When I was a sophomore in college, I took a career development class. It was supposed to help me figure out what I wanted to do with my life, though I couldn't have been more lost at the age of 19. The class was mostly a waste of time, but I have remembered one thing from it. We had to take all of these personality quizzes, and one of them assessed whether you are an introvert or an extrovert. But they didn't follow the traditional definitions of these words - introverts are shy and extroverts are outgoing. Instead they said that introverts are people who get energy from themselves; extroverts get their energy from other people. In other words, it's not that introverts don't like being around people, but they feel completely depleted after it. I measured just slightly over on the introvert side.
I mention this now only as an excuse for my absence from writing. Teaching is sucking every bit of energy out of me - physical and mental - and I find myself actually working around the clock. The urge to write is simply not coming to me like it used to, when there would be days when I was just DYING to get to a computer and pour out some story.
Nevertheless, I do not intend to give up on the blog!
All is well here in Warsaw. It is Sunday morning, and I'm holed up in my little apartment here in the city center. It is a studio apartment (meaning there is just one room, a bathroom, and a little kitchen nook), but the location is perfect, the building has a ton of character, and the apartment itself is clean and modern. It's taken me two months to make the apartment feel somewhat homey, but it's quite comfortable now. It doesn't have everything a girl could want, but it does have everything I need, and I'm living much more minimally these days than I was two years ago.
Every morning I walk out my front door between 7:00 and 7:30 AM and walk five minutes to the bus stop. My bus, the 180, takes about 25 minutes, depending on traffic. The commute doesn't bother me at all (assuming I can get a seat), and it's fairly direct and easy. Many people I know have to switch buses several times, so I feel very lucky! The transit system here is very smart. You can buy a thirty day card that allows you unlimited access to the subway, train, and bus systems, and you don't have to do any swiping or anything when you first board. I thought this was quite weird at first and that people were probably riding for free all the time, but they do have these monitors who board the bus randomly and check everyone's pass. The great thing about this system is that you don't have to wait for every single person to pay at the front of the bus before you can leave the stop. You just get on and go. It's great.
I'm required to teach a total of 25 lessons per week - two classes of 6th grade English language, two classes of 7th grade language, two classes of 7th grade literature, one class of 8th grade language, and one class of 8th grade literature. I don't know if that sounds like a lot to you, but it is a lot. Most days I teach five classes, and my free lessons are spent planning or grading. There's never a moment when I'm just sitting around, reading a book or surfing the internet.
I know you've all heard that teachers work so hard and blah blah blah, but I'm going to tell you again because I do have a feeling that most people STILL think that teachers somehow have it easier because the school day technically ends at 3 PM, and we have so many holidays. I find that most days I wake up at 6 AM and spend at least 30 minutes, if not more, working before my classes begin. Some days I stay after school for an hour to try to get a few things done, but every day, I find myself working away in the evenings. Compared to the days at my old job when I would work from 8 AM to 8 PM, I find this more tiring. It's active work. You cannot decide to just take a break and spend twenty minutes emailing or checking Facebook. And you have to be on top of your shit all the time! Otherwise, you are going to find yourself standing sheepishly in front of a group of expectant 13 year olds and have to figure out on your feet what to do with them for 45 minutes!
Okay, enough about that. It's hard work.
And yet! I am truly liking it. I know everyone says they like their new job after they've started it, but I do like it. I read somewhere (probably in Melissa's teaching book) that teaching is the hardest job you'll ever love. And I do think there's some truth to that. I adore my students (at least 90% of them, and that's including some pretty naughty ones). I thought that I wanted to teach because I wanted to enlighten these kids and help them to love learning and reading and writing, but I find that what I am most loving about my job is the kids themselves. And loving your kids is pretty much essential if you are going to like your job at all.
I think it's also important, though, that the kids like me. I was torn at the beginning of the school year. Do I act tough and mean and try not care whether the students like me? Or do I try to get them to like me? It obviously has to be a combination of the two. You have to be able to get them to do work, but I do think it is important that they like you - at least with this age group. I cannot recall a single teacher during elementary/middle/high school that I didn't like but learned a lot from. The teachers I remember as being GREAT teachers were teachers that I liked. Teachers that talked to me like an adult. I think as a middle school teacher, your job is as much to teach them as it is to be an approachable adult figure in their life.
So for the most part, I think my student like Ms. Bucy. They all say, "Good morning, Ms. Bucy!" when they see me in the halls, which is, well, charming. It makes me feel so giddy to walk through the school and hear that.
Though I am liking my job, I can't say for sure if I am good at it yet. I arrived two weeks before school started, was told that I'd be teaching 6th, 7th, and 8th grade English, and was basically given no curriculum to follow. We have a textbook to plod through in 6th and 8th grade, and I know which books I am supposed to teach for literature, but I feel like I've been given free reign with what I actually teach. I suppose many teachers would love that much freedom, but in my first year, I'd really rather have someone telling me what to do. I'd really rather not have to write an entire 7th grade English Languge curriculum all by myself. And I obviously haven't had the time to write such a curriculum anyway. So I find myself doing a lot of what I learned NOT to do at Teachers College, which is planning lesson to lesson. I have had many successful lessons, so far, but I do find that I lack a clear idea of what the "bigger picture" is. It's not a great feeling. But the planning gets easier with every week, and now that I've got the first quarter under my belt, I think I have a better sense of exactly what I'm supposed to be doing with the kids and exactly what I can expect out of the kids. My task is much clearer to me than it was 8 weeks ago. It's a shame because I feel like I will have finally gotten the hang of this in June, when the year is over! Always next year!
On the personal side, life is good and getting better. I cannot say enough nice things about my fellow teachers at the school, and I've made a few outside-of-work friendships with them. My newest friend is Analisa, a 24 year old girl from Boston. She did her undergrad at Columbia, so we were actually there at the same time, and we have this bizarre list of things in common. At any rate, we clicked from day one, and I am so grateful to have met her (not to get sappy on you). As soon as Bjorn left, I felt this huge hole in my life - one that my girlfriends used to fill. And after being abroad for a while, and finding everyone so different from you, it's amazing how comforting it is to find someone that is so much the same as you. Yay Analisa. So we've been going to some yoga classes together and going running and whatnot - the things that make you feel like you have a life outside of your job! Analisa, by the way, has just started her third year at the school. She found herself making the move to Poland because her Spanish boyfriend (who she met in Spain) took a job here.
And Bjorn is great. The long-distancing isn't ideal, but I do think that it's going as smoothly as it could go. We see each other every 2-4 weeks, which is not bad! He is doing very well in his program at school, and I am going to go up to Gothenburg in a week for my fall break, so I will finally get to see everything! (He always has to come here, since I have no time off!)
So yes, tomorrow is the start of my last week before fall break, a whole wonderful week off! After fall break, there will be just a short six weeks til...Bjorn and I come to Nashville for Christmas! Yay! We are so excited.
Okay. That's my update. I will write more. I really will. I am just beginning to get my head above water after two months of drowning, so I am hopeful that I will be able to manage my time better in the coming months.
Hope everyone is well. Much love.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
An iPhone for an A
A short story for your Tuesday morning.
Yesterday, I asked one of my sixth grade students - a girl - to stay after class for a few minutes. She hadn't come to class with her homework, so we needed to have a small chat about being prepared for class. We finished the talk, and I was ready to send her on her way and get out the door (it was my last class).
I could see, however, that something else was lingering on her mind. "Um, Ms. Bucy?" Yes...? "Well, I was just wondering. Because... is there anything I can do to make sure I get an A or a B in English?" Well...I started. "You see," she said, "my mom told me that if I could get an A or a B in English she would buy me the new iphone, so..." She drifted off. "I'm just really nervous about it," she summed up.
I assured her that she was doing just fine at this point (week two) and to just keep up the hard work and...do her homework! But I let out a loud grunt of disbelief when she finally left the room. What parents! Is this really how we motivate our children to do well? Bribe them with expensive electronics?
I did, however, spend a part of last night wondering if my own grades would have improved, had my parents set out some sort of special gift as a reward. It would have had to be something really good, though! And in sixth grade, I think I was still motivated to get an A just for the sake of getting an A.
Nevertheless, I have a feeling this year will be full of these gems. Have a good day!
Yesterday, I asked one of my sixth grade students - a girl - to stay after class for a few minutes. She hadn't come to class with her homework, so we needed to have a small chat about being prepared for class. We finished the talk, and I was ready to send her on her way and get out the door (it was my last class).
I could see, however, that something else was lingering on her mind. "Um, Ms. Bucy?" Yes...? "Well, I was just wondering. Because... is there anything I can do to make sure I get an A or a B in English?" Well...I started. "You see," she said, "my mom told me that if I could get an A or a B in English she would buy me the new iphone, so..." She drifted off. "I'm just really nervous about it," she summed up.
I assured her that she was doing just fine at this point (week two) and to just keep up the hard work and...do her homework! But I let out a loud grunt of disbelief when she finally left the room. What parents! Is this really how we motivate our children to do well? Bribe them with expensive electronics?
I did, however, spend a part of last night wondering if my own grades would have improved, had my parents set out some sort of special gift as a reward. It would have had to be something really good, though! And in sixth grade, I think I was still motivated to get an A just for the sake of getting an A.
Nevertheless, I have a feeling this year will be full of these gems. Have a good day!
Sunday, September 6, 2009
The First Days of School
I’ve gotten three emails today, complaining about my poor blog. So…here’s what I wrote last Sunday (when I promised I would write). I didn’t quite get it finished, and then I got whisked off to “Green School”, a WEEK-LONG all-school retreat (aka, five days of 24/7 babysitting). Anyway, I had no computer and no internet last week, so I got a little behind.
********
Three years ago, I completed a Masters degree in Secondary English Education. While I enjoyed the program, my student teaching experience was a nightmare. I had two classes of 36 eighth graders in a New York City public school and a cooperating teacher with whom I did not cooperate. Her classroom was one of yelling, harsh disciplining, and singling students out. She was constantly telling me I wasn't being hard enough on the students, when to me, a classroom is not a place for yelling. There's no part of learning that requires yelling. I finished up my student teaching feeling like I hadn't done my best. I was too busy with my coursework to devote any real time to planning; I hated teaching with my cooperating teacher constantly watching me; I went to bed every night and woke up every morning with dread. And if there's one thing of which I am certain, it is that a person's job should not involve daily doses of dread.
And so, when I started working – initially temporarily – as an administrative assistant at a financial recruiting company in New York, I felt relief. I had my life back. I could leave work at the end of the day and stop thinking. I could wake up in the morning and look forward to the day ahead. I could go to the gym, have dinners with my friends, and importantly, I enjoyed a great deal of responsibility at my job, and I felt valued. I had daily doses of praise from my boss. You’re doing a great job, Ellen. Please stay with us. So I did.
Of course, a year and a half later found me fleeing to South America. Work had offered me a promotion, and I wasn’t ready to see my life as a financial recruiter. I had never in my life been remotely interested in finance. The culture nauseated me, but more to the point, the job wasn’t me. It just made no sense.
Teaching has always made sense to me. I’ve always wanted to do something that encourages others to love learning the way I did, growing up (even though I was never an “academic” type). I’ve always wanted to do something that was meaningful and that I could walk away from feeling like I’d at least tried to do something useful for the rest of the world. “Ahhhh, so you’re a keener,” a fellow teacher – and a Canadian – said to me just today. (I guess this is some weird Canadian way of saying you’re idealistic.)
I felt guilty about leaving my Masters degree unused. And when I started looking for jobs at the beginning of this summer, I just HAD to get a teaching job. I knew that if I didn’t try teaching this year, I would likely never get around to it, and that would be something I wouldn’t be able to live with. When I got offered this job in Warsaw, I was elated. I was finally going to be given a chance to tackle this teaching thing I’d been toying around with for so many years. And I was determined to do it right.
Tuesday (Sept. 1) was technically "the first day of school" but didn't require much effort on anyone's part, save the parents, who were expected to be present. We had an all school Welcome To School assembly, at which students met and sat with their homeroom teachers; both the headmistress and the owner of the school gave formal remarks; teachers were introduced; and, of course, parents were treated to a lovely reception afterward.
The parents of this school are a sight. They have money, and they make sure it's obvious to anyone who looks at them. It's gaudy wealth. L.A. wealth. European wealth. It's Coco Chanel sunglasses and huge D&G handbags. It's manicured nails and skimpy clothing. And that's just the mothers. It's a private school, so I expected some overt displays of wealth, but I was genuinely shocked at the tackiness of it all. I actually saw one woman pushing a baby in a stroller, wearing a dark red, flapper-style, mini-dress, complete with layers of fringe. It was noon. Ah, we can't all be as tasteful as everyone at Harpeth Hall, I know.
After the festivities, a large group of teachers organized themselves to go out for a few drinks. I was torn. I still felt like I was not at all ready for the real first day, but I did feel it was important to try to get to know my fellow teachers. One beer couldn't hurt, right? Well, of course I had two, and by the time I got home at 6 PM, I realized I had asked for yet another meltdown. And the worst thing about this particular meltdown was that I couldn't blame anyone else for it. I was furious with myself. Ellen! This was important to you. You were going to do this the right way. This was not how you were going to start the year.
So I gave myself a few slaps on the cheek, banished all of those feelings of self-loathing, and set to work. I stayed up til 1:30 AM.
My dear friend (and a teacher), Melissa, gave me a book called The First Days of School right before I left Nashville in August. Read this book, she told me. Read it over and over until it all sinks in, she told me. If you do everything this book says, you will be fine. But I beg of you, she said, read this book. Generally, I think how-to books are silly, but I read this book. I took notes about the importance of organization and routine. I went over and over the sections on classroom management. Good classroom managers, the book said, do not have to be disciplinarians.
Wednesday morning, my first class walked into the classroom. I had a syllabus for them, outlining the grading procedures for the class and the materials they would need. I had a detailed list of classroom procedures (what to do when you enter the classroom, what to do if you come in late, what to do if you need to go to the bathroom, what to do if you don’t have your homework, etc.). I had a short list of classroom rules – and consequences. I had a seating chart prepared, and I had name-markers on those desks, so those students didn’t need to ask. I welcomed those students at the door. I told them to find their seat and get started on the assignment on the board. And let me tell you something. The first bell rang for the class to begin, and my students were sitting quietly, in their assigned seats, and they were WRITING! They were working. I was exhausted, but I took in the situation and thought, YES! This is exactly what was supposed to happen.
I had just three days of classes that week, but I had met all of my students by Friday, and I felt really positive about the task at hand. That’s all I’m going to say for the moment. I know I haven’t gotten to any of the fun details yet (like how naughty/charming/silly my students are), but I will get there, I promise. You just cannot imagine how busy and chaotic and exhausting the last two weeks have been! And the internet I got for my apartment (another story) isn’t working very well. So. Complications, as usual. But keep harassing me with emails. It actually helps.
Love to you all.
********
Three years ago, I completed a Masters degree in Secondary English Education. While I enjoyed the program, my student teaching experience was a nightmare. I had two classes of 36 eighth graders in a New York City public school and a cooperating teacher with whom I did not cooperate. Her classroom was one of yelling, harsh disciplining, and singling students out. She was constantly telling me I wasn't being hard enough on the students, when to me, a classroom is not a place for yelling. There's no part of learning that requires yelling. I finished up my student teaching feeling like I hadn't done my best. I was too busy with my coursework to devote any real time to planning; I hated teaching with my cooperating teacher constantly watching me; I went to bed every night and woke up every morning with dread. And if there's one thing of which I am certain, it is that a person's job should not involve daily doses of dread.
And so, when I started working – initially temporarily – as an administrative assistant at a financial recruiting company in New York, I felt relief. I had my life back. I could leave work at the end of the day and stop thinking. I could wake up in the morning and look forward to the day ahead. I could go to the gym, have dinners with my friends, and importantly, I enjoyed a great deal of responsibility at my job, and I felt valued. I had daily doses of praise from my boss. You’re doing a great job, Ellen. Please stay with us. So I did.
Of course, a year and a half later found me fleeing to South America. Work had offered me a promotion, and I wasn’t ready to see my life as a financial recruiter. I had never in my life been remotely interested in finance. The culture nauseated me, but more to the point, the job wasn’t me. It just made no sense.
Teaching has always made sense to me. I’ve always wanted to do something that encourages others to love learning the way I did, growing up (even though I was never an “academic” type). I’ve always wanted to do something that was meaningful and that I could walk away from feeling like I’d at least tried to do something useful for the rest of the world. “Ahhhh, so you’re a keener,” a fellow teacher – and a Canadian – said to me just today. (I guess this is some weird Canadian way of saying you’re idealistic.)
I felt guilty about leaving my Masters degree unused. And when I started looking for jobs at the beginning of this summer, I just HAD to get a teaching job. I knew that if I didn’t try teaching this year, I would likely never get around to it, and that would be something I wouldn’t be able to live with. When I got offered this job in Warsaw, I was elated. I was finally going to be given a chance to tackle this teaching thing I’d been toying around with for so many years. And I was determined to do it right.
Tuesday (Sept. 1) was technically "the first day of school" but didn't require much effort on anyone's part, save the parents, who were expected to be present. We had an all school Welcome To School assembly, at which students met and sat with their homeroom teachers; both the headmistress and the owner of the school gave formal remarks; teachers were introduced; and, of course, parents were treated to a lovely reception afterward.
The parents of this school are a sight. They have money, and they make sure it's obvious to anyone who looks at them. It's gaudy wealth. L.A. wealth. European wealth. It's Coco Chanel sunglasses and huge D&G handbags. It's manicured nails and skimpy clothing. And that's just the mothers. It's a private school, so I expected some overt displays of wealth, but I was genuinely shocked at the tackiness of it all. I actually saw one woman pushing a baby in a stroller, wearing a dark red, flapper-style, mini-dress, complete with layers of fringe. It was noon. Ah, we can't all be as tasteful as everyone at Harpeth Hall, I know.
