I’m getting paid $13 NZ per hour to be a waitress at Vangioni’s. I believe the exchange rate for the US dollar is about 0.53 right now, so that makes my hourly rate $6.90 US. I know you’re not supposed to talk about money, but I am trying to set the stage for you. I’m not making any money. People paid me more to care for their children when I was just 14 years old.
NZ restaurants do not operate like US ones, where you pay the staff a crap wage but the customers are, at least, obliged to tip a certain percentage of the bill. No, no. Tips are not expected in this country. It’s something that people will do only if they really feel they’ve had AMAZING service. At Vangioni’s, we keep a tip jar at the bar, and any tips we receive go into that jar, to be split by the whole staff (wait staff, kitchen staff) at the end of the week. This amounts to about $50 per week. In addition, I do get a meal and a drink every shift I work.
My parents taught me to be a responsible employee – don’t take too many days off, arrive early, dress appropriately, etc. – but somewhere along the way, being responsible turned into being pathetic. I have felt lately like I have some kind of chip installed in my brain that makes me a total pushover to my employers. Work comes first! Make the boss happy! Even if he’s not paying you anything!
I felt this way, to some extent, at my old job in New York. I found it impossible to say no to my boss, even if it meant canceling trips home for work. If he said he needed me, I HAD to be there. No questions asked. Of course, that was a different situation than I’m in now. I was getting paid well over a living wage, and had a beautiful office to work in, and a large amount of responsibility to call my own.
When my family (finally) informed me about a month ago that they had bought their plane tickets to NZ for Christmas, I was thrilled. But that little pathetic employee inside me said, I’m going to have to work, so I won’t be able to travel with you all, but I’ll put together a lovely itinerary for you of places to visit.
And so I busied myself for the next couple of weeks with researching and booking. The final plan was this: My family was to arrive in Akaroa, spend three nights here, then go on to Queenstown for three nights. My brother would then leave to go back to the States, and my parents would have a few more days on the road, touring the West coast of the South Island, and then spend their last three nights in Christchurch, where I would come spend a day or two with them.
So…my parents were going to come for TWO weeks, and I was going to get to see them for four days? Hm. Something’s not right here.
The fact that it took me until about two weeks ago to realize that I was about to miss out on a once in a lifetime opportunity (because, really – when will the four of us Bucys be in NZ together again?) is absurd. And all for work! It didn’t even occur to me that I should just ditch the job (not making me any money anyhow) and go spend some QT with them family. That would just be asking too much of my boss, I thought to myself. I actually told myself this! I couldn’t do this to him, I said.
ELLEN! WAKE UP! My friends here started saying to me, as I described my family’s trip to them. If it was me, they said, I would take the whole two weeks, even if my boss fired me for it. There’s just no question about it. Family comes first.
So, I decided, I am going to just tell Steve. Just going to tell him that I at least need six days off – three for the time the family’s in Akaroa, and three for the days in Queenstown while my brother is still around. I at least need that. Well, by the time I’d resolved all of my doubts and found the courage to tell my boss that I would be taking a week starting the 23rd, I overheard my adorable French friends, Franky and Celine, telling Steve that they’re quitting. Their last day will be the 22nd.
ARGH!
So I put off MY conversation another week, mental deliberations starting all over again. How could I do this to Steve? He’s going to be screwed! Christmas week with no staff! Then again, he’s paying me $13. If he really wanted to keep his staff, perhaps he could, you know, give us an incentive to stay? I’m going to feel so sick to spend three days here with my family and then watch them all leave together for Queenstown.
I talked all of this over with Bjorn (who has been very upset with Steve’s employer skills all along), and he encouraged me to do whatever I felt was right. He said he was committed to work at the supply store at least til mid-January, but if the conversation with Steve didn’t go well, and I had to quit, he was totally behind me.
So last Thursday, I went to talk to Steve. I had in my head this whole scenario – how I was going to just lay it all on the line. I must travel with my parents, I’d say. I am taking six days off. I know I’m putting you in a hard spot, but this is just how it has to be.
I was not nearly that blunt about things, of course. So Steve, I said, I’ve been thinking, it’s going to really upset me to not spend more time with my parents while they’re here.
Well, I ought to be able to give you the 23rd and 24th, he said, and we’re closed Christmas Day.
Well, those days are really non-negotiable, I said. But I need a few more days, too. I know you can understand – you’re very close with your family. Wouldn’t you feel miserable if they came half-way across the world to see you, and you didn’t get to see them more than three days?
Sure, he said. I understand. And I wish I could just tell you to take two weeks off, but with Franky and Celine leaving, I have no staff. And I just noticed Jody put a for sale sign on her car – do you know anything about that? (I did know. Jody, one of the chefs, lives in our house, and she’s decided she wants to leave mid-January but has been too scared to tell Steve.)
Um, no, I lied. Didn’t she just buy that car?
Steve was growing more agitated by the minute. My approach in unpleasant situations is to try to just be as honest as possible. To admit wrongs, to explain myself as much as possible, to try to get the person to relate to me. So I said, It’s just hard, Steve. Because none of us have anything tying us to this place. (Which is true, you know. You employ travelers without making them sign a contract or offering them some kind of incentive to stay longer, and…what do you THINK is going to happen? They’re going to up and leave when their eyes are ready for new scenery.)
For whatever reason, that was just the wrong thing to say. Steve shot his eyes over at me, and I could sense a sort of rage building up inside his body.
Yeah, cool, he said. I get it. I’ll see you later. And he just walked out of the restaurant, forcing himself to shut, not slam, the door behind him.
I sat there at the bar of the restaurant, in the silence and dark, looking at the gorgeous day going on out the front windows, and wondering how I’d gotten myself into all of this drama?
Still unsure about what Steve and I had resolved, I left the restaurant and went back home. And I started to think about the situation and the way Steve had behaved (a grown man, my employer, walking out on our conversation!), and this light just flicked on in my head. This is ridiculous. I was going to stay here and work instead of spend time with my family for THIS man. No, thank you.
I waited two days for Steve to say something. Something like, sorry about walking out the other day. I was having a really bad day. If you have to take days off, I guess you will. Say SOMETHING! But he just sort of picked back up as usual, making pleasant conversation.
So I finally just wrote him a note, saying, Just so you have the dates in writing, I’m unavailable to work Dec. 23-29. Thanks.
And that is that, my friends. And I couldn’t be happier about it all!
I hate being involved (or even watching from the outside) these kinds of silly work dramas. And the restaurant has felt like that lately, because the whole staff has sort of collectively realized that they’re ready to move on…at the same time. And that is rough for Steve. But he needs to grow up and stop walking away from conversations. He’s the boss, so he needs to figure out how to make his staff stay if he doesn’t want this to keep happening. That’s his job!
Drama!
Okay. So, Brother John arrives on Sunday. Still not sure what his plan is but am hoping he’ll just pick up the rental car and come straight to Akaroa. Mums and Dads get in on Tuesday morning. We’ll have three days hanging out in Akaroa, and then we are off to Queenstown on Friday! Yipee! I am certain it will be worth any and all of the agony Steve endures next week. (But don’t tell him I said that.)
Day off today! Not sure what will happen, but it’s a rainy day so I imagine it will be a fairly lazy one. Love to you all.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
The Greatest Day in NZ So Far!
Today may have been the best day in NZ so far. It was a totally unplanned day, but unplanned days often turn out to be the most memorable, don’t they?
We both had the day off today, and usually, we’ve planned in advance (at least loosely) something fun to do for the day. That something often involves leaving Akaroa because, well, it’s a small place. One gets a bit stir crazy and aches for new scenery (which is pitiful when the scenery is as gorgeous as it is). But we had planned nothing other than sleeping in and maybe going for a walk somewhere.
So the best day in NZ so far started with sleeping in. Such a luxury, sleeping in! Just starts the day off right. Then we had a delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs and some super (if I do say so myself) chocolate chip banana bread that I made yesterday. We then messed around the house for a while, putting in a bit of laundry, taking the recyclables over to the depot, cleaning up, making phone calls home. Household chores under control, we threw a few munchies into a backpack and hopped into Betty, aiming for a spot of reserve land nearby. (There are little walking tracks all over NZ, so we often drive past little signs indicating trails and make mental notes to go back sometime.)
The whole bay area was covered with low clouds this morning, and as we drove up and out of Akaroa, we gradually found ourselves surrounded by white mist. We could see none of the mountains around us! But the mist made our walking track pleasantly cool and moist – it was like being in the rainforest a bit. We did a short loop around, and then got back into Betty. Well, that was fun. What’s next?
So we drove ourselves over to the other side of the harbor to a little village called Wainui. We drove and drove and looked at the birds and the sheep and the harbor. Such a lovely place we are living right now! We drove past Wainui, and kept going until the road turned to gravel. We had an amazing view of the mouth of the harbor, where it spills into the Pacific Ocean. Living in Akaroa, where you can’t see the mouth of the harbor, it’s easy to feel like you’re in a very cozy, enclosed space, with mountains all around you. But when you finally see the mouth, and see the enormous, endless Pacific beyond, you get a sense of how small you are and of how completely surrounded by WATER you really are!
By the time we were heading away from Wainui, the sky was revealing small bits of blue. Must be breaking up! (I should mention that the weather here is nothing to write home about. I thought I was being so smart heading to NZ for its summertime, but I hardly call this weather summery. It’s completely unpredictable. 80 degrees and sunny for two days, 50 degrees and cloudy for three days, hailing for one day, and then hot and sunny again the next. I had been told before I left that you experience four seasons in a day in NZ, and I filed that away in my “whatever” file, but it’s completely true. And forget the weather forecast. Nobody has a clue what’s going to happen from one hour to the next.)
Anyway, skies were clearing, and it was getting to be lunchtime. Why don’t we stop in Duvauchelle (small town nearby) and grab a sandwich at the store? Someone told me recently that they have great sandwiches. So we stopped, ordered two curried chicken sandwiches and two beers and had a seat on the outdoor patio. We watched the clouds break apart, cars whiz by, geese and black swans bobbing around out on the water. Just generally relaxed and enjoyed ourselves.
Know what we should do after lunch, I said? Let’s go out on the spit!
The spit is the Onawe Spit, a long, narrow piece of land that juts dramatically into the harbor on the northern end. We pass it every time we drive into Christchurch and wonder to each other if it’s possible to walk out there, but until today, we never have just stopped and tried to walk out there. And sure enough, there’s a walking track all the way!
I’ve been trying to figure out how to describe the spit with just my words, and it’s really hard! From the mainland, the track rises sharply up, and then back down again, right into the water. The track continues a few feet later on another patch of land, with a steep climb up some rocks, all the way up to a large grassy area on top. So it’s like two humpbacks jutting up from the water, the first one a bit smaller than the second.
The walking track climbs precariously over the narrow pieces of land. Both sides of the track spill straight down to the coastline, making the track a bit of a balance beam – if you step off of the track, you are going to take a very rocky fall. But once you get onto the second patch of land and climb up a ways, you finish with a nice gradual climb up some grassy fields, and you get an AMAZING view of the harbor. It was so lovely up there – we couldn’t believe we’d been here two months and never done this walk!
On the way back down, we were feeling very hot and sweaty, so we decided we ought to take a little dip in the water. We stripped down to our under-things and started to make our way in. The water was freezing. Ice cold. I had just my feet and ankles in, then Bjorn jumped in all the way. How bad is it? I asked. It’s COLD! He said. But you have to come in! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I screamed, and I jumped for it. When I came up for air, I was gasping. AAAAAA! SOOOO COOOOLD! I CAN’T TOUCH! BJORN, I CAN’T I CAN’T I CAN’T. I thought I was going to get myself under control and it would warm up, but suddenly, I actually couldn’t breathe. I was gasping. We got back over to the shore and everything was completely fine, but yikes! I’ve never actually gotten in water so cold it literally took my breath away.
I put my clothes back on pretty quickly, and it’s a good thing, because probably thirty seconds after I finished dressing, a huge group of school children came bounding over the hill. Ha!
What a day it was! I don’t know if we were both in great moods and anything would’ve been great fun, but it was just such a nice, free, unplanned day. And while many people might find nothing to do in a place like Akaroa, Bjorn and I have been very good at exploring all the nooks and crannies around the bay area.
I like Bjorn because he brings out this part of me that I lost years and years ago. I remember myself as a fearless child, wanting to go out and get dirty, pick up frogs, have mud fights. But I went to college and life became a party, I went to New York and life became trendy, and I lost the part of me that loves to go out exploring and playing and not caring about getting dirty or being seen acting foolish. I love that part of me, and I’m glad to have found it again.
So! Time in Akaroa is running out, believe it or not. In less than two weeks, the family arrives, and by the time they leave on January 5th, we’ll only have three and a half weeks left here. And that’s fine with us, I think. The travel bug is itching both of us pretty badly. We can’t wait to get back out there!
We both had the day off today, and usually, we’ve planned in advance (at least loosely) something fun to do for the day. That something often involves leaving Akaroa because, well, it’s a small place. One gets a bit stir crazy and aches for new scenery (which is pitiful when the scenery is as gorgeous as it is). But we had planned nothing other than sleeping in and maybe going for a walk somewhere.
So the best day in NZ so far started with sleeping in. Such a luxury, sleeping in! Just starts the day off right. Then we had a delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs and some super (if I do say so myself) chocolate chip banana bread that I made yesterday. We then messed around the house for a while, putting in a bit of laundry, taking the recyclables over to the depot, cleaning up, making phone calls home. Household chores under control, we threw a few munchies into a backpack and hopped into Betty, aiming for a spot of reserve land nearby. (There are little walking tracks all over NZ, so we often drive past little signs indicating trails and make mental notes to go back sometime.)
The whole bay area was covered with low clouds this morning, and as we drove up and out of Akaroa, we gradually found ourselves surrounded by white mist. We could see none of the mountains around us! But the mist made our walking track pleasantly cool and moist – it was like being in the rainforest a bit. We did a short loop around, and then got back into Betty. Well, that was fun. What’s next?
So we drove ourselves over to the other side of the harbor to a little village called Wainui. We drove and drove and looked at the birds and the sheep and the harbor. Such a lovely place we are living right now! We drove past Wainui, and kept going until the road turned to gravel. We had an amazing view of the mouth of the harbor, where it spills into the Pacific Ocean. Living in Akaroa, where you can’t see the mouth of the harbor, it’s easy to feel like you’re in a very cozy, enclosed space, with mountains all around you. But when you finally see the mouth, and see the enormous, endless Pacific beyond, you get a sense of how small you are and of how completely surrounded by WATER you really are!
By the time we were heading away from Wainui, the sky was revealing small bits of blue. Must be breaking up! (I should mention that the weather here is nothing to write home about. I thought I was being so smart heading to NZ for its summertime, but I hardly call this weather summery. It’s completely unpredictable. 80 degrees and sunny for two days, 50 degrees and cloudy for three days, hailing for one day, and then hot and sunny again the next. I had been told before I left that you experience four seasons in a day in NZ, and I filed that away in my “whatever” file, but it’s completely true. And forget the weather forecast. Nobody has a clue what’s going to happen from one hour to the next.)
Anyway, skies were clearing, and it was getting to be lunchtime. Why don’t we stop in Duvauchelle (small town nearby) and grab a sandwich at the store? Someone told me recently that they have great sandwiches. So we stopped, ordered two curried chicken sandwiches and two beers and had a seat on the outdoor patio. We watched the clouds break apart, cars whiz by, geese and black swans bobbing around out on the water. Just generally relaxed and enjoyed ourselves.
Know what we should do after lunch, I said? Let’s go out on the spit!
The spit is the Onawe Spit, a long, narrow piece of land that juts dramatically into the harbor on the northern end. We pass it every time we drive into Christchurch and wonder to each other if it’s possible to walk out there, but until today, we never have just stopped and tried to walk out there. And sure enough, there’s a walking track all the way!
I’ve been trying to figure out how to describe the spit with just my words, and it’s really hard! From the mainland, the track rises sharply up, and then back down again, right into the water. The track continues a few feet later on another patch of land, with a steep climb up some rocks, all the way up to a large grassy area on top. So it’s like two humpbacks jutting up from the water, the first one a bit smaller than the second.
The walking track climbs precariously over the narrow pieces of land. Both sides of the track spill straight down to the coastline, making the track a bit of a balance beam – if you step off of the track, you are going to take a very rocky fall. But once you get onto the second patch of land and climb up a ways, you finish with a nice gradual climb up some grassy fields, and you get an AMAZING view of the harbor. It was so lovely up there – we couldn’t believe we’d been here two months and never done this walk!
On the way back down, we were feeling very hot and sweaty, so we decided we ought to take a little dip in the water. We stripped down to our under-things and started to make our way in. The water was freezing. Ice cold. I had just my feet and ankles in, then Bjorn jumped in all the way. How bad is it? I asked. It’s COLD! He said. But you have to come in! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I screamed, and I jumped for it. When I came up for air, I was gasping. AAAAAA! SOOOO COOOOLD! I CAN’T TOUCH! BJORN, I CAN’T I CAN’T I CAN’T. I thought I was going to get myself under control and it would warm up, but suddenly, I actually couldn’t breathe. I was gasping. We got back over to the shore and everything was completely fine, but yikes! I’ve never actually gotten in water so cold it literally took my breath away.
I put my clothes back on pretty quickly, and it’s a good thing, because probably thirty seconds after I finished dressing, a huge group of school children came bounding over the hill. Ha!
What a day it was! I don’t know if we were both in great moods and anything would’ve been great fun, but it was just such a nice, free, unplanned day. And while many people might find nothing to do in a place like Akaroa, Bjorn and I have been very good at exploring all the nooks and crannies around the bay area.
I like Bjorn because he brings out this part of me that I lost years and years ago. I remember myself as a fearless child, wanting to go out and get dirty, pick up frogs, have mud fights. But I went to college and life became a party, I went to New York and life became trendy, and I lost the part of me that loves to go out exploring and playing and not caring about getting dirty or being seen acting foolish. I love that part of me, and I’m glad to have found it again.
So! Time in Akaroa is running out, believe it or not. In less than two weeks, the family arrives, and by the time they leave on January 5th, we’ll only have three and a half weeks left here. And that’s fine with us, I think. The travel bug is itching both of us pretty badly. We can’t wait to get back out there!
