indifference terrified me. Funnily enough, audiences were actually quite nice and supportive. Still, I couldn't stop comparing myself to people who were so much more skilled and thinking...they deserve this, not me.

Then I moved to Japan.

The Japanese, as we all know, gave karaoke its name. It is one of the main things to do in Japan when you want to go out and have a good time. People sing karaoke with their friends, their families, their coworkers... it is enjoyed by all, young and old. I LOVE karaoke. Loooove it and miss it. There's nothing better after a stressful work week than singing your heart out and dancing the night away with your friends. I've helped many a karaoke virgin discover its appeal once coming to Japan. A lot of foreigners swear they won't sing and by the end of the night they are on top of the tables, wailing away.

It is no wonder that karaoke is so much bigger in Japan than in the States. In Japan, the culture of live music is palpably different--at least to me. No one feels you have to be skilled or talented to be on stage at all. Everyone loves music for the pure delight of sharing that enjoyment with others--that is all that is required. It is amazing how many Japanese people cannot hold a note, or are blissfully unaware that their voices crack or wobble off key. They all take over that karaoke mic and sing with gusto and complete unself-consciousness. Everyone listening laughs and applauds and shrieks with appreciation. There is no "bad" or "good"--only a rollicking good time.

I loved this aspect of it immediately. What a lovely thing it is--karaoke culture! To enjoy music without judgment! I can sing REO Speedwagon with no shame! I can even get up and belt out gansta rap and know some Japanese friend will be right behind me on the tambourine! And it was in this culture that I started to feel a bit braver about performing in public. I started playing at open mic nights with other musicians who played the same three songs, the SAME THREE SONGS, for YEARS. There were those guitarists, too, who seemed to know only three chords and wrote all their songs around those. No one in the Japanese audience uttered a word of complaint. They were always clapping, smiling, loving the music.

One might argue that this complete lack of criticism is the reason J-pop is what it is today.

But who cares? No one cares in Japan. And dammit, the freedom from judgment is liberating. I have started to try and apply that to my own thoughts, my own music, and finally, my own writing. Bad? Good? Who cares? Just have a fucking good time.

It's not easy to shake my personal critic, but I try to be more careful these days about being critical of others. It's a start. I mean, good for Miss Emo getting up there with her poetry! Yay! I am sure, CERTAIN, that someone in that class was listening and not rolling their eyes, after all. And hooray to all the people out there courageous enough to share what they create!! Yay!!! Listen to me, shakin' my tambourine for you!

Anyway, that's all on my thoughts about that. Will write more updates on New Zealand life again tomorrow.

Chapter 5: I Was a Horse Girl

2010-07-25T23:53:00.001-07:00

All the posts I've written and am continuing to post are excerpts of some stuff that I have been writing in the past month since moving to New Zealand. My adventures have slowed somewhat as M and I get into more of a routine here in Wellington. M has a job now. I do not. But the frenzy of activity and Things-to-do haven't been as intense as they were in the past weeks. Now, I spend my days doing fairly mundane things like reading through job posts, puttering around the house, cooking, and being domestic. Not really exciting...but relaxing, nonetheless.

Last weekend, though, I went horseback riding (hooray!) in Warkworth, NZ with M and a dear friend. Before I go into that, however, let me just explain that I am one of those ignorant animal lovers who think that their sheer love of animals somehow means that they are, by extension of that love, imbued with the ability to commune with them. This is, for example, the attitude I brought with me on a trip to Bali with my friend K three years ago. I wanted to go visit the Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuary in Ubud where I heard there were real, live, wild monkeys running around amongst the trees and temples. I love monkeys, and I was excited beyond belief to be able to see them free and uncaged. I was convinced that my love for them, my respect for them, would immediately be recognized in their eyes and they would embrace my presence there like the chimps and Jane Goodall.

