Small Town Living

I’ve never lived in a real small town before. I don’t mean that in a country hick way – “That there Akaroa is one real small town”. No, no, I just mean that I have never lived in a genuinely small town before.

I’ve lived in small-ish places. Bloomington, IN, Hoboken, NJ. But I realize now that those experiences count for nothing as far as small towns go. Akaroa is the real deal.

There are the people, the community. I’ve lived here for not quite two weeks, and I recognize more faces every day.

There’s Keith, the guy who owns a kayak-rental business and stores his kayaks in our front yard. There’s the lady that bags groceries at the 4 Square Supermarket who sat at the bar at Vangioni’s the other night, drinking wine for a long while. There’s the weary looking, cigarette-smoking, dyed-blonde woman, who owns a boutique down the street, and tries to smile at me as I walk past while she sweeps the store’s porch.

There’s the couple from Hawaii who I waited on in the restaurant a few nights back. I ran into the woman on the street the following day – Oh! Our waitress from last night! And then again into both of them a few days later, out taking a morning stroll.

There are the ones that want to get to know me. Loyal repeat customers at the restaurant who tell me they were “down at the supply store this morning. Met your boyfriend. Nice guy!”

Not even two weeks, and I somehow feel like I am a part of this community, even in just some small way. And it’s a nice feeling. It’s hard to feel out of place or lonely when everyone you meet wants to talk to you, take you in, hear your story.

There’s the physical place. The surroundings.

“I love this place this much,” Bjorn says after dinner last week, his arms stretched wide. I think he loves the place more than I do, if that’s possible. Every morning, he walks five minutes down the main road to the other end of town and stares out over the bay. He says that the water looks like glass at that time of day, the reflections of white sailboats stretching long across the grey water.

I walk down to the supply store around 12:45 PM most days to bring Bjorn lunch. We sit on a bench looking out on the bay and munch on sandwiches and bask in the sunshine and chat. Bjorn says, Isn’t this the best lunch spot? Ever? And every time I reply, Sure is!

I go out for walks for hours at a time. Paths take me through farms, sheep and cows sometimes obstructing my way! I feel a bit shy writing this, but I had the silliest and most wonderful moment this morning, running down a grassy hillside, dodging piles of cow poop. I felt like I was Julie Andrews, ready to come to a halt at the bottom of the hill, open my arms wide to the mountains around me, and burst into song. The hills are alive! He he. But I’m quite serious. I almost sang. I’m surprised I didn’t, actually.

There’s the quiet.

I was standing on the corner of our street earlier this week around dusk. The sky still had a hint of blue in it, and the almost-full moon was rising over the hill behind our house. It was a lovely sight. But what struck me at that moment were the sounds. Or the lack of sounds. I looked down the street and saw not a single other person outside, not a single car buzzing by, nothing. And all I could hear was birds chirping. Birds singing over the silence.

I’ve known silence before. Alone on top of a mountain in Chile, trying to find sleep in my ice cold tent, and nothing but the wind in my ears. But this silence was different, perhaps because I didn’t realize that a town – a man-made place, full of men (and women!) – could be silent.

I could not have transferred directly from Manhattan to Akaroa. I was too high strung back in January. Needed to be occupied. Needed to be always going. Akaroa would have made me crazy. But this year has taken me down a few notches, to a place where I can just relax and enjoy a moment for what it is. And if all I do in a day is sit in sunny spot on the front porch and read and take Bjorn lunch, well, it’s a day very well spent.

And that is all just to say, life is good in this small town. More soon. Much love.