Monday, December 8, 2008
Photos from Bjorn's Camera
Here are a bunch of photos from Bjorn's camera, taken over the last couple of months. Some I took, some he took.
http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy
http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Overdue Photos
http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy
I've got more where these came from...coming soon.
I've got more where these came from...coming soon.
Cleaning Lady
This entry is about three weeks old, FYI.
****
I’ve recently taken on a new job, my friends. I am now, a couple days a week, cleaning a nearby motel.
WHAT?!
Okay, let’s calm ourselves. I know it’s a bit unbelievable. But it’s true!
Here in Akaroa, one of the easiest ways to pick up a bit of extra cash is through cleaning. There are dozens of motels, hotels, hostels, bed and breakfasts, and serviced apartments, and, well, they all need to be cleaned.
My friend Celine (one of the Frenchies who works at the restaurant) has been cleaning part-time since here arrival in Akaroa two months ago. She has one regular job at a B&B, and then she picks up another few hours here and there at Mark and Wendy’s B&B (that’s Steve’s parents).
If you had asked me before if I would ever (EVER!) clean a motel out of need for money, I am sure I would have told you no. EW! But, Celine made this whole cleaning thing sound a bit nicer. A bit more dignified. The B&B, she said, is always spotless! The guests are so clean already, she said. I barely have to clean at all! Of course, she does clean it all over anyway. Because that’s what cleaning people do!
So. The newest schedule at Vangioni’s was leaving me with about 30 hours of work per week. Not terrible, but…when you are trying to save up money to go traveling in February, 30 hours per week feels pretty darn lazy, especially on those days when you’re off, your boyfriend’s diligently putting in his 40 hours, and you have, well, NOTHING to do.
I considered getting a “real” second job, like at a café or something. But that felt like a bit too much, considering that my hours at the restaurant will probably pick up significantly in December, as the tourist season here gets underway.
So I thought the cleaning thing over. How bad can it be? I thought. Even if it IS really bad, it’s only for a couple hours a day. What is so bad that I can’t do for TWO HOURS?
(Furthermore, as my dad pointed out with a rather mischievous snicker, I might learn some very valuable skills!)
And so, after seeing an ad for a cleaner in the local paper, I marched myself over to the hiring motel and inquired. Ten minutes later, I walked out a cleaning lady. I would return two days later at 10 AM to begin my first cleaning session.
And truthfully, this is not so bad.
I will go ahead and say that being a full-time cleaning lady could potentially be awful. It’s very physically exhausting work, and, depending on who you’re cleaning up after, it could be rather soul crushing work…and it could be gross.
But, La Rive Motel, MY motel, is a very nice establishment. Not SUPER nice, but nice enough. The kind of place I’d probably find myself staying if I were splurging on a motel. There are only ten rooms, and usually, only half of those need cleaning, since people are checking out of the rooms on different days.
I work with Fran, a New Zealander, probably around my age, who, well, to be honest, seems more like the cleaning type. (Don’t hate me for saying that, but…! What am I supposed to say?) She lives at the motel and cleans for them every morning. (probably in exchange for free accommodation, though I’m not sure.) In our “getting to know you” conversation, she asked me if I watched some local soap, to which I responded No, I don’t really watch any TV here. Our TV only picks up one channel, and it’s mostly crap.
You can’t get much TV?! she replied in horror. (REALLY, my friends, she was horrified.) How awful! she said.
So my cleaning partner and I don’t have much to talk about, I guess, since I can’t talk the soaps, and that is really probably the worst part of the job - having to work with someone that you don’t much feel like talking to but working so closely that you feel obligated to TALK about SOMETHING.
We make the beds. Bottom sheet, top sheet, fleece blanket, duvets, pillows. We fold the towels and washcloths into pretty shapes and leave them arranged on the bed with little travel soaps and shampoos. We clean the bathroom, which implies everything you think it does (toilets, showers, sinks). We clean the kitchen, do any dirty dishes guests have left behind, re-stock the coffees and teas. We empty the trash, we mop the floors, we polish the wood furniture.
And we vacuum. And if you don’t know from personal experience, VACUUMING IS THE WORST THING EVER. Please, please, let me do the bathrooms! Just don’t make me vacuum!!
And then we’re done. And we move on to the next room.
It’s mindless, really. And it’s cash in hand. It gives me something to do, makes me feel purposeful. It’s cleaning. Boring, boring cleaning. But, dad may have been right. I am probably learning some very useful skills.
You know, I am all about feminism. I think it’s great stuff. We all should have equal rights and whatnot. But, I have realized that one thing that is getting lost in everyone’s (both men’s and women’s) working so hard away from home is homemaking. At the ole Harpeth Hall, no way in hell were they going to offer us home economics! That’s not what our parents were spending gobs of money for us to grow up to do! The whole point of going to schools like Harpeth Hall is to educate yourself out of the nitty gritty work. But I think I am not alone as a young person when I say, I wish I had JUST SOME homemaking skills.
But still, cleaning is cleaning. Nobody WANTS to do it for themselves. And if I could pay someone else to do my cleaning, I probably would. And yet! There is something nice about cleaning. Working hard and seeing the results of that work.
I have decided that this trip might just be about trying all of these things. Just to be able to say that I have cleaned, I have waitressed. Just to be able to feel CERTAIN when I am moaning about how miserable it is to be sitting at a desk in a lovely-smelling, air-conditioned office, that life isn’t much better on the other side. I just need to figure these things out for myself. That’s just who I am, I guess.
Okay, must run now. All’s well here, otherwise. Bjorn is well, and I am well, and WE are well. Hope you are, too. Much love.
****
I’ve recently taken on a new job, my friends. I am now, a couple days a week, cleaning a nearby motel.
WHAT?!
Okay, let’s calm ourselves. I know it’s a bit unbelievable. But it’s true!
Here in Akaroa, one of the easiest ways to pick up a bit of extra cash is through cleaning. There are dozens of motels, hotels, hostels, bed and breakfasts, and serviced apartments, and, well, they all need to be cleaned.
My friend Celine (one of the Frenchies who works at the restaurant) has been cleaning part-time since here arrival in Akaroa two months ago. She has one regular job at a B&B, and then she picks up another few hours here and there at Mark and Wendy’s B&B (that’s Steve’s parents).
If you had asked me before if I would ever (EVER!) clean a motel out of need for money, I am sure I would have told you no. EW! But, Celine made this whole cleaning thing sound a bit nicer. A bit more dignified. The B&B, she said, is always spotless! The guests are so clean already, she said. I barely have to clean at all! Of course, she does clean it all over anyway. Because that’s what cleaning people do!
So. The newest schedule at Vangioni’s was leaving me with about 30 hours of work per week. Not terrible, but…when you are trying to save up money to go traveling in February, 30 hours per week feels pretty darn lazy, especially on those days when you’re off, your boyfriend’s diligently putting in his 40 hours, and you have, well, NOTHING to do.
I considered getting a “real” second job, like at a café or something. But that felt like a bit too much, considering that my hours at the restaurant will probably pick up significantly in December, as the tourist season here gets underway.
So I thought the cleaning thing over. How bad can it be? I thought. Even if it IS really bad, it’s only for a couple hours a day. What is so bad that I can’t do for TWO HOURS?
(Furthermore, as my dad pointed out with a rather mischievous snicker, I might learn some very valuable skills!)
And so, after seeing an ad for a cleaner in the local paper, I marched myself over to the hiring motel and inquired. Ten minutes later, I walked out a cleaning lady. I would return two days later at 10 AM to begin my first cleaning session.
And truthfully, this is not so bad.
I will go ahead and say that being a full-time cleaning lady could potentially be awful. It’s very physically exhausting work, and, depending on who you’re cleaning up after, it could be rather soul crushing work…and it could be gross.
But, La Rive Motel, MY motel, is a very nice establishment. Not SUPER nice, but nice enough. The kind of place I’d probably find myself staying if I were splurging on a motel. There are only ten rooms, and usually, only half of those need cleaning, since people are checking out of the rooms on different days.
I work with Fran, a New Zealander, probably around my age, who, well, to be honest, seems more like the cleaning type. (Don’t hate me for saying that, but…! What am I supposed to say?) She lives at the motel and cleans for them every morning. (probably in exchange for free accommodation, though I’m not sure.) In our “getting to know you” conversation, she asked me if I watched some local soap, to which I responded No, I don’t really watch any TV here. Our TV only picks up one channel, and it’s mostly crap.
You can’t get much TV?! she replied in horror. (REALLY, my friends, she was horrified.) How awful! she said.
So my cleaning partner and I don’t have much to talk about, I guess, since I can’t talk the soaps, and that is really probably the worst part of the job - having to work with someone that you don’t much feel like talking to but working so closely that you feel obligated to TALK about SOMETHING.
We make the beds. Bottom sheet, top sheet, fleece blanket, duvets, pillows. We fold the towels and washcloths into pretty shapes and leave them arranged on the bed with little travel soaps and shampoos. We clean the bathroom, which implies everything you think it does (toilets, showers, sinks). We clean the kitchen, do any dirty dishes guests have left behind, re-stock the coffees and teas. We empty the trash, we mop the floors, we polish the wood furniture.
And we vacuum. And if you don’t know from personal experience, VACUUMING IS THE WORST THING EVER. Please, please, let me do the bathrooms! Just don’t make me vacuum!!
And then we’re done. And we move on to the next room.
It’s mindless, really. And it’s cash in hand. It gives me something to do, makes me feel purposeful. It’s cleaning. Boring, boring cleaning. But, dad may have been right. I am probably learning some very useful skills.
You know, I am all about feminism. I think it’s great stuff. We all should have equal rights and whatnot. But, I have realized that one thing that is getting lost in everyone’s (both men’s and women’s) working so hard away from home is homemaking. At the ole Harpeth Hall, no way in hell were they going to offer us home economics! That’s not what our parents were spending gobs of money for us to grow up to do! The whole point of going to schools like Harpeth Hall is to educate yourself out of the nitty gritty work. But I think I am not alone as a young person when I say, I wish I had JUST SOME homemaking skills.
But still, cleaning is cleaning. Nobody WANTS to do it for themselves. And if I could pay someone else to do my cleaning, I probably would. And yet! There is something nice about cleaning. Working hard and seeing the results of that work.
I have decided that this trip might just be about trying all of these things. Just to be able to say that I have cleaned, I have waitressed. Just to be able to feel CERTAIN when I am moaning about how miserable it is to be sitting at a desk in a lovely-smelling, air-conditioned office, that life isn’t much better on the other side. I just need to figure these things out for myself. That’s just who I am, I guess.
Okay, must run now. All’s well here, otherwise. Bjorn is well, and I am well, and WE are well. Hope you are, too. Much love.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Turkeys and Technical Difficulties
Yes, yes, yes! I know it has been too long. But I have been drowning in computer non-functioning nonsense for the last few weeks, and the blog has suffered.
My poor computer (yes, brought from home) picked up a virus in Auckland, I believe, the very first week we arrived. We tried to transfer a word document from our hostel's computer to my computer, using Bjorn's memory stick, and somewhere in the process that dirty hostel computer sneezed on my computer, spraying it with lots of nasty (and potentially fatal!) germs. Ugh.
All of this is to say that now, when we try to open word documents, we find that the contents of those documents have been replaced with a message that says "Hack by debugger!!!!!" Creepy, right?
As the weeks have passed, computer has grown sicker and sicker, and basically all the files we have on there (which includes our personal entertainment - downloaded seasons of TV shows) have been infected, corrupted, whatever.
So blogging became a bit of an adventure. Because we can only pick up wireless internet standing at our kitchen counter, it's a bit more comfortable, going into a long writing session, to sit down on the couch, put the blog into a word document, then transfer it onto the blog-site later, when you can get onto the internet. Of course, with our Word completely corrupted, you must make sure NOT to save the document or close it, because once you have, your work will be sure to be replaced by that irritating debugger message.
So what happens when, amidst all of this complicated mess, your internet goes down? Well, that's what happened to me the last time I tried to write my blog. I had written a lovely entry about life as a cleaning lady (which you'll just have to wait and wonder about for now), only to find that when I was ready to post it onto the site, the internet was completely gone.
And so, because any computer messes like this REALLY drive me bananas, I just decided to wash my hands of it and haven't been bothered with trying to get that entry posted for some weeks now.
Mr. Computer has at this point been left at a service shop in Christchurch. Please pray for healing. Hopefully we'll get it back next week.
And another excuse! Internet here is $6 an hour, and they've like completely blocked you from connecting your camera and doing fun things like downloading pictures for your friends, which is what I was attempting to do when I came to the internet today. It is FASCINATING to me that internet access was so much better (and faster and cheaper) in South America than here.
So...pulease bear with me until I have my computer situation smoothed over. I have not given up on the blog!
Meanwhile, it is Thanksgiving day in America today (though it's Friday afternoon right now here). I imagine all of my friends and family sitting around their warm homes, shoes off, glass of wine in hand, full of food, watching TV, working a puzzle, perhaps already heading back into the kitchen to pick at leftovers, depending on what time you've eaten.
It's hard to be here for Thanksgiving. Well, no, actually. It's almost too weird for it to be hard. I feel so very far away that it's hard for me to imagine that it's Thanksgiving on the other side of the world. They obviously don't celebrate this holiday here (when, as my boss says, the Americans give thanks to the Indians for letting them take over), and furthermore, they don't really eat turkey over here! Ever!
Bjorn and I went into Christchurch on Wednesday night to have a big dinner out to celebrate A) Thanksgiving, B) our 8 month anniversary, C) my half-birthday, and D) my father's early birthday. We had yummy Thai food, and then went to a restaurant that specializes in desserts for a stomach-sickening pig out. It was fun - GREAT fun - but it wasn't really Thanksgiving, was it? We didn't even talk about what we're thankful for!
So I've been making myself go through my annual what am I thankful for list, even though I have no turkey to eat and no Frazier family party to attend. And I won't write out the whole list (though one of these years I AM GOING TO DO THAT!), but my family, my friends, Bjorn, and this amazing year are in the top five. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Know what I am REALLY thankful for? Mumsy and dadsy and brother John are coming to see me...for Christmas!! I cannot wait! EEEEE! It will be such fun.
Okay, my hour at the internet is about to be up, and I am not about to spend more than $6. So sorry.
Hope everyone has had a fabulous Thanksgiving! More soon...perhaps I'll even be able to rescue my cleaning lady entry one of those days:)
Much love to you all.
My poor computer (yes, brought from home) picked up a virus in Auckland, I believe, the very first week we arrived. We tried to transfer a word document from our hostel's computer to my computer, using Bjorn's memory stick, and somewhere in the process that dirty hostel computer sneezed on my computer, spraying it with lots of nasty (and potentially fatal!) germs. Ugh.
All of this is to say that now, when we try to open word documents, we find that the contents of those documents have been replaced with a message that says "Hack by debugger!!!!!" Creepy, right?
As the weeks have passed, computer has grown sicker and sicker, and basically all the files we have on there (which includes our personal entertainment - downloaded seasons of TV shows) have been infected, corrupted, whatever.
So blogging became a bit of an adventure. Because we can only pick up wireless internet standing at our kitchen counter, it's a bit more comfortable, going into a long writing session, to sit down on the couch, put the blog into a word document, then transfer it onto the blog-site later, when you can get onto the internet. Of course, with our Word completely corrupted, you must make sure NOT to save the document or close it, because once you have, your work will be sure to be replaced by that irritating debugger message.
So what happens when, amidst all of this complicated mess, your internet goes down? Well, that's what happened to me the last time I tried to write my blog. I had written a lovely entry about life as a cleaning lady (which you'll just have to wait and wonder about for now), only to find that when I was ready to post it onto the site, the internet was completely gone.
And so, because any computer messes like this REALLY drive me bananas, I just decided to wash my hands of it and haven't been bothered with trying to get that entry posted for some weeks now.
Mr. Computer has at this point been left at a service shop in Christchurch. Please pray for healing. Hopefully we'll get it back next week.
And another excuse! Internet here is $6 an hour, and they've like completely blocked you from connecting your camera and doing fun things like downloading pictures for your friends, which is what I was attempting to do when I came to the internet today. It is FASCINATING to me that internet access was so much better (and faster and cheaper) in South America than here.
So...pulease bear with me until I have my computer situation smoothed over. I have not given up on the blog!
Meanwhile, it is Thanksgiving day in America today (though it's Friday afternoon right now here). I imagine all of my friends and family sitting around their warm homes, shoes off, glass of wine in hand, full of food, watching TV, working a puzzle, perhaps already heading back into the kitchen to pick at leftovers, depending on what time you've eaten.
It's hard to be here for Thanksgiving. Well, no, actually. It's almost too weird for it to be hard. I feel so very far away that it's hard for me to imagine that it's Thanksgiving on the other side of the world. They obviously don't celebrate this holiday here (when, as my boss says, the Americans give thanks to the Indians for letting them take over), and furthermore, they don't really eat turkey over here! Ever!
Bjorn and I went into Christchurch on Wednesday night to have a big dinner out to celebrate A) Thanksgiving, B) our 8 month anniversary, C) my half-birthday, and D) my father's early birthday. We had yummy Thai food, and then went to a restaurant that specializes in desserts for a stomach-sickening pig out. It was fun - GREAT fun - but it wasn't really Thanksgiving, was it? We didn't even talk about what we're thankful for!
So I've been making myself go through my annual what am I thankful for list, even though I have no turkey to eat and no Frazier family party to attend. And I won't write out the whole list (though one of these years I AM GOING TO DO THAT!), but my family, my friends, Bjorn, and this amazing year are in the top five. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Know what I am REALLY thankful for? Mumsy and dadsy and brother John are coming to see me...for Christmas!! I cannot wait! EEEEE! It will be such fun.
Okay, my hour at the internet is about to be up, and I am not about to spend more than $6. So sorry.
Hope everyone has had a fabulous Thanksgiving! More soon...perhaps I'll even be able to rescue my cleaning lady entry one of those days:)
Much love to you all.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Half Flush or Full?