K and I went at dusk, and to our surprise, there were hardly any other people within the forest. It was like walking into another world, another time. The Monkey Forest was hushed and cool, mossy green and ancient, dripping with vines. I saw a monkey perched on an old stone wall of a temple and thought it looked like a still from an Indiana Jones movie (yeah--i know--very culturally relevant.) I was the Wide-eyed Tourist...in awe of everything, ignorant, and happy.

My one experience communing with the monkeys was soon to come. It was already growing a bit gloomy in the forest, and a bit drizzly. K had walked on ahead and disappeared from sight. I was alone and feeling a tad uneasy, wishing that K didn't walk so fast. I noticed a lot of monkeys hanging out and gathering in groups. I smiled and waved at them and said, "Hello, Monkeys!" I was beaming with admiration for their wise little faces and soft brown fur. I think...they were not so pleased. I think I even read once that it wasn't a good idea to show a monkey your teeth. Well...I had just been flashing them willy-nilly for the past five minutes in my attempt to "commune" with them.

That was when I had the opportunity to witness that particular wonder of nature called The Monkey Fight. As I was smiling away and flashing teeth through the gathering of monkey gangs, I suddenly heard an appalling SCREECH. (The sound of monkey screeching live--kinda like choking baby mixed with grinding metal). Two monkeys came hurtling at light speed towards each other only to come to a head-on collision AT MY FEET. I think I kind of shrieked as well and probably threw my hands up in a cartoonish gesture. I felt the distinct brush of wiry monkey fur on my bare calves and saw the monkeys baring their teeth at each other while they duked it out for god-knows-what, possibly a first taste of that Dumb Tourist Chick that keeps threatening us with her TEETH. I hurried away as though my ass were on fire when a BIG BOSS MONKEY dropped out of the sky and landed right in the middle of my getaway. Instead of looking like he wanted to commune with me, he looked downright threatening as he slowly loped his way towards me. I didn't know what to do, so I just remembered what my friend T did when he found himself face to face with a Grizzly. I opened up my umbrella wide as a shield, backed away slowly and said LOUDLY and FIRMLY, "HELLOOOO, MR. MONKEY! HELLOOOO, MR. MONKEY!"

It worked. The Big Boss Monkey leapt onto a temple wall and away. I ran up the path and found K, who immediately started laughing at me when I told her the story.

You would think I would have learned my lesson. You would think, after that, my Freudian Super-Ego Self would have called over my Id, sat her down at the dining room table and said,

"Yo. What was that? What on earth possessed you to think you could COMMUNE WITH WILD MONKEYS?"

Id: "Well....I love them."

Super-Ego (rolling eyes): "The CLOSEST experience you have ever had to communicating with an animal is figuring out when your DOMESTICATED CAT IS HUNGRY OR NEEDS TO BARF."

Id: "...................So?"

Sooooo, I did not learn my lesson. Most recently, I started looking forward to a trip up to visit my lovely friend Hisami, who was spending her summer/winter holidays on a horse ranch near Auckland. I again had fantasies of communing, this time, with the horses. I loved horses, always have. But my experience with horses has been purely limited to pony rides at the fair.

But, this time, I felt more qualified! I am a closet Horse Girl!! My friend H has this theory about Horse Girls. Whenever she meets a woman who is somewhat socially awkward, a little too eager, a little vulnerable, and a little trying on the nerves, she rolls her eyes and says, "She was so totally a Horse Girl." Her theory is that these nice, but a bit annoyingly awkward women were once those little girls who were obsessed with horses. You know the type. They drew horses incessantly in notebooks, read horse books, and wore clothes with horses on it.

So, um, Hannah, I have a confession to make. I was TOTALLY a horse girl. I don't know what that says about me now, but there is no denying that I loved/love horses, read tons of books on horses, knew an Appaloosa from a Pinto, and begged for a horse every Christmas for years. I was SO excited to go see Hisami, but also excited to ride a horse properly for possibly the first time in my life! Already, I was imagining how awesome it was going to be, how my horse was going to feel how much I love her and that our bond would be fast and true. This time, I thought, my past as a Horse Girl had fully prepared me for this experience.