After the festivities, a large group of teachers organized themselves to go out for a few drinks. I was torn. I still felt like I was not at all ready for the real first day, but I did feel it was important to try to get to know my fellow teachers. One beer couldn't hurt, right? Well, of course I had two, and by the time I got home at 6 PM, I realized I had asked for yet another meltdown. And the worst thing about this particular meltdown was that I couldn't blame anyone else for it. I was furious with myself. Ellen! This was important to you. You were going to do this the right way. This was not how you were going to start the year.
So I gave myself a few slaps on the cheek, banished all of those feelings of self-loathing, and set to work. I stayed up til 1:30 AM.
My dear friend (and a teacher), Melissa, gave me a book called The First Days of School right before I left Nashville in August. Read this book, she told me. Read it over and over until it all sinks in, she told me. If you do everything this book says, you will be fine. But I beg of you, she said, read this book. Generally, I think how-to books are silly, but I read this book. I took notes about the importance of organization and routine. I went over and over the sections on classroom management. Good classroom managers, the book said, do not have to be disciplinarians.
Wednesday morning, my first class walked into the classroom. I had a syllabus for them, outlining the grading procedures for the class and the materials they would need. I had a detailed list of classroom procedures (what to do when you enter the classroom, what to do if you come in late, what to do if you need to go to the bathroom, what to do if you don’t have your homework, etc.). I had a short list of classroom rules – and consequences. I had a seating chart prepared, and I had name-markers on those desks, so those students didn’t need to ask. I welcomed those students at the door. I told them to find their seat and get started on the assignment on the board. And let me tell you something. The first bell rang for the class to begin, and my students were sitting quietly, in their assigned seats, and they were WRITING! They were working. I was exhausted, but I took in the situation and thought, YES! This is exactly what was supposed to happen.
I had just three days of classes that week, but I had met all of my students by Friday, and I felt really positive about the task at hand. That’s all I’m going to say for the moment. I know I haven’t gotten to any of the fun details yet (like how naughty/charming/silly my students are), but I will get there, I promise. You just cannot imagine how busy and chaotic and exhausting the last two weeks have been! And the internet I got for my apartment (another story) isn’t working very well. So. Complications, as usual. But keep harassing me with emails. It actually helps.
Love to you all.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Someone's Teacher
I had been out on an evening stroll around Warsaw for all of five minutes when my stomach dropped. A terrifying thought popped into my head. What if I run into one of my students on the street?
It's Friday night, and I am someone's teacher. I have not just survived my first week; I think I've actually succeeded in having a good first week. But I feel like I've been run over by a big yellow school bus, and so, at 8:55 PM Warsaw time, Ms. Bucy is getting into bed.
Further updates tomorrow.
It's Friday night, and I am someone's teacher. I have not just survived my first week; I think I've actually succeeded in having a good first week. But I feel like I've been run over by a big yellow school bus, and so, at 8:55 PM Warsaw time, Ms. Bucy is getting into bed.
Further updates tomorrow.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tears and Cookies
Bjorn read yesterday's blog entry, and when I asked him if he thought it was an accurate account of the last few days, he hesitated. Well, he said, you're sort of leaving out some of the, um, low points. Ahh, yes. The low points!
I have cried every day this week. I cried Monday morning when I said goodbye to Bjorn. Not a big, heaving, let it all out, kind of cry, just a few minutes of boo hooing. It was to be expected. I knew it would happen before it happened. I collected myself - I had to - and moved on to the school for an enlightening day of medical testing and safety lectures. That evening, I went to go see an apartment (the expensive one I told you yesterday I had taken) and got completely lost coming home. Warsaw, as it turns out, is nothing like New York City. The streets do not have numbers for names, and if you don't have a map, forget it. I returned to the hotel exhausted, angry, and starving, so I went across the street to the MarcPol supermarket and bought a package of cookies and a large beer for dinner.
Tuesday. I had a short meeting at school with all teachers present. It was totally disorganized, and the teachers were unbelievably rudely talking over Ms. Mira during the whole meeting. Pieces of information were just getting thrown out at random. This is how we do this, this is how we do that. But are we going to put this all in writing for you? No. After the meeting, my new friend, Monica, (Polish and has just come from living in the states for six years - AND went to Nashville and loved it!) asked me if I wanted to come into the city center with her. She thought we could perhaps buy the classified newspaper, and she could help me look for an apartment, since everything is in Polish. What a nice gesture! So we did this, made many phone calls, and got nothing back. Places were already rented, or no one answered the phone. Nothing. I returned to the hotel, again around dinner time, again exhausted and frustrated and starving, but determined to have a REAL dinner. So I went to a sushi place in the neighborhood and spent too much money on sushi. It was delicious, but I felt guilty, as I really don't have any spare money these days. I was supposed to have a phone call with my father later that evening, which I had been looking forward to all day, but the Skype connection was terrible, and I could hardly hear him speaking. All I wanted was a few minutes of father comforting, and I ended up having to hang up without really saying goodbye. I cried - this time a big, fat cry - and went to bed. Oh, and, in an emotionally driven act of desperation, I agreed to take the expensive apartment through the end of December. I was supposed to be out of the hotel the following day, and I just didn't know what else to do.
Wednesday. Oh boy. This was a great day. Woke up immediately regretting my decision to take the expensive apartment. Monica and I had seen some MUCH cheaper apartments in the classifieds, and it was just really irritating to pay twice as much as I could. I showed up at school for yet another round of meetings, worse than the day before. We discussed school policies on discipline - what kinds of infractions are worthy of detention, etc. Excuse me, my friend Kathy said. Kathy is a 60ish year old British woman - and the only other non-Polish speaker at the school who is brand new. Is there a behavior policy written down somewhere? Mira scrambled, people started talking over her, and the question was never really answered. I later attended the Middle Years meeting and was totally overwhelmed with the masses of information being shoved upon me. I was expected to go ahead and make an order for the books and notebooks I wanted my stduents to have. Um, I'm sorry. You just showed me the program YESTERDAY. Do you think I am ready to order books?
Meanwhile, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had made a big mistake with my apartment. I finally went to a computer at the school and shot off an email to the owner, saying I had changed my mind and I was very sorry. (Of course, I started re-thinking THAT decision within about 10 minutes.) I left school in a huff, and went home to eat lunch sitting in my hotel room - cookies and a cup of yogurt I had stolen from the breakfast buffet that morning. I got on the phone with Bjorn and just exploded. I'm sick of eating COOKIES for meals! I am sick of not being able to buy things at the grocery store that I can refrigerate or cook! I'm sick of the school being so freaking disorganized! I'm sick of wondering where I'm going to sleep the next night! I'm sick of being stressed about money! This was the biggest cry, up to that moment. I had to get toilet paper from the bathroom. Mascara was running down my puffy, red face. Snot was pouring out of my nose.
I finally collected myself, and determined that I really needed to get back to the school and try to talk to some people. I needed perhaps to explain to Mira that I was extremely stressed out about my living situation. I needed to ask her if the school would pay for a few more nights at the hotel. I needed to find Kathy or Monica and talk to them about their apartment searching progress. But when I got back to the school, things had quieted down, and the school secretary, Anna, told me everyone had left. We chatted for a few minutes, but she started asking me questions like, Are you scared? and, Have you found a place to live? I had to bite my lip to keep from crying in front of her. I quickly left the school, put my sunglasses on, and wept, as I returned, defeated, to the Hotel Dipservice. On my way, I tried to stop at a kiosk and buy some extra credit for my cell phone, but the woman didn't speak any English, and that started another round of tears. Safe inside my hotel room, I just let it go. I cried and cried and cried.
But! The wonderfully strange thing about being human is that amidst such conditions (which I know are perhaps very petty compared to some, but they are mine), you can find a way to talk yourself out of it. You gather yourself. You try to start over. You recognize that there's nothing you can do to solve anything at 5 PM, so you might as well do something productive. So you read one of the books you're expected to teach and try to start planning for your classes. You realize that fresh air might help things, so you get out for a walk. You try again to get the extra credit for your phone and feel victorious at succeeding this time. You eat dinner at McDonald's, and though it's McDonald's, and it's gross, those french fries sure do put you in better frame of mind AND you don't have to feel guilty about spending too much money. And, when you finally return to the hotel, you find your friend Kathy sitting in the lobby, and you spend the rest of the evening talking, commiserating, and delighting in just having someone to talk to in person. Someone who can tell you it's okay that you're feeling like such a wreck.
So, yes, there have been some low points this week. And I'm still looking for an apartment. I'm still in the damned Hotel Dipservice. I'm still feeling extremely lost and overwhelmed with my job. But I'm determined to stick this out. And I'm determined to not cry today.
I have cried every day this week. I cried Monday morning when I said goodbye to Bjorn. Not a big, heaving, let it all out, kind of cry, just a few minutes of boo hooing. It was to be expected. I knew it would happen before it happened. I collected myself - I had to - and moved on to the school for an enlightening day of medical testing and safety lectures. That evening, I went to go see an apartment (the expensive one I told you yesterday I had taken) and got completely lost coming home. Warsaw, as it turns out, is nothing like New York City. The streets do not have numbers for names, and if you don't have a map, forget it. I returned to the hotel exhausted, angry, and starving, so I went across the street to the MarcPol supermarket and bought a package of cookies and a large beer for dinner.
Tuesday. I had a short meeting at school with all teachers present. It was totally disorganized, and the teachers were unbelievably rudely talking over Ms. Mira during the whole meeting. Pieces of information were just getting thrown out at random. This is how we do this, this is how we do that. But are we going to put this all in writing for you? No. After the meeting, my new friend, Monica, (Polish and has just come from living in the states for six years - AND went to Nashville and loved it!) asked me if I wanted to come into the city center with her. She thought we could perhaps buy the classified newspaper, and she could help me look for an apartment, since everything is in Polish. What a nice gesture! So we did this, made many phone calls, and got nothing back. Places were already rented, or no one answered the phone. Nothing. I returned to the hotel, again around dinner time, again exhausted and frustrated and starving, but determined to have a REAL dinner. So I went to a sushi place in the neighborhood and spent too much money on sushi. It was delicious, but I felt guilty, as I really don't have any spare money these days. I was supposed to have a phone call with my father later that evening, which I had been looking forward to all day, but the Skype connection was terrible, and I could hardly hear him speaking. All I wanted was a few minutes of father comforting, and I ended up having to hang up without really saying goodbye. I cried - this time a big, fat cry - and went to bed. Oh, and, in an emotionally driven act of desperation, I agreed to take the expensive apartment through the end of December. I was supposed to be out of the hotel the following day, and I just didn't know what else to do.
Wednesday. Oh boy. This was a great day. Woke up immediately regretting my decision to take the expensive apartment. Monica and I had seen some MUCH cheaper apartments in the classifieds, and it was just really irritating to pay twice as much as I could. I showed up at school for yet another round of meetings, worse than the day before. We discussed school policies on discipline - what kinds of infractions are worthy of detention, etc. Excuse me, my friend Kathy said. Kathy is a 60ish year old British woman - and the only other non-Polish speaker at the school who is brand new. Is there a behavior policy written down somewhere? Mira scrambled, people started talking over her, and the question was never really answered. I later attended the Middle Years meeting and was totally overwhelmed with the masses of information being shoved upon me. I was expected to go ahead and make an order for the books and notebooks I wanted my stduents to have. Um, I'm sorry. You just showed me the program YESTERDAY. Do you think I am ready to order books?
Meanwhile, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had made a big mistake with my apartment. I finally went to a computer at the school and shot off an email to the owner, saying I had changed my mind and I was very sorry. (Of course, I started re-thinking THAT decision within about 10 minutes.) I left school in a huff, and went home to eat lunch sitting in my hotel room - cookies and a cup of yogurt I had stolen from the breakfast buffet that morning. I got on the phone with Bjorn and just exploded. I'm sick of eating COOKIES for meals! I am sick of not being able to buy things at the grocery store that I can refrigerate or cook! I'm sick of the school being so freaking disorganized! I'm sick of wondering where I'm going to sleep the next night! I'm sick of being stressed about money! This was the biggest cry, up to that moment. I had to get toilet paper from the bathroom. Mascara was running down my puffy, red face. Snot was pouring out of my nose.
I finally collected myself, and determined that I really needed to get back to the school and try to talk to some people. I needed perhaps to explain to Mira that I was extremely stressed out about my living situation. I needed to ask her if the school would pay for a few more nights at the hotel. I needed to find Kathy or Monica and talk to them about their apartment searching progress. But when I got back to the school, things had quieted down, and the school secretary, Anna, told me everyone had left. We chatted for a few minutes, but she started asking me questions like, Are you scared? and, Have you found a place to live? I had to bite my lip to keep from crying in front of her. I quickly left the school, put my sunglasses on, and wept, as I returned, defeated, to the Hotel Dipservice. On my way, I tried to stop at a kiosk and buy some extra credit for my cell phone, but the woman didn't speak any English, and that started another round of tears. Safe inside my hotel room, I just let it go. I cried and cried and cried.
But! The wonderfully strange thing about being human is that amidst such conditions (which I know are perhaps very petty compared to some, but they are mine), you can find a way to talk yourself out of it. You gather yourself. You try to start over. You recognize that there's nothing you can do to solve anything at 5 PM, so you might as well do something productive. So you read one of the books you're expected to teach and try to start planning for your classes. You realize that fresh air might help things, so you get out for a walk. You try again to get the extra credit for your phone and feel victorious at succeeding this time. You eat dinner at McDonald's, and though it's McDonald's, and it's gross, those french fries sure do put you in better frame of mind AND you don't have to feel guilty about spending too much money. And, when you finally return to the hotel, you find your friend Kathy sitting in the lobby, and you spend the rest of the evening talking, commiserating, and delighting in just having someone to talk to in person. Someone who can tell you it's okay that you're feeling like such a wreck.
So, yes, there have been some low points this week. And I'm still looking for an apartment. I'm still in the damned Hotel Dipservice. I'm still feeling extremely lost and overwhelmed with my job. But I'm determined to stick this out. And I'm determined to not cry today.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
I Don't Speak Polish (or, Hi, Do You Speak Any English?)
I'm sitting in my teeny single room at the Hotel Dipservice (and I hope "dipservice" means something of significance in Polish). It is Wednesday morning, and I've now been in Warsaw, Poland, for a whole week! It has been an eventful week, and I'll try to tell you about the highlights, but I do intend to start keeping the blog more regularly now, so stay tuned. Officially back from summer vacation!
I arrived in Warsaw last Wednesday, after a week in Sweden. Bjorn came with me, and we were greeted at the airport by Ania, a teacher at the school, who was holding a sign with my name on it!
After introductions, the first thing Ania said was, Good news! You're not going to be with the little kids anymore! They found someone else who was very keen to work with the little ones, so they've moved you up to middle school - teaching English literature and language! Well, I think this was good news, at least. I've spent the last three weeks getting excited about the idea of second grade, and now, with just ten days before the students arrive, I have to change gears!
Ania led us to the cute, little school van, with the IES logo on it, where a driver was waiting to whisk us away to the hotel, where we were to have our first of many laughts at its name. Ania is a petite thirty-something woman, and though I can't quite pinpoint what it is, there's something very Eastern European about her. She teaches middle and high school chemistry at the school and has been there for 5 years, and as far as she knows, she knows everything about everything.
The van took us through some fairly unremarkable scenery into Wilanow (and the w is pronounced as a v here), a residential neighborhood about 8 km south of the city center. Wilanow is apparently where all the wealthy folks live, and it feels very suburban. Tree-lined streets are filled with large homes with expensive cars parked outside. But don't think Golf Club Lane. The houses are smaller, and they sit on small pieces of land, each enclosed by a gate.
There's something about Warsaw that continually reminds me of some of the big cities of South America. Things feel vaguely European, but without the polish and shine of "Europe". Patches of grass next to sidewalks grow wild, untrimmed, making things look a mess to someone who grew up in the land of manicured lawns. But things aren't a mess; people just don't prioritize grass cutting. Instead there are trash cans on every corner, which people do put their trash into, and special boxes for doggie poo. So things are certainly not dirty, by any means, just pehaps a bit - je ne sais pas.
I threw my things down in the hotel room, and then, with Ania leading, made the short walk over to the school. IES is a pre-K through 12 school, and the school is spread out into three separate buildings within a 2 block radius. These buildings are really more like residentail houses, and they are all very attractive from the outside, done in a Californian white with orange tiled roof.
The main administrative offices of the school are in the primary school building, and when we walked in, things were very much in disarray. Men drilling things, huge boxes of books sitting everywhere - a work in progress, I suppose. And after touring around the building a bit, I saw that none of the rooms were decorated yet, which was actually rather comforting. One of my largest anxieties prior to arriving was that I would be behind everyone. I'd walk around the school peering in everyone else's perfect rooms and then come to mine, barren and empty. And then, of course, all of the other teachers would sneer and laugh at me for being so completely inexperience and unprepared, and I'd probably run away crying. But everyone was unprepared! How wonderful!
At the center of all this mess was Ms. Mira, the headmistress of the school and my main contact at the school thus far. Ms. Mira is an attractive woman in her late forties, I'd guess. She has short, wavy, dyed blonde hair, and a curvaceous figure, which she accentuates with her dress, more than you might expect a headmistress to. Not in a tacky way, though. Just not Harpeth Hall. Mira is Polish, but she lived in the States for 11 years (which, maybe oddly, always makes me feel closer to someone). Nothing of her manner suggests a person of authority, really. She's incredibly friendly, and sort of endearingly discombobulated. Whenever she says hi to you, it's as if she's just walked out of a gruelling four hour meeting, and she has 800 things to do before 5:00. But with a smile and a laugh! Mira and I had a short chat, and we made plans to go out to lunch the following day, which I appreciated.
Aside from that lunch, the next several days were pretty much mine and Bjorn's. The school had given me a list of apartments in the neighborhood that an agent was offering, and the hope was that Bjorn and I would spend the weekend getting me settled in - finding an apartment, dealing with cell phone business, getting acquainted with the city.