When I arrived at the Auckland airport seven weeks ago (seven weeks! though it actually feels longer), the first thing I did when I finished with customs was hit the ATM. It was the usual stuff – enter your password, select withdrawal, key in the amount, etc. As I was wrapping things up, a message came up asking me if I wanted my receipt. Again, typical stuff. But, glancing over the message, my eyes stuck on something unusual. “Would you like your receipt? Please be mindful of the environment when making your decision.”
I am not a super environmentally conscious person. I mean, I try to recycle when I can, but environmental causes are pretty far back in my mind. Pulease, I’ve got like, Bjorn and what am I going to have for lunch today and should I have another cup of coffee and why can’t my bottom be less jiggly and all other manner of important things on my brain instead.
But in all seriousness, I was struck that day by how something so seemingly simple – just an extra sentence on an ATM machine – could make me (and millions of other ATM users) immediately aware of the environment. Do I really need my receipt? Well, no, I guess not. I’d probably just take a quick glance at it, wad it up, and throw it in the nearest trash can.
New Zealand is a very familiar place. The people speak English, they look like me, they dress like me, have similar backgrounds. But I have learned that NZ is also an extremely different place from the US, and the differences come across in very subtle ways.
The toilets here are fairly standard, but wherever you go, be it a restaurant, a gas station, a shopping mall, the toilets are spotlessly clean. The first few weeks I kept approaching public bathrooms with dread, breathing through my mouth, prepared for the worst, and finding…clean! They have these little sanitation boxes in each stall, which are full of disinfectant that you can spray out onto a bit of paper and wipe the toilet clean. A great idea, to be sure, but even greater, people ACTUALLY DO THIS! Can you imagine Americans EVER stooping so low as to clean up after themselves in public restrooms? I love us, I promise you, but we wouldn’t do it. It wouldn’t catch. I can’t figure out why.
While we are on the subject of toilets, let me also tell you how puzzled I was at first when it was time to flush. Instead of one little flusher, there are two little buttons – one plain and another with a little half-moon symbol on it. After about a week of just randomly selecting a button to push, I brought this up to Bjorn. Oh, he said, that tells the toilet how much water it needs to pump through. If it’s just a number one, it just needs a half flush. If it’s something more, it needs a whole flush.
Water saving brilliance. This is so simple it’s just silly.
I'm not trying to put America down for not operating this way, for not having these kind of systems set into place. But, when you see these simple things working so easily in a country, functioning successful, actually succeeding in making citizens more mindful about things like the environment, this light sort of dings on, like - Oh! These things ARE possible. It CAN work.
And, in light of our most recent election, I am feeling rather hopeful about things like this. Hopeful about my country. Proud of my country! We CAN change.
And that is all I am going to say about that. Because I don't like to talk politics:)
Now then. Everything is super here. This morning at 8 AM I began a five week exercise class led by my friend Erin. It's twice a week, for an hour and fifteen minutes, and we meet on the recreation field, just across the street from my house. There are about eight of us in the class, and we just do an assortment of cardio, strenth training, that sort of thing. I was doing lunges across the rec field today, the sun shining, the bay looking like its beautiful self, the mountains doing the same, and I just had an eek moment. I do love this place.
And this afternoon, I got invited to go out for a FREE sailing lesson, taught by a friend of a friend who is trying to start up a sailing instruction business. It was such fun. I got to be the jib trimmer. I got to trim the jibs. (I just sort of moved the front sail from side to side when we needed to turn.)
Sailing lessons, outdoor exercise - it's all making me very excited about the quickly approaching summer season here. (December is like our June.)
At the same time, though, I am really feeling homesick for fall. I talked to my parents the other day, and they were cozied down by the fire, eating chili - spending a November day the way it's supposed to be spent! And I thought about the fall leaves, and the way the air smells and feels, and I felt a little sad to be away from it all. But I won't complain too much. Skipping from summer to summer to summer isn't half bad!
Okay. Wrap it up, wrap it up. This blog has taken me bits and pieces of all day to write because I cannot focus! I am all over the place!
Love you all lots. Hope everyone is well and enjoying November.
I am not a super environmentally conscious person. I mean, I try to recycle when I can, but environmental causes are pretty far back in my mind. Pulease, I’ve got like, Bjorn and what am I going to have for lunch today and should I have another cup of coffee and why can’t my bottom be less jiggly and all other manner of important things on my brain instead.
But in all seriousness, I was struck that day by how something so seemingly simple – just an extra sentence on an ATM machine – could make me (and millions of other ATM users) immediately aware of the environment. Do I really need my receipt? Well, no, I guess not. I’d probably just take a quick glance at it, wad it up, and throw it in the nearest trash can.
New Zealand is a very familiar place. The people speak English, they look like me, they dress like me, have similar backgrounds. But I have learned that NZ is also an extremely different place from the US, and the differences come across in very subtle ways.
The toilets here are fairly standard, but wherever you go, be it a restaurant, a gas station, a shopping mall, the toilets are spotlessly clean. The first few weeks I kept approaching public bathrooms with dread, breathing through my mouth, prepared for the worst, and finding…clean! They have these little sanitation boxes in each stall, which are full of disinfectant that you can spray out onto a bit of paper and wipe the toilet clean. A great idea, to be sure, but even greater, people ACTUALLY DO THIS! Can you imagine Americans EVER stooping so low as to clean up after themselves in public restrooms? I love us, I promise you, but we wouldn’t do it. It wouldn’t catch. I can’t figure out why.
While we are on the subject of toilets, let me also tell you how puzzled I was at first when it was time to flush. Instead of one little flusher, there are two little buttons – one plain and another with a little half-moon symbol on it. After about a week of just randomly selecting a button to push, I brought this up to Bjorn. Oh, he said, that tells the toilet how much water it needs to pump through. If it’s just a number one, it just needs a half flush. If it’s something more, it needs a whole flush.
Water saving brilliance. This is so simple it’s just silly.
I'm not trying to put America down for not operating this way, for not having these kind of systems set into place. But, when you see these simple things working so easily in a country, functioning successful, actually succeeding in making citizens more mindful about things like the environment, this light sort of dings on, like - Oh! These things ARE possible. It CAN work.
And, in light of our most recent election, I am feeling rather hopeful about things like this. Hopeful about my country. Proud of my country! We CAN change.
And that is all I am going to say about that. Because I don't like to talk politics:)
Now then. Everything is super here. This morning at 8 AM I began a five week exercise class led by my friend Erin. It's twice a week, for an hour and fifteen minutes, and we meet on the recreation field, just across the street from my house. There are about eight of us in the class, and we just do an assortment of cardio, strenth training, that sort of thing. I was doing lunges across the rec field today, the sun shining, the bay looking like its beautiful self, the mountains doing the same, and I just had an eek moment. I do love this place.
And this afternoon, I got invited to go out for a FREE sailing lesson, taught by a friend of a friend who is trying to start up a sailing instruction business. It was such fun. I got to be the jib trimmer. I got to trim the jibs. (I just sort of moved the front sail from side to side when we needed to turn.)
Sailing lessons, outdoor exercise - it's all making me very excited about the quickly approaching summer season here. (December is like our June.)
At the same time, though, I am really feeling homesick for fall. I talked to my parents the other day, and they were cozied down by the fire, eating chili - spending a November day the way it's supposed to be spent! And I thought about the fall leaves, and the way the air smells and feels, and I felt a little sad to be away from it all. But I won't complain too much. Skipping from summer to summer to summer isn't half bad!
Okay. Wrap it up, wrap it up. This blog has taken me bits and pieces of all day to write because I cannot focus! I am all over the place!
Love you all lots. Hope everyone is well and enjoying November.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The Secret Hut and Other Stories
I have a new friend named Erin. She's a 28 year old Canadian gal who biked into Akaroa four years ago and has basically been here ever since. Her first month here, she met a local boy, Tim, and he courted her and wooed her and when she left for Canada six months later, he followed her. Now, they spend Canada summers in Canada and NZ summers in NZ. Ideal, no?
Tim and Erin started a company called On 2 Wheels, which is a bike tour service that only operates in the summer. They put you and your bike in their van, drive you up to the top of a nearby hill, and let you out, free to cruise down the other side of the hill to Le Bons Bay, a lovely beach spot nearby. When you get there, they have lunch and wine set out for you. I think it's a three hour trip in all. LEAVE THE HILLS TO US! is their slogan. I like, I like!
I was on my way home the other day when Erin popped out of Vangioni's (she works there occasionally as a favor to Steve, who happens to be Tim's best friend from growing up). Ellen! I have the best idea. I want to take you to our secret hut. Wanna come? Please, please, pulease!? It'll be so fun! (Erin is a personal trainer on the side, and she has one of those incredibly energetic personalities.)
So about twenty minutes later I was in Tim and Erin's On 2 Wheels van, riding out to the secret hut. When I first met Tim and Erin, she mentioned that they were living in a camper van on a piece of property that Tim's mom owns. They had just returned from their North American summer, and Erin was spending her days cleaning out the camper van, getting it liveable again.
Well, as it turns out, their "camper van" is code word for this adorable little one room hut they have built themselves. I guess in order to build such a hut - something that has a kitchen and that you intend to live in permanently - you technically need a building or residential permit of some kind, and those things cost money. So, whenever they speak of it publicly, it's the "camper van".
(I have a feeling that many locals know about the camper van/hut, but it seems like the kind of place where as long as you don't make anyone mad, no one will try to get you in trouble.)
We parked the van on the side of a winding forest road, about 3 miles outside of Akaroa. We can't take the van down the driveway, Erin said. We can only go down it with four wheel drive. As we started the 10 minute walk down the mud and gravel driveway, Erin and I shared stores about ourselves, and I took in the scenery. With no other houses or humans in sight, we were out in the middle of the forest (the bush as they call it here). The bluish green waters of the bay popped out in between breaks in the trees. Sailboats were out racing, each with a different color sail puffed out in front of them.
When we got to the bottom of the drive, I looked up and saw this itty bitty shack of a thing. This is it! Erin said. The main room of the hut (the only room of the hut) consists of an impromptu kitchen, with mini fridge and stove top, an orange easy chair, a lofted bed, and a turquoise painted wall. It is totally home-made and homey. Upon exiting the room, you can walk around behind it, where there is another, smaller construction - Erin's walk-in closet! Shelves full of clothes and shoes out in the middle of the forest. Unbelievable.
Next to the closet, there's a little area enclosed with a stone wall about waist-high and above, a shower head. Shower with nature. Finding myself needing to use the potty, I told Erin I was going to go off and squat somewhere (I assumed that was the drill). Oh, no! Erin said. Just follow that little path over there. There's a little pedestal of rocks you can stand on - you'll see. So I wandered back there, and sure enough, in a small opening in the trees, sat a large metal barrel of a thing, with a real toilet seat on top, and a stack of stones leaning up against it for access. Perched up there on the little potty, staring out over the bay, was incredibly charming somehow.
So what do you think? Erin asked me when I returned. Do you think you could live like this?
Well, I'm totally jealous, I said. I'd like to think I could live like this, but...I guess it would take some getting used to.
Yeah, Erin said. You know, I've just realized that you really need so little to live. I've got everything I need right here.
She poured me some juice and pulled a couple of fold-out chairs out into a clearing, and we sat and talked and watched the boats chase each other across the bay.
It's nice to have a girlfriend around. There's a loneliness that can seep in, sometimes, and there are some things that you can only talk to your girlfriends about. (Your boyfriend, for example! Just kidding, Bjorn. Hehe.) But seriously, it was so nice to just sit and talk and share stories and relate.
Erin is not what you might think of when you think of someone that lives simply. She wears makeup, has stylish clothes - she walks around Akaroa looking like she might live in NYC. And yet, she lives in this place that has nothing but the essentials - bed, shower, fridge...walk-in closet:)
The hut is the embodiment of this simple life I've imagined off and on over the past couple of years. And faced with it, I'm not sure I could really do it. But it would be an incredible vacation spot. And Erin's told me that we can come up and stay there sometime when they're away. I can't wait to take a shower out in the middle of the forest, staring out over the bay!
Regardless of whether or not I could do it, the place is incredibly cool, and I find it inspiring, too. This hut is the kind of thing that they are gong to look back on when they're fifty and laugh hysterically about, probably. But what a memory to have! The years we started the business and built ourselves a one room hut. It's so imperfect, so against all American ideals, but there's something so earnest and honest about it. I think it's great.
Okay - must go make lunch now. Hope everyone is well! And thanks for all the comments on the last post! I do love the comments. Much love.
Tim and Erin started a company called On 2 Wheels, which is a bike tour service that only operates in the summer. They put you and your bike in their van, drive you up to the top of a nearby hill, and let you out, free to cruise down the other side of the hill to Le Bons Bay, a lovely beach spot nearby. When you get there, they have lunch and wine set out for you. I think it's a three hour trip in all. LEAVE THE HILLS TO US! is their slogan. I like, I like!
I was on my way home the other day when Erin popped out of Vangioni's (she works there occasionally as a favor to Steve, who happens to be Tim's best friend from growing up). Ellen! I have the best idea. I want to take you to our secret hut. Wanna come? Please, please, pulease!? It'll be so fun! (Erin is a personal trainer on the side, and she has one of those incredibly energetic personalities.)
So about twenty minutes later I was in Tim and Erin's On 2 Wheels van, riding out to the secret hut. When I first met Tim and Erin, she mentioned that they were living in a camper van on a piece of property that Tim's mom owns. They had just returned from their North American summer, and Erin was spending her days cleaning out the camper van, getting it liveable again.
Well, as it turns out, their "camper van" is code word for this adorable little one room hut they have built themselves. I guess in order to build such a hut - something that has a kitchen and that you intend to live in permanently - you technically need a building or residential permit of some kind, and those things cost money. So, whenever they speak of it publicly, it's the "camper van".
(I have a feeling that many locals know about the camper van/hut, but it seems like the kind of place where as long as you don't make anyone mad, no one will try to get you in trouble.)
We parked the van on the side of a winding forest road, about 3 miles outside of Akaroa. We can't take the van down the driveway, Erin said. We can only go down it with four wheel drive. As we started the 10 minute walk down the mud and gravel driveway, Erin and I shared stores about ourselves, and I took in the scenery. With no other houses or humans in sight, we were out in the middle of the forest (the bush as they call it here). The bluish green waters of the bay popped out in between breaks in the trees. Sailboats were out racing, each with a different color sail puffed out in front of them.
When we got to the bottom of the drive, I looked up and saw this itty bitty shack of a thing. This is it! Erin said. The main room of the hut (the only room of the hut) consists of an impromptu kitchen, with mini fridge and stove top, an orange easy chair, a lofted bed, and a turquoise painted wall. It is totally home-made and homey. Upon exiting the room, you can walk around behind it, where there is another, smaller construction - Erin's walk-in closet! Shelves full of clothes and shoes out in the middle of the forest. Unbelievable.
Next to the closet, there's a little area enclosed with a stone wall about waist-high and above, a shower head. Shower with nature. Finding myself needing to use the potty, I told Erin I was going to go off and squat somewhere (I assumed that was the drill). Oh, no! Erin said. Just follow that little path over there. There's a little pedestal of rocks you can stand on - you'll see. So I wandered back there, and sure enough, in a small opening in the trees, sat a large metal barrel of a thing, with a real toilet seat on top, and a stack of stones leaning up against it for access. Perched up there on the little potty, staring out over the bay, was incredibly charming somehow.
So what do you think? Erin asked me when I returned. Do you think you could live like this?
Well, I'm totally jealous, I said. I'd like to think I could live like this, but...I guess it would take some getting used to.
Yeah, Erin said. You know, I've just realized that you really need so little to live. I've got everything I need right here.
She poured me some juice and pulled a couple of fold-out chairs out into a clearing, and we sat and talked and watched the boats chase each other across the bay.
It's nice to have a girlfriend around. There's a loneliness that can seep in, sometimes, and there are some things that you can only talk to your girlfriends about. (Your boyfriend, for example! Just kidding, Bjorn. Hehe.) But seriously, it was so nice to just sit and talk and share stories and relate.
Erin is not what you might think of when you think of someone that lives simply. She wears makeup, has stylish clothes - she walks around Akaroa looking like she might live in NYC. And yet, she lives in this place that has nothing but the essentials - bed, shower, fridge...walk-in closet:)
The hut is the embodiment of this simple life I've imagined off and on over the past couple of years. And faced with it, I'm not sure I could really do it. But it would be an incredible vacation spot. And Erin's told me that we can come up and stay there sometime when they're away. I can't wait to take a shower out in the middle of the forest, staring out over the bay!
Regardless of whether or not I could do it, the place is incredibly cool, and I find it inspiring, too. This hut is the kind of thing that they are gong to look back on when they're fifty and laugh hysterically about, probably. But what a memory to have! The years we started the business and built ourselves a one room hut. It's so imperfect, so against all American ideals, but there's something so earnest and honest about it. I think it's great.
Okay - must go make lunch now. Hope everyone is well! And thanks for all the comments on the last post! I do love the comments. Much love.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Vangioni's
Good evening! Welcome to Vangioni’s! Have you dined with us before? No, well, I will tell you a little bit about our menu:
Here at the front we have our tapas, which are Spanish-style small plates – simple dishes that are great for sharing as a starter. Then we have our pizzas, which are definitely a favorite here. They’re classic, Italian-style, and they’re 30 cm, so they’re big enough to share, depending on your appetite. Finally we have our Mains, and I just want to point out that the mains don’t really come with any substantial side dishes, so if you are interested in a vegetable or a salad, those are listed at the back of the menu. And, oh yes, please check out the blackboard over there for tonight’s specials.
Alright, I will give you a few minutes to think things over, and I’ll get back to you!
I’ve worked at Vangioni’s for three weeks, and I have probably said those words a hundred times already. I’m trying really hard not to sound like a robot when I say it, or to say it a bit differently from time to time, but…that’s my shpeil (I have never tried to write that word before – how do you spell it?)
Vangioni’s is a “Mediterranean” restaurant, which I think is a fancy way of saying it’s Spanish and Italian cuisine. The tapas (which I think my father could find a way to accept, especially because they’re served as appetizers here) are things like bruschette, escargot (I’ve not tried this yet, though it looks amazing – the snails come out in this hot, bubbling, butter sauce, and it smells divine!), scallops, prawns (lightly fried with this scrumptious tangy, sweet and soury kind of sauce), calamari and potatoes (and probably the best calamari I’ve ever had – not fried, just pan-sauteed), and oh yes, the most mind-boggling tray of mixed olives I have ever seen. I never knew an olive could be so good.