I obviously don't learn my lessons.

Chapter 4: FOOD!!!

2010-07-25T20:30:00.000-07:00

Coming from Tokyo, I was prepared to be a tad bit disappointed with the food here.

From whatever country they may have hailed from, most everyone I know who has spent time in Japan would agree that the quality of the food there is hard to beat. For very little money (despite how "expensive" people say Tokyo is), you can eat a delicious meal that very rarely disappoints. I would have to say that I could count on one hand the number of meals that I found truly unacceptable or even unsatisfying...and that is from the priciest courses to the run-of-the-mill ramen shop. Of course, there are some places that are heaps better than others...but overall, it is hard to find BAD food in Japan. Most everyone who has left Japan often laments to me, "I miss the FOOD."

And I do miss the food. I miss ikura. I miss kaiten sushi. I miss spicy ramen. I miss umeboshi with rice and nori. I miss Conbini Sea Chicken Onigiri. I miss tempura and udon and saba.

But I have been pleasantly surprised by the food here and haven't felt deprived in the least. I've even encountered some new foods I have never had before.

The first of these new foods was the kumara, which is very much like a Japanese sweet potato, but is less cloyingly sweet and starchy in my humble opinion. They have purple, orange, and gold kumaras here (I think those are the right colors). M first made kumaras for me when we went to stay at his cousin's beach house in Waikanae (a nice beach town an hour north of Wellington). He roasted them with pumpkins and russet potatoes and I found myself addicted right away. In fact, roasted kumara has become a regular food at our house. They are especially yummy with olive oil, salt, pepper, and rosemary!

The other is a fruit called the feijoa. It looks like a green, hairless kiwi and inside is this tart, yummy, jelly-like fruit that you spoon out like ice cream. I am amazed that I hadn't ever come across this fruit before...even after having been introduced to other exotic fruits like the garlicky garbage that are durians. (I know they are supposed to be a delicacy but...um. Barf.) Feijoas are everywhere here. They also have feijoa tea, feijoa jam, feijoa chocolate, and feijoa ice cream!

I've also been eating a lot of foods here that I had been missing in Tokyo--like lamb. The New Zealanders do lamb dishes like no other, and M's mum and cousin have generously fed me some amazing lamb meals. I love the toasty brown bread here. And finally--really yummy fish and chips!!!

M and I often buy fresh produce and cook at home too. Though we can't afford to buy organic, the fish and vegetables we eat are as rich with flavor as though they were. Going out to eat has also been a treat--since we aren't able to do it that often. Wellington boasts an unusual number of funky cafes and restaurants, and once some more money comes rolling in, I am excited to try more.

Excited for soup in Waikane.

Roasted veggies, carrot/lemon/coriander/&feta salad, tomatoes with balsamic vinegar, dill, and cottage cheese.

Chapter 3: The Challenges of Getting Around

2010-07-25T19:42:00.000-07:00

After one week, we had to give back our lovely little rental car, and we were left to figure out Wellington's great public transportation system. People assured me the public transportation system here was quite good, and I'm sure it IS good...but I am from Tokyo, where trains come every two minutes and are never late unless someone jumps in front of one.

We were told by our landlord that a bus comes right to the front of our house. Hurrah!--I thought. Perfect! But I soon learned that the bus comes only once an hour (granted once every 30 minutes during peak times) and it doesn't come AT ALL on Saturdays, Sundays, and Public Holidays. This realization had me dumbfounded and wondering how were were going to do the simplest thing like grocery shopping with no bus service on the weekends. The nearest convenience store is a 20 minute walk away, and the nearest supermarket is on the other side of the earth, as far as I am concerned.

The week after we lost the car, M and I went on a particularly extensive grocery run downtown. We loaded up with bulging bags like pack mules and walked to the downtown bus stop to catch our beloved #20 back to Highbury, confident that it was a week night and only 7pm. We learned soon enough, though, that the last bus departing for our neighborhood left at 6:10pm and our only option was to catch another bus that stopped at the foot of a steep hill, nearly a 20 minute walk away. (Yep, everything is a 20 minute walk here.) We hauled our groceries up the mountain in the dark, chatting cheerfully about how, "At least it isn't raining!" before we fell into silence and then muttered under our breaths, "We need a car. We need a fucking car."