The apartment search has unfortunately not been a walk in the park, and I can't say the school has been all that helpful. Well, the school has been somewhat helpful, but they are really only able to put me in touch with agents, whose apartments are the most expensive in the city, and they charge a fat agent fee on top of it all. We went to see two very depressing apartments on Friday morning - even further out of the city than Wilanow, in a sterile and isolated neighborhood, in a sterile and isolated apartment building that smelled like cigarettes and felt like a hotel. I don't want to be picky, but I do feel like the upcoming year has the potential to be a scary and lonely one, and I think a depressing apartment will only make things worse if I've had a bad day. I also feel strongly that if I'm going to live in Warsaw for a year, I'd like to live in Warsaw. I'd like to walk out of my apartment and get a little...local flavor!
After hitting a total dead-end with the apartment searching (any classifieds out there are all in Polish!), we decided to spend some time being tourists. And let me just say, Warsaw is a fabulous city. I was shocked, actually. It seems unfair to me that WWII could make everyone feel like Poland is a scary place and not...Germany. Tourists flock to Germany! But not Poland. Well, it will be our little secret, then, because Warsaw is charming, beautiful, and full of life. And when you walk around the streets and realize that 60 years or so ago, the entire city was in complete ruins, it's even more impressive.
Of course, there is a kind of darkness that hangs over the city. Walking down a street, you might notice a spot on a building where flowers and candles have been left, and you remember that this was a place where someone was executed during the war.
But then you walk into the main market square of Old Town, and music is playing, outdoor restaurants are serving drinks, people are wandering around eating ice creams and taking photos - all against the backdrop of these exquisite, colorful townhouses. We sat out here and had a beer one afternoon, and I mean, I could have sat there all afternoon. I'm not sure if I can think of a more pleasant place. And I've seen a few pleasant places!
We walked the hell out of this city over the weekend, and I now feel like I have a fairly good grip on the layout of the place. What I do not even have a slippery grip of is the language. Mira encouraged me to not be afraid to just ask people if they speak English because, especially if you ask a young person, your chances are pretty good of finding someone who does. But still, it's embarrassing to have to start every single conversation with, Do you speak English? And every time someone speaks to you first in Polish, you have to say, I don't speak Polish. It's a crazy language. Nothing is pronounced the way you think it is, and the street names are seriously complicated. And while this was all sort of amusing when Bjorn was still here, and we could feel ridiculous together, now that I'm on my own, it's just plain irritating.
But I am reminded of my first week or two in Buenos Aires, when I pretty much refused to go anywhere that would require me attemping to talk to anyone. And that DID get better. After two months, I could communicate! I get the sense that Polish is much, much harder than Spanish, but perhaps I will be able to learn at least enough to ask for a bus ticket or order a meal without feeling like a 2 year old. We shall see.
Bjorn left on Monday morning, at which time I started a week of meetings and school related activities. I am still in the Hotel Dipservice, and my week of free stay here ends today. I have tentatively agreed to move into a super nice apartment tomorrrow morning (and I do LOVE the apartment, but I do not love the price) through the end of December. However, if someone else comes along today, I am going to jump on it. I haven't signed a contract yet, and no money has been exchanged.
At any rate, week one is over, and though tears of frustration have already been shed, I feel very positive about what I am getting into. It is going to be an incredibly challenging year, but I am ready for it. I'm very ready to work again (and not as a waitress), and I couldn't be happier with the city I've landed in.
I have a few new photos up if you are interested - http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy . More soon. Much love to you ALL!
And PS - I'm sort of thinking I may have to lock this blog up. Seems dangerous to leave it open to the public...if I want to really tell you EVERYTHING! But we'll see.
I arrived in Warsaw last Wednesday, after a week in Sweden. Bjorn came with me, and we were greeted at the airport by Ania, a teacher at the school, who was holding a sign with my name on it!
After introductions, the first thing Ania said was, Good news! You're not going to be with the little kids anymore! They found someone else who was very keen to work with the little ones, so they've moved you up to middle school - teaching English literature and language! Well, I think this was good news, at least. I've spent the last three weeks getting excited about the idea of second grade, and now, with just ten days before the students arrive, I have to change gears!
Ania led us to the cute, little school van, with the IES logo on it, where a driver was waiting to whisk us away to the hotel, where we were to have our first of many laughts at its name. Ania is a petite thirty-something woman, and though I can't quite pinpoint what it is, there's something very Eastern European about her. She teaches middle and high school chemistry at the school and has been there for 5 years, and as far as she knows, she knows everything about everything.
The van took us through some fairly unremarkable scenery into Wilanow (and the w is pronounced as a v here), a residential neighborhood about 8 km south of the city center. Wilanow is apparently where all the wealthy folks live, and it feels very suburban. Tree-lined streets are filled with large homes with expensive cars parked outside. But don't think Golf Club Lane. The houses are smaller, and they sit on small pieces of land, each enclosed by a gate.
There's something about Warsaw that continually reminds me of some of the big cities of South America. Things feel vaguely European, but without the polish and shine of "Europe". Patches of grass next to sidewalks grow wild, untrimmed, making things look a mess to someone who grew up in the land of manicured lawns. But things aren't a mess; people just don't prioritize grass cutting. Instead there are trash cans on every corner, which people do put their trash into, and special boxes for doggie poo. So things are certainly not dirty, by any means, just pehaps a bit - je ne sais pas.
I threw my things down in the hotel room, and then, with Ania leading, made the short walk over to the school. IES is a pre-K through 12 school, and the school is spread out into three separate buildings within a 2 block radius. These buildings are really more like residentail houses, and they are all very attractive from the outside, done in a Californian white with orange tiled roof.
The main administrative offices of the school are in the primary school building, and when we walked in, things were very much in disarray. Men drilling things, huge boxes of books sitting everywhere - a work in progress, I suppose. And after touring around the building a bit, I saw that none of the rooms were decorated yet, which was actually rather comforting. One of my largest anxieties prior to arriving was that I would be behind everyone. I'd walk around the school peering in everyone else's perfect rooms and then come to mine, barren and empty. And then, of course, all of the other teachers would sneer and laugh at me for being so completely inexperience and unprepared, and I'd probably run away crying. But everyone was unprepared! How wonderful!
At the center of all this mess was Ms. Mira, the headmistress of the school and my main contact at the school thus far. Ms. Mira is an attractive woman in her late forties, I'd guess. She has short, wavy, dyed blonde hair, and a curvaceous figure, which she accentuates with her dress, more than you might expect a headmistress to. Not in a tacky way, though. Just not Harpeth Hall. Mira is Polish, but she lived in the States for 11 years (which, maybe oddly, always makes me feel closer to someone). Nothing of her manner suggests a person of authority, really. She's incredibly friendly, and sort of endearingly discombobulated. Whenever she says hi to you, it's as if she's just walked out of a gruelling four hour meeting, and she has 800 things to do before 5:00. But with a smile and a laugh! Mira and I had a short chat, and we made plans to go out to lunch the following day, which I appreciated.
Aside from that lunch, the next several days were pretty much mine and Bjorn's. The school had given me a list of apartments in the neighborhood that an agent was offering, and the hope was that Bjorn and I would spend the weekend getting me settled in - finding an apartment, dealing with cell phone business, getting acquainted with the city.
The apartment search has unfortunately not been a walk in the park, and I can't say the school has been all that helpful. Well, the school has been somewhat helpful, but they are really only able to put me in touch with agents, whose apartments are the most expensive in the city, and they charge a fat agent fee on top of it all. We went to see two very depressing apartments on Friday morning - even further out of the city than Wilanow, in a sterile and isolated neighborhood, in a sterile and isolated apartment building that smelled like cigarettes and felt like a hotel. I don't want to be picky, but I do feel like the upcoming year has the potential to be a scary and lonely one, and I think a depressing apartment will only make things worse if I've had a bad day. I also feel strongly that if I'm going to live in Warsaw for a year, I'd like to live in Warsaw. I'd like to walk out of my apartment and get a little...local flavor!
After hitting a total dead-end with the apartment searching (any classifieds out there are all in Polish!), we decided to spend some time being tourists. And let me just say, Warsaw is a fabulous city. I was shocked, actually. It seems unfair to me that WWII could make everyone feel like Poland is a scary place and not...Germany. Tourists flock to Germany! But not Poland. Well, it will be our little secret, then, because Warsaw is charming, beautiful, and full of life. And when you walk around the streets and realize that 60 years or so ago, the entire city was in complete ruins, it's even more impressive.
Of course, there is a kind of darkness that hangs over the city. Walking down a street, you might notice a spot on a building where flowers and candles have been left, and you remember that this was a place where someone was executed during the war.
But then you walk into the main market square of Old Town, and music is playing, outdoor restaurants are serving drinks, people are wandering around eating ice creams and taking photos - all against the backdrop of these exquisite, colorful townhouses. We sat out here and had a beer one afternoon, and I mean, I could have sat there all afternoon. I'm not sure if I can think of a more pleasant place. And I've seen a few pleasant places!
We walked the hell out of this city over the weekend, and I now feel like I have a fairly good grip on the layout of the place. What I do not even have a slippery grip of is the language. Mira encouraged me to not be afraid to just ask people if they speak English because, especially if you ask a young person, your chances are pretty good of finding someone who does. But still, it's embarrassing to have to start every single conversation with, Do you speak English? And every time someone speaks to you first in Polish, you have to say, I don't speak Polish. It's a crazy language. Nothing is pronounced the way you think it is, and the street names are seriously complicated. And while this was all sort of amusing when Bjorn was still here, and we could feel ridiculous together, now that I'm on my own, it's just plain irritating.
But I am reminded of my first week or two in Buenos Aires, when I pretty much refused to go anywhere that would require me attemping to talk to anyone. And that DID get better. After two months, I could communicate! I get the sense that Polish is much, much harder than Spanish, but perhaps I will be able to learn at least enough to ask for a bus ticket or order a meal without feeling like a 2 year old. We shall see.
Bjorn left on Monday morning, at which time I started a week of meetings and school related activities. I am still in the Hotel Dipservice, and my week of free stay here ends today. I have tentatively agreed to move into a super nice apartment tomorrrow morning (and I do LOVE the apartment, but I do not love the price) through the end of December. However, if someone else comes along today, I am going to jump on it. I haven't signed a contract yet, and no money has been exchanged.
At any rate, week one is over, and though tears of frustration have already been shed, I feel very positive about what I am getting into. It is going to be an incredibly challenging year, but I am ready for it. I'm very ready to work again (and not as a waitress), and I couldn't be happier with the city I've landed in.
I have a few new photos up if you are interested - http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy . More soon. Much love to you ALL!
And PS - I'm sort of thinking I may have to lock this blog up. Seems dangerous to leave it open to the public...if I want to really tell you EVERYTHING! But we'll see.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Starting A New Chapter
Hello, all! Sorry for the lapse in writing, but I have been in Nashville for the last two weeks, completely consumed with job searching, recovering from jet lag, and avoiding running into people that want to ask me 103 questions about my life.
But today is a new day, and I am ready for questions! This is entirely due to the fact that I NOW have a plan!
Several weeks ago, in an act of desperation, I went onto the US embassy to Poland's website and found their listings of international schools in Poland. In general, access to international school teaching positions is limited to those who go through the proper lines of communication - big international school recruiters. These recruiters charge $200, let you attend a big fair with a bunch of international school representatives, and you can likely get a job.
Of course, most schools try to do all their hiring in February, so I was a bit late to get involved in the official recruiting process, not to mention I did not think it necessary to spend $200. So I took my list of schools in Poland and just blasted them all with my resume. I figured it was at least worth a try.
And, by some great miracle, amidst the thank-you-but-no emails that came back to me, there was one from Mira, the headmistress of the International European School in Warsaw, Poland. They were very impressed with my resume, she said. Would I be interested in a primary school position or a middle school history position?
So we started emailing back and forth, trying to find a time to schedule a phone interview, and last Thursday, we finally connected. We had an extremely brief conversation, and I told her that though I had no real experience teaching younger children, I was just certain I could do it.
And apparently that was enough for her! A degree and a positive attitude! On Tuesday, I had an email from her offering me the job, and did I accept? You bet I did. This is the DREAM job. In all my moping, I kept thinking, "if only that Warsaw school would work out! It would be perfect!"
Come September 1st, I will be teaching second grade at the International European School in Warsaw. The school is K-12 and is fairly small - only 200 students in total, with a limit of 12 students per classroom. The students will have a variety of backgrounds - Polish children whose parents want them to have an English education, children of American or British expatriates, etc. And of course, all classes in the school are taught in English (lucky for me!).
This job is going to give me medical benefits, a salary of more than twice that of language schools (that's right, Jason Michaels), and a regular, Monday through Friday schedule. I can't say that I know much of anything about Poland (or 2nd graders, for that matter), but I DO think that this is going to be a wonderful challenge and experience. I am absolutely thrilled.
And, of course, from a relationship standpoint, this is the next best thing to actually being in Sweden. There are budget airlines that have direct flights from Warsaw to Gothenburg (where Bjorn will be in school) for $50! And it's a 1.5 hour flight!
I hesitate to say that it's going to be perfect, but...
All of this is to say, the blog will go on. I'm sure being in Warsaw teaching second graders will provide excellent writing material.
A few recent photos - http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy. Much love to you all!
But today is a new day, and I am ready for questions! This is entirely due to the fact that I NOW have a plan!
Several weeks ago, in an act of desperation, I went onto the US embassy to Poland's website and found their listings of international schools in Poland. In general, access to international school teaching positions is limited to those who go through the proper lines of communication - big international school recruiters. These recruiters charge $200, let you attend a big fair with a bunch of international school representatives, and you can likely get a job.
Of course, most schools try to do all their hiring in February, so I was a bit late to get involved in the official recruiting process, not to mention I did not think it necessary to spend $200. So I took my list of schools in Poland and just blasted them all with my resume. I figured it was at least worth a try.
And, by some great miracle, amidst the thank-you-but-no emails that came back to me, there was one from Mira, the headmistress of the International European School in Warsaw, Poland. They were very impressed with my resume, she said. Would I be interested in a primary school position or a middle school history position?
So we started emailing back and forth, trying to find a time to schedule a phone interview, and last Thursday, we finally connected. We had an extremely brief conversation, and I told her that though I had no real experience teaching younger children, I was just certain I could do it.
And apparently that was enough for her! A degree and a positive attitude! On Tuesday, I had an email from her offering me the job, and did I accept? You bet I did. This is the DREAM job. In all my moping, I kept thinking, "if only that Warsaw school would work out! It would be perfect!"
Come September 1st, I will be teaching second grade at the International European School in Warsaw. The school is K-12 and is fairly small - only 200 students in total, with a limit of 12 students per classroom. The students will have a variety of backgrounds - Polish children whose parents want them to have an English education, children of American or British expatriates, etc. And of course, all classes in the school are taught in English (lucky for me!).
This job is going to give me medical benefits, a salary of more than twice that of language schools (that's right, Jason Michaels), and a regular, Monday through Friday schedule. I can't say that I know much of anything about Poland (or 2nd graders, for that matter), but I DO think that this is going to be a wonderful challenge and experience. I am absolutely thrilled.
And, of course, from a relationship standpoint, this is the next best thing to actually being in Sweden. There are budget airlines that have direct flights from Warsaw to Gothenburg (where Bjorn will be in school) for $50! And it's a 1.5 hour flight!
I hesitate to say that it's going to be perfect, but...
All of this is to say, the blog will go on. I'm sure being in Warsaw teaching second graders will provide excellent writing material.
A few recent photos - http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy. Much love to you all!
Monday, June 29, 2009
The Worst Job Interview Ever
Thursday morning, admist packing for a weekend trip to Vaxjo (home of Johan and Sofia), I checked my email. Checking my email has become an obsession lately. I click that "enter" button on my gmail account and just pray that someone is about to tell me they want ME to work for them, that someone is finally going to decide my near future for me.
Sadly, my inbox is usually pretty empty of job-related matter. But Thursday morning, I had an email from the Intensity School of English in Rybnik, Poland. The subject line was "Interview".
My stomach dropped when I saw that word - it could only mean one thing! And, indeed, upon opening the email, my suspicious were confirmed. They wanted to have a phone interview with me at 8 PM that night. All I needed to do was confirm the time with them and send them the number of a landline on which they could reach me.
The five hour drive down to Vaxjo (pronounced Veh-qua), was a happy ride. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day, and we were back on the road, listening to music, and high on the possibility of things actually working out. ("Working out" has gradually come to mean getting a job teaching English in a nearby Eastern European country, since Sweden is an impossibility.) I'd be in Poland, Bjorn would be in Sweden, and we could easily see each other every two or three weeks. We'd just be a two hour plane ride away from each other and in the same time zone!
The day passed, and after dinner, Johan, Sofia, Bjorn, and I, all got in the car and drove a short distance to Sofia's father's office, the site of the confirmed landline where my interviewer would reach me. I sat in the small office, behind a huge l-shaped desk, for about twenty minutes, feeling giddy and nervous, and waiting for the damned phone to ring.
At 8:01 PM, the phone finally rang. Jason Michaels, from the Intensity School of English, introduced himself briefly, and the interview began. There was no small talk, no getting to know you conversation, no warm up. Just straight to the questions, the first awful one being "Why Poland?" Well, I'm an honesty girl, perhaps because I'm no good at lying, so I don't even bother trying. And it probably wasn't the right thing to do in the situation, but I told him that it frankly had a lot to do with my relationship. I told him I knew that I wanted to teach English this year, and the location really wasn't that important to me, but if I could be somewhere close to Sweden, that would be ideal. (I'm cringing as I write this - are you?)
The next question was: What qualities do you think you have that would make you a good teacher? I answered that one pretty well, I think, but this interview was already not going well. I was so thrown off by the way the conversation started (or didn't start) that my pre-interview nervousness was quadrupled. My voice was shaking ever so slightly as I spoke, and words - common, every day words, like school or happy - just vanished from my head as I tried to form sentences. I could not speak properly to save my life.
"Okay, let's now do a little exercise," Jason said, after he'd asked his first two (and only two) slightly personal questions. "I'm going to give you a word, and I want you to imagine you are teaching this word to a class of beginner English learners. I want you to define the word and use it in a sentence. The first word is the verb "cause"."