Our pizzas are (in my personal opinion) our best-sellers, and we may just have the best pizza in this small town. The pizzas are special because they’re different or, as Bjorn says, “This pizza has CHARACTER!”
The Helena pizza has Ham, Pineapple, and Blue Cheese, and I know it sounds a bit weird, but this pizza is really freaking good. Especially if you like blue cheese, which I do.
The Akaroa has fresh Akaroa salmon on top of mixed greens. The Kiwi has marinated lamb with yogurt sauce. The Chorizo (YUM!) has…chorizo and is a general meat-lover’s dream. The La Reine has ham, mushrooms, and olives (YUM). I could go on, but I’d need a menu, and it’s pretty early in the morning here, and I doubt anyone’s up over there yet. But, there are about 15 of these pizzas, each one unique and delicious. People go crazy over the pizzas.
The main dishes are fancy-restaurant dishes like rabbit, lamb shanks, seafood risotto, and we always serve local salmon in some form, as well as another local fish of the day. And the sides are things like oven-roasted vegetables, gratin of cauliflower (basically just cheesy and baked and bubbly and all things good), roasted potatoes, garden salad, green salad, greek salad, etcetera, etcetera.
Is anyone’s mouth watering yet?
Well, let me tell you about our desserts. The dessert menu changes every few days, but one thing that seems to consistently stay on there is the chocolate pudding. No, no, my North American friends. This is not chocolate pudding as you know it. Not even close. It’s this ridiculous, dark chocolate cakey kind of thing, baked to order. It looks something like a brownie when it’s served, but when you dip your spoon into it, you find this amazing, soft, but not quite gooey, warm chocolate pudding inside. And we serve it with vanilla ice cream, which is made on the premises.
We also frequently have some kind of bread pudding – recently we’ve had strawberry, raspberry and rum, and brioche. Apple crumble, New York cheesecake, and homemade blueberry and mint sorbet have also graced the dessert board recently.
So. I have become slightly obsessed with food. Hm. Maybe I should say, it has come to my attention that I am and have been for a while obsessed with food. Good food. Foods with strong tastes. Olives, cheeses, good wines, strong coffee. Chocolate pudding! So I feel right at home working in the restaurant, surrounding myself with one of my favorite things in life.
When my tables are taken care of and I have a bit of idle time, I go stand at the counter into the kitchen, and just watch. I am so envious of people who can cook, who can chop vegetables properly and without cutting their fingers off, who just decide to “make something up”. Steve, the owner, noticed my extreme interest in food and asked me if I liked to cook. Well, I like food, I said. I LIKE to cook, but I am a butcher my vegetables, cut my fingers off, cling to my recipe, kind of cook. Sigh.
Don’t worry, father, I am not going to go to chef school or anything crazy like that. Though it did cross my mind at least once over the last few weeks.
Vangioni’s is a FUN job. To me, it is an ideal summer job. And in the last two weeks, I’ve been taught how to work the till (the cash register, basically), so some nights, I don’t do any waitressing at all. I stand behind the bar, fix drink orders for the wait staff, and keep track of the tables’ bills. I am also learning how to make fancy coffees with the fancy coffee maker. I have probably wasted 10 liters of milk this week alone, honing my milk-frothing abilities. But! If I can become a pro at the coffees, I will be a total asset to the restaurant, AND, I will be able to work day shifts when we start opening during the days. (We are currently just open daytime on Saturday and Sunday). And then, Bjorn and I will be on the same schedule. And that will make me happy!
Okay. I will stop this food blog entry now. I hope that answers your question, Suzers.
Good news! Bjorn and I BOTH have today and tomorrow off. So, as soon as he wakes up (yes, I got out of bed at 7 AM this morning to write my blog), we are going to hop in the car and head to Hanmer Springs, which is a 2-3 hour drive northwest of here. It’s supposed to be a really nice spot in the mountains with lovely thermal baths! We’ll spend the day there today, camp around there tonight, and then head to Christchurch in the morning (back in the direction of Akaroa). We will do a bunch of grocery shopping there (because the store here is crazy expensive) and probably take in a movie and a nice dinner as well! Bueno!
Love you all. Hope all is well.
Here at the front we have our tapas, which are Spanish-style small plates – simple dishes that are great for sharing as a starter. Then we have our pizzas, which are definitely a favorite here. They’re classic, Italian-style, and they’re 30 cm, so they’re big enough to share, depending on your appetite. Finally we have our Mains, and I just want to point out that the mains don’t really come with any substantial side dishes, so if you are interested in a vegetable or a salad, those are listed at the back of the menu. And, oh yes, please check out the blackboard over there for tonight’s specials.
Alright, I will give you a few minutes to think things over, and I’ll get back to you!
I’ve worked at Vangioni’s for three weeks, and I have probably said those words a hundred times already. I’m trying really hard not to sound like a robot when I say it, or to say it a bit differently from time to time, but…that’s my shpeil (I have never tried to write that word before – how do you spell it?)
Vangioni’s is a “Mediterranean” restaurant, which I think is a fancy way of saying it’s Spanish and Italian cuisine. The tapas (which I think my father could find a way to accept, especially because they’re served as appetizers here) are things like bruschette, escargot (I’ve not tried this yet, though it looks amazing – the snails come out in this hot, bubbling, butter sauce, and it smells divine!), scallops, prawns (lightly fried with this scrumptious tangy, sweet and soury kind of sauce), calamari and potatoes (and probably the best calamari I’ve ever had – not fried, just pan-sauteed), and oh yes, the most mind-boggling tray of mixed olives I have ever seen. I never knew an olive could be so good.
Our pizzas are (in my personal opinion) our best-sellers, and we may just have the best pizza in this small town. The pizzas are special because they’re different or, as Bjorn says, “This pizza has CHARACTER!”
The Helena pizza has Ham, Pineapple, and Blue Cheese, and I know it sounds a bit weird, but this pizza is really freaking good. Especially if you like blue cheese, which I do.
The Akaroa has fresh Akaroa salmon on top of mixed greens. The Kiwi has marinated lamb with yogurt sauce. The Chorizo (YUM!) has…chorizo and is a general meat-lover’s dream. The La Reine has ham, mushrooms, and olives (YUM). I could go on, but I’d need a menu, and it’s pretty early in the morning here, and I doubt anyone’s up over there yet. But, there are about 15 of these pizzas, each one unique and delicious. People go crazy over the pizzas.
The main dishes are fancy-restaurant dishes like rabbit, lamb shanks, seafood risotto, and we always serve local salmon in some form, as well as another local fish of the day. And the sides are things like oven-roasted vegetables, gratin of cauliflower (basically just cheesy and baked and bubbly and all things good), roasted potatoes, garden salad, green salad, greek salad, etcetera, etcetera.
Is anyone’s mouth watering yet?
Well, let me tell you about our desserts. The dessert menu changes every few days, but one thing that seems to consistently stay on there is the chocolate pudding. No, no, my North American friends. This is not chocolate pudding as you know it. Not even close. It’s this ridiculous, dark chocolate cakey kind of thing, baked to order. It looks something like a brownie when it’s served, but when you dip your spoon into it, you find this amazing, soft, but not quite gooey, warm chocolate pudding inside. And we serve it with vanilla ice cream, which is made on the premises.
We also frequently have some kind of bread pudding – recently we’ve had strawberry, raspberry and rum, and brioche. Apple crumble, New York cheesecake, and homemade blueberry and mint sorbet have also graced the dessert board recently.
So. I have become slightly obsessed with food. Hm. Maybe I should say, it has come to my attention that I am and have been for a while obsessed with food. Good food. Foods with strong tastes. Olives, cheeses, good wines, strong coffee. Chocolate pudding! So I feel right at home working in the restaurant, surrounding myself with one of my favorite things in life.
When my tables are taken care of and I have a bit of idle time, I go stand at the counter into the kitchen, and just watch. I am so envious of people who can cook, who can chop vegetables properly and without cutting their fingers off, who just decide to “make something up”. Steve, the owner, noticed my extreme interest in food and asked me if I liked to cook. Well, I like food, I said. I LIKE to cook, but I am a butcher my vegetables, cut my fingers off, cling to my recipe, kind of cook. Sigh.
Don’t worry, father, I am not going to go to chef school or anything crazy like that. Though it did cross my mind at least once over the last few weeks.
Vangioni’s is a FUN job. To me, it is an ideal summer job. And in the last two weeks, I’ve been taught how to work the till (the cash register, basically), so some nights, I don’t do any waitressing at all. I stand behind the bar, fix drink orders for the wait staff, and keep track of the tables’ bills. I am also learning how to make fancy coffees with the fancy coffee maker. I have probably wasted 10 liters of milk this week alone, honing my milk-frothing abilities. But! If I can become a pro at the coffees, I will be a total asset to the restaurant, AND, I will be able to work day shifts when we start opening during the days. (We are currently just open daytime on Saturday and Sunday). And then, Bjorn and I will be on the same schedule. And that will make me happy!
Okay. I will stop this food blog entry now. I hope that answers your question, Suzers.
Good news! Bjorn and I BOTH have today and tomorrow off. So, as soon as he wakes up (yes, I got out of bed at 7 AM this morning to write my blog), we are going to hop in the car and head to Hanmer Springs, which is a 2-3 hour drive northwest of here. It’s supposed to be a really nice spot in the mountains with lovely thermal baths! We’ll spend the day there today, camp around there tonight, and then head to Christchurch in the morning (back in the direction of Akaroa). We will do a bunch of grocery shopping there (because the store here is crazy expensive) and probably take in a movie and a nice dinner as well! Bueno!
Love you all. Hope all is well.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
For Your Viewing Pleasure
A few pics from Wellington and our new home, Akaroa - http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy . Enjoy!
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Akaroa, Akaroa
Oh, my friends. What a happy few days this has been!
Wellington wasn’t feeling so right. It’s a perfectly nice town. I COULD live there. It’s very green, with lots of cute, old, brightly painted Victorian houses lining the hilly streets. And there’s plenty to do. It has all of the things a city has to offer – movies, restaurants, bars, shopping, with the bonus of easy access to outdoor activities.
But, well, we just weren’t getting anywhere in Wellington. Jobs weren’t popping out at us, and the more we thought things over, the more we admitted to each other that living in a city wasn’t exactly what we wanted to get out of this trip.
On top of this, it is insanely windy in Wellington. And my bangs do not like windy. Did I just write that?
Anyway, we widened our search. We started poring over online job listings for all of New Zealand, and we found that a vast majority of the seasonal jobs for people like us were down in the South Island. We found one posting that was particularly interesting – a farm hostel in Akaroa, a small town just south of Christchurch, was looking to hire two people to work for accommodation, one to work the reception desk and one to do light cleaning. Work for accommodation sounds good, we said! Think of all the money we will save!
We spoke with the guy at this hostel, and he encouraged us to come down and check out the place. See if it suited us. He did advise us that these jobs left us enough time to get second jobs, so we could actually MAKE some money, too. And so we kept looking, and we found yet another posting for this very same tiny town, this one for wait staff at a little restaurant. We called this guy up, too, and he also encouraged us to come on down.
And so we did. Akaroa or bust! Well, we decided that we’d just go have a look, and if it didn’t work, no big deal. There was plenty of work in Christchurch, too.
We pulled into Akaroa around 11 AM on Tuesday morning, and as we drove through the hills around the town, you could just feel the tension building in the car. Oh dear Lord, I thought. This is the most incredibly beautiful place I have ever seen. I MUST live here. This MUST work out. PLEASE let this work out. We were both immediately in love with the town, and the prospect of not getting to stay was, well, not happy.
Akaroa is about 85 kilometers southeast of Christchurch, on the eastern coast of the South Island. It is one of several itty bitty towns across the Banks Peninsula, and sits on the edge of a gorgeous turquoise bay, closed in on three sides by tall, green hills. Historically, it is the first French settlement in New Zealand, and they’ve tried to preserve the “frenchness” of the place – all of the streets are named Rue this and Rue that.
It is a small town, but a tourist town. Its population swells from 600 in the winter to 10,000 in the summer. Isn’t that incredible? There’s one main street that wraps around the bay, with cute little cafes and restaurants and B&Bs, and then the town sprawls up into the hills behind. The town is complete with sailboats in the bay, a lighthouse, a cemetery for the original French settlers, a vineyard – need I go on?
It is perhaps the most charming place I have ever visited. And guess what? I don’t have to be just a visitor! I get to LIVE here for three months!
Es correcto. I have a job. So does Bjorn.
About fifteen minutes after arriving in Akaroa, we decided to go ahead and call Steve Bradley, the owner of the restaurant. We had had some second thoughts about the hostel jobs, given that they wanted to the reception person to work 9AM to 9 PM three days in a row, in exchange for accommodation. It wasn’t the hours that sounded bad, but it just didn’t financially make much sense. The hostel guy was definitely getting more out of the situation than we would be.
Steve Bradley said he was at home (an apartment over the restaurant), so why don’t we just stop on by for a chat?
Steve is about the nicest guy on the planet. He’s probably in his early thirties, born and raised in Akaroa. After university, he went traveling around for about six years, then returned to Akaroa, to find that his parents were trying to decide what to do with this little piece of property they owned in town. We should put a shop in there, they said. I’ll open a restaurant there, Steve said.
And so Vangioni’s popped up two years ago.
Steve walked us around the restaurant, told us he could definitely start one of us waiting tables full-time as soon as the next day, and asked if we needed a place to live. Yep, we sure do. So he walked us over to a little house right next to the restaurant and said we could stay here if we liked, for just $440/month. (That’s about $290/month in American dollars, and split between two people that’s…$145.)
Steve asked us if we were interested, and we just stood there with our mouths open like, uhhhh, YES PLEASE!
Bjorn sweetly and graciously let me take this first job we found, as we had previously agreed (since, well, I have a bit less money than he does), and Steve told me to show up at the restaurant at 3 PM the next day. And that was that! Within an hour of our arrival, we were all set. Incredible.
We went out for a celebratory lunch, and had our first beer in 9 days. (Our first night in Wellington, we had made a pact not to spend any money on alcohol until we had jobs. We found a little loophole in this pact, though. A movie theater in Wellington had a super offer where you could get a movie ticket and a glass of wine for $12.50 – and tickets are normally $15. We decided it was NOT cheating to save ourselves $2.50 by having a glass of wine.) It was a very happy day.
The following day, while purchasing a hair dryer at the local supply store (girl’s gotta be able to make herself presentable if she’s going to wait tables), I saw a sign mentioning that they were looking to hire a sales assistant. I chitty chatted with the woman for a few minutes and told her my boyfriend would be very interested in the position. Send him down, she said. So I went out on the street, found Bjorn wandering around, feeling a bit rejected from a couple of other places he’d tried, and sent him up the street.
And presto change-o, ten minutes later, Bjorn walked out with a job. I like this hiring system here.
So we have this new life here. Just like that. Isn’t it amazing how easily you can start a new life? We have jobs, a car, and a house. It’s nothing permanent of course, but it’s EXACTLY what we were both looking for, in the end. A bit of normalcy in an amazing location.
I’ve worked two nights at the restaurant now, and I think it’s going to work out very well. It’s a small place – just ten tables inside and six outside – but it has a warm, cozy feeling. At the moment, I am working with Selene and Frankie, best friends from France who are living in another flat above the restaurant; Viv (a guy), the chef from NZ; Tomas, the dish guy from Chile; and Steve. Every night after we wrap things up, the six of us sit down and share a meal together, and I look around and think, this is just too cool. The six of us sitting together, from all different places. It’s hard to find that.
Now I’m sitting here in our living room, drinking hot tea, and wondering what I am going to do with this day. Bjorn has gone off to work, and I don’t have to go to work til 4:30 PM, so I have my whole day free! But with the beach thirty seconds from my door and all of the little hiking trails around Akaroa, I am sure I will think of something!
Hope everyone is well. Much love.
Wellington wasn’t feeling so right. It’s a perfectly nice town. I COULD live there. It’s very green, with lots of cute, old, brightly painted Victorian houses lining the hilly streets. And there’s plenty to do. It has all of the things a city has to offer – movies, restaurants, bars, shopping, with the bonus of easy access to outdoor activities.
But, well, we just weren’t getting anywhere in Wellington. Jobs weren’t popping out at us, and the more we thought things over, the more we admitted to each other that living in a city wasn’t exactly what we wanted to get out of this trip.
On top of this, it is insanely windy in Wellington. And my bangs do not like windy. Did I just write that?
Anyway, we widened our search. We started poring over online job listings for all of New Zealand, and we found that a vast majority of the seasonal jobs for people like us were down in the South Island. We found one posting that was particularly interesting – a farm hostel in Akaroa, a small town just south of Christchurch, was looking to hire two people to work for accommodation, one to work the reception desk and one to do light cleaning. Work for accommodation sounds good, we said! Think of all the money we will save!
We spoke with the guy at this hostel, and he encouraged us to come down and check out the place. See if it suited us. He did advise us that these jobs left us enough time to get second jobs, so we could actually MAKE some money, too. And so we kept looking, and we found yet another posting for this very same tiny town, this one for wait staff at a little restaurant. We called this guy up, too, and he also encouraged us to come on down.
And so we did. Akaroa or bust! Well, we decided that we’d just go have a look, and if it didn’t work, no big deal. There was plenty of work in Christchurch, too.
We pulled into Akaroa around 11 AM on Tuesday morning, and as we drove through the hills around the town, you could just feel the tension building in the car. Oh dear Lord, I thought. This is the most incredibly beautiful place I have ever seen. I MUST live here. This MUST work out. PLEASE let this work out. We were both immediately in love with the town, and the prospect of not getting to stay was, well, not happy.
Akaroa is about 85 kilometers southeast of Christchurch, on the eastern coast of the South Island. It is one of several itty bitty towns across the Banks Peninsula, and sits on the edge of a gorgeous turquoise bay, closed in on three sides by tall, green hills. Historically, it is the first French settlement in New Zealand, and they’ve tried to preserve the “frenchness” of the place – all of the streets are named Rue this and Rue that.