Everyone also said that Wellingtonians are hearty people and they walk everywhere. Now I see why. They have to. And on a beautiful, sunny day, the walk downtown (which the landlord said took "20 mintues" but actually takes half an hour to get to downtown proper, and additional time to get where you want to go) is actually really nice. Wellington has many shortcuts--steep steps cutting down the hills that deposit you onto main roads and then cut you down some more steep slopes through houses and bush. It can be really pretty walking through those short cuts. Birds sing, the sunlight dapples the path, there's palms and ferns and flowers everywhere. But coming back is another story. Climbing those steps can be, for lack of a better word, a bitch. A huffing, puffing, sweaty bitch. "I'm going to get fit!" I say cheerfully to M between pants and gasps of air.

I get to the top of the hill and then wheeze, "We need a fucking car..."

At night, we have taken to catching cabs home. And I've even guiltily caught cabs during the day when I wasn't sure how to get somewhere, or if I could get somewhere on time. Cabs in New Zealand are much cheaper than in Tokyo, and although the price of cucumbers can still send me into a rage, 15 dollars for a cab ride still seems...well, quite reasonable, dammit. (Note: I am really, really good with money.)

As I don't have any friends here yet, and the more the Wide-eyed Tourist phase wears off, it can start to feel a bit lonely. This has made me quite chatty with the cab drivers, who have been mainly foreigners too and incredibly interesting people. Our first cab driver was an old man from former Yugoslavia. He told us that in his native Serbia, he had been a Professor of Agriculture, and used to travel back and forth from NZ but finally settled here at the pleas of his family. He tried to find a similar job here, he said, but couldn't. "Driving a taxi was only supposed to be temporary..." he said, "but you know...this is life."

Another cab driver I talked to was from Cambodia. He was cheerful, full of life, and when I asked him why he came to New Zealand he said in the sunniest voice that lilted upwards at the end of sentences, "Oh you know...very bad time my country...was in Refugee Camp in Thailand!! I was lucky to come here. I wanted to be a teacher in Cambodia. I taught myself English. Now I drive taxi--very good!!! My wife...she had hard time when she come here. She speak no English, no job. Now she work in supermarket--very good!!" He had a huge smile and laughed a lot. He told me he loves sushi and that the "Japanee" have "very good sauces!"

My most recent cab driver was from Iraq. Despite the fact our countries are at war, he was friendly and didn't blink an eye when I said I was from the States. He even became my new potential best friend in Wellington when he said, "Pardon me...but you are... BEAUTIFUL." He pronounced the fact that I was half Japanese, half American, "A beautiful mix!" Being both embarrassed but totally suckered by compliments, I smiled hugely and thanked him for making my day. I asked him why he came to NZ and he told me he also was a refugee but seemed more interested in telling me how much he knew about Wellington streets. "There are so many one-ways. You may think cab drivers are ripping you off, but this is a big problem for us!" I complimented him back on his savvy navigation skills and promised to always call Kiwi Cabs from now on. (Go, go Kiwi Cabs! Everyone call Kiwi Cabs! They are the cheapest in Wellington! No one is cheaper!)

Although I am happy to be in a country where the landscape is beautiful, where I no longer have to stand squished in a train on my way to work breathing in recycled salaryman breath, where I can walk freely in a street without bumping shoulders with the strangers around me, I think there is still a little bit of the Tokyo City Girl inside of me. I had come to take it for granted that you can find a Conbini no more than a couple minutes walk away. I am used to finding 50 vending machines full of cheap drinks along every street. I am used to never walking more than 10 minutes to find a grocery store.