This just took me to a new level of utter panic and unpreparedness. I was NOT expecting this. I managed to stammer out some kind of definition (though I cannot recollect what on earth I said), but when it came to using it in a sentence, I just couldn't do it. I was trying to think of the most perfect sentence - one that didn't involve any complex verb structures (You can't say "could cause" to a group of beginners because they don't know "could".). I sat silently for a good 10 seconds or so before Jason Michaels said, "Okay, let's move on to the next one."
Good Jesus. Please make this interview end.
Jason Michaels' fun little word game did get a little better (a little better meaning I was at least able to say something). But he, of course, chose all confusing words - wise, compare, proud, should. Given a little time and a piece of paper, I could beautifully define these words for a group of beginners. I could probably even use them in a sentence! But in this situation...it wasn't ideal, to say the least.
We then moved into what seemed like a short grammar quiz: Do you know what a gerund is? Can you explain the difference between quick and quickly? How would you explain the difference between look and see? Can you identify the verb in the sentence, "Teaching is fun."? Um, LOOK, Jason Michaels. I am NOT an idiot, and I have had just about enough of this!
Finally, probably about 10 minutes after the phone rang, Jason Michaels told me that he was finished with "his" part of the "interview". Did I have any questions? I managed to fill up probably another ten minutes with questions, which may have redeemed me somewhat - my voice finally leveled out, and I had prepared some excellent questions, if I do say so. When I was finished, Jason Michaels informed me that they'd be making decisions in two weeks, and they'd let me know. And it was over.
As we drove back to Johan and Sofia's apartment, I just felt wretched. I felt angry, embarrassed, stupid, and amused, all at once. How did I manage to blow this ONE opportunity I was presented with? HOW? And HOW could that have been the interview? They didn't try to get to know me at all! Do they not care about personality or fit? Do they just want someone who knows what a gerund is? And hmmm, come to think of it, damnit! I completely screwed up the definition of a gerund. Ellen! I don't want to work at stupid Jason Michaels' school, anyway! He wasn't even nice! He didn't even speak English as a native language!
Yes, yes. Lessons learned. I know, I'll never be this unprepared again. Or this caught off guard. And every interview is a learning experience. Yadda yadda. But it was awful. And really weird. The next day, I woke up and thought, "Did that REALLY happen?"
And I'm probably overreacting. I probably didn't do nearly as badly as I thought I did. In the back of my head, I keep thinking that this is going to be one of those terrible ironies of life, where they come back in two weeks and offer me the job! Probably not, though.
I have come face to face with a major personality flaw of mine. I am terrible at failing. I'm terrible at rejection. I won't try to do unrealistic things, things that I'm certain won't work out for me. One bad interview makes me think perhaps I'm being ridiculous for thinking I could get a teaching job, let alone be good at it. One bad interview! So I'm conjuring up spirits of friends who are persisitent and motivated and positive, and I'm pushing ahead. We shall see.
Hope you are all well! Much love.
Sadly, my inbox is usually pretty empty of job-related matter. But Thursday morning, I had an email from the Intensity School of English in Rybnik, Poland. The subject line was "Interview".
My stomach dropped when I saw that word - it could only mean one thing! And, indeed, upon opening the email, my suspicious were confirmed. They wanted to have a phone interview with me at 8 PM that night. All I needed to do was confirm the time with them and send them the number of a landline on which they could reach me.
The five hour drive down to Vaxjo (pronounced Veh-qua), was a happy ride. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day, and we were back on the road, listening to music, and high on the possibility of things actually working out. ("Working out" has gradually come to mean getting a job teaching English in a nearby Eastern European country, since Sweden is an impossibility.) I'd be in Poland, Bjorn would be in Sweden, and we could easily see each other every two or three weeks. We'd just be a two hour plane ride away from each other and in the same time zone!
The day passed, and after dinner, Johan, Sofia, Bjorn, and I, all got in the car and drove a short distance to Sofia's father's office, the site of the confirmed landline where my interviewer would reach me. I sat in the small office, behind a huge l-shaped desk, for about twenty minutes, feeling giddy and nervous, and waiting for the damned phone to ring.
At 8:01 PM, the phone finally rang. Jason Michaels, from the Intensity School of English, introduced himself briefly, and the interview began. There was no small talk, no getting to know you conversation, no warm up. Just straight to the questions, the first awful one being "Why Poland?" Well, I'm an honesty girl, perhaps because I'm no good at lying, so I don't even bother trying. And it probably wasn't the right thing to do in the situation, but I told him that it frankly had a lot to do with my relationship. I told him I knew that I wanted to teach English this year, and the location really wasn't that important to me, but if I could be somewhere close to Sweden, that would be ideal. (I'm cringing as I write this - are you?)
The next question was: What qualities do you think you have that would make you a good teacher? I answered that one pretty well, I think, but this interview was already not going well. I was so thrown off by the way the conversation started (or didn't start) that my pre-interview nervousness was quadrupled. My voice was shaking ever so slightly as I spoke, and words - common, every day words, like school or happy - just vanished from my head as I tried to form sentences. I could not speak properly to save my life.
"Okay, let's now do a little exercise," Jason said, after he'd asked his first two (and only two) slightly personal questions. "I'm going to give you a word, and I want you to imagine you are teaching this word to a class of beginner English learners. I want you to define the word and use it in a sentence. The first word is the verb "cause"."
This just took me to a new level of utter panic and unpreparedness. I was NOT expecting this. I managed to stammer out some kind of definition (though I cannot recollect what on earth I said), but when it came to using it in a sentence, I just couldn't do it. I was trying to think of the most perfect sentence - one that didn't involve any complex verb structures (You can't say "could cause" to a group of beginners because they don't know "could".). I sat silently for a good 10 seconds or so before Jason Michaels said, "Okay, let's move on to the next one."
Good Jesus. Please make this interview end.
Jason Michaels' fun little word game did get a little better (a little better meaning I was at least able to say something). But he, of course, chose all confusing words - wise, compare, proud, should. Given a little time and a piece of paper, I could beautifully define these words for a group of beginners. I could probably even use them in a sentence! But in this situation...it wasn't ideal, to say the least.
We then moved into what seemed like a short grammar quiz: Do you know what a gerund is? Can you explain the difference between quick and quickly? How would you explain the difference between look and see? Can you identify the verb in the sentence, "Teaching is fun."? Um, LOOK, Jason Michaels. I am NOT an idiot, and I have had just about enough of this!
Finally, probably about 10 minutes after the phone rang, Jason Michaels told me that he was finished with "his" part of the "interview". Did I have any questions? I managed to fill up probably another ten minutes with questions, which may have redeemed me somewhat - my voice finally leveled out, and I had prepared some excellent questions, if I do say so. When I was finished, Jason Michaels informed me that they'd be making decisions in two weeks, and they'd let me know. And it was over.
As we drove back to Johan and Sofia's apartment, I just felt wretched. I felt angry, embarrassed, stupid, and amused, all at once. How did I manage to blow this ONE opportunity I was presented with? HOW? And HOW could that have been the interview? They didn't try to get to know me at all! Do they not care about personality or fit? Do they just want someone who knows what a gerund is? And hmmm, come to think of it, damnit! I completely screwed up the definition of a gerund. Ellen! I don't want to work at stupid Jason Michaels' school, anyway! He wasn't even nice! He didn't even speak English as a native language!
Yes, yes. Lessons learned. I know, I'll never be this unprepared again. Or this caught off guard. And every interview is a learning experience. Yadda yadda. But it was awful. And really weird. The next day, I woke up and thought, "Did that REALLY happen?"
And I'm probably overreacting. I probably didn't do nearly as badly as I thought I did. In the back of my head, I keep thinking that this is going to be one of those terrible ironies of life, where they come back in two weeks and offer me the job! Probably not, though.
I have come face to face with a major personality flaw of mine. I am terrible at failing. I'm terrible at rejection. I won't try to do unrealistic things, things that I'm certain won't work out for me. One bad interview makes me think perhaps I'm being ridiculous for thinking I could get a teaching job, let alone be good at it. One bad interview! So I'm conjuring up spirits of friends who are persisitent and motivated and positive, and I'm pushing ahead. We shall see.
Hope you are all well! Much love.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Photos!
Here are photos from the first few weeks in Sweden. Enjoy!
http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy
http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy
Friday, June 12, 2009
Sweet Sweden
When we flew in to Stockholm two weeks ago, our plane was coming from Vienna, so we were flying due north, straight up the east coast of Sweden. I was very lucky that day; I had the good fortune of being seated by the window, and the skies were clear blue. My first view of Sweden was an excellent one.
Sometimes I think that travelling as much as I have this year has made me less appreciative of the things I see. You see one glacier, you've seen them all. You hear one funny accent, you've heard them all. It's not that you don't enjoy the nuances of the country you're visiting, but you have less of the culture-shocked-wow-everything-is-soooo-different-than-home feeling.
However, as we made our final descent into Sweden that day, I was just postively drooling over the watery landscape below me. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like this!" I kept saying to Bjorn. "I mean, seriously!" When you see other coastlines, there's a pretty definitely line drawn between water and land, but the east coast of Sweden is a bizarre mix of water and land. There is really no definite coast at all, in fact. Inland, there are huge, sprawling lakes, and as your eye moves farther out towards the sea, the land just sort of starts to disintegrate. Hundreds of tiny islands break off into the ocean, scattering pieces of brown and green and gold throughout the blue. Looking at the land of Sweden from the sky, it's impossible to convince yourself that it really is land at all. Water, water, everywhere.
Bjorn grew up in the country, about 15 minutes outside of a town called Strangnas, population 22,000. Strangnas is located about an hour west of Stockholm, and is situated on a sort of peninsula that juts out into the huge Lake Malaren. Bjorn's father lives in the house Bjorn grew up in, a charming ranch-style house, built in the traditional Swedish style - wooden siding, painted red, with white trim on the shutters. I thought perhaps that this style was something of a stereotype of Sweden, but in fact, practically all of the houses in the country are like this.
The land is incredibly flat in this part of the country, and when we drive from Bjorn's mother Siv's flat, in the town of Strangnas proper, out to his father Rolf's, I always feel like I might as well be in Iowa or Wisconsin. I've never been to either of those places, but I'm pretty sure they look Sweden. Field after field of deep green, spotted with these gorgeous red houses.
The only thing that reminds you that you're in Sweden is the churches. Magnificent brick cathedrals, remnants of the 13th and 14th century are everywhere. The main church in Strangnas was built in 1250. How crazy is that! Right in the middle of this tiny town is a giant relic. We actually attended mass there on Sunday, and since the service was in Swedish and my mind was in lala land, I constantly found myself gazing up at the magnificent ceilings, painted with sprawling Bible scenes, and marvelling at the mass of the red brick pillars holding the whole place up. How did they do this in 1250!? However it was done, I think it's so wonderful to have something like this - something that has been the center of your town for its entire existence. Something that you can be certain that your great, great, great, great, great grandparents saw. Some reminder of the past.
Bjorn is the second of three boys. He has an older brother, Johan (pronounced Yowahn), who is 28, and a younger brother, Tomas, who is 20. Johan has just finished his second year of university, studying political science, in a town about four hours south of here, and Tomas is working at a retirement home in Strangnas and trying to get himself accepted into medical school to start in the fall. (They roll the bachelor's degree in the actual MD together into one long program here.)
Bjorn's parents have been incredibly welcoming and accpeting of me. Bjorn's mother speaks very good English, and though his father's is a bit rusty, he tries very hard, which I appreciate. I cannot imagine trying to get to know them without being able to communicate at all. I have felt right at home, in both of their homes, from day one. Bjorn's mother, Siv, is about the sweetest woman I've ever met, incredibly doting on both Bjorn and I. She is a dental hygenist in Strangnas, and has a little bike that she rides to work on nice days. Bjorn's dad, Rolf, is an electrician, and his best friend is Douglass, the crazy Labrador-Jack Russell mix of a dog who rules the roost out there in the country.
Bjorn's paternal grandparents, Borge (pronounced Bore-yeh) and Ella live on the same piece of land as his dad, and they, on the other hand, speak no English. We have had many meetings with them (they have a way of wanderng into the house without knocking quite a lot), and though I can tell they like me, we cannot communicate without Bjorn. They seem to have no real understanding of the fact that I don't speak Sweidsh, though, and always just start talking at me, looking at me very intensely, wondering why I don't immediately respond to them. The Swedish names for grandfather and grandmother are farfar and farmor, which I think is just the greatest thing ever. Farfar has even told me that I can call him farfar, which makes me so happy. FARFAR!
Farfar is quite a character. He's 86, and he always gets right up in my face, as if to tell me something very important. He's constantly warning me about Swedish men and begging me to sing something for him (since Bjorn informed him that I could sing - Bjorn!). There's an old wood-working shed on the property, which has been around since the 1700s, I believe. Last week farfar took me on a tour of the shed, and we must have stayed in there for an hour, as he picked up practically every little thing in there and explained to me how it worked.
Farfar and farmor regularly invite us over for "fica", a Swedish tradition I have grown very fond of. Fica is something like afternoon tea - everyone gathers around 4 PM for coffee and cinnamon rolls or cookies or cake. It isn't exactly a formal affair, but it does feel a bit like a fourth meal. Plates are set around the table and everyone is expected to sit and eat and chat for about an hour. Bjorn and I, along with Johan and his girlfriend Sofia (who were up visiting for a few days) went down to fica with farfar and farmor the other day, and I was FORCED (forced! I am serious) into eating a cinnamon roll, a piece of chocolate cake with homemade whipping cream, and several pieces of chocolate candy. Farfar, I can eat no more! But the box of chocolates just came around again. It was quite funny. And everytime we go to farfar and farmor's, they are constantly walking around the house, picking up old photos and knick-knacks, and bringing them over to tell me about them. No matter that farfar showed me his 1986 fishing championship trophy the day before! I will get to see it again! It's incredibly endearing.
So, despite the fact that Sweden does not seem to want me to stay here and work, I have been taken very good care of by Bjorn and his family and am enjoying myself very much. We have spent the greater part of the last two weeks focused on my job search, and while I still have nothing positive to say about that, I am pushing forward! It is becoming more clear that getting a work permit here is going to be impossible for me, so I am trying to think through my options.
But I promised Bjorn I would write my blog today and not get bogged down in job searching, so I will not go into that any further!
I hope everyone is well. I will post some new pictures soon...
Much love to you all!
Sometimes I think that travelling as much as I have this year has made me less appreciative of the things I see. You see one glacier, you've seen them all. You hear one funny accent, you've heard them all. It's not that you don't enjoy the nuances of the country you're visiting, but you have less of the culture-shocked-wow-everything-is-soooo-different-than-home feeling.
However, as we made our final descent into Sweden that day, I was just postively drooling over the watery landscape below me. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like this!" I kept saying to Bjorn. "I mean, seriously!" When you see other coastlines, there's a pretty definitely line drawn between water and land, but the east coast of Sweden is a bizarre mix of water and land. There is really no definite coast at all, in fact. Inland, there are huge, sprawling lakes, and as your eye moves farther out towards the sea, the land just sort of starts to disintegrate. Hundreds of tiny islands break off into the ocean, scattering pieces of brown and green and gold throughout the blue. Looking at the land of Sweden from the sky, it's impossible to convince yourself that it really is land at all. Water, water, everywhere.
Bjorn grew up in the country, about 15 minutes outside of a town called Strangnas, population 22,000. Strangnas is located about an hour west of Stockholm, and is situated on a sort of peninsula that juts out into the huge Lake Malaren. Bjorn's father lives in the house Bjorn grew up in, a charming ranch-style house, built in the traditional Swedish style - wooden siding, painted red, with white trim on the shutters. I thought perhaps that this style was something of a stereotype of Sweden, but in fact, practically all of the houses in the country are like this.
The land is incredibly flat in this part of the country, and when we drive from Bjorn's mother Siv's flat, in the town of Strangnas proper, out to his father Rolf's, I always feel like I might as well be in Iowa or Wisconsin. I've never been to either of those places, but I'm pretty sure they look Sweden. Field after field of deep green, spotted with these gorgeous red houses.
The only thing that reminds you that you're in Sweden is the churches. Magnificent brick cathedrals, remnants of the 13th and 14th century are everywhere. The main church in Strangnas was built in 1250. How crazy is that! Right in the middle of this tiny town is a giant relic. We actually attended mass there on Sunday, and since the service was in Swedish and my mind was in lala land, I constantly found myself gazing up at the magnificent ceilings, painted with sprawling Bible scenes, and marvelling at the mass of the red brick pillars holding the whole place up. How did they do this in 1250!? However it was done, I think it's so wonderful to have something like this - something that has been the center of your town for its entire existence. Something that you can be certain that your great, great, great, great, great grandparents saw. Some reminder of the past.
Bjorn is the second of three boys. He has an older brother, Johan (pronounced Yowahn), who is 28, and a younger brother, Tomas, who is 20. Johan has just finished his second year of university, studying political science, in a town about four hours south of here, and Tomas is working at a retirement home in Strangnas and trying to get himself accepted into medical school to start in the fall. (They roll the bachelor's degree in the actual MD together into one long program here.)
Bjorn's parents have been incredibly welcoming and accpeting of me. Bjorn's mother speaks very good English, and though his father's is a bit rusty, he tries very hard, which I appreciate. I cannot imagine trying to get to know them without being able to communicate at all. I have felt right at home, in both of their homes, from day one. Bjorn's mother, Siv, is about the sweetest woman I've ever met, incredibly doting on both Bjorn and I. She is a dental hygenist in Strangnas, and has a little bike that she rides to work on nice days. Bjorn's dad, Rolf, is an electrician, and his best friend is Douglass, the crazy Labrador-Jack Russell mix of a dog who rules the roost out there in the country.
Bjorn's paternal grandparents, Borge (pronounced Bore-yeh) and Ella live on the same piece of land as his dad, and they, on the other hand, speak no English. We have had many meetings with them (they have a way of wanderng into the house without knocking quite a lot), and though I can tell they like me, we cannot communicate without Bjorn. They seem to have no real understanding of the fact that I don't speak Sweidsh, though, and always just start talking at me, looking at me very intensely, wondering why I don't immediately respond to them. The Swedish names for grandfather and grandmother are farfar and farmor, which I think is just the greatest thing ever. Farfar has even told me that I can call him farfar, which makes me so happy. FARFAR!