It is a small town, but a tourist town. Its population swells from 600 in the winter to 10,000 in the summer. Isn’t that incredible? There’s one main street that wraps around the bay, with cute little cafes and restaurants and B&Bs, and then the town sprawls up into the hills behind. The town is complete with sailboats in the bay, a lighthouse, a cemetery for the original French settlers, a vineyard – need I go on?
It is perhaps the most charming place I have ever visited. And guess what? I don’t have to be just a visitor! I get to LIVE here for three months!
Es correcto. I have a job. So does Bjorn.
About fifteen minutes after arriving in Akaroa, we decided to go ahead and call Steve Bradley, the owner of the restaurant. We had had some second thoughts about the hostel jobs, given that they wanted to the reception person to work 9AM to 9 PM three days in a row, in exchange for accommodation. It wasn’t the hours that sounded bad, but it just didn’t financially make much sense. The hostel guy was definitely getting more out of the situation than we would be.
Steve Bradley said he was at home (an apartment over the restaurant), so why don’t we just stop on by for a chat?
Steve is about the nicest guy on the planet. He’s probably in his early thirties, born and raised in Akaroa. After university, he went traveling around for about six years, then returned to Akaroa, to find that his parents were trying to decide what to do with this little piece of property they owned in town. We should put a shop in there, they said. I’ll open a restaurant there, Steve said.
And so Vangioni’s popped up two years ago.
Steve walked us around the restaurant, told us he could definitely start one of us waiting tables full-time as soon as the next day, and asked if we needed a place to live. Yep, we sure do. So he walked us over to a little house right next to the restaurant and said we could stay here if we liked, for just $440/month. (That’s about $290/month in American dollars, and split between two people that’s…$145.)
Steve asked us if we were interested, and we just stood there with our mouths open like, uhhhh, YES PLEASE!
Bjorn sweetly and graciously let me take this first job we found, as we had previously agreed (since, well, I have a bit less money than he does), and Steve told me to show up at the restaurant at 3 PM the next day. And that was that! Within an hour of our arrival, we were all set. Incredible.
We went out for a celebratory lunch, and had our first beer in 9 days. (Our first night in Wellington, we had made a pact not to spend any money on alcohol until we had jobs. We found a little loophole in this pact, though. A movie theater in Wellington had a super offer where you could get a movie ticket and a glass of wine for $12.50 – and tickets are normally $15. We decided it was NOT cheating to save ourselves $2.50 by having a glass of wine.) It was a very happy day.
The following day, while purchasing a hair dryer at the local supply store (girl’s gotta be able to make herself presentable if she’s going to wait tables), I saw a sign mentioning that they were looking to hire a sales assistant. I chitty chatted with the woman for a few minutes and told her my boyfriend would be very interested in the position. Send him down, she said. So I went out on the street, found Bjorn wandering around, feeling a bit rejected from a couple of other places he’d tried, and sent him up the street.
And presto change-o, ten minutes later, Bjorn walked out with a job. I like this hiring system here.
So we have this new life here. Just like that. Isn’t it amazing how easily you can start a new life? We have jobs, a car, and a house. It’s nothing permanent of course, but it’s EXACTLY what we were both looking for, in the end. A bit of normalcy in an amazing location.
I’ve worked two nights at the restaurant now, and I think it’s going to work out very well. It’s a small place – just ten tables inside and six outside – but it has a warm, cozy feeling. At the moment, I am working with Selene and Frankie, best friends from France who are living in another flat above the restaurant; Viv (a guy), the chef from NZ; Tomas, the dish guy from Chile; and Steve. Every night after we wrap things up, the six of us sit down and share a meal together, and I look around and think, this is just too cool. The six of us sitting together, from all different places. It’s hard to find that.
Now I’m sitting here in our living room, drinking hot tea, and wondering what I am going to do with this day. Bjorn has gone off to work, and I don’t have to go to work til 4:30 PM, so I have my whole day free! But with the beach thirty seconds from my door and all of the little hiking trails around Akaroa, I am sure I will think of something!
Hope everyone is well. Much love.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The Sun'll Come Out...Right?
And here we are in Wellington.
The drive was thankfully uneventful. Betty heartily chugged along the entire 9 hours, against my fears of her turning out to be a flakey lemon. We lucked out with the weather and had blue skies for the entire drive, so I sat myself in the passenger seat, let Bjorn drive, and took in the scenery.
And, oh, the scenery. The first several hours of the drive were mostly farmland. Sheep, sheep, and more sheep. And red deer. And cows. There are small towns everywhere along the way, and if I understand things correctly, the majority of New Zealanders live in small towns. (Auckland is a whopping 1 million people, but NZ as a whole is only 4 million. So that means that the remaining 3 million are spread out, which means there is a lot of green space in NZ.)
Interstate number one lead us all the way down the heart of the north island. About halfway, we hit Taupo, a little resort town situated on a huge lake with a perfectly-shaped volcano behind it. (I feel certain that Bjorn is the only friend I have who is interested in Lord of the Rings trivia, but...if any of you are interested, this volcano, Mount Tongariro, IS Mount Doom in the movies. Oh boy.) We had a picnic dinner of peanut butter and banana sandwiches while sitting out by the lake, watching skydivers plummet through the skies above us, and marvelling at the gorgeous mountains around us.
We pulled Betty into a campsite around 8 PM. There were no other cars or campers, though I could hear what sounded like a large river running close by, along with lots of shrieking birds. It was almost completely dark. I am NOT going to be a wus, I told myself. No way. There is nothing to be scared of. We are in the middle of nowhereland, NZ. They don't have boogeymen in NZ. Well, instead of actually pitching the tent, we decided to set up camp inside the car. So we pulled out the middle seat, spread our sleeping mats and bags down and hoped sleep would come. I was actually quite comfortable and slept pretty well. Betty kept us nice and toasty, though it must have been a very cold night - there was frost on the grass the next morning!
But now, at least we know sleeping in the car CAN be done, and fairly comfortably and safely. And...cheaply! We saved ourselves so much money by not staying in a hostel that we decided to splurge and enjoy a lovely McDonald's breakfast a few miles down the road on Monday. Yum, yum.
So we arrived in Wellington around noon on Monday, just before the rain.
Side note: It's amazing to me what weather does for a person's (this person's) disposition. The rain greeting me in Wellington made me feel CERTAIN that Wellington was not going to be a good place for us to try to settle down. We made a trip to the grocery store in the rain and by the time we got home, I had knotted myself into a tight little wad of fury. The wind was relentless, blowing the cold rain up in my face - this is NOT what I signed up for! On top of the weather, our initial pokings into the job search were not positive. I had gone into this knowing I was going to end up with some kind of crap job, far beneath my ability level, but there weren't even crap jobs turning up.
What were we doing? I wondered. Had we made this HUGE mistake? Was I going to run out of money and have to turn up back at home shamefaced and with nothing to do? My everyday self could have talked myself out of this line of thinking, could've lead myself away from the scaries and the negatives. But, on a rainy day...the scaries got the better of me.
Worse still, hoping that Tuesday morning would greet me with sunshine and a fresh page, I woke to the sound of furious winds knocking the windows and rain pouring down. STILL! Pouring!
We couldn't go out (or wouldn't, I'm not sure which), which made me feel totally unproductive. We are NEVER going to get a job at THIS rate, I thought, miserably watching the rain from the TV room of the hostel. My life is a mess. What a disaster I have made.
Luckily, I've got Bjorn here, who watches me burying myself in these ugly places and pulls me out. It's just a little rain, he says. I didn't realize you weren't going to be able to handle a little rain every now and then. And then I remember, oh yes, I cannot control things like this! Better to just accept that it is going to be a lazy day and...be lazy.
The sun came out yesterday afternoon, so we were able to get out and do a bit of exploring around the city. And we sat down at the internet for a long while and applied for jobs, which felt good. Getting somewhere!
I'm feeling torn about the job situation. I can easily get myself a temporary office job here. Data entry, administrative work, whatever. You name it, I have done it. I can do it. We can sit here in Wellington for the next three months, and I can go into an office every day, and I can make money and save it up so we can go spend it all in January, when the weather is warmer. But, hmmmm...Did I come to New Zealand to do office work? I just can't stomach that idea.
So we have contacted a few dairy farms. And we've registered with WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms). Even if I can't really MAKE any money, at least I'll walk away with an experience, right? So, we'll see what turns up.
I have had a lovely sightseeing day today. Got a tour of Parliament today, took the cable car up to the Botanic Gardens, wandered through the gardens, people watching and admiring the flowers. Enjoying the beautiful spring day.
And so things are looking up. Things will work out, one way or another. Not having a plan WAS the plan, so we're just going to take it one day at a time, see what happens, and go with it. And, oh yes, hope it doesn't rain too much.
Love you all.
The drive was thankfully uneventful. Betty heartily chugged along the entire 9 hours, against my fears of her turning out to be a flakey lemon. We lucked out with the weather and had blue skies for the entire drive, so I sat myself in the passenger seat, let Bjorn drive, and took in the scenery.
And, oh, the scenery. The first several hours of the drive were mostly farmland. Sheep, sheep, and more sheep. And red deer. And cows. There are small towns everywhere along the way, and if I understand things correctly, the majority of New Zealanders live in small towns. (Auckland is a whopping 1 million people, but NZ as a whole is only 4 million. So that means that the remaining 3 million are spread out, which means there is a lot of green space in NZ.)
Interstate number one lead us all the way down the heart of the north island. About halfway, we hit Taupo, a little resort town situated on a huge lake with a perfectly-shaped volcano behind it. (I feel certain that Bjorn is the only friend I have who is interested in Lord of the Rings trivia, but...if any of you are interested, this volcano, Mount Tongariro, IS Mount Doom in the movies. Oh boy.) We had a picnic dinner of peanut butter and banana sandwiches while sitting out by the lake, watching skydivers plummet through the skies above us, and marvelling at the gorgeous mountains around us.
We pulled Betty into a campsite around 8 PM. There were no other cars or campers, though I could hear what sounded like a large river running close by, along with lots of shrieking birds. It was almost completely dark. I am NOT going to be a wus, I told myself. No way. There is nothing to be scared of. We are in the middle of nowhereland, NZ. They don't have boogeymen in NZ. Well, instead of actually pitching the tent, we decided to set up camp inside the car. So we pulled out the middle seat, spread our sleeping mats and bags down and hoped sleep would come. I was actually quite comfortable and slept pretty well. Betty kept us nice and toasty, though it must have been a very cold night - there was frost on the grass the next morning!
But now, at least we know sleeping in the car CAN be done, and fairly comfortably and safely. And...cheaply! We saved ourselves so much money by not staying in a hostel that we decided to splurge and enjoy a lovely McDonald's breakfast a few miles down the road on Monday. Yum, yum.
So we arrived in Wellington around noon on Monday, just before the rain.
Side note: It's amazing to me what weather does for a person's (this person's) disposition. The rain greeting me in Wellington made me feel CERTAIN that Wellington was not going to be a good place for us to try to settle down. We made a trip to the grocery store in the rain and by the time we got home, I had knotted myself into a tight little wad of fury. The wind was relentless, blowing the cold rain up in my face - this is NOT what I signed up for! On top of the weather, our initial pokings into the job search were not positive. I had gone into this knowing I was going to end up with some kind of crap job, far beneath my ability level, but there weren't even crap jobs turning up.
What were we doing? I wondered. Had we made this HUGE mistake? Was I going to run out of money and have to turn up back at home shamefaced and with nothing to do? My everyday self could have talked myself out of this line of thinking, could've lead myself away from the scaries and the negatives. But, on a rainy day...the scaries got the better of me.
Worse still, hoping that Tuesday morning would greet me with sunshine and a fresh page, I woke to the sound of furious winds knocking the windows and rain pouring down. STILL! Pouring!
We couldn't go out (or wouldn't, I'm not sure which), which made me feel totally unproductive. We are NEVER going to get a job at THIS rate, I thought, miserably watching the rain from the TV room of the hostel. My life is a mess. What a disaster I have made.
Luckily, I've got Bjorn here, who watches me burying myself in these ugly places and pulls me out. It's just a little rain, he says. I didn't realize you weren't going to be able to handle a little rain every now and then. And then I remember, oh yes, I cannot control things like this! Better to just accept that it is going to be a lazy day and...be lazy.
The sun came out yesterday afternoon, so we were able to get out and do a bit of exploring around the city. And we sat down at the internet for a long while and applied for jobs, which felt good. Getting somewhere!
I'm feeling torn about the job situation. I can easily get myself a temporary office job here. Data entry, administrative work, whatever. You name it, I have done it. I can do it. We can sit here in Wellington for the next three months, and I can go into an office every day, and I can make money and save it up so we can go spend it all in January, when the weather is warmer. But, hmmmm...Did I come to New Zealand to do office work? I just can't stomach that idea.
So we have contacted a few dairy farms. And we've registered with WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms). Even if I can't really MAKE any money, at least I'll walk away with an experience, right? So, we'll see what turns up.
I have had a lovely sightseeing day today. Got a tour of Parliament today, took the cable car up to the Botanic Gardens, wandered through the gardens, people watching and admiring the flowers. Enjoying the beautiful spring day.
And so things are looking up. Things will work out, one way or another. Not having a plan WAS the plan, so we're just going to take it one day at a time, see what happens, and go with it. And, oh yes, hope it doesn't rain too much.
Love you all.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Photos
One more thing...Here's a few pictures from this last week. Hopefully they will explain a bit of what we have been up to, since I haven't written about it (I know, I know...)
http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy
http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy
Blue Betty Blue
Now, getting on with things.
Bjorn and I became proud parents yesterday. We are the new owners of a baby blue 1994 Mitsubishi Magna station wagon. Betty, as we have named her, is a good car. Gooood car, we tell her, as we pet her. (Okay, that's just me.)
We got out on the streets of Auckland early yesterday morning to get ourselves down to the City Car Fair, which occurs every Saturday from 9 AM to 1 PM. People pay a small fee to park their cars in a big parking lot and let people like us come look at them. It was a small showing. They had one row for cars under $3,000, one row for cars over $3,000, and one row for camper vans.
Bjorn fell in love with Betty at first sight. He truly did. She had a sticker in her front window that boasted an economical $1650 price, she had a stick shift, she had curves and a big, round, station-wagony bottom, and the killer, she was a shiny baby blue color. He walked around her, asked the owner a few questions, but I could see in his eyes - he was a smitten kitten.
Let's walk around and look at the other cars, I said. And we did, half-heartedly. That one's too expensive, Bjorn said. That one's too white, Bjorn said. That one's missing the driver's side mirror, Bjorn said. Bjorn looped back around to Betty. This one is just such a nice color, he said.
I rolled my eyes and said, super. Fine. Let's take her for a drive. So we did. The owner made me sit in the passenger seat in the front, much to my dismay. They drive on the wrong side of the road here, and well, it's scary. And with Bjorn behind the wheel of the car... It's not that I don't trust his driving skills, but he hadn't driven on the wrong side of the road since the last time he was here three years ago. But I fastened my safety belt and dug my nails into poor Betty's seats and hoped for the best.
Bjorn did very well. But it was quite funny to watch him reach for the stick shift with his right hand and grab the door, only to realize that, oh yes, it's on his left side now. And every time he tried to turn his turn signal on, he flicked the windshield wipers. They're on opposite sides, too.
We drove her around the block a couple of times, and then out onto the interstate, across the bridge to Devenport and back. And well, we were sold. We pulled back into the lot, shook hands with the owner, then went to the cash machine to get out an enormous wad of twenties. Done deal. We paid $1600 NZ, which is about $1100 US. Not too bad!
She was Betty from the moment we saw her, but Bjorn's calling her Betty Blue and I'm calling her Blue Betty. Can't agree on everything!
So. This afternoon after lunch, Betty is taking us to Wellington. It's about 9 hours south of Auckland, on the very southernmost tip of the north island, but we are going to stop about halfway through tonight and camp...somewhere. Ohhhh boy! Then we will hopefully settle ourselves down in Wellington, assuming we can find a place to stay and jobs. Hopefully, hopefully.
It's been a hectic few days here, lots of odds and ends to get tied up before we can work and own cars, but we are getting there, bit by bit. And now that we've got Betty, good things are surely ahead. More soon. Much love.
Bjorn and I became proud parents yesterday. We are the new owners of a baby blue 1994 Mitsubishi Magna station wagon. Betty, as we have named her, is a good car. Gooood car, we tell her, as we pet her. (Okay, that's just me.)
We got out on the streets of Auckland early yesterday morning to get ourselves down to the City Car Fair, which occurs every Saturday from 9 AM to 1 PM. People pay a small fee to park their cars in a big parking lot and let people like us come look at them. It was a small showing. They had one row for cars under $3,000, one row for cars over $3,000, and one row for camper vans.
Bjorn fell in love with Betty at first sight. He truly did. She had a sticker in her front window that boasted an economical $1650 price, she had a stick shift, she had curves and a big, round, station-wagony bottom, and the killer, she was a shiny baby blue color. He walked around her, asked the owner a few questions, but I could see in his eyes - he was a smitten kitten.
Let's walk around and look at the other cars, I said. And we did, half-heartedly. That one's too expensive, Bjorn said. That one's too white, Bjorn said. That one's missing the driver's side mirror, Bjorn said. Bjorn looped back around to Betty. This one is just such a nice color, he said.
I rolled my eyes and said, super. Fine. Let's take her for a drive. So we did. The owner made me sit in the passenger seat in the front, much to my dismay. They drive on the wrong side of the road here, and well, it's scary. And with Bjorn behind the wheel of the car... It's not that I don't trust his driving skills, but he hadn't driven on the wrong side of the road since the last time he was here three years ago. But I fastened my safety belt and dug my nails into poor Betty's seats and hoped for the best.
Bjorn did very well. But it was quite funny to watch him reach for the stick shift with his right hand and grab the door, only to realize that, oh yes, it's on his left side now. And every time he tried to turn his turn signal on, he flicked the windshield wipers. They're on opposite sides, too.