I need to realize that truly appreciating this sweeter, slower pace of life is to let go of that Tokyo Girl who had come to feel that Instant Gratification is to be expected from my surroundings. Falling asleep in my Tokyo apartment to the sounds of cars and taxis whizzing by on Hongo Dori, I used to dream of country quiet and birds singing like they do here in Wellington. Now that I am here, I catch myself whinging about the inconvenience of things and feel suddenly ashamed. The "inconvenience" is actually what gives space for these beautiful things to be.

Chapter 2: Wellington

2010-07-25T17:58:00.000-07:00

Wellington truly is a beautiful city and the people who live here say that everyone in the world would be here if it weren't for the weather. It's often called "Windy Welly" (figure that one out) and the weather reminds me a bit of the Pacific Northwest. There are a lot of cold, rainy, blustery days. When it is sunny, everyone talks about it like we've won the lottery.

But no matter, it is really lovely here. A beautiful place is still a beautiful place even in shitty weather. Wellington is a modestly-sized city surrounded by bushy hills and at it's feet, a wide and sparkling harbor. You can walk along the boardwalk near the sea and look out at arms of mountains hugging the horizon. The city itself is, as my friend S heard someone say, almost European in atmosphere. Modern buildings are mixed in with the old. The houses are often Victorian and charming. In the Aro Valley neighborhood--which Wellingtonians warned us away from as being "cold and damp"--the houses are a patchwork of bright colors with stained glass windows. Even if the sun rarely gets down in that valley in the winter, the houses are bright enough to make the neighborhood seem warm and cozy to my eyes.

M and I were lucky to find an apartment the very first day of our search--a one bedroom place in a neighborhood called Highbury, which true to its name, is high in the bushy hills overlooking the city. We have a beautiful view of the sea, and in the morning, you can hear birds singing in the bushes around our house. When I hear the birds sing in New Zealand, I know I am in a different place. The birds here sing like birds out of a fairytale!. Their songs are sweet and lilting--nothing like the tweety-tweety birdsongs I am used to in America. (No offense to my American birds...I like you guys too.)

Our first weeks here, we spent a lot of time shopping. A LOT. I feel like I've moved a trillionzillionmillion times in my life, but I always forget what an ordeal it is to completely set up a new home. We had sold or given away all of our stuff in Tokyo, so we were truly starting from scratch. We would make lists like--

Must Have
Espresso machine
Pots and pans
Table
Heater
Rice Cooker
Plates
Bowls

and so on. And by the end we were cramming the little margins with essentials like

Sponges!
Hangers!
Bath mat!
Olive oil!
oh shit...Toilet Paper!

On our shopping trips, this was when I became an Obnoxious Tourist, as I could NOT get over how much everything COST. I became that girl, That Girl who would cry out loudly in a glaring American accent in the middle of a store aisle, "EIGHT fucking DOLLARS for ONE FORK? ONE FORK? Is it made of fucking STERLING SILVER?"

"TWELVE DOLLARS for a PLATE? ONE PLATE??? Maybe we should just share one, for Pete's sake."

"EIGHTEEN DOLLARS FOR A SIX-PACK OF BEER???? ROBBERY!!! HIGHWAY ROBBERY!!"

"SIX GODDAMN DOLLARS for a CUCUMBER?? ONE FUCKING CUCUMBER??"

(Granted, these may have been the outcries of my soul, and not ACTUAL obnoxious wailing in the aisles, although some of it, yes, did escape my lips.)

Coming from Tokyo, I had expected things to cost way less, and was smugly confident that the strength of my yen converted to NZ dollars would render all of New Zealand's living expenses gleefully affordable, and that my meager savings would still last me as long as it would in, say, Bangkok. How wrong I was. By the end of it, I was weeping for a 100 yen shop, and wondering if it might even be cheaper to have my friends buy me plates and bowls in Japan and ship them over.

(Some things are cheap though. I've had some great bottles of wine for under 10 dollars...and you gotta love a country with good, cheap wine.)

Somehow, we were able to get everything and luckily we had the loan of a car for the week to lug it all home. Once everything was unwrapped and put in its place, however, I think we were both delighted with the shiny, tidy, newness of all of our new stuff in our new home.