Farfar is quite a character. He's 86, and he always gets right up in my face, as if to tell me something very important. He's constantly warning me about Swedish men and begging me to sing something for him (since Bjorn informed him that I could sing - Bjorn!). There's an old wood-working shed on the property, which has been around since the 1700s, I believe. Last week farfar took me on a tour of the shed, and we must have stayed in there for an hour, as he picked up practically every little thing in there and explained to me how it worked.
Farfar and farmor regularly invite us over for "fica", a Swedish tradition I have grown very fond of. Fica is something like afternoon tea - everyone gathers around 4 PM for coffee and cinnamon rolls or cookies or cake. It isn't exactly a formal affair, but it does feel a bit like a fourth meal. Plates are set around the table and everyone is expected to sit and eat and chat for about an hour. Bjorn and I, along with Johan and his girlfriend Sofia (who were up visiting for a few days) went down to fica with farfar and farmor the other day, and I was FORCED (forced! I am serious) into eating a cinnamon roll, a piece of chocolate cake with homemade whipping cream, and several pieces of chocolate candy. Farfar, I can eat no more! But the box of chocolates just came around again. It was quite funny. And everytime we go to farfar and farmor's, they are constantly walking around the house, picking up old photos and knick-knacks, and bringing them over to tell me about them. No matter that farfar showed me his 1986 fishing championship trophy the day before! I will get to see it again! It's incredibly endearing.
So, despite the fact that Sweden does not seem to want me to stay here and work, I have been taken very good care of by Bjorn and his family and am enjoying myself very much. We have spent the greater part of the last two weeks focused on my job search, and while I still have nothing positive to say about that, I am pushing forward! It is becoming more clear that getting a work permit here is going to be impossible for me, so I am trying to think through my options.
But I promised Bjorn I would write my blog today and not get bogged down in job searching, so I will not go into that any further!
I hope everyone is well. I will post some new pictures soon...
Much love to you all!
Monday, June 1, 2009
Invisible Lines, But Real
When we checked in at the Austrian Air counter in Bangkok, eager to receive the boarding passes that would take us to Stockholm, a delicate question was posed to me. When was I returning to the States? You don’t have a return ticket? What is the purpose of your trip to Sweden?
I flushed. I stuttered. I stood open-mouthed and turned to Bjorn, whose expression had also turned to confusion and worry. Well, I said, I don’t have a ticket, but I’m just going to visit Sweden for a couple of months. No, of course, I’m not planning to overstay my tourist visa’s three month allowance. Just visiting Bjorn here’s family!
The woman frowned at me, then, distracted by another service representative, she turned away. I don’t know if she forgot her line of questioning or if she decided it wasn’t worth it, but when she came back to me, she smiled, handed me my boarding passes, and told me to have a nice trip.
We walked away from the counter, feeling like we’d just dodged some heart-bursting bullet, but also feeling incredibly stupid. Here we’d been, all these months, dreaming of this master plan to go to Sweden. Bjorn would start school in August in Gothenburg, and I’d spend the summer finding a job there, preferably teaching ESL. Sure, it would be tricky, there would be obstacles, but it would work out. Of course it would!
We sat down in a restaurant and ordered two beers with our remaining Thai money, and suddenly, the difficulty of the path ahead hit us. I stared at the sterile, white, tile floor and watched one miserable scenario after another come to life. I’d get stopped at customs in Stockholm, grilled about my intentions, and then promptly put on a plane to the United States. We don’t want you here, they’d say. What, were you trying to sneak in?
We discussed strategy. Is it better to just lie? To say I’m just here visiting? Or should I go with the honesty policy and just hope for the best? Surely they can’t refuse me entry to the country because I don’t have a return ticket, can they? Couldn’t I be doing a tour of Europe?
I decided that, when questioned, I’d be charming. I’d giggle and roll my eyes and tell them that my boyfriend was trying to get me to move to Sweden so I was coming to investigate. Get a job and stay? Well, I’d say, I suppose it’s a possibility, but we certainly haven’t gotten that far yet! We’ve been in New Zealand for eight months, you understand. We haven’t made any plans yet!
When we had to go through passport control in Vienna, Bjorn and I were forced into separate lines. The fast line, for EU citizens, and the slow line for non EU citizens. I know it sounds silly to say that I have just, in the last few days, fully understood that Bjorn and I are from different countries, but as I stood in that line, watching Bjorn pass quickly through the EU line, I felt my status as an outsider. I’m not a member of this EU club, and if this stern-looking man behind the glass decides to not let me through, that’s his call. This man, these invisible lines between countries, could keep me from something as everyday as my relationship. How is it possible that I could be separated from the person I have spent practically every minute of the last 9 months with?
Luckily, I was overly worried, and when I was finally invited to the glass window, the stern-faced man merely looked at my passport and ticket, asked me if I was going to Sweden, and hearing me reply in the affirmative, handed my things back to me and waved me on. And when we finally landed in Stockholm, we walked straight out of the airport without even having to have our passports looked at! We had made it.
My mom once told me that in reality, love doesn’t conquer all. It’s a nice thought and all, but some things can simply put too much stress on love. As I’ve begun to research work visas and residency visas and job opportunities, I have been reminded of this. This is not to say that I think my relationship is any danger but just that I am now aware – sadly aware – of just how hard this is going to be. In order to apply for a work visa here, you have to first have a written job offer, and once you have that job offer, you have to apply for the work visa from your country of origin. Once that application is in process, you are not allowed to enter Sweden, and the turnaround time for a work permit is usually 2-3 months. You must have the work visa attached to your passport BEFORE you enter the country. What I think that means (and perhaps I shouldn’t just to too many conclusions just yet) is that I can search for jobs while I am here and go to interviews, but as soon as I actually have that job offer, I have to return to the States until my permit has been approved.
It seems so lame to me, so limiting, really, that there are such stiff rules. The world is not at all encouraging of international romance. It’s so hard to understand how a country could not want to encourage this relationship that has been so good for me. Aren’t I the center of this universe, anyway? Ha.
Despite all of this, I am optimistic. And for the moment, I just want to enjoy this time. Bjorn and I are fighting off the gloom and doom thoughts with our greatest energy. Things will work out. I know they will. But trying times are ahead.
All apologies for the Negative Nancy entry here. I’ll write about all of the unbelievably good and happy things that have been happening since our arrival in another day or two. Bad news first, you know!
And…here are some more photos from Thailand. http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy
Hope everyone is well and enjoying the start of summer! Love to you all.
I flushed. I stuttered. I stood open-mouthed and turned to Bjorn, whose expression had also turned to confusion and worry. Well, I said, I don’t have a ticket, but I’m just going to visit Sweden for a couple of months. No, of course, I’m not planning to overstay my tourist visa’s three month allowance. Just visiting Bjorn here’s family!
The woman frowned at me, then, distracted by another service representative, she turned away. I don’t know if she forgot her line of questioning or if she decided it wasn’t worth it, but when she came back to me, she smiled, handed me my boarding passes, and told me to have a nice trip.
We walked away from the counter, feeling like we’d just dodged some heart-bursting bullet, but also feeling incredibly stupid. Here we’d been, all these months, dreaming of this master plan to go to Sweden. Bjorn would start school in August in Gothenburg, and I’d spend the summer finding a job there, preferably teaching ESL. Sure, it would be tricky, there would be obstacles, but it would work out. Of course it would!
We sat down in a restaurant and ordered two beers with our remaining Thai money, and suddenly, the difficulty of the path ahead hit us. I stared at the sterile, white, tile floor and watched one miserable scenario after another come to life. I’d get stopped at customs in Stockholm, grilled about my intentions, and then promptly put on a plane to the United States. We don’t want you here, they’d say. What, were you trying to sneak in?
We discussed strategy. Is it better to just lie? To say I’m just here visiting? Or should I go with the honesty policy and just hope for the best? Surely they can’t refuse me entry to the country because I don’t have a return ticket, can they? Couldn’t I be doing a tour of Europe?
I decided that, when questioned, I’d be charming. I’d giggle and roll my eyes and tell them that my boyfriend was trying to get me to move to Sweden so I was coming to investigate. Get a job and stay? Well, I’d say, I suppose it’s a possibility, but we certainly haven’t gotten that far yet! We’ve been in New Zealand for eight months, you understand. We haven’t made any plans yet!
When we had to go through passport control in Vienna, Bjorn and I were forced into separate lines. The fast line, for EU citizens, and the slow line for non EU citizens. I know it sounds silly to say that I have just, in the last few days, fully understood that Bjorn and I are from different countries, but as I stood in that line, watching Bjorn pass quickly through the EU line, I felt my status as an outsider. I’m not a member of this EU club, and if this stern-looking man behind the glass decides to not let me through, that’s his call. This man, these invisible lines between countries, could keep me from something as everyday as my relationship. How is it possible that I could be separated from the person I have spent practically every minute of the last 9 months with?
Luckily, I was overly worried, and when I was finally invited to the glass window, the stern-faced man merely looked at my passport and ticket, asked me if I was going to Sweden, and hearing me reply in the affirmative, handed my things back to me and waved me on. And when we finally landed in Stockholm, we walked straight out of the airport without even having to have our passports looked at! We had made it.
My mom once told me that in reality, love doesn’t conquer all. It’s a nice thought and all, but some things can simply put too much stress on love. As I’ve begun to research work visas and residency visas and job opportunities, I have been reminded of this. This is not to say that I think my relationship is any danger but just that I am now aware – sadly aware – of just how hard this is going to be. In order to apply for a work visa here, you have to first have a written job offer, and once you have that job offer, you have to apply for the work visa from your country of origin. Once that application is in process, you are not allowed to enter Sweden, and the turnaround time for a work permit is usually 2-3 months. You must have the work visa attached to your passport BEFORE you enter the country. What I think that means (and perhaps I shouldn’t just to too many conclusions just yet) is that I can search for jobs while I am here and go to interviews, but as soon as I actually have that job offer, I have to return to the States until my permit has been approved.
It seems so lame to me, so limiting, really, that there are such stiff rules. The world is not at all encouraging of international romance. It’s so hard to understand how a country could not want to encourage this relationship that has been so good for me. Aren’t I the center of this universe, anyway? Ha.
Despite all of this, I am optimistic. And for the moment, I just want to enjoy this time. Bjorn and I are fighting off the gloom and doom thoughts with our greatest energy. Things will work out. I know they will. But trying times are ahead.
All apologies for the Negative Nancy entry here. I’ll write about all of the unbelievably good and happy things that have been happening since our arrival in another day or two. Bad news first, you know!
And…here are some more photos from Thailand. http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy
Hope everyone is well and enjoying the start of summer! Love to you all.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Chiang Mai
Hello, hello! We are just finishing up our first week in Thailand, and what a week it has been! We have spent the whole week in the Chiang Mai area in the northern part of the country, and we have enjoyed being REAL tourists. It's amazing how far your money can go here! Much farther than in New Zealand, that's for sure. We can stay at nice hostels with air conditioning, eat out every meal, go on tours, and SHOP! And we have done all of those things...
I don't have time to write about it now, unfortunately, but check out my pictures - http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy .
We are catching a train this afternoon that will take us all the way down south to a town called Chumphon. From there, we will catch a boat that will take us to Ko Tao, our island beach paradise for the next two weeks. We've had our dose of culture, and now we are ready to do what we came here to do - relax, and stop with the worry and hustle and bustle of traveling!
Hope you are all well! Much love.
I don't have time to write about it now, unfortunately, but check out my pictures - http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy .
We are catching a train this afternoon that will take us all the way down south to a town called Chumphon. From there, we will catch a boat that will take us to Ko Tao, our island beach paradise for the next two weeks. We've had our dose of culture, and now we are ready to do what we came here to do - relax, and stop with the worry and hustle and bustle of traveling!
Hope you are all well! Much love.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Ending, Beginning
During the last three months – our months on the road – we have kept a joint journal, tracking where we’ve spent each night and some highlights of our day. We decided to tally up a few things yesterday, which I’ll share with you here.
93 - days on the road
45 – nights spent in a tent
12 – nights spent in a Department of Conservation hut
13 – nights spent in a hostel
23 – nights spent in a homestay
392 – kilometers hiked
12,000 – kilometers put on Betty from September to May – wow!
We have driven and camped and walked the hell out of this country! We have eaten breakfast next to lakes and rivers, in the middle of rainforests, on the tops of mountains. We have sat on beaches, drinking wine; we have eaten dinner by flashlight, huddled in the car on a rainy night. We have hiked ourselves into isolation and enjoyed quiet nights by a campfire. We have met farmers and hunters and horse breeders and shop owners. We have tried our hand at shearing sheep, planting gardens, and breaking in horses. We have seen cows and goats and horses and pigs and all manner of crazy birds, as well as endless sheep. We have learned the names of native plants and trees. We have collected a whole jar worth of rocks from special places here and there. We have celebrated birthdays and anniversaries. We have grieved for loved ones in far away places.
We have seen the real New Zealand. I am certain of that. And I’ve become attached to this place in a way I didn’t know I would. It has sunk in, as we’ve been trying to get all of our stuff packed up, that we’ve LIVED here, not just visited. I feel, in some ways, like we are in the middle of a move. We have said goodbye to Bettty, our beloved car, to Bob and Black Chair, our camping chairs, to the cups and bowls we’ve eaten out of every day. And every little thing I’m having to say goodbye to is making me sad! But, as Bjorn told me last night, you can’t have a beginning without first having an end. So true.
Today is our last day in New Zealand. Tomorrow, just after lunch, we will board our plane for Bangkok. One adventure ends; another begins.
I have no idea what to expect in Thailand. We bought the Thailand Lonely Planet a couple of days ago and have been trying to get ourselves organized and to get our heads in a new mindset! I am trying to brace myself for the experience of being in a really foreign country, where English is not the first language, and where I stand out terribly just based on the color of my skin and hair.
We’re getting into Bankok around 9:30 PM on Friday, and then we are getting on an early shmearly flight the next morning for Chiang Mai, in the northern provinces. (I know you all, like me, probably know nothing about Thailand, so it’s time to get out your maps!) Chiang Mai is supposed to be a cultural mecca, full of ancient ruins, Buddhist temples, museums, and classes! Apparently one of the big tourist activities is taking these day-long culture classes – on Thai cooking, Thai massage, meditation, etc. How cool! You better believe we’re taking a cooking class! Anyway, we’ll probably spend about half our time there and then hurry down to Ko Tao or Ko Chiang for some serious beaching. I’ll keep you posted.
And I will! But I won’t have my laptop anymore, and I don’t know how available internet will be. But I’ll be back.
Hope everyone is well! Much, much love.
Goodbye, New Zealand.
93 - days on the road
45 – nights spent in a tent
12 – nights spent in a Department of Conservation hut
13 – nights spent in a hostel
23 – nights spent in a homestay
392 – kilometers hiked
12,000 – kilometers put on Betty from September to May – wow!
We have driven and camped and walked the hell out of this country! We have eaten breakfast next to lakes and rivers, in the middle of rainforests, on the tops of mountains. We have sat on beaches, drinking wine; we have eaten dinner by flashlight, huddled in the car on a rainy night. We have hiked ourselves into isolation and enjoyed quiet nights by a campfire. We have met farmers and hunters and horse breeders and shop owners. We have tried our hand at shearing sheep, planting gardens, and breaking in horses. We have seen cows and goats and horses and pigs and all manner of crazy birds, as well as endless sheep. We have learned the names of native plants and trees. We have collected a whole jar worth of rocks from special places here and there. We have celebrated birthdays and anniversaries. We have grieved for loved ones in far away places.
We have seen the real New Zealand. I am certain of that. And I’ve become attached to this place in a way I didn’t know I would. It has sunk in, as we’ve been trying to get all of our stuff packed up, that we’ve LIVED here, not just visited. I feel, in some ways, like we are in the middle of a move. We have said goodbye to Bettty, our beloved car, to Bob and Black Chair, our camping chairs, to the cups and bowls we’ve eaten out of every day. And every little thing I’m having to say goodbye to is making me sad! But, as Bjorn told me last night, you can’t have a beginning without first having an end. So true.
Today is our last day in New Zealand. Tomorrow, just after lunch, we will board our plane for Bangkok. One adventure ends; another begins.
I have no idea what to expect in Thailand. We bought the Thailand Lonely Planet a couple of days ago and have been trying to get ourselves organized and to get our heads in a new mindset! I am trying to brace myself for the experience of being in a really foreign country, where English is not the first language, and where I stand out terribly just based on the color of my skin and hair.
We’re getting into Bankok around 9:30 PM on Friday, and then we are getting on an early shmearly flight the next morning for Chiang Mai, in the northern provinces. (I know you all, like me, probably know nothing about Thailand, so it’s time to get out your maps!) Chiang Mai is supposed to be a cultural mecca, full of ancient ruins, Buddhist temples, museums, and classes! Apparently one of the big tourist activities is taking these day-long culture classes – on Thai cooking, Thai massage, meditation, etc. How cool! You better believe we’re taking a cooking class! Anyway, we’ll probably spend about half our time there and then hurry down to Ko Tao or Ko Chiang for some serious beaching. I’ll keep you posted.
And I will! But I won’t have my laptop anymore, and I don’t know how available internet will be. But I’ll be back.
Hope everyone is well! Much, much love.
Goodbye, New Zealand.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Goodbye, Betty
Hello, hello! We have reached our final destination of Auckland! And, by some miracle, we have also managed to get Betty sold!
We had posted her on a website here similar to Craigslist several weeks ago, but we'd had very few inquiries. But all you need is that ONE inquiry! We had an email from a lady named Sonnia, inquiring on behalf of someone that was WWOOFing for her, who was a backpacker, freshly landed in NZ, and eager to get on the road! We received this email on Friday, and wrote right back saying we'd be in Auckland the next day and would be more than happy to show the car as soon as we got in.
Well, the following day, when we were about an hour outside of Auckland, we decided to make a pit stop to check our email (we had stupidly forgotten to get the address of the hostel we'd booked for ourselves). We had a reply from Sonnia, saying they were in a town about 45 minutes from Auckland, and if it was on our way, maybe we could stop by! We called Sonnia immediately, and it turned out we were quite close by to her home.