We drove her around the block a couple of times, and then out onto the interstate, across the bridge to Devenport and back. And well, we were sold. We pulled back into the lot, shook hands with the owner, then went to the cash machine to get out an enormous wad of twenties. Done deal. We paid $1600 NZ, which is about $1100 US. Not too bad!
She was Betty from the moment we saw her, but Bjorn's calling her Betty Blue and I'm calling her Blue Betty. Can't agree on everything!
So. This afternoon after lunch, Betty is taking us to Wellington. It's about 9 hours south of Auckland, on the very southernmost tip of the north island, but we are going to stop about halfway through tonight and camp...somewhere. Ohhhh boy! Then we will hopefully settle ourselves down in Wellington, assuming we can find a place to stay and jobs. Hopefully, hopefully.
It's been a hectic few days here, lots of odds and ends to get tied up before we can work and own cars, but we are getting there, bit by bit. And now that we've got Betty, good things are surely ahead. More soon. Much love.
Maggie
My grandmother, Maggie, passed away on Thursday. I have tried to write this into my blog over the last couple of days, but it just felt strained and stretched and unnatural. But it must be written about. Or at least said.
My grandmother passed away, and aside from the most obvious loss of her, I am also feeling the loss of being able to go through this with my mother and the rest of my family. You get an email from your mother telling you about what happened, you cry, you mourn, and then you step outside, and you're in...Auckland, New Zealand. And trying to relate that to anything in your back-home life just doesn't work.
So you walk down the street for a few minutes and suddenly, it's like it didn't happen at all. The sadness, the facts, have slipped into some nowhere place in your head. Some space where you put things that you don't get or don't want to get. And you call home because you want to call home and you want to be there for your mom, but when she's on the line, she feels a million miles away. And she is.
And you try to think about your family during the day and wonder what they're doing. The extended family has come into town, your brother has flown in. Everyone is gathering, but where are you? What are you doing?
Living your life, I guess, is what you are doing. But what a loss - to not be able to grieve with your loved ones. To not be able to support from the other side of the world. To hope that they know that you're thinking about them all the time.
The bright shiny part of all of this is that I was able to say goodbye to Maggie. I was able to tell her everything I wanted to tell her. I sat with her for a long time last Thursday, before I left Nashville. And I reminded her that I was leaving again, and we both knew what that meant. And she said, Thank you. Those were her last words to me. She understood.
I won't try to write a tribute to her here. It would take me weeks to put something like that together for someone like her. But I had to mention it. Because it's part of this trip. And it's one of the reasons that people don't take trips like this. What if...? But you can't say what if. I can't say what if, at least. So we keep going, hoping we've made the right decisions and doing our best. That is all I can do.
Much love.
My grandmother passed away, and aside from the most obvious loss of her, I am also feeling the loss of being able to go through this with my mother and the rest of my family. You get an email from your mother telling you about what happened, you cry, you mourn, and then you step outside, and you're in...Auckland, New Zealand. And trying to relate that to anything in your back-home life just doesn't work.
So you walk down the street for a few minutes and suddenly, it's like it didn't happen at all. The sadness, the facts, have slipped into some nowhere place in your head. Some space where you put things that you don't get or don't want to get. And you call home because you want to call home and you want to be there for your mom, but when she's on the line, she feels a million miles away. And she is.
And you try to think about your family during the day and wonder what they're doing. The extended family has come into town, your brother has flown in. Everyone is gathering, but where are you? What are you doing?
Living your life, I guess, is what you are doing. But what a loss - to not be able to grieve with your loved ones. To not be able to support from the other side of the world. To hope that they know that you're thinking about them all the time.
The bright shiny part of all of this is that I was able to say goodbye to Maggie. I was able to tell her everything I wanted to tell her. I sat with her for a long time last Thursday, before I left Nashville. And I reminded her that I was leaving again, and we both knew what that meant. And she said, Thank you. Those were her last words to me. She understood.
I won't try to write a tribute to her here. It would take me weeks to put something like that together for someone like her. But I had to mention it. Because it's part of this trip. And it's one of the reasons that people don't take trips like this. What if...? But you can't say what if. I can't say what if, at least. So we keep going, hoping we've made the right decisions and doing our best. That is all I can do.
Much love.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
On the Road...Again
Well, my friends, here I am again. On the road again. Most of you already know the story of why and of what I am doing this time. For those of you that don’t, here’s a short summary:
My traveling companion-turned-boyfriend, Bjorn, had just left for Sweden when I last wrote. We had a big pow-wow before parting, and agreed that we wanted to stay together, knowing it was slightly insane and totally impractical. That staying together was going to entail a summer’s worth of time apart, not to mention, where would we meet up again? Would he move to the United States? Would I move to Sweden? Was anyone ready to be MOVING to another country? Well, why don’t we just take another trip? we said. Why don’t we go somewhere that is neither your country nor mine, and why don’t we try to go somewhere we can both work and live and try to have some semblance of a normal life? Why don’t we…go to New Zealand?!
I’ve told this story so many times over the past few months. It’s annoying and exhausted, but it’s the truth. It’s still seems slightly insane and totally impractical, but that makes it completely wonderful. The outcome is not known, the path is not clear. It’s a real leap of faith. So, we shall see!
It’s 7:15 AM here on Monday morning. My family and friends in Nashville are an unbelievable 17 hours behind me, which makes it 2:15 PM on Sunday afternoon for them. Is that crazy? It is crazy. This time difference makes me feel like I have traveled to a different planet altogether. It’s so odd to think of your family and wonder what they’re doing and realize that they’re not even living the same DAY as you are.
And the jet lag is real. We arrived on Saturday afternoon around 1 PM after a 28 hour journey. Four hours in the plane from Nashville to LA, four hours in the LA airport, 10 hours in the plane from LA to Fiji, 5 hours in the Fiji airport, and finally 3 hours in the plane from Fiji to Auckland. It sounds like hell, but it was somehow not so bad. But we SKIPPED an entire day in the process! We left Nashville on Thursday evening and arrived in Fiji in the early hours of their Saturday morning.
My body doesn’t know what to do with itself. After we arrived, we fought to stay awake til an early 8 PM, hoping that falling asleep in the evening and waking up in the morning would get us right on schedule. Well, it sort of worked. But I’ve woken up at 3 AM both mornings so far, feeling pretty keyed up and ready to get the day going.
I feel like I am on drugs in the evenings. Starting about 7 PM I just sort of turn off. My mind turns to mush and I feel like I am in a wakeful sleep. Or living a dream. I’m not sure. It’s very bizarre. But the mornings are good. And I know that it will just take a while to get adjusted. That’s just part of it.
Aside from the jet lag issues, I feel like I am just about the luckiest person on the planet. It’s spring here. The loveliest of springs. We were wandering through a park yesterday, and we said to each other at about the same time, this is absurd! The beauty of the flowers and the trees feels surreal. It’s some odd suburban tropical paradise. It’s like Nashville meets Hawaii meets San Francisco (even though I’ve never been to Hawaii or San Francisco – I am certain of this). Bjorn said he felt guilty, getting spring right after summer, and that’s pretty close to what I am feeling. Do I really get to do this? After six months in South America? I feel guilty. But I’m going to get over that quickly, I have a feeling.
We had a typical tourist day yesterday. We climbed up Mt. Eden yesterday morning. It’s more of a hill than a mount, but I guess technically it’s a volcano, with a huge crater at the top. Regardless, it’s a lovely viewing point of the whole city.
Auckland is situated on a bay that leads out to the South Pacific Ocean. The downtown area itself sits right on the bay, and then the suburban areas sprawl out behind it. It’s a fairly small city – only 1 million people – and it feels much more like Nashville than New York or Buenos Aires. Lots of quiet residential areas, beautiful houses with large green lawns, sidewalks, trees, parks. It also feel very cosmopolitan, though. There is a large Asian presence/influence here, as well as the obvious British influence (NZ is a colony), so the downtown area feels like some everyman’s city. Like the quintessential city. It feels very familiar and un-foreign, but it also feels totally removed from the rest of the world somehow. I think I just left the world. I keep saying that to Bjorn. He thinks I am loco.
So we hit Mount Eden yesterday, the Auckland Museum, wandered around the downtown area, sat by the harbor and drank coffee. It was a lovely first day.
We are slowly formulating a “plan”. We are going to hang around the Auckland area this week, do a couple of side trips to the surrounding islands, and go to the City Car Fair on Saturday. Oh boy! That is correct, we are going to buy a car. It’s the only way to travel around here, so we are told (and according to Bjorn, who has been here before). People buy station wagons and camper vans and drive around with mattresses in the backseat. I want to travel around and sleep in my car at night! Sounds so...hippie-ish and fun.
We are then going to drive ourselves down to Wellington, try to find jobs and an apartment, and hang out down there for a couple of months. Then, we will have the whole summer to play. This plan is, as always, subject to change.
So. It’s 8 AM here now. I’m juiced up. We’re taking a ferry out to Rongitoto island, which was created only 600 years ago by a volcano eruption! We’ll do some hiking and then return later this afternoon.
On the road again…thank goodness.
My traveling companion-turned-boyfriend, Bjorn, had just left for Sweden when I last wrote. We had a big pow-wow before parting, and agreed that we wanted to stay together, knowing it was slightly insane and totally impractical. That staying together was going to entail a summer’s worth of time apart, not to mention, where would we meet up again? Would he move to the United States? Would I move to Sweden? Was anyone ready to be MOVING to another country? Well, why don’t we just take another trip? we said. Why don’t we go somewhere that is neither your country nor mine, and why don’t we try to go somewhere we can both work and live and try to have some semblance of a normal life? Why don’t we…go to New Zealand?!
I’ve told this story so many times over the past few months. It’s annoying and exhausted, but it’s the truth. It’s still seems slightly insane and totally impractical, but that makes it completely wonderful. The outcome is not known, the path is not clear. It’s a real leap of faith. So, we shall see!
It’s 7:15 AM here on Monday morning. My family and friends in Nashville are an unbelievable 17 hours behind me, which makes it 2:15 PM on Sunday afternoon for them. Is that crazy? It is crazy. This time difference makes me feel like I have traveled to a different planet altogether. It’s so odd to think of your family and wonder what they’re doing and realize that they’re not even living the same DAY as you are.
And the jet lag is real. We arrived on Saturday afternoon around 1 PM after a 28 hour journey. Four hours in the plane from Nashville to LA, four hours in the LA airport, 10 hours in the plane from LA to Fiji, 5 hours in the Fiji airport, and finally 3 hours in the plane from Fiji to Auckland. It sounds like hell, but it was somehow not so bad. But we SKIPPED an entire day in the process! We left Nashville on Thursday evening and arrived in Fiji in the early hours of their Saturday morning.
My body doesn’t know what to do with itself. After we arrived, we fought to stay awake til an early 8 PM, hoping that falling asleep in the evening and waking up in the morning would get us right on schedule. Well, it sort of worked. But I’ve woken up at 3 AM both mornings so far, feeling pretty keyed up and ready to get the day going.
I feel like I am on drugs in the evenings. Starting about 7 PM I just sort of turn off. My mind turns to mush and I feel like I am in a wakeful sleep. Or living a dream. I’m not sure. It’s very bizarre. But the mornings are good. And I know that it will just take a while to get adjusted. That’s just part of it.
Aside from the jet lag issues, I feel like I am just about the luckiest person on the planet. It’s spring here. The loveliest of springs. We were wandering through a park yesterday, and we said to each other at about the same time, this is absurd! The beauty of the flowers and the trees feels surreal. It’s some odd suburban tropical paradise. It’s like Nashville meets Hawaii meets San Francisco (even though I’ve never been to Hawaii or San Francisco – I am certain of this). Bjorn said he felt guilty, getting spring right after summer, and that’s pretty close to what I am feeling. Do I really get to do this? After six months in South America? I feel guilty. But I’m going to get over that quickly, I have a feeling.
We had a typical tourist day yesterday. We climbed up Mt. Eden yesterday morning. It’s more of a hill than a mount, but I guess technically it’s a volcano, with a huge crater at the top. Regardless, it’s a lovely viewing point of the whole city.
Auckland is situated on a bay that leads out to the South Pacific Ocean. The downtown area itself sits right on the bay, and then the suburban areas sprawl out behind it. It’s a fairly small city – only 1 million people – and it feels much more like Nashville than New York or Buenos Aires. Lots of quiet residential areas, beautiful houses with large green lawns, sidewalks, trees, parks. It also feel very cosmopolitan, though. There is a large Asian presence/influence here, as well as the obvious British influence (NZ is a colony), so the downtown area feels like some everyman’s city. Like the quintessential city. It feels very familiar and un-foreign, but it also feels totally removed from the rest of the world somehow. I think I just left the world. I keep saying that to Bjorn. He thinks I am loco.
So we hit Mount Eden yesterday, the Auckland Museum, wandered around the downtown area, sat by the harbor and drank coffee. It was a lovely first day.
We are slowly formulating a “plan”. We are going to hang around the Auckland area this week, do a couple of side trips to the surrounding islands, and go to the City Car Fair on Saturday. Oh boy! That is correct, we are going to buy a car. It’s the only way to travel around here, so we are told (and according to Bjorn, who has been here before). People buy station wagons and camper vans and drive around with mattresses in the backseat. I want to travel around and sleep in my car at night! Sounds so...hippie-ish and fun.
We are then going to drive ourselves down to Wellington, try to find jobs and an apartment, and hang out down there for a couple of months. Then, we will have the whole summer to play. This plan is, as always, subject to change.
So. It’s 8 AM here now. I’m juiced up. We’re taking a ferry out to Rongitoto island, which was created only 600 years ago by a volcano eruption! We’ll do some hiking and then return later this afternoon.
On the road again…thank goodness.
Monday, June 9, 2008
For Al (Yes, You)
Dear Diary, It´s been quite some time since I´ve written.
Isn´t that how every single journal entry you started as a child went? No commitment to writing, just a whim. I swear, diary, I´m going to write every day from now on. We´re still best friends, aren´t we, diary?
Oh, boy...
Well, I am back in Buenos Aires. To very briefly sum up the last couple of weeks:
1. I spent five amazing days in the jungle in Peru. Lots of creepy crawlies and humid air and muddy jungle walks. We saw monkeys and spiders and flowers and birds and frogs. It was wild. Literally! And, as I was joking with the rest of the group about how I was expecting someone to walk out of the kitchen with a birthday cake with my name on it, someone walked out of the kitchen with a beautiful chocolate cake that read, "Happy Day Hellen". Unbelievable! They also served us all a free Pisco Sour. Que amable.
2. Two days after returning from the jungle, we boarded the first of four buses that would eventually take us back to Buenos Aires. We left Cusco on a Friday around 2:30 PM, arriving in Tacna, Peru around 7:30 AM on Saturday. (This, by the way, was quite possibly the most miserable bus ride of my entire life. The bus was ICE cold. No heat whatsoever. And we had no blankets or anything. And there were irritating Peruvians piled up in the stairway and the aisles, so I had to crawl over them all to get to the baño. We thought we´d booked with a good company, but it turns out that silly company sold us a bus ticket for another, much shittier company. Why? That REALLY ticked me off and made me feel many not so nice things about the country of Peru. Good thing I was on my way out.) We then crossed the border into Chile and killed the entire day in Arica, Chile, waiting for the next night bus. By Sunday evening, we had made it to Salta, Argentina. (After a ridiculous three hour layover in some little town that began at 5 AM. What do you do when the bus just dumps you out in a town you don´t know at 5 AM? You take a cab to the Esso TigerMart, apparently, where you drink coffees and eat hame and cheeses and play I SPY WITH MY LITTLE EYE and watch the sun come up.) We finally took a night in a hostel in Salta, and then Monday afternoon, we were back on another overnight bus, delivering us to Buenos Aires by 9 AM Tuesday morning. Yowsers. That´s travel for you.
3. What am I doing in Buenos Aires? Well, a few things. First, I came to escort my traveling companion to the airport. Bjorn left for Sweden yesterday morning, and well, it´s not the same without him. That´s all I´ll say, Diary. Let´s not get personal. Second, I am doing a month-long TEFL certification program, starting TODAY! TEFL is Teaching of English as a Foreign Language, and the certification is required by most English language schools around the world. So, no, I am not planning to come home anytime soon, at least not for a permanent stay. But, who knows. My dear mother says I don´t have to plan the rest of my life, just the next six months or so. Well, I´ve got June planned. Maybe in a couple weeks I´ll figure out July. Uncertainty has a certain beauty to it, don´t you think?
That is all for tonight, Diary. I am sleepy, and I need an ice cream bar. I´m not sure about our future, Diary. I´m trying to stay loyal to you, but my head is distracted and I haven´t felt like writing much lately. Perhaps the new program will give me some new fodder for you. I hope so.
Much love to you all.
Isn´t that how every single journal entry you started as a child went? No commitment to writing, just a whim. I swear, diary, I´m going to write every day from now on. We´re still best friends, aren´t we, diary?
Oh, boy...
Well, I am back in Buenos Aires. To very briefly sum up the last couple of weeks:
1. I spent five amazing days in the jungle in Peru. Lots of creepy crawlies and humid air and muddy jungle walks. We saw monkeys and spiders and flowers and birds and frogs. It was wild. Literally! And, as I was joking with the rest of the group about how I was expecting someone to walk out of the kitchen with a birthday cake with my name on it, someone walked out of the kitchen with a beautiful chocolate cake that read, "Happy Day Hellen". Unbelievable! They also served us all a free Pisco Sour. Que amable.
2. Two days after returning from the jungle, we boarded the first of four buses that would eventually take us back to Buenos Aires. We left Cusco on a Friday around 2:30 PM, arriving in Tacna, Peru around 7:30 AM on Saturday. (This, by the way, was quite possibly the most miserable bus ride of my entire life. The bus was ICE cold. No heat whatsoever. And we had no blankets or anything. And there were irritating Peruvians piled up in the stairway and the aisles, so I had to crawl over them all to get to the baño. We thought we´d booked with a good company, but it turns out that silly company sold us a bus ticket for another, much shittier company. Why? That REALLY ticked me off and made me feel many not so nice things about the country of Peru. Good thing I was on my way out.) We then crossed the border into Chile and killed the entire day in Arica, Chile, waiting for the next night bus. By Sunday evening, we had made it to Salta, Argentina. (After a ridiculous three hour layover in some little town that began at 5 AM. What do you do when the bus just dumps you out in a town you don´t know at 5 AM? You take a cab to the Esso TigerMart, apparently, where you drink coffees and eat hame and cheeses and play I SPY WITH MY LITTLE EYE and watch the sun come up.) We finally took a night in a hostel in Salta, and then Monday afternoon, we were back on another overnight bus, delivering us to Buenos Aires by 9 AM Tuesday morning. Yowsers. That´s travel for you.