There were some moments of conflict.

M prefers a Spartan, one might say, hospital-esque aesthetic of clean, clutter-free surfaces and stainless steel appliances. He comes from an Interior Design school of thought valuing FUNCTION.

I give you, Exhibit: A. Function.

I, however, prefer spots of bright color, a Resort-in-Bali like aesthetic. I like patterned cushions, ethnic tapestries, and displaying random treasures. I come from an Interior Design school of thought valuing PERSONALITY.

I give you Exhibit B. Personality.

But we have compromised. I have come to see that clear, clean surfaces are much easier to keep clean. I also appreciate the less-is-more aesthetic and have toned down my urge to display my random treasures--which, M argues, often deteriorate into states of dust-fuzzy rubbish. M has also been flexible with a few things too--like the apple ornament I hung in the kitchen. Or displaying our colorful mugs. I don't know if he's discovered my string of rainbow colored birds made with Indian fabrics that I hung from the window though.

Chapter 1: Sayonara, Tokyo! Helloooo, New Zealand!!

2010-07-25T16:33:00.000-07:00

I am here!! New Zealand! Aotearoa! Down Under! The Southern Hemisphere! I can see the Southern Cross and it is WINTER!

How did I get here? How did I get so far away from my family and friends? I've never stopped wondering how my life seems to take these random twists and turns. I guess I've never been a person (to my sometimes chagrin) who sets a specific goal in my future and careens toward it with the steadfast persistence and determination that distinguishes Achievers from us Wanderers. Instead, I take scenic routes, blundering detours, and in my wanderings, choose little goals that materialize like little ridges formed by sudden earthquakes. I set out for these with the awareness that my fickle feet might veer off in search of a rest stop with donuts. In my darker days, I despair at my inability to commit to something bigger, something that challenges me to put down roots and gain sustenance from delving deeper. In my more positive moments, I smile at my colorful Collection of Random Experiences and am grateful for the fact that Complacency and Boredom have not been my complaints in life.

When I met M, the idea of moving to New Zealand materialized out of nowhere a few months into our relationship and in our talks about the future. At that point, my future was a pretty foggy landscape, with hazy glimpses of graduate school and other ideas flickering in the distance. Then, while I was floating along, I bumped into M and toppled head over heels when his answer to my occasional Life's Despair was, "What's deeper than collecting experiences?".

He asked me what I thought of going home with him and I blinked and there it was! This bright little island emerged out of the fog and I thought, "Of course! Why not?" The haze lifted and my road map rearranged itself. After that, in the months to come, all paths led to New Zealand, my Emerald City.

I had imagined and anticipated flying into Auckland so many times in my last few months in Tokyo that the actual experience felt almost reassuring. The flight itself had been a bit of a nightmare, as I had developed some sort of intestinal bug (maybe all the Tequila?) and was spending a lot of time hanging out in the bathroom aisle, looking like the Girl Who Obviously Has Diarrhea. When it came time to land, though, I looked down at the bright, emerald island below me and it all felt a bit like--"Yes, of course. Of course this is what landing in New Zealand would be like." All the pieced together photos and movie images that I had in my mind were exactly this--green, lush, beautiful.

The Greenness of New Zealand immediately stood out to me like the neon lights of Tokyo, but in a very different way. Where Shibuya and Shinjuku are awe-inspiring in their own right...the bright, blinding, flashing lights always felt like a continual date rape of my senses. I was being struck, slapped, my face clamped between two neon-bright hands and forced to look up and around until my eyes glazed over. But the Green that carpets the hills, the valleys, the fields all around you here in New Zealand--you just willingly drink it in. It's an intensity and brilliance of Green I haven't quite experienced before, and everything else seems a bit like an accessory to it. It is a living Green secure in its awareness that it has more right to be here than you do.

It's like a Green Smoothie for your senses--soothing, nourishing, delicious! I don't think I could ever tire of it. I really was in awe. Still am.