Our potential buyer was Nico, a 30-something German guy who was going to be spending a year here, basically doing what Bjorn and I have done. He was just what we needed. He really just wanted a CAR. Didn't have to be fancy, didn't have to be nice, just needed to be able to lay himself down in the back if he wanted to sleep. Nico and Bjorn went out for a test drive, and within 20 minutes of our arrival, we'd shaken hands. We would sell Betty to Nico for $1100, which, considering we bought her for $1550 eight months ago, is GREAT for us. We are thrilled.
We knew it was really right - destined to be, in fact - when we heard Nico giving his birth date over the phone to the car insurance people. March 16 - same as Bjorn! So Betty gets another Pisces owner. Wonderful!
We finished off all the paperwork, and then Nico drove us the short distance into Auckland and dropped us off at our hostel door, which was exactly what we needed, considering we still had all our crap in it. We shuffled everything into our sufficiently large room here, again shook hands with Nico, and said goodbye to Betty. What a good girl she was. I hope Nico has as much fun with her as we did.
So we arrived in Auckland on a Saturday and didn't have to attend the Sunday morning car fair at all! Of course, now we're sort of in limbo. We don't have any means of transportation, and well, we don't really have anywhere to go anyway. So we are just hanging around Auckland until our departure on Friday. We're exploring the city a bit, catching up on our movie-watching, reading up on Thailand, and trying to get packed!
We luckily had the foresight to check the weight limit on checked luggage for our flight to Bangkok, and realized we were limited to 44 pounds per person. That's not much for an international flight. So now we are going to ship a box full of crapola to Sweden, including my laptop. It's a slight hassle, but, it would be more of a hassle having all that stuff with us in Thailand. A traveller with too much baggage is a vulnerable traveller, I think. So just backpacks for us again!
Okay, we are now off to see Slumdog Millionaire. I'm excited. Check out my recent pictures (though there aren't too many). I realized, as I was posting the most recent album, that I had never made the last album public. So sorry about that! http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy
Hope everyone is well! Much love.
We had posted her on a website here similar to Craigslist several weeks ago, but we'd had very few inquiries. But all you need is that ONE inquiry! We had an email from a lady named Sonnia, inquiring on behalf of someone that was WWOOFing for her, who was a backpacker, freshly landed in NZ, and eager to get on the road! We received this email on Friday, and wrote right back saying we'd be in Auckland the next day and would be more than happy to show the car as soon as we got in.
Well, the following day, when we were about an hour outside of Auckland, we decided to make a pit stop to check our email (we had stupidly forgotten to get the address of the hostel we'd booked for ourselves). We had a reply from Sonnia, saying they were in a town about 45 minutes from Auckland, and if it was on our way, maybe we could stop by! We called Sonnia immediately, and it turned out we were quite close by to her home.
Our potential buyer was Nico, a 30-something German guy who was going to be spending a year here, basically doing what Bjorn and I have done. He was just what we needed. He really just wanted a CAR. Didn't have to be fancy, didn't have to be nice, just needed to be able to lay himself down in the back if he wanted to sleep. Nico and Bjorn went out for a test drive, and within 20 minutes of our arrival, we'd shaken hands. We would sell Betty to Nico for $1100, which, considering we bought her for $1550 eight months ago, is GREAT for us. We are thrilled.
We knew it was really right - destined to be, in fact - when we heard Nico giving his birth date over the phone to the car insurance people. March 16 - same as Bjorn! So Betty gets another Pisces owner. Wonderful!
We finished off all the paperwork, and then Nico drove us the short distance into Auckland and dropped us off at our hostel door, which was exactly what we needed, considering we still had all our crap in it. We shuffled everything into our sufficiently large room here, again shook hands with Nico, and said goodbye to Betty. What a good girl she was. I hope Nico has as much fun with her as we did.
So we arrived in Auckland on a Saturday and didn't have to attend the Sunday morning car fair at all! Of course, now we're sort of in limbo. We don't have any means of transportation, and well, we don't really have anywhere to go anyway. So we are just hanging around Auckland until our departure on Friday. We're exploring the city a bit, catching up on our movie-watching, reading up on Thailand, and trying to get packed!
We luckily had the foresight to check the weight limit on checked luggage for our flight to Bangkok, and realized we were limited to 44 pounds per person. That's not much for an international flight. So now we are going to ship a box full of crapola to Sweden, including my laptop. It's a slight hassle, but, it would be more of a hassle having all that stuff with us in Thailand. A traveller with too much baggage is a vulnerable traveller, I think. So just backpacks for us again!
Okay, we are now off to see Slumdog Millionaire. I'm excited. Check out my recent pictures (though there aren't too many). I realized, as I was posting the most recent album, that I had never made the last album public. So sorry about that! http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy
Hope everyone is well! Much love.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
One Week Left
Hello, all! We are up in Northland, the northernmost part of NZ. Today, we will start our drive back down towards Auckland, where we will spend our last few days.
It’s funny, because a month ago, when we realized our time was quickly beginning to run out, we panicked. How are we going to fit everything in? Where should we go? Aack! But now that we actually have just a week left, we feel like we’ve finally exhausted ole NZ. We are, finally, ready to move on.
We're hitting the car fair in Auckland on Sunday, in hopes we can pass ole Betty on to some new owners. We gave her a good clean out recently, and I actually teared up. I love that car, as I have loved this trip. What an amazing three months we've had on the road with Betty.
Anyway, below are three entries about this last week, which we spent WWOOFing. If you want to read on, please do - starting with "Wwoofing Again" and working your way back up. If not, I will try to post pictures soon. We will be in Auckland for almost a week, and we're staying at a place that has FREE internet. Glorious free internet. Better believe I will use it!
Hope everyone is well. Much love.
It’s funny, because a month ago, when we realized our time was quickly beginning to run out, we panicked. How are we going to fit everything in? Where should we go? Aack! But now that we actually have just a week left, we feel like we’ve finally exhausted ole NZ. We are, finally, ready to move on.
We're hitting the car fair in Auckland on Sunday, in hopes we can pass ole Betty on to some new owners. We gave her a good clean out recently, and I actually teared up. I love that car, as I have loved this trip. What an amazing three months we've had on the road with Betty.
Anyway, below are three entries about this last week, which we spent WWOOFing. If you want to read on, please do - starting with "Wwoofing Again" and working your way back up. If not, I will try to post pictures soon. We will be in Auckland for almost a week, and we're staying at a place that has FREE internet. Glorious free internet. Better believe I will use it!
Hope everyone is well. Much love.
A Case of the Crazies
Tuesday night rolled around – our last night – and we were hopeful that we’d be able to just have a pleasant evening and then get the hell out of there the next morning. Simone had never, at any point, decided to lay any ground rules for us – don’t do this, this is how you operate this, etc. Instead, we were left to wonder, and we decided, on several occasions when she left us at home alone for long stretches (once overnight – scandal!), that yes, we should turn on the TV. We had done this several times without her supervision just fine.
Well, on Tuesday night, while she was around, we made the mistake of asking her if we could turn the news on. It was six o’clock, after all. Great idea, she said! Go right ahead! Turn on Channel One. We turned the TV on successfully and then tried to change the channel to one. Nothing. After several fruitless attempts, we decided, with utter terror, to consult Simone.
Uhhh, Simone? We can’t change the channels – are we doing something wrong? She came over, tried herself, and upon discovering that she couldn’t change the channels either, exploded.
“What have you done? What the fuck have you done to my TV? You people come in here, and you mess around with things you’re not supposed to. FUCK!” This is just a sampling of the things that came out of her mouth, directed at us, for the next thirty minutes.
Bjorn didn’t take much of this, though. After about three accusations that we had somehow screwed up her TV, he said firmly, “No, we did NOT,” and walked out the door. I sat around for a few more minutes, trying to delicately explain to her that we truly had done nothing more than turn the TV on and try the channels.
“No,” she said. “You’ve messed it up. You’ve been in here watching TV when I wasn’t around and screwed it up. This is why I don’t let you people touch my gear.”
She called up a friend, and after she had launched into how “these guys have fucked up my TV,” I excused myself as well. I found Bjorn back in the caravan, steaming. He was furious and wanted to pack up the car and leave that instant. I was mad, too, but I was more afraid than anything else. I do not like confrontations, and I did not like the idea of leaving Simone’s on such a bad note. Leaving right then and there, I reasoned, was going to just make us look guilty. As is sitting out here in the caravan while she tries to fix the thing. I know it’s going to be awful, but we have to go back in there and help her get the thing fixed. (It was clearly some really simple something, given the time to mess around with it a bit.)
Bjorn, having endured a whole week’s worth of this woman’s insults and yelling during his riding, was not feeling inclined to get back in there, but after a few moments of breathing, we went for it.
Inside, Simone was still at it. On the phone, bitching about us, shining her flashlight around her TV, examining buttons.
“They’ve totally fucked it up,” she said, again. I could feel Bjorn tensing up beside me. When she got off the phone, Bjorn patiently asked her a few questions about how her TV worked.
“You don’t know anything,” she said, harshly. “Actually, I do know about technology. More than YOU,” he said back to her. “No, you don’t know about technology. Otherwise you wouldn’t have fucked this up,” she screeched. I wanted to crawl under the carpet. “This is why I don’t let you people touch my things!” she said. “I already had to put a lock on the computer because somebody fucked it up, and now the TV!” “Well,” Bjorn said, “maybe you shouldn’t have people in your house, then.”
This was the bottom line, really. If you are going to sign up to be a WWOOF host, you ought to WANT to have people in your home, make them comfortable, and share your things with them. If the TV is complicated, freaking take a minute of your time to run through how to operate it, or tell them explicitly NOT to use it. It’s that simple. If you’ve made a rule about NOT using the TV, then perhaps (and only perhaps) it’s acceptable to get a little irritated if the rule, and the TV, have been broken. In this case, of course, she had told us to go right ahead! Turn on the news! Great idea!
Finally fed up, Simone chucked the remote at Bjorn and told him he could try to work with it. And within five minutes, the problem was solved.
Upon hearing the sound restored on the TV (we had at some point lost ALL channels altogether), Simone, just like that, was a different person. “You’ve fixed it!” she shouted proudly. “Well done! Well done, team!” Uh, team? No, no, crazy lady, we are not on your team.
She was then all kinds of nice, saying, “You know, it’s just so frustrating when your stuff gets messed up, and you have to get some guy in here to fix it, and it costs you $100 or something.” Sure, we understood, we said (though we didn’t, really). Enjoy your show. Good night.
We retired to our camper van and must have sat up talking about Simone for two hours. The whole incident had been so ridiculous. We couldn’t hardly believe it had happened. Where Bjorn and I come from, in normal people land, even if you suspect someone has messed up your TV, you don’t make them feel bad about it. You certainly don’t blame it on them to their face. (Unless, maybe, it’s your best friend.) Her behavior was the ultimate in rude and impolite, in my book. Not to mention uncalled for. We had done nothing wrong.
The next morning, we got up early and packed up the car before breakfast. We had one little chore to do for Simone, but we wanted to make sure to get out of there as soon as we could. When we finally ventured into the house, Simone greeted us energetically. “Hey, you guys, I’m really sorry about getting crabby last night. It was just the end of a long day, you know, and that’s the last thing you want to have happen when your favorite show (your favorite crappy soap opera) is on.” “Oh, no worries,” we said. “We totally understand.”
She was so nice that morning, that by the time we left, we were left with a totally different feeling about her than we’d had the night before. She just had that way – when she was awful to you, you hated her, but when she was nice, you thought she was really cool. I don’t know what to really make of her. She’s got issues, to be sure. I’m just glad that I was blessed with not having someone like her for a mother (and yes, she does have children and grandchildren…can you imagine if a little grandchild had messed up her TV?).
In any event, we left, and with a couple hours on the road, we’d left her behind us. Filed her away in our NZ experiences file.
Well, on Tuesday night, while she was around, we made the mistake of asking her if we could turn the news on. It was six o’clock, after all. Great idea, she said! Go right ahead! Turn on Channel One. We turned the TV on successfully and then tried to change the channel to one. Nothing. After several fruitless attempts, we decided, with utter terror, to consult Simone.
Uhhh, Simone? We can’t change the channels – are we doing something wrong? She came over, tried herself, and upon discovering that she couldn’t change the channels either, exploded.
“What have you done? What the fuck have you done to my TV? You people come in here, and you mess around with things you’re not supposed to. FUCK!” This is just a sampling of the things that came out of her mouth, directed at us, for the next thirty minutes.
Bjorn didn’t take much of this, though. After about three accusations that we had somehow screwed up her TV, he said firmly, “No, we did NOT,” and walked out the door. I sat around for a few more minutes, trying to delicately explain to her that we truly had done nothing more than turn the TV on and try the channels.
“No,” she said. “You’ve messed it up. You’ve been in here watching TV when I wasn’t around and screwed it up. This is why I don’t let you people touch my gear.”
She called up a friend, and after she had launched into how “these guys have fucked up my TV,” I excused myself as well. I found Bjorn back in the caravan, steaming. He was furious and wanted to pack up the car and leave that instant. I was mad, too, but I was more afraid than anything else. I do not like confrontations, and I did not like the idea of leaving Simone’s on such a bad note. Leaving right then and there, I reasoned, was going to just make us look guilty. As is sitting out here in the caravan while she tries to fix the thing. I know it’s going to be awful, but we have to go back in there and help her get the thing fixed. (It was clearly some really simple something, given the time to mess around with it a bit.)
Bjorn, having endured a whole week’s worth of this woman’s insults and yelling during his riding, was not feeling inclined to get back in there, but after a few moments of breathing, we went for it.
Inside, Simone was still at it. On the phone, bitching about us, shining her flashlight around her TV, examining buttons.
“They’ve totally fucked it up,” she said, again. I could feel Bjorn tensing up beside me. When she got off the phone, Bjorn patiently asked her a few questions about how her TV worked.
“You don’t know anything,” she said, harshly. “Actually, I do know about technology. More than YOU,” he said back to her. “No, you don’t know about technology. Otherwise you wouldn’t have fucked this up,” she screeched. I wanted to crawl under the carpet. “This is why I don’t let you people touch my things!” she said. “I already had to put a lock on the computer because somebody fucked it up, and now the TV!” “Well,” Bjorn said, “maybe you shouldn’t have people in your house, then.”
This was the bottom line, really. If you are going to sign up to be a WWOOF host, you ought to WANT to have people in your home, make them comfortable, and share your things with them. If the TV is complicated, freaking take a minute of your time to run through how to operate it, or tell them explicitly NOT to use it. It’s that simple. If you’ve made a rule about NOT using the TV, then perhaps (and only perhaps) it’s acceptable to get a little irritated if the rule, and the TV, have been broken. In this case, of course, she had told us to go right ahead! Turn on the news! Great idea!
Finally fed up, Simone chucked the remote at Bjorn and told him he could try to work with it. And within five minutes, the problem was solved.
Upon hearing the sound restored on the TV (we had at some point lost ALL channels altogether), Simone, just like that, was a different person. “You’ve fixed it!” she shouted proudly. “Well done! Well done, team!” Uh, team? No, no, crazy lady, we are not on your team.
She was then all kinds of nice, saying, “You know, it’s just so frustrating when your stuff gets messed up, and you have to get some guy in here to fix it, and it costs you $100 or something.” Sure, we understood, we said (though we didn’t, really). Enjoy your show. Good night.
We retired to our camper van and must have sat up talking about Simone for two hours. The whole incident had been so ridiculous. We couldn’t hardly believe it had happened. Where Bjorn and I come from, in normal people land, even if you suspect someone has messed up your TV, you don’t make them feel bad about it. You certainly don’t blame it on them to their face. (Unless, maybe, it’s your best friend.) Her behavior was the ultimate in rude and impolite, in my book. Not to mention uncalled for. We had done nothing wrong.
The next morning, we got up early and packed up the car before breakfast. We had one little chore to do for Simone, but we wanted to make sure to get out of there as soon as we could. When we finally ventured into the house, Simone greeted us energetically. “Hey, you guys, I’m really sorry about getting crabby last night. It was just the end of a long day, you know, and that’s the last thing you want to have happen when your favorite show (your favorite crappy soap opera) is on.” “Oh, no worries,” we said. “We totally understand.”
She was so nice that morning, that by the time we left, we were left with a totally different feeling about her than we’d had the night before. She just had that way – when she was awful to you, you hated her, but when she was nice, you thought she was really cool. I don’t know what to really make of her. She’s got issues, to be sure. I’m just glad that I was blessed with not having someone like her for a mother (and yes, she does have children and grandchildren…can you imagine if a little grandchild had messed up her TV?).
In any event, we left, and with a couple hours on the road, we’d left her behind us. Filed her away in our NZ experiences file.
Karoke Night
We got a bit of work done the next morning – shoveling out some drainage ditches, cleaning up a flower bed, and giving the pony another ride around, which, thankfully, did go much better. Our work was cut short, though, by the rain, which started pouring down again. As we were getting ready for our big night out to the pub, we offered to drive. It was the least we could do, we thought, to serve as Simone’s designated driver. She accepted gladly, and went on making some weird comments about how naughty she could be that night, since she didn’t have to stay sober.
We met up with her group of girlfriends, four or five single women around her age. Simone introduced around (“Braun and Ellen from Sweden and Canada!”), and then we sat around, watching person after person get up to sing. We were sufficiently entertained. It was a standard New Zealand pub scene.
True to her word, Simone did not stay sober. She started out with two small bottles of champagne, and then, once everyone got loosened up and the evening could really get going, the men came over and started buying drinks. Bourbon and coke after bourbon and coke after bourbon and coke. Yuck. Bjorn was staying sober (volunteer sober driver), and I had no interest in having more than a couple of beers.
The men that were creeping around were foul – the kind of regulars you’ll find lurking in any backwoods bar in America. And one of them was all over Simone, and she was not putting up any kind of a fight. We assumed that, out of courtesy for us being her sober ride home, she would not linger too long at the bar, or at least tell us we could go on home and she’d find herself another ride. But no, we were forced to just sit there, watching this pathetic behavior, this disgusting, drunk, flirtation.