3. What am I doing in Buenos Aires? Well, a few things. First, I came to escort my traveling companion to the airport. Bjorn left for Sweden yesterday morning, and well, it´s not the same without him. That´s all I´ll say, Diary. Let´s not get personal. Second, I am doing a month-long TEFL certification program, starting TODAY! TEFL is Teaching of English as a Foreign Language, and the certification is required by most English language schools around the world. So, no, I am not planning to come home anytime soon, at least not for a permanent stay. But, who knows. My dear mother says I don´t have to plan the rest of my life, just the next six months or so. Well, I´ve got June planned. Maybe in a couple weeks I´ll figure out July. Uncertainty has a certain beauty to it, don´t you think?
That is all for tonight, Diary. I am sleepy, and I need an ice cream bar. I´m not sure about our future, Diary. I´m trying to stay loyal to you, but my head is distracted and I haven´t felt like writing much lately. Perhaps the new program will give me some new fodder for you. I hope so.
Much love to you all.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Machu Picchu
Blog, blog. I do not feel like talking to you today. But I´m-a-gonna do it anyways.
So! Big last few days. After I left you in Aguas Calientes, I wandered off to find the trailhead for Cerro Putukusi. My guidebook said it was a 90 minute - one way - hike up to some amazing views of both Machu Picchu and the town of Aguas Calientes itself. Well, I thought, I have nothing else to do this afternoon. A three hour hike ought to fill the time nicely.
I had no idea what I was getting into.
After about fifteen minutes on the trail, I encountered a father and son, father climbing up a very steep ladder, son taking his photo from below. Son was giving father posing directions in a distinctly redneck American accent; father was replying in Spanish. I waited for the photo shoot to end, and then fell into a conversation with these two.
Javier, the father, is from Mexico. He and his wife moved to Greenesboro, North Carolina, where they had Carmen, the son. I know Greensboro! I said. We know Tennessee! they said.
So what´s the deal with these ladders? I asked them. Not sure, but apparently there are at least four of them, they told me. They had just run into a group who had turned back after one of its members got vertigo halfway up the first ladder.
I was lucky to meet these two when I did, because I feel certain that had I not had people to hike with, I would not have motivated myself to get up all of these ladders. They were scary! And scarier than climbing up them was the prospect of climbing back down them. When we finally reached the top of the mountain, an old Peruvian man told me that there are 270 ladder steps in total. Insanity.
But, as most difficult things are, it was totally worth it. Anyone can visit Machu Picchu. Anyone can take the train to Aguas Calientes and then the bus up to Machu Picchu. But not anyone can see Machu Picchu from the top of Putukusi. The view was outstanding. I have pictures, though they do not do it justice. We passed about an hour up there, without hardly noticing the time. Just sitting on a rock, staring off out at the wonder in front of us, marveling at man, at history, at nature.
While sitting up there, an Asian man joined us. It appeared he had been running up the mountain. I watched him as he stopped to catch his breath, but I noticed that he didn´t even bother to look across the valley. He took a few pictures of his watch (maybe to mark how quickly he ran up the mountain?) and then started to head back down. He walked past me, stopped, looked out in the direction I was looking, and then said, "Is that Machu Picchu?" Uhhh...yep, I said. (Duh.) He took out his camera, shot one picture, then ran back down. If that´s not efficiency, I don´t know what is. But what is the point?
(On the subject of Asians and an obsession with efficiency, there was this Asian gal staying at my hostal in Easter Island who only stayed for two nights! Whyyyy on earth would you bother coming to Easter Island for only two days? I do not understand this. Just get there, get your pictures to show to your family and friends, and then move on? At what point are you experiencing or enjoying ANYTHING? Or are you just trying to check things off a list?)
The climb back down to Aguas Calientes wasn´t as bad as I thought it might be, but those ladders are dangerous. I´m telling you! If you misplaced one hand or one foot, you would just be in free fall. Not good.
The following morning, against everyone´s urgings for me to wake at an ungodly hour to climb up to Machu Picchu, I woke at the reasonable hour of 5:30 AM. I walked out of my hostel at 6:15, and was at Machu Picchu at 7:40. Again, I was very thankful for beautiful scenery to keep me going. It was about 20 minutes walk to the trailhead, and then a solid hour of just walking up stone steps. And after the previous day´s hike, my legs were in shock. What are you trying to do to us?!
But I´m glad I chose to walk instead of take the bus. Anyone who hikes knows that the pain of the trek is in pursuit of that big something at the top. Just getting to the top wouldn´t be half as exciting if you didn´t put in any effort to get there. And so it was with Machu Picchu. I felt like I needed to exert a little energy before seeing the great ruins.
And they were great. Let me first tell you that a whopping 80% of the ruins are reconstructed. That´s correct. Almost all of it was not there when it was discovered back in 1911. So...part of me wants to be disappointed by that, and another part of me says that the place is still incredible.
Most stunning about Machu Picchu is simply its location. These mountains are breathtakingly beautiful. Stunning. Amazing. Green, lush, jewels twinkling in a valley. It´s a perfect place. So, for that reason, it makes sense that the Incas wanted to build a sacred city there, in such a sacred place. But, for the Incas to have the confidence and the vision to build an entire city on top of one of these mountains is really ludicrous, when you see them. This was no easy construction process. The mountain is hard to get to. Period. Harder, I would imagine, when you are carrying huge granite boulders. It´s mind-boggling, this place.
And it is sacred. If only for the beauty of its natural surroundings, it is sacred. My guide, a Peruvian, in telling the story of the discovery of Machu Picchu, made a point to say that although history says that it was found in 1911 by Hiram Bingham (a Yale University professor of South American History), it had never been lost by the Peruvian people. They ALWAYS knew it was there but chose to keep it to themselves, with good reason. It was their special place, their history, the work of their ancestors. Why would they want to tell anyone about this kind of secret?
But, somebody told the secret to Hiram Bingham, and then he took all the goodies from the ruins back to Yale. I like my country just fine, but it is just wrong that we have these things in our possession. They are not ours! The Peruvians are apparently trying to get them back, and I hope they do, even if it is our loss.
A local told me that to really know it, you need an entire week at Machu Picchu. The ruins themselves are like a maze; I kept wandering around, getting stuck, backtracking, getting lost again. And then, outside of the main ruins, there are a few other sites, a hike away, worth looking at. But I didn´t have a week (not to mention that it costs $45 US to get in for one day), so I spent about 6 hours there, just soaking it in. You can take a tour, you can have every bit and piece of the ruins explained to you, but in the end, what you really want to do when you get there, is sit down, hang your legs off the side of the mountain, and just breathe. Just get a good look at everything. Just try to get your head around what you´re seeing and what it means.
It´s magnificent, really. I hope you can all go someday. (And soon! Before they start building hotels up there. I wouldn´t put it past the power of the tourist.)
And now I´m back in Cusco, taking a day off, doing laundry, playing on the internet, regrouping.
We are off to the Manu Biosphere Reserve tomorrow, which is part of the Peruvian jungle. We are staying for five days and will spend our days looking at flora and fauna and our evenings in little jungle lodges (with hammocks!). I cannot wait, for a number of reasons. I cannot wait to get away from the commotion of the tourism industry around here. I cannot wait to feel isolated again. I cannot wait to get back down to sea level where it´s nice and toasty warm. I cannot wait to begin my 28th year, laying in a hammock, listening to the sounds of the jungle.
We´ll be back on Wednesday. Til then, my dears. Much love.
And...please check out photos of the last few weeks - http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy . Unfortunately, to my GREAT frustration, my camera was out of batteries when I arrived to the top of Pisac, so I have no photos of that day. Lesson learned, I suppose!
So! Big last few days. After I left you in Aguas Calientes, I wandered off to find the trailhead for Cerro Putukusi. My guidebook said it was a 90 minute - one way - hike up to some amazing views of both Machu Picchu and the town of Aguas Calientes itself. Well, I thought, I have nothing else to do this afternoon. A three hour hike ought to fill the time nicely.
I had no idea what I was getting into.
After about fifteen minutes on the trail, I encountered a father and son, father climbing up a very steep ladder, son taking his photo from below. Son was giving father posing directions in a distinctly redneck American accent; father was replying in Spanish. I waited for the photo shoot to end, and then fell into a conversation with these two.
Javier, the father, is from Mexico. He and his wife moved to Greenesboro, North Carolina, where they had Carmen, the son. I know Greensboro! I said. We know Tennessee! they said.
So what´s the deal with these ladders? I asked them. Not sure, but apparently there are at least four of them, they told me. They had just run into a group who had turned back after one of its members got vertigo halfway up the first ladder.
I was lucky to meet these two when I did, because I feel certain that had I not had people to hike with, I would not have motivated myself to get up all of these ladders. They were scary! And scarier than climbing up them was the prospect of climbing back down them. When we finally reached the top of the mountain, an old Peruvian man told me that there are 270 ladder steps in total. Insanity.
But, as most difficult things are, it was totally worth it. Anyone can visit Machu Picchu. Anyone can take the train to Aguas Calientes and then the bus up to Machu Picchu. But not anyone can see Machu Picchu from the top of Putukusi. The view was outstanding. I have pictures, though they do not do it justice. We passed about an hour up there, without hardly noticing the time. Just sitting on a rock, staring off out at the wonder in front of us, marveling at man, at history, at nature.
While sitting up there, an Asian man joined us. It appeared he had been running up the mountain. I watched him as he stopped to catch his breath, but I noticed that he didn´t even bother to look across the valley. He took a few pictures of his watch (maybe to mark how quickly he ran up the mountain?) and then started to head back down. He walked past me, stopped, looked out in the direction I was looking, and then said, "Is that Machu Picchu?" Uhhh...yep, I said. (Duh.) He took out his camera, shot one picture, then ran back down. If that´s not efficiency, I don´t know what is. But what is the point?
(On the subject of Asians and an obsession with efficiency, there was this Asian gal staying at my hostal in Easter Island who only stayed for two nights! Whyyyy on earth would you bother coming to Easter Island for only two days? I do not understand this. Just get there, get your pictures to show to your family and friends, and then move on? At what point are you experiencing or enjoying ANYTHING? Or are you just trying to check things off a list?)
The climb back down to Aguas Calientes wasn´t as bad as I thought it might be, but those ladders are dangerous. I´m telling you! If you misplaced one hand or one foot, you would just be in free fall. Not good.
The following morning, against everyone´s urgings for me to wake at an ungodly hour to climb up to Machu Picchu, I woke at the reasonable hour of 5:30 AM. I walked out of my hostel at 6:15, and was at Machu Picchu at 7:40. Again, I was very thankful for beautiful scenery to keep me going. It was about 20 minutes walk to the trailhead, and then a solid hour of just walking up stone steps. And after the previous day´s hike, my legs were in shock. What are you trying to do to us?!
But I´m glad I chose to walk instead of take the bus. Anyone who hikes knows that the pain of the trek is in pursuit of that big something at the top. Just getting to the top wouldn´t be half as exciting if you didn´t put in any effort to get there. And so it was with Machu Picchu. I felt like I needed to exert a little energy before seeing the great ruins.
And they were great. Let me first tell you that a whopping 80% of the ruins are reconstructed. That´s correct. Almost all of it was not there when it was discovered back in 1911. So...part of me wants to be disappointed by that, and another part of me says that the place is still incredible.
Most stunning about Machu Picchu is simply its location. These mountains are breathtakingly beautiful. Stunning. Amazing. Green, lush, jewels twinkling in a valley. It´s a perfect place. So, for that reason, it makes sense that the Incas wanted to build a sacred city there, in such a sacred place. But, for the Incas to have the confidence and the vision to build an entire city on top of one of these mountains is really ludicrous, when you see them. This was no easy construction process. The mountain is hard to get to. Period. Harder, I would imagine, when you are carrying huge granite boulders. It´s mind-boggling, this place.
And it is sacred. If only for the beauty of its natural surroundings, it is sacred. My guide, a Peruvian, in telling the story of the discovery of Machu Picchu, made a point to say that although history says that it was found in 1911 by Hiram Bingham (a Yale University professor of South American History), it had never been lost by the Peruvian people. They ALWAYS knew it was there but chose to keep it to themselves, with good reason. It was their special place, their history, the work of their ancestors. Why would they want to tell anyone about this kind of secret?
But, somebody told the secret to Hiram Bingham, and then he took all the goodies from the ruins back to Yale. I like my country just fine, but it is just wrong that we have these things in our possession. They are not ours! The Peruvians are apparently trying to get them back, and I hope they do, even if it is our loss.
A local told me that to really know it, you need an entire week at Machu Picchu. The ruins themselves are like a maze; I kept wandering around, getting stuck, backtracking, getting lost again. And then, outside of the main ruins, there are a few other sites, a hike away, worth looking at. But I didn´t have a week (not to mention that it costs $45 US to get in for one day), so I spent about 6 hours there, just soaking it in. You can take a tour, you can have every bit and piece of the ruins explained to you, but in the end, what you really want to do when you get there, is sit down, hang your legs off the side of the mountain, and just breathe. Just get a good look at everything. Just try to get your head around what you´re seeing and what it means.
It´s magnificent, really. I hope you can all go someday. (And soon! Before they start building hotels up there. I wouldn´t put it past the power of the tourist.)
And now I´m back in Cusco, taking a day off, doing laundry, playing on the internet, regrouping.
We are off to the Manu Biosphere Reserve tomorrow, which is part of the Peruvian jungle. We are staying for five days and will spend our days looking at flora and fauna and our evenings in little jungle lodges (with hammocks!). I cannot wait, for a number of reasons. I cannot wait to get away from the commotion of the tourism industry around here. I cannot wait to feel isolated again. I cannot wait to get back down to sea level where it´s nice and toasty warm. I cannot wait to begin my 28th year, laying in a hammock, listening to the sounds of the jungle.
We´ll be back on Wednesday. Til then, my dears. Much love.
And...please check out photos of the last few weeks - http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy . Unfortunately, to my GREAT frustration, my camera was out of batteries when I arrived to the top of Pisac, so I have no photos of that day. Lesson learned, I suppose!
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Pisac en Español
(From yesterday...)
I have had a wonderful Spanish-speaking day. Bjorn left to do the Inca Trail yesterday morning, so I have been flying solo the past two days. I have nothing but nice things to say about my traveling companion, but...my opportunities for Spanish speaking are significantly limited when traveling with him (or really anyone, for that matter). When you are alone, you´re much more likely to get into random conversations with locals than when you´re busy talking to your traveling companion. Twosomes are notoriously evil, you know - who wants to bother trying to butt in?
Anyway, around 9 AM this morning, I boarded a collectivo (really cheap mini-bus, basically) for Pisac, a town about 40 kilometers outside of Cusco. A lovely lady who appeared to be about 65 sat down in the seat next to me, whipped out her knitting, and started chatting with me, en Español.
Turns out she is a retired - but still working - teacher of Quechua, which is the language of the indigenous people here in Peru, as best I can explain it. We discussed various places in the United States, as she has visited several times (though she told me about how COLD Dallas was, which makes me think she was confused about something); we discussed my interest in getting a job down this-a-ways; she asked me if I thought she could get a job as a nanny and cook in the States somewhere. (I kept trying to figure out how I could justify getting her to be MY nanny and cook, but I guess I can´t really afford that. She would be the BEST grandmother-nanny AND she could help me with my knitting. Que bueno.)
Anyway, I got off at Pisac, we wished each other "suerte" and that was that.
Pisac is a town famous for its market (Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, 8-3) and for its incredible ruins. I wandered through the market for about 15 minutes before being overwhelmed, as usual, by the mass amounts of stuff for sale and the relentless salespeople. Buy this, señorita. NO, por favor!
The ruins begin after about an hour´s climb up, up, up into the mountains. The mountains are astonishingly beautiful, which is good, because the climb is serious. Stone step after stone step. After about 45 minutes, I heard a flute playing behind me and turned to find a local, climbing up the stairs behind me. How on earth this man could use his lungs for any purpose other than heave-hoing up the mountain, I could not fathom. As soon as he caught up with me, I stopped and said "Adelante" - go ahead. Then, assuming I could speak Spanish, he launched into a conversation with me. Turns out he is a guide around Pisac and climbs the freaking mountain every day. I guess THAT´S why his lungs are in good enough shape to allow him to play the flute while climbing.
As we progressed up the mountain at about the same pace, he started telling me about various points of interest along the way, and before I knew it, he was giving me a personal tour around the ruins. I AM special. I knew it.
It was such a nice, random thing to happen, especially because as we came upon the main ruins, the swarms of tourists finally came into view. I was silly to think I was practically alone up there - of course the tourists don´t climb the mountain; they ride the bus to the parking lot on the other side. Ugh! All of the tourists were getting led around in groups of twenty - see this! look at that! moving right along! things to do! I shouldn´t be negative about tourists because, well, I am one, and I´ve participated in many large-group tours myself, but can´t I feel cool for getting my own Spanish-speaking guide for FREE (though I did tip him afterwards) and for speaking Spanish to him? Yes I can.
The ruins were incredible. Really. I´ve seen some ruins around Cusco that were kinda "eh" but this was Machu Picchu type stuff (or so I think - I will know for sure on Thursday). In fact, my guide informed me that Pisac was actually much larger than Machu Picchu, with much finer architecture and stone-work, but Machu Picchu didn´t get destroyed by the Spaniards, whereas Pisac mostly did. I hope those Spaniards feel awfully guilty about the things they did to this incredibly intelligent people. I hope they feel worse than we do about what we did to the natives we found on OUR land.
The way these folks were able to put stones together in the 1500s is unbelievable. The structures are impecable, perfect. Each one fits with the next exactly - just like perfectly cut pieces of a puzzle. I cannot fathom how they did this.
We were standing on top of the mountain, my guide and I, when he asked me if I meditated. No, I said. Not really (unless you count talking to yourself alot - does that count?). Well, he told me, this is a very sacred place. Has lots of good and powerful energy. Every summer pilgrims flock here to soak up the good vibes. And I can see why. This place did have a certain something. I´ll call it the "god spirit", to steal from Mr. Cloniger´s words at Margo and David´s wedding. Just take a moment, close your eyes, take in the sounds and the smells, and there it is. The god spirit.
My favorite part of the entire ruins was the old Inca cemetary. And it´s not at all what you think of when you think cemetary. You basically look across this huge gorge, and all over the cliff opposite you are little bitty holes, carved into the mud. And each of those holes is a grave! Each person was buried in the fetal position, my guide told me, because the Inkas believed in rebirth. Never in my life has the concept of dust to dust made so much sense. These people weren´t buried in a box, keeping that dirty dirt away from their bodies. They were buried right into the side of a mountain - right into the earth, right back to the Earth Mother.
After a quick jaunt back down the mountain, I lunched at a restaurant on the plaza and ordered the "menu" which always makes me feel a bit adventurous and cool. Every restaurant offers a set menu, which includes soup and entree and sometimes a drink or dessert. It´s a much better deal than ordering something off the regular menu, but, of course, you have little choice as to what you eat. So as the other tourists lunched on chicken sandwiches, I dug into some lamb (i think?) dish with yummy frijoles on the side. Tasty!
******
I am in the small town of Aguas Calientes today, the jumping off point for Macchu Picchu. It´s an itty bitty town that´s been put together for the purpose of dealing with the masses of tourists visiting the ruins, and I don´t imagine I will do much of anything today, aside from maybe a short hike and a visit to the hot springs. And lots of reading! Tomorrow morning, I will wake early to climb (or maybe bus - I can´t decide) up to Macchu Picchu. It´s only about an hour´s walk, I believe, but everyone´s pushing me to go at like 5 AM, so as to beat the crowds to the ruins. But...waking before 5 AM to hike...not appealing to me in any way, especially since I´m going to be able to stay at the ruins until 5 PM tomorrow. I think I´ll like these ruins much more if they do not require my waking at such a ridiculous hour. We´ll see.
I hope the big MP will be worth it because it sure has gotten a lot of hype. This area is beautiful enough for me, I think, so I doubt I´ll be let down by the ruins. Will report back on Friday, before heading into the jungle on Saturday morning! (That´s another story entirely...)
Much love, my loves.
I have had a wonderful Spanish-speaking day. Bjorn left to do the Inca Trail yesterday morning, so I have been flying solo the past two days. I have nothing but nice things to say about my traveling companion, but...my opportunities for Spanish speaking are significantly limited when traveling with him (or really anyone, for that matter). When you are alone, you´re much more likely to get into random conversations with locals than when you´re busy talking to your traveling companion. Twosomes are notoriously evil, you know - who wants to bother trying to butt in?
Anyway, around 9 AM this morning, I boarded a collectivo (really cheap mini-bus, basically) for Pisac, a town about 40 kilometers outside of Cusco. A lovely lady who appeared to be about 65 sat down in the seat next to me, whipped out her knitting, and started chatting with me, en Español.
Turns out she is a retired - but still working - teacher of Quechua, which is the language of the indigenous people here in Peru, as best I can explain it. We discussed various places in the United States, as she has visited several times (though she told me about how COLD Dallas was, which makes me think she was confused about something); we discussed my interest in getting a job down this-a-ways; she asked me if I thought she could get a job as a nanny and cook in the States somewhere. (I kept trying to figure out how I could justify getting her to be MY nanny and cook, but I guess I can´t really afford that. She would be the BEST grandmother-nanny AND she could help me with my knitting. Que bueno.)
Anyway, I got off at Pisac, we wished each other "suerte" and that was that.
Pisac is a town famous for its market (Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, 8-3) and for its incredible ruins. I wandered through the market for about 15 minutes before being overwhelmed, as usual, by the mass amounts of stuff for sale and the relentless salespeople. Buy this, señorita. NO, por favor!
The ruins begin after about an hour´s climb up, up, up into the mountains. The mountains are astonishingly beautiful, which is good, because the climb is serious. Stone step after stone step. After about 45 minutes, I heard a flute playing behind me and turned to find a local, climbing up the stairs behind me. How on earth this man could use his lungs for any purpose other than heave-hoing up the mountain, I could not fathom. As soon as he caught up with me, I stopped and said "Adelante" - go ahead. Then, assuming I could speak Spanish, he launched into a conversation with me. Turns out he is a guide around Pisac and climbs the freaking mountain every day. I guess THAT´S why his lungs are in good enough shape to allow him to play the flute while climbing.
As we progressed up the mountain at about the same pace, he started telling me about various points of interest along the way, and before I knew it, he was giving me a personal tour around the ruins. I AM special. I knew it.
It was such a nice, random thing to happen, especially because as we came upon the main ruins, the swarms of tourists finally came into view. I was silly to think I was practically alone up there - of course the tourists don´t climb the mountain; they ride the bus to the parking lot on the other side. Ugh! All of the tourists were getting led around in groups of twenty - see this! look at that! moving right along! things to do! I shouldn´t be negative about tourists because, well, I am one, and I´ve participated in many large-group tours myself, but can´t I feel cool for getting my own Spanish-speaking guide for FREE (though I did tip him afterwards) and for speaking Spanish to him? Yes I can.
The ruins were incredible. Really. I´ve seen some ruins around Cusco that were kinda "eh" but this was Machu Picchu type stuff (or so I think - I will know for sure on Thursday). In fact, my guide informed me that Pisac was actually much larger than Machu Picchu, with much finer architecture and stone-work, but Machu Picchu didn´t get destroyed by the Spaniards, whereas Pisac mostly did. I hope those Spaniards feel awfully guilty about the things they did to this incredibly intelligent people. I hope they feel worse than we do about what we did to the natives we found on OUR land.
The way these folks were able to put stones together in the 1500s is unbelievable. The structures are impecable, perfect. Each one fits with the next exactly - just like perfectly cut pieces of a puzzle. I cannot fathom how they did this.
We were standing on top of the mountain, my guide and I, when he asked me if I meditated. No, I said. Not really (unless you count talking to yourself alot - does that count?). Well, he told me, this is a very sacred place. Has lots of good and powerful energy. Every summer pilgrims flock here to soak up the good vibes. And I can see why. This place did have a certain something. I´ll call it the "god spirit", to steal from Mr. Cloniger´s words at Margo and David´s wedding. Just take a moment, close your eyes, take in the sounds and the smells, and there it is. The god spirit.
My favorite part of the entire ruins was the old Inca cemetary. And it´s not at all what you think of when you think cemetary. You basically look across this huge gorge, and all over the cliff opposite you are little bitty holes, carved into the mud. And each of those holes is a grave! Each person was buried in the fetal position, my guide told me, because the Inkas believed in rebirth. Never in my life has the concept of dust to dust made so much sense. These people weren´t buried in a box, keeping that dirty dirt away from their bodies. They were buried right into the side of a mountain - right into the earth, right back to the Earth Mother.
After a quick jaunt back down the mountain, I lunched at a restaurant on the plaza and ordered the "menu" which always makes me feel a bit adventurous and cool. Every restaurant offers a set menu, which includes soup and entree and sometimes a drink or dessert. It´s a much better deal than ordering something off the regular menu, but, of course, you have little choice as to what you eat. So as the other tourists lunched on chicken sandwiches, I dug into some lamb (i think?) dish with yummy frijoles on the side. Tasty!
******
I am in the small town of Aguas Calientes today, the jumping off point for Macchu Picchu. It´s an itty bitty town that´s been put together for the purpose of dealing with the masses of tourists visiting the ruins, and I don´t imagine I will do much of anything today, aside from maybe a short hike and a visit to the hot springs. And lots of reading! Tomorrow morning, I will wake early to climb (or maybe bus - I can´t decide) up to Macchu Picchu. It´s only about an hour´s walk, I believe, but everyone´s pushing me to go at like 5 AM, so as to beat the crowds to the ruins. But...waking before 5 AM to hike...not appealing to me in any way, especially since I´m going to be able to stay at the ruins until 5 PM tomorrow. I think I´ll like these ruins much more if they do not require my waking at such a ridiculous hour. We´ll see.
I hope the big MP will be worth it because it sure has gotten a lot of hype. This area is beautiful enough for me, I think, so I doubt I´ll be let down by the ruins. Will report back on Friday, before heading into the jungle on Saturday morning! (That´s another story entirely...)
Much love, my loves.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
A Country For Old Men
Peru has got me thinking about old folks. Who they are. What they do with their time. What fulfills them, and do they look for fulfilment at their age?
Maybe it´s an odd thing to be considering down here in Peru, in cultural heaven. Peru presents me with great ruins and amazing stonework and recovered pots and mummies and I want to talk about the old folks.
Two weeks ago, in Arequipa, Bjorn wanted to get a haircut. He needed one pretty badly - his hair was quite long. He looked just like a Nashville high-schooler, long curls hanging down out of his baseball cap. So, we thought, let´s just pop in somewhere and get a trim. We survived my big cut in Santiago, so surely this would be just as simple.
We spotted a classic-looking barber shop and were greeted at the door by an old Peruvian man. I´d guess he was 75. His Spanish was fast and his hands were furiously motioning us in, pointing at Bjorn´s blond curls as if to say, "I can fix that!" There was a middle-aged man in the seat, his wife waiting for him, and he graciously let Bjorn ahead of him, saying he was in no rush.
We assessed the situation. This middle-aged man had very presentable looking hair and was clearly a repeat customer, so the old barber must still have some skills with the hair, right?
Bjorn sat. The barber was all over him, fluffing his hair, showing him a picture of him and Hulk Hogan (no idea), wildly gesturing. I could not understand a word of this man´s Spanish. Not a word. But I went over and tried to help explain what Bjorn wanted - maybe an inch. "Of course, of course" the barber seemed to say. "I understand completely. Now, little lady, why don´t you have a seat, peruse a magazine. Nothing to worry about!"
I don´t know too much about cutting hair, I suppose, but I do know that when you´re just getting a trim, the electric razor probably isn´t the first step in the process. But that´s what Mr. Barber went with. Just combing Bjorn´s hair out, and then skimming the razor over it.
The next few minutes were hysterical. For me, that is, sitting in my chair, watching Mr. Barber butcher poor Bjorn´s hair.
I felt like I was watching your stereotypical old Italian man make a pizza pie-a. It was art. A couple inches off over here, maybe just 1/2 inch over here. Just whatever inspired him at the moment. Hair was flying, and he blabbered on and on during the entirety of the cut. I don´t know what he was saying, but I´m certain it was utter nonsense.
Bjorn´s hair was destroyed. The one inch off he asked for turned into at least two, probably three, and well, that´s a lot for a guy. I suppose it would be one thing if it was short but well done, but it was too short and totally uneven. Bjorn´s right ear was completely cleared of hair (as in, you can see a good bit of skin around it), but the left ear looked normal, more or less, with hair coming down to the ear. The top was left long - about twice as long as the sides - and there were random long pieces sticking out all over the place.
Of course, I did all the right things (except for laughing during the entire cut - maybe that wasn´t the right thing?). I told Bjorn it wasn´t that bad. It´s just hair. It´ll grow. Give it a week - you´ll be totally used to it. He was not happy, however. My words could not make the situation better.
Why is this man still in business? He has NO business cutting hair. He must be basically blind behind his glasses - why should he be allowed to apply scissors to innocent people´s hair?
Last week, when we arrived at the Huancayo bus terminal, an elderly man (probably 80ish) approached us, asking if we needed a taxi. Well, yes, that would be great, thanks. He led us out to his car - about as old as he was - and we sat in the backseat for several minutes as he tried to get his baby started. Each time he failed to get the ignition to turn over, he´d look back at us. "Un momento!" After several momentos, the car finally croaked to life, chugga-chugging onto the dark and rainy streets of Huancayo.
I swear to you this man could not see ten feet in front of him! He drove about 15 miles per hour the entire time, came dangerously close to parked cars and pedestrians, and began his turns far too early, only to slam on the breaks when he realized he was turning the car into a curb instead of a street.
Again, I ask you, why is this man still in business? He has NO business driving people around. This isn´t just vanity, not just a bad haircut at stake. This is personal safety!
I am making light of these situations, maybe, but really it´s quite sad. The answer is clearly that both of these men need to work. They need to support themselves just like I do, just like everyone does. They didn´t get to retire. They couldn´t possibly have put enough money away during their younger years to spare themselves (and their customers) from working straight through to the end.
And, oh, the pride with which both of these men worked was heart- breaking. They both acted as if they were 30 - a bit cocky, a pro. Do they know, deep down, that they should not be working? Do they know their days of productivity are over? And if they do know, how do they go on?
But they go on because they have to. Homelessness is not an option they want to turn to. So they try to fool the public (and maybe themselves) into believeing they´re still as good at barbering, at chauffering, as they once were.
What if you didn´t have retirement to look forward to? What, then?
Heavy stuff. Lo siento!
I am in Cusco now and probably will be here for a while. There´s gobs to do here (aside from seeing Macchu Picchu, which I am doing on Thursday), so it ought to be a good time. Heaps of ruins today and white water rafting tomorrow and who knows what else.
Hope everyone´s enjoying a lovely May weekend! Much love.
Maybe it´s an odd thing to be considering down here in Peru, in cultural heaven. Peru presents me with great ruins and amazing stonework and recovered pots and mummies and I want to talk about the old folks.
Two weeks ago, in Arequipa, Bjorn wanted to get a haircut. He needed one pretty badly - his hair was quite long. He looked just like a Nashville high-schooler, long curls hanging down out of his baseball cap. So, we thought, let´s just pop in somewhere and get a trim. We survived my big cut in Santiago, so surely this would be just as simple.
We spotted a classic-looking barber shop and were greeted at the door by an old Peruvian man. I´d guess he was 75. His Spanish was fast and his hands were furiously motioning us in, pointing at Bjorn´s blond curls as if to say, "I can fix that!" There was a middle-aged man in the seat, his wife waiting for him, and he graciously let Bjorn ahead of him, saying he was in no rush.
We assessed the situation. This middle-aged man had very presentable looking hair and was clearly a repeat customer, so the old barber must still have some skills with the hair, right?
Bjorn sat. The barber was all over him, fluffing his hair, showing him a picture of him and Hulk Hogan (no idea), wildly gesturing. I could not understand a word of this man´s Spanish. Not a word. But I went over and tried to help explain what Bjorn wanted - maybe an inch. "Of course, of course" the barber seemed to say. "I understand completely. Now, little lady, why don´t you have a seat, peruse a magazine. Nothing to worry about!"
I don´t know too much about cutting hair, I suppose, but I do know that when you´re just getting a trim, the electric razor probably isn´t the first step in the process. But that´s what Mr. Barber went with. Just combing Bjorn´s hair out, and then skimming the razor over it.
The next few minutes were hysterical. For me, that is, sitting in my chair, watching Mr. Barber butcher poor Bjorn´s hair.
I felt like I was watching your stereotypical old Italian man make a pizza pie-a. It was art. A couple inches off over here, maybe just 1/2 inch over here. Just whatever inspired him at the moment. Hair was flying, and he blabbered on and on during the entirety of the cut. I don´t know what he was saying, but I´m certain it was utter nonsense.
Bjorn´s hair was destroyed. The one inch off he asked for turned into at least two, probably three, and well, that´s a lot for a guy. I suppose it would be one thing if it was short but well done, but it was too short and totally uneven. Bjorn´s right ear was completely cleared of hair (as in, you can see a good bit of skin around it), but the left ear looked normal, more or less, with hair coming down to the ear. The top was left long - about twice as long as the sides - and there were random long pieces sticking out all over the place.
Of course, I did all the right things (except for laughing during the entire cut - maybe that wasn´t the right thing?). I told Bjorn it wasn´t that bad. It´s just hair. It´ll grow. Give it a week - you´ll be totally used to it. He was not happy, however. My words could not make the situation better.
Why is this man still in business? He has NO business cutting hair. He must be basically blind behind his glasses - why should he be allowed to apply scissors to innocent people´s hair?
Last week, when we arrived at the Huancayo bus terminal, an elderly man (probably 80ish) approached us, asking if we needed a taxi. Well, yes, that would be great, thanks. He led us out to his car - about as old as he was - and we sat in the backseat for several minutes as he tried to get his baby started. Each time he failed to get the ignition to turn over, he´d look back at us. "Un momento!" After several momentos, the car finally croaked to life, chugga-chugging onto the dark and rainy streets of Huancayo.
I swear to you this man could not see ten feet in front of him! He drove about 15 miles per hour the entire time, came dangerously close to parked cars and pedestrians, and began his turns far too early, only to slam on the breaks when he realized he was turning the car into a curb instead of a street.
Again, I ask you, why is this man still in business? He has NO business driving people around. This isn´t just vanity, not just a bad haircut at stake. This is personal safety!
I am making light of these situations, maybe, but really it´s quite sad. The answer is clearly that both of these men need to work. They need to support themselves just like I do, just like everyone does. They didn´t get to retire. They couldn´t possibly have put enough money away during their younger years to spare themselves (and their customers) from working straight through to the end.
And, oh, the pride with which both of these men worked was heart- breaking. They both acted as if they were 30 - a bit cocky, a pro. Do they know, deep down, that they should not be working? Do they know their days of productivity are over? And if they do know, how do they go on?
But they go on because they have to. Homelessness is not an option they want to turn to. So they try to fool the public (and maybe themselves) into believeing they´re still as good at barbering, at chauffering, as they once were.
What if you didn´t have retirement to look forward to? What, then?
Heavy stuff. Lo siento!
I am in Cusco now and probably will be here for a while. There´s gobs to do here (aside from seeing Macchu Picchu, which I am doing on Thursday), so it ought to be a good time. Heaps of ruins today and white water rafting tomorrow and who knows what else.
Hope everyone´s enjoying a lovely May weekend! Much love.
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