After life in Tokyo, however, there are times I don't realize I am in a foreign country. Everyone speaks English--albeit in funny accents (yep, I'm the only one who talks normally here.) I can read the signs. White people are the majority again. People eat sandwiches and roasts. The cafes are dark and cozy. Walking around Auckland on my first day in New Zealand, I almost felt like I was back home in Seattle from time to time. But the differences do strike me every day, and I find myself getting that Wide-Eyed Tourist feeling just like I do in any other foreign country...and that foolish Dumb Tourist feeling too.

M took me to the pharmacy the first day to look for tummy meds, and of course none of the brands looked familiar. I found soon enough that the people who work at the pharmacies here are really friendly and come up and ask you point blank, "How you goin'? Can I help you find anything?" "No--just looking." I was about to say...but my ever helpful Kiwi boyfriend answered, "She needs something for DIARRHEA." And so the friendly pharmacist led me over and showed me a colorful shelf of diarrhea meds, plucked one off and said "This is really good."

"Hmmmm." I said, trying to be a shrewd shopper. "What's the difference between this one and this one?"

"Well, this one is better if you have problems with...uh...wind, too." she said.

My ever helpful Kiwi boyfriend looked at me and asked, "Do you have problems with wind, baby?"

They both looked at me, waiting.

I went for the one with wind action. More for your money.

Going out to eat was not as smooth sailing as I thought, either. Ordering a coffee was, at first, a bit of a conundrum as the Coffee Menu listed drinks I had never heard of before. "What is a short black?" I wondered. "What's a flat white?" At a cafe, a nice waitress asked me what I wanted to drink and I found myself stammering, "I'll have uh...a um...what do you call coffee in this country again?"

Paying for things by cash, I find myself having to stare hard at each coin to figure out how much it is worth before handing them one by one to the quizzical cashier. But mostly, my boyfriend M told me, people pay with an EFTPOS card here.

"Oh, okay." I answered. Naturally. An iff-poss card. Gotta get me an iffposs card. (And I did. It's just a debit card.)

I was only in Auckland for a couple days, and much of that was spent recuperating from an intense month of good-byes and packing in Tokyo. I had barely caught up on sleep before we were on a plane to Wellington, at the southern tip of the North Island. This is where M and I planned to live, and we had nothing but our suitcases with which to start our new life.

And what a start! As luck would have it, we were on the same plane as a few rugby heroes from some Under-21 rugby team on their way home after winning some important game (for rugby fans: that is all the detail I can muster, sorry). As M and I walked towards the baggage claim area, we were suddenly greeted by a group of young but hugely fit high school boys who shouted and slapped their knees and launched into a Haka performance.

Haka--for those only slightly more ignorant than me of New Zealand culture, is a traditional Maori dance. According to Wiki, Haka are performed for a variety of occasions, but in particular, the War Haka is what has been made famous by the New Zealand rugby team, the All Blacks. I'd seen Haka on TV before, but Live--it is a completely different experience. Much like how theater and dance performances lose their vitality on film, the Haka you see on TV is nothing like a Haka performed literally 10 feet away from you. The power of their performance hits you like a vibration of sound and energy. It's like a thunder cloud of human force. I couldn't help but think that--with any less passion or force--the Haka could look almost silly, almost embarrassing. And apparently, when the All Blacks first started doing it (before someone set them straight), it WAS silly and embarrassing. But there is something magical about the energy that human beings can conjure through feeling--and how artists learn to harness that in their performances. Movement isn't simply movement. In Theater, we learned that a walk on stage is never simply a walk. The same gestures can be communicated in so many different ways. When those boys opened their eyes wide and stuck out their tongues, it wasn't at all like little kids being naughty. It was grotesque and terrifying and awesome all at once.

After they finished, we met M's cousin T on the other side and she said, "Well, that was quite a welcome to Wellington!"

Though I knew the Haka wasn't for me, but for the returning players on our plane--it felt a bit like my own welcome too.