The karoke wrapped up, the bartenders announced last call, but Simone and the three men hanging around her, stayed on. I don’t understand why, but far past last call, while they were cleaning up, the bartenders continued to serve these idiots, and in the last hour we were there, they probably consumed four more rounds of bourbon and coke. It was like, as the hours got later, and their time ran out, they became desperate for total drunkenness. They couldn’t leave the bar until they’d reached the point they wouldn’t remember the next day. I somehow thought this kind of drinking was reserved for young people, who hopefully would grow out of it, but that was clearly a very naïve notion. And watching a sixty year old woman and her friends, get drunk and try to find a guy to go home with, made me very, very sad. It was like they’d never progressed past their 20s.
We were the absolute last people in the bar. Bjorn and I were furious. We’d stayed about two hours longer than we’d wanted to, but it was only our second night with Simone, and we didn’t really know how to explain to her that we wanted to leave. Even after we walked out the door and stood out front waiting, she stayed inside, having some argument with this guy. When she finally stumbled out the door, she explained that he just needed to make up his mind, between herself and his current partner. We assumed that this was the same guy she’d mentioned the day before.
The next morning, aside from admitting that she was feeling quite hungover, she really made no mention of the night and didn’t appear to feel sorry or guilty for anything, especially not for making us stay out much longer than we’d wanted to.
The next few days with Simone was a total waste of our time, aside from getting rid of quite a bit of our stuff and organizing the car. The rain poured down every single day, so there was little we could do for her. She did get Bjorn out on the pony a few more times, but I won’t get into that. I’ve gone on long enough as it is. By Saturday, halfway through the week, I was ready to go. Our last days in NZ were wasting away.
We met up with her group of girlfriends, four or five single women around her age. Simone introduced around (“Braun and Ellen from Sweden and Canada!”), and then we sat around, watching person after person get up to sing. We were sufficiently entertained. It was a standard New Zealand pub scene.
True to her word, Simone did not stay sober. She started out with two small bottles of champagne, and then, once everyone got loosened up and the evening could really get going, the men came over and started buying drinks. Bourbon and coke after bourbon and coke after bourbon and coke. Yuck. Bjorn was staying sober (volunteer sober driver), and I had no interest in having more than a couple of beers.
The men that were creeping around were foul – the kind of regulars you’ll find lurking in any backwoods bar in America. And one of them was all over Simone, and she was not putting up any kind of a fight. We assumed that, out of courtesy for us being her sober ride home, she would not linger too long at the bar, or at least tell us we could go on home and she’d find herself another ride. But no, we were forced to just sit there, watching this pathetic behavior, this disgusting, drunk, flirtation.
The karoke wrapped up, the bartenders announced last call, but Simone and the three men hanging around her, stayed on. I don’t understand why, but far past last call, while they were cleaning up, the bartenders continued to serve these idiots, and in the last hour we were there, they probably consumed four more rounds of bourbon and coke. It was like, as the hours got later, and their time ran out, they became desperate for total drunkenness. They couldn’t leave the bar until they’d reached the point they wouldn’t remember the next day. I somehow thought this kind of drinking was reserved for young people, who hopefully would grow out of it, but that was clearly a very naïve notion. And watching a sixty year old woman and her friends, get drunk and try to find a guy to go home with, made me very, very sad. It was like they’d never progressed past their 20s.
We were the absolute last people in the bar. Bjorn and I were furious. We’d stayed about two hours longer than we’d wanted to, but it was only our second night with Simone, and we didn’t really know how to explain to her that we wanted to leave. Even after we walked out the door and stood out front waiting, she stayed inside, having some argument with this guy. When she finally stumbled out the door, she explained that he just needed to make up his mind, between herself and his current partner. We assumed that this was the same guy she’d mentioned the day before.
The next morning, aside from admitting that she was feeling quite hungover, she really made no mention of the night and didn’t appear to feel sorry or guilty for anything, especially not for making us stay out much longer than we’d wanted to.
The next few days with Simone was a total waste of our time, aside from getting rid of quite a bit of our stuff and organizing the car. The rain poured down every single day, so there was little we could do for her. She did get Bjorn out on the pony a few more times, but I won’t get into that. I’ve gone on long enough as it is. By Saturday, halfway through the week, I was ready to go. Our last days in NZ were wasting away.
Wwoofers Again
We have spent the past week WWOOFing for a completely crazy woman. We decided that it would be very beneficial to us to have a home, as it were, for a little while, so we could have some time to clean out the car, organize our things, and prepare for our departure. (I absolutely HATE feeling stressed and frazzled and unprepared when I’m leaving a place, and so wanted our last week here to feel CALM.)
Simone Finch, our new WWOOFing “hostess” (though I can’t really call her that) is probably 55 or 60 and lives alone on a huge farm. She breeds and trains horses as her main source of income, and has a little company called Sirroco Lodge. In addition to having about 14 horses of her own, she has a goat, two dogs, and a few cows.
We were a little unsure about ole Simone from the start. She had called us in response to an email we had sent her, but seemed to be in a big hurry on the phone. She said she’d love to have us, we accepted, and then she said she had to run, but she’d call us back “later” with some directions and details. Well, that call never came, so we finally called her again, a day before our supposed arrival, wanting to know what time we should come. “Oh, I have nothing going on here tomorrow. I’ll be here all day,” she said. “Come whenever you like.” Great, we said. We’ll be there around noon.
Well, we arrived around 12:40 PM, which I reckon still counts as “around noon”, but Simone was nowhere to be found. We found the house, we thought, a large barn-like structure with aluminum siding, and could hear rock music blaring from inside, but we couldn’t get anyone to respond to our knocks. Finally, we called her cell. “Oh, I had to run into town,” she said. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes”. So we sat in our car and waited. For over an hour. We were starting to feel, well, slightly unwanted.
Simone finally pulled up in a silver pick-up truck, decorated with a yellow smiley face bumper sticker, and one that said, “If there are no horses in heaven, I’m not going!” Our hostess emerged, all smiles and energy. “Well, I waited AND waited for you guys, but I finally gave up and went into town.” Oh, so you waited for…thirty minutes? And now you’re going to make us feel guilty about being a little bit late even when you said come WHENEVER!? “But nevermind,” she said. “Let’s go in and have a cuppa!” (“Cuppa” is an incredibly irritating Kiwi favorite phrase that means a cup of coffee or of tea. I thought it was just a colloquial thing, but I actually heard a newscaster use it in a story on the local news the other day.)
Simone is a fairly tall woman with stick thin legs and large bosoms. She has short hair that’s been dyed an unnatural red, and her face is lined with deep wrinkles that suggest a past (or current?) life as a smoker. Her home is essentially a barn that’s been converted into a single woman’s loft. The ceilings are quite tall, and the living area, though fairly small, is sort of one big room, so you get the effect of having lots of space. Simone’s been living here about three years, but it’s clear the place is a work in progress – there is no paint on the walls. The place is decorated with – what else? – photos and paintings and figurines of horses, as well as piece of aboriginal art collected during trips to Australia, and stacks and stacks of miscellaneous papers.
Within our first ten minutes in her home, Simone had informed us that she was dating a married man. “He just needs to figure out what he wants, you know?” she asked us. “Men!” I said, trying to be polite. She went on to tell us about Thursday nights at the local pub – the big night out! – as well as her boat, which she would take us out on, if we were lucky.
She asked us how long we wanted to stay, and after re-stating what was written in our initial email to her – one week – she seemed very disappointed. “Just a week?!” Good grief, I thought. She didn’t even read our email.
That afternoon, during a small break in the rain, she took us out for a ride around her property, introducing us to all the animals. Then, we went down to the stables and saddled up one of her ponies. During his stint in the Swedish Army, Bjorn rode the show horses that marched in the parades, and generally took care of the horses, tidying their stables and whatnot. When she had initially called us, she’d asked about our riding experience. Bjorn explained that he was a pretty confident rider, though perhaps a little rough, and that I essentially had no experience at all. No problem, she’d assured us. But it appeared that her plan for Bjorn and I was for Bjorn to break in this pony and for me to stand and watch.
Of course, Bjorn’s being a confident rider says nothing of his ability to break in a previously un-ridden horse, and Simone was not impressed with Bjorn that first day. My feelings were terribly hurt, standing there watching her order Bjorn around – take the horse this way! No, not THIS way, THAT way! STRAIGHT! The poor pony, of course, hadn’t been sat upon in weeks, didn’t remember what any of the commands were, and generally did not want Bjorn riding on him. “This isn’t going to work,” Simone said. “You just don’t have enough experience. The horse might as well have a child up there on him.” I wanted to cry for Bjorn. Thank God it was Bjorn up there and not me, or I probably would’ve cried. Bjorn, luckily, is a bit more thick skinned, and lets stuff like this roll off of him a bit better than I do.
When we were done with that, we were shown to our “accommodation”, an old caravan parked behind the house. Upon inspection, we found the caravan doable, though it was clear that Simone had gone to no trouble to prepare it for us. There were no sheets or blankets on the bed, and there were several empty cans of some nasty Bourbon and Coke mixed drink laying on the counter, one with a cigarette butt sitting on top. When we asked for sheets, Simone seemed slightly agitated, poked around the house a bit, then returned with a set of red sheets – two fitted sheets, we found out, when we tried to put them on the bed. And no blankets. We decided not even to bother asking for those and just got our sleeping bags out of the car.
We sat in the damp and dusty caravan, and I felt terribly uncomfortable with the whole situation. She didn’t appear to take her hosting responsibilities very seriously, she had been mean to Bjorn, and she had asked me my name four times already. Well, it’s only for a week, we reasoned.
Simone did fix us dinner that night and showed us some pictures of her boat, and generally made us feel slightly more wanted and welcome in her home. Before we went to bed, she reminded us that the next night was karoke night at the pub!
Simone Finch, our new WWOOFing “hostess” (though I can’t really call her that) is probably 55 or 60 and lives alone on a huge farm. She breeds and trains horses as her main source of income, and has a little company called Sirroco Lodge. In addition to having about 14 horses of her own, she has a goat, two dogs, and a few cows.
We were a little unsure about ole Simone from the start. She had called us in response to an email we had sent her, but seemed to be in a big hurry on the phone. She said she’d love to have us, we accepted, and then she said she had to run, but she’d call us back “later” with some directions and details. Well, that call never came, so we finally called her again, a day before our supposed arrival, wanting to know what time we should come. “Oh, I have nothing going on here tomorrow. I’ll be here all day,” she said. “Come whenever you like.” Great, we said. We’ll be there around noon.
Well, we arrived around 12:40 PM, which I reckon still counts as “around noon”, but Simone was nowhere to be found. We found the house, we thought, a large barn-like structure with aluminum siding, and could hear rock music blaring from inside, but we couldn’t get anyone to respond to our knocks. Finally, we called her cell. “Oh, I had to run into town,” she said. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes”. So we sat in our car and waited. For over an hour. We were starting to feel, well, slightly unwanted.
Simone finally pulled up in a silver pick-up truck, decorated with a yellow smiley face bumper sticker, and one that said, “If there are no horses in heaven, I’m not going!” Our hostess emerged, all smiles and energy. “Well, I waited AND waited for you guys, but I finally gave up and went into town.” Oh, so you waited for…thirty minutes? And now you’re going to make us feel guilty about being a little bit late even when you said come WHENEVER!? “But nevermind,” she said. “Let’s go in and have a cuppa!” (“Cuppa” is an incredibly irritating Kiwi favorite phrase that means a cup of coffee or of tea. I thought it was just a colloquial thing, but I actually heard a newscaster use it in a story on the local news the other day.)
Simone is a fairly tall woman with stick thin legs and large bosoms. She has short hair that’s been dyed an unnatural red, and her face is lined with deep wrinkles that suggest a past (or current?) life as a smoker. Her home is essentially a barn that’s been converted into a single woman’s loft. The ceilings are quite tall, and the living area, though fairly small, is sort of one big room, so you get the effect of having lots of space. Simone’s been living here about three years, but it’s clear the place is a work in progress – there is no paint on the walls. The place is decorated with – what else? – photos and paintings and figurines of horses, as well as piece of aboriginal art collected during trips to Australia, and stacks and stacks of miscellaneous papers.
Within our first ten minutes in her home, Simone had informed us that she was dating a married man. “He just needs to figure out what he wants, you know?” she asked us. “Men!” I said, trying to be polite. She went on to tell us about Thursday nights at the local pub – the big night out! – as well as her boat, which she would take us out on, if we were lucky.
She asked us how long we wanted to stay, and after re-stating what was written in our initial email to her – one week – she seemed very disappointed. “Just a week?!” Good grief, I thought. She didn’t even read our email.
That afternoon, during a small break in the rain, she took us out for a ride around her property, introducing us to all the animals. Then, we went down to the stables and saddled up one of her ponies. During his stint in the Swedish Army, Bjorn rode the show horses that marched in the parades, and generally took care of the horses, tidying their stables and whatnot. When she had initially called us, she’d asked about our riding experience. Bjorn explained that he was a pretty confident rider, though perhaps a little rough, and that I essentially had no experience at all. No problem, she’d assured us. But it appeared that her plan for Bjorn and I was for Bjorn to break in this pony and for me to stand and watch.
Of course, Bjorn’s being a confident rider says nothing of his ability to break in a previously un-ridden horse, and Simone was not impressed with Bjorn that first day. My feelings were terribly hurt, standing there watching her order Bjorn around – take the horse this way! No, not THIS way, THAT way! STRAIGHT! The poor pony, of course, hadn’t been sat upon in weeks, didn’t remember what any of the commands were, and generally did not want Bjorn riding on him. “This isn’t going to work,” Simone said. “You just don’t have enough experience. The horse might as well have a child up there on him.” I wanted to cry for Bjorn. Thank God it was Bjorn up there and not me, or I probably would’ve cried. Bjorn, luckily, is a bit more thick skinned, and lets stuff like this roll off of him a bit better than I do.
When we were done with that, we were shown to our “accommodation”, an old caravan parked behind the house. Upon inspection, we found the caravan doable, though it was clear that Simone had gone to no trouble to prepare it for us. There were no sheets or blankets on the bed, and there were several empty cans of some nasty Bourbon and Coke mixed drink laying on the counter, one with a cigarette butt sitting on top. When we asked for sheets, Simone seemed slightly agitated, poked around the house a bit, then returned with a set of red sheets – two fitted sheets, we found out, when we tried to put them on the bed. And no blankets. We decided not even to bother asking for those and just got our sleeping bags out of the car.
We sat in the damp and dusty caravan, and I felt terribly uncomfortable with the whole situation. She didn’t appear to take her hosting responsibilities very seriously, she had been mean to Bjorn, and she had asked me my name four times already. Well, it’s only for a week, we reasoned.
Simone did fix us dinner that night and showed us some pictures of her boat, and generally made us feel slightly more wanted and welcome in her home. Before we went to bed, she reminded us that the next night was karoke night at the pub!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Enter the Maoris
Last Sunday morning, we started our day just outside of Taupo, a lakeside tourist town in the center of the North Island. It was Easter, and the town was chock full of people, international and local tourists alike.
When we arrived on the North Island last week, we planned to do a four day trek around Mount Taranaki, a huge volcano/mountain on the western edge of the island. However, when we arrived at Taranaki, we were greeted with drizzle, freezing air, and a fresh dumping of SNOW on the mountain. No, thank you! we said. So what are we going to do with this chunk of time? We both had our minds set on tramping for a few days, but the North Island just isn't crawling with the quantity - or quality - of walks in the way the South Island is.
We consulted our Lonely Planet "Tramping in New Zealand" book, and discovered a decently interesting sounding walk in Te Urewera National Park - the Whakatane-Waikare River Loop. The trek was four days through native podocarp forest (essentially the rainforest here), up the Whakatane River and back down the Waikare River, both offering "excellent" trout fishing. It was also supposed to be isolated, which was appealing to us after being somewhat startled by the general crowdedness of the North Island compared to the South (3/4 of NZ's population lives up here).
We visited Taupo's visitor's center first thing Sunday morning, hoping to get a bit more information on the walk (a map, perhaps?), as well as a weather forecast, and maybe some insight into how safe/unsafe the area was. We are constantly leaving Betty in places with my laptop locked up inside, and well, it's always a risk.
The visitor's center was a zoo. We waited in line for about 15 minutes behind a couple of Asian girls who were trying to book a white water rafting trip but who were slightly confused by why they couldn't wear their jeans under their wetsuits. But I shouldn't get off on that matter... When we were finally welcomed up to the counter, our helper didn't seem to have any information for us. "Well, it's a pretty remote area," she said. "And they have quite a lot of trouble around there. I mean, I don't want to sound racist, but it's all Maori communities around there, and frankly, there's a lot of unemployment, and well..." she trailed off.
I haven't really spoken at all about the Maori population in NZ, mostly because the majority of the remaining Maori communities are on the North Island, and we simply haven't been around them. I had heard Russell, our WWOOFing host, refer to the dog being down at "the Maori's place" several times, which I thought was odd. You wouldn't say, "Oh, Spot's over at the Native American's place" would you? Maybe it's not comparable. Regardless. Hearing a public servant, an agent at the visitor's center, make such a blatant blanket statement about the Maoris was startling.
Back in the car, we set off down the road for Ruatahuna, the tiny access town to our walk. Our visit to the visitor's center had basically been zero help, but we were determined to proceed with our plans. After re-reading the tramping book, we discovered that the general store in Ruatahuna would let you park your car there and provide security, as well as drop you off at the trailhead. Perfect, we said. As we drove further and further into total nowhereland, NZ, though, we started to have a few doubts. Abotu 30 kilometers outside of the town, the road turns extremely curvy and goes from being paved to gravel. Every roadside picnic spot we passed was covered in trash (not a typical sight in NZ), and at one point we passed a car parked on the side of the road that had been beaten to death - glass broken, tires stolen. What the hell? we thought. What is this place? The scenery, though, was otherwise lovely. Rolling green hills covered with lush forest, dotted here and there with farmland.
We finally came upon Ruatahuna, which couldn't have a population of more than 500, and pulled into the rickety, deserted-looking general store. The "town" consisted of a few ramshackle houses strewn about, with the general store seemingly the center of it all, supplying the only retail opportunities. Sitting outside the store were three or four women, exotic looking with dark hair, skin, and eyes, but dressed carelessly, whiling away their afternoons talking, looking after the store, and well, sitting.
The woman behind the counter was very kind, showed us where to park our car, and, after we got our packs organized and ready, drove us the 11 km to the trailhead herself. I sensed the slightest bit of hesitation from her about our going out into these woods. She mentioned several times that if we weren't out by Wednesday, she would send the Department of Conservation looking for us, and acted like we were crazy when we described the route we had planned. "That's quite a lot. Are you sure you're fit?" Yes, yes, we know what we're doing. We'll be back on Wednesday! She also advised us to be on the lookout for hunters, as something called "The Roar" was currently going on - I think it's when the male deer go out looking for a mate, and they make a loud roaring noise, making themselves good targets for hunters. "There are some silly people out there," she said. GREAT, I thought. This woman was slowly cutting away at my confidence that this hike was a good idea whatsoever. We were going to get involved in a hunting accident, our car was going to get smashed to bits, we were going to get totally lost. Whatever could go wrong would go wrong.
Well, she was wrong. And all of my initial worries slowly fell away. We had the BEST time. The walk was terribly, wonderfully isolated, the weather was warm and sunny, and best, the rivers we were walking along (and through, much of the time) were stuffed with trout. Bjorn caught nine over the course of two days, three of which have since gone into our bellies (the others went back into the river), and we just enjoyed ourselves like crazy. And we met several interesting hunters, a couple of whom were shooting with bows and arrows! They were all wearing very silly camo outfits, but I didn't otherwise find anything too "silly" about them.
(As an aside - Including Saturday, when we did the Tongariro Crossing, we've walked 85 kilometers over five straight days, averaging 17 km per day. Not bad! Though in some ways, I feel like I have lost a lot of my former good (or perhaps obsessive?) fitness/nutrition habits, I also feel like I'm in terribly good shape. These walks make me feel strong and able and accomplished.)
Yesterday, we hitched a ride from the trailhead with one of our new hunter friends, who dropped us back off at the Ruatahuna general store. As we were driving the 11 km through the "town", he said, "Makes you feel kinda ashamed to call this New Zealand, when you look at how these people are living...They're either unemployed, farming, working for the roads, or selling marijuana." And when we arrived at the general store, there were a whole new assortment of people, just sitting around, in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon.
It's an incredibly ignorant question to ask, but I've asked myself several times, Why do the Maoris even bother? What are they holding onto? Why don't they just assimilate into the rest of NZ? Why do they let themselves live like this? Of course, I can answer all of these questions myself, I think. It's culture, it's home, it's roots, it's everything that gives them a sense of self, of place, of origin. Their people were the first to inhabit New Zealand, and so they do - rightly - feel a sense of ownership about the place. But things have changed since the Maoris first arrived 800 years ago, and their position in NZ society has grown lower and lower over time.
I don't know what the answer is here. I was excited to get to this part of the country to finally see some "real" NZ culture, to take in the beautiful and intricate architecture of the Maori buildings and maybe even try to get an inside glance into what these communities were once like. But seeing what it is today is depressing. The communities that haven't "sold out" to tourism are destitute and literal road-ends for any children growing up there, but the communities that are embracing the tourist and putting on Maori shows every night...well, they're selling out, aren't they? I don't know.
Nevertheless, I am enjoying the bits of Maori culture I am being exposed to - the good and the bad. I feel like I am finally seeing a critical part of NZ and beginning to understand New Zealanders - Maori and European descendants alike - in a more thorough way.
We have arrived in Rotorua now and spent the better part of today wandering around. Rotorua, oddly, established itself in the middle of a huge volcanic area - the town essentially sits in a huge, flat crater created by a volcano thousands of years ago. There are natural hot water and hot mud pools all over the place, as well as clouds of sulpuric steam blowing up left and right. You drive through the suburbs here, and there are just huge puffs of white smoke coming up left and right. It seems insane to have a city here, but oh well. I guess that's another one of those ignorant questions I like to ask.
We visited a gorgeous Maori community on the edge of Lake Rotorua and also went to the Rotorua Museum, which is the most beautiful building I've seen in NZ, I think. It was built in 1907 as a sort of "South Seas Healing Spa". Apparently, people flocked to Rotorua from all over to visit the spa and have several weeks worth of water treatments from the natural waters here. That fell out of fashion in the sixties, though, and so they've made the place into a gorgeous museum.
We'll be in Rotorua til tomorrow (we're even going to go to a Maori "concert" and dinner tonight!), then we'll head on up the east coast, gradually making our way towards Auckland. We've got three weeks left, and have quite a bit of business to take care of before we can jet off - namely, selling Betty and figuring out what to do with all the masses of stuff we've accumulated over the last 7 months...yuck.
Photos, photos - http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy .
Love to you all!
When we arrived on the North Island last week, we planned to do a four day trek around Mount Taranaki, a huge volcano/mountain on the western edge of the island. However, when we arrived at Taranaki, we were greeted with drizzle, freezing air, and a fresh dumping of SNOW on the mountain. No, thank you! we said. So what are we going to do with this chunk of time? We both had our minds set on tramping for a few days, but the North Island just isn't crawling with the quantity - or quality - of walks in the way the South Island is.
We consulted our Lonely Planet "Tramping in New Zealand" book, and discovered a decently interesting sounding walk in Te Urewera National Park - the Whakatane-Waikare River Loop. The trek was four days through native podocarp forest (essentially the rainforest here), up the Whakatane River and back down the Waikare River, both offering "excellent" trout fishing. It was also supposed to be isolated, which was appealing to us after being somewhat startled by the general crowdedness of the North Island compared to the South (3/4 of NZ's population lives up here).
We visited Taupo's visitor's center first thing Sunday morning, hoping to get a bit more information on the walk (a map, perhaps?), as well as a weather forecast, and maybe some insight into how safe/unsafe the area was. We are constantly leaving Betty in places with my laptop locked up inside, and well, it's always a risk.
The visitor's center was a zoo. We waited in line for about 15 minutes behind a couple of Asian girls who were trying to book a white water rafting trip but who were slightly confused by why they couldn't wear their jeans under their wetsuits. But I shouldn't get off on that matter... When we were finally welcomed up to the counter, our helper didn't seem to have any information for us. "Well, it's a pretty remote area," she said. "And they have quite a lot of trouble around there. I mean, I don't want to sound racist, but it's all Maori communities around there, and frankly, there's a lot of unemployment, and well..." she trailed off.
I haven't really spoken at all about the Maori population in NZ, mostly because the majority of the remaining Maori communities are on the North Island, and we simply haven't been around them. I had heard Russell, our WWOOFing host, refer to the dog being down at "the Maori's place" several times, which I thought was odd. You wouldn't say, "Oh, Spot's over at the Native American's place" would you? Maybe it's not comparable. Regardless. Hearing a public servant, an agent at the visitor's center, make such a blatant blanket statement about the Maoris was startling.
Back in the car, we set off down the road for Ruatahuna, the tiny access town to our walk. Our visit to the visitor's center had basically been zero help, but we were determined to proceed with our plans. After re-reading the tramping book, we discovered that the general store in Ruatahuna would let you park your car there and provide security, as well as drop you off at the trailhead. Perfect, we said. As we drove further and further into total nowhereland, NZ, though, we started to have a few doubts. Abotu 30 kilometers outside of the town, the road turns extremely curvy and goes from being paved to gravel. Every roadside picnic spot we passed was covered in trash (not a typical sight in NZ), and at one point we passed a car parked on the side of the road that had been beaten to death - glass broken, tires stolen. What the hell? we thought. What is this place? The scenery, though, was otherwise lovely. Rolling green hills covered with lush forest, dotted here and there with farmland.
We finally came upon Ruatahuna, which couldn't have a population of more than 500, and pulled into the rickety, deserted-looking general store. The "town" consisted of a few ramshackle houses strewn about, with the general store seemingly the center of it all, supplying the only retail opportunities. Sitting outside the store were three or four women, exotic looking with dark hair, skin, and eyes, but dressed carelessly, whiling away their afternoons talking, looking after the store, and well, sitting.
The woman behind the counter was very kind, showed us where to park our car, and, after we got our packs organized and ready, drove us the 11 km to the trailhead herself. I sensed the slightest bit of hesitation from her about our going out into these woods. She mentioned several times that if we weren't out by Wednesday, she would send the Department of Conservation looking for us, and acted like we were crazy when we described the route we had planned. "That's quite a lot. Are you sure you're fit?" Yes, yes, we know what we're doing. We'll be back on Wednesday! She also advised us to be on the lookout for hunters, as something called "The Roar" was currently going on - I think it's when the male deer go out looking for a mate, and they make a loud roaring noise, making themselves good targets for hunters. "There are some silly people out there," she said. GREAT, I thought. This woman was slowly cutting away at my confidence that this hike was a good idea whatsoever. We were going to get involved in a hunting accident, our car was going to get smashed to bits, we were going to get totally lost. Whatever could go wrong would go wrong.
Well, she was wrong. And all of my initial worries slowly fell away. We had the BEST time. The walk was terribly, wonderfully isolated, the weather was warm and sunny, and best, the rivers we were walking along (and through, much of the time) were stuffed with trout. Bjorn caught nine over the course of two days, three of which have since gone into our bellies (the others went back into the river), and we just enjoyed ourselves like crazy. And we met several interesting hunters, a couple of whom were shooting with bows and arrows! They were all wearing very silly camo outfits, but I didn't otherwise find anything too "silly" about them.
(As an aside - Including Saturday, when we did the Tongariro Crossing, we've walked 85 kilometers over five straight days, averaging 17 km per day. Not bad! Though in some ways, I feel like I have lost a lot of my former good (or perhaps obsessive?) fitness/nutrition habits, I also feel like I'm in terribly good shape. These walks make me feel strong and able and accomplished.)
Yesterday, we hitched a ride from the trailhead with one of our new hunter friends, who dropped us back off at the Ruatahuna general store. As we were driving the 11 km through the "town", he said, "Makes you feel kinda ashamed to call this New Zealand, when you look at how these people are living...They're either unemployed, farming, working for the roads, or selling marijuana." And when we arrived at the general store, there were a whole new assortment of people, just sitting around, in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon.
It's an incredibly ignorant question to ask, but I've asked myself several times, Why do the Maoris even bother? What are they holding onto? Why don't they just assimilate into the rest of NZ? Why do they let themselves live like this? Of course, I can answer all of these questions myself, I think. It's culture, it's home, it's roots, it's everything that gives them a sense of self, of place, of origin. Their people were the first to inhabit New Zealand, and so they do - rightly - feel a sense of ownership about the place. But things have changed since the Maoris first arrived 800 years ago, and their position in NZ society has grown lower and lower over time.
I don't know what the answer is here. I was excited to get to this part of the country to finally see some "real" NZ culture, to take in the beautiful and intricate architecture of the Maori buildings and maybe even try to get an inside glance into what these communities were once like. But seeing what it is today is depressing. The communities that haven't "sold out" to tourism are destitute and literal road-ends for any children growing up there, but the communities that are embracing the tourist and putting on Maori shows every night...well, they're selling out, aren't they? I don't know.
Nevertheless, I am enjoying the bits of Maori culture I am being exposed to - the good and the bad. I feel like I am finally seeing a critical part of NZ and beginning to understand New Zealanders - Maori and European descendants alike - in a more thorough way.
We have arrived in Rotorua now and spent the better part of today wandering around. Rotorua, oddly, established itself in the middle of a huge volcanic area - the town essentially sits in a huge, flat crater created by a volcano thousands of years ago. There are natural hot water and hot mud pools all over the place, as well as clouds of sulpuric steam blowing up left and right. You drive through the suburbs here, and there are just huge puffs of white smoke coming up left and right. It seems insane to have a city here, but oh well. I guess that's another one of those ignorant questions I like to ask.
We visited a gorgeous Maori community on the edge of Lake Rotorua and also went to the Rotorua Museum, which is the most beautiful building I've seen in NZ, I think. It was built in 1907 as a sort of "South Seas Healing Spa". Apparently, people flocked to Rotorua from all over to visit the spa and have several weeks worth of water treatments from the natural waters here. That fell out of fashion in the sixties, though, and so they've made the place into a gorgeous museum.
We'll be in Rotorua til tomorrow (we're even going to go to a Maori "concert" and dinner tonight!), then we'll head on up the east coast, gradually making our way towards Auckland. We've got three weeks left, and have quite a bit of business to take care of before we can jet off - namely, selling Betty and figuring out what to do with all the masses of stuff we've accumulated over the last 7 months...yuck.
Photos, photos - http://picasaweb.google.com/ellen.bucy .
Love to you all!
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Happy Easter!
I know I’m not keeping up with my New Year’s resolution to blog twice a week, but we have just been too busy to waste hours in internet cafes! We’ve just got a month left here, and I will enjoy every bit of it, even if that means the blog going down the tubes.
When I last wrote, we were heading off to Golden Bay, a gorgeous bay on the northwest edge of the South Island. Golden Bay is known for its beaches, and its laid-back lifestyle and homegrown produce. It has a bit of a reputation in NZ for being eco-friendly – lots of cafes selling organic this and that – as well as being an artist community. We arrived first in Takaka, an adorable little “hippie” town, that consisted of one main street with shops and cafes and long-skirted, dread-headed folks wandering about. In towns like this (and I’ve come across them back home, too), you just get a sense that people care about the town itself. Takaka’s public bathroom (every town here has one – usually they’re decently clean, but spartan and sterile smelling) had been painted a bright orange color on the outside, with Men and Women written in an appealing cursive, and bubbly figures dancing across the walls. There was a bar of nice smelling hand-soap by the sinks. It’s such small stuff, but it makes an impression. Somebody out there is doing this stuff themselves – or else the whole community really does care so much that they budget in art work on the public bathroom. It’s a nice touch.
Anyway, we spent a couple days wandering around Golden Bay, and then headed out for a couple days on the Abel Tasman Track. The Abel Tasman is a Great Walk. There are something like nine Great Walks in New Zealand, and the designation basically means that it’s accessible to anyone who is decently fit. The designation also implies that the huts cost $45 per night to stay in, and that the track will be fairly crowded. For the record, a single person can stay in a dorm room in a hostel here, with sheets and pillows and blankets, and access to all the comforts of the hostel (kitchen, kitchen utensils, shower, television, etcetera), for around $22 per night. At a Great Walk hut, you get a shelter from the elements, a thin mattress upon which you can throw your own sleeping bag, flush toilets, and a cooking stove. For twice as much as a bed in a hostel! It’s an unbelievable rip-off, and I get really steamed about this, so let’s not get started.
Suffice it to say that Bjorn and I have avoided the Great Walks as much as possible. They’re highly trafficked, and it’s simply annoying to have to spend so much money trying to enjoy the great outdoors. The Abel Tasman, however, is probably the most popular of all tramps in NZ – Great or otherwise – and boasts spectacular beach scenery and a warm climate. I was going to have a hard time leaving NZ without having at least seen Abel Tasman, so we decided just go out onto it for two days and one night of camping. I’m really glad we went because the beaches were awesome, and, by going in early April, we missed the worst of the summer tourist season crowds. The track goes from lush rainforest to perfect beaches, so you spend a good bit of time actually walking down the beaches. Definitely a change of scenery from the sub-alpine conditions further south!
The beaches of Abel Tasman are exquisite. The water is calm and is of a vivid blue color that I have never seen before, and it rolls gently up to dark gold sands. The blues and the golds, against the deep, green hills of the rainforest – it’s just beautiful.
From Abel Tasman, we cruised east along the northernmost part of the South Island, which is famous for its fruit orchards and vineyards. The orchards are incredible to look at out your window, as you’re driving along. It’s a ridiculous thing, but I’m not certain I’ve laid my eyes upon a real apple tree before passing through the apple orchards of this area. And even if I have seen one before, I’ve certainly never seen a SEA of apple trees – short, delicate, leafy beings bearing perfect red ornaments. “LOOK!” I exclaimed as we passed the first orchard. “There are APPLES!” Endless apples. And pears. And cherries. And kiwifruit. It’s incredible.
Even more incredible is this honesty system they have at some of the orchards. They’ll bag up a bunch of their extra produce, put price tags on it, and set it in a little shack down by the road, with an “honesty box” pay system. We stopped by one and picked up one huge bag of apples and one of pears for $2 each. Unbelievable! And not a soul was there. Trust is such an amazing thing…when it works.
We crossed all the way over to the eastern side of the South Island to the Marlborough Wine Region, famous for its Sauvignon Blancs. We hadn’t done any real wine tasting since arriving in NZ and were eager to get going! We had booked a hostel in a little town called Renwick, right in the middle of it all. The hostel was perfect – such a treat after two whole weeks in the tent – and they even had bikes for rent…for touring the vineyards. The land is so flat, and the vineyards are all so close together that cycling around is a perfect option for touring!
And tour we did. We went out on our bikes around 10 AM and returned around 5 PM, after visiting eight vineyards and one chocolate factory. We probably tasted at least 5 different wines at each vineyard, and well, those tastings start adding up after a while. But they’re onto something – riding around wine country, warm with wine, on a beautiful day. I’m not sure it gets any better. It was SUCH fun. Exhausting, but great. I’m not sure that hitting eight vineyards in a row is really the best way to taste wine. We found ourselves getting more and more profound as the day wore on. Taking a sip, putting on your most thoughtful face, and exclaiming, “Oh, yes! That’s just LOVEly. Reminds me of…smoke, coffee grounds, rose petals.” Good grief.
After ridding our systems of wine, we headed on to Picton to catch the ferry to the North Island. When we took the ferry across the Cook Straight from Wellington to Picton 7 months ago, it was a lovely, three hour ride – a peaceful cruise. Well, this time was not so lovely. The waters of the Cook Straight were insane that day (though the ferry people called them “moderate”), throwing the boat this way and that and splashing huge waves of water onto the decks. The ferry isn’t a little ship, either. It’s probably the size of small cruise ships, with lots of area to wander around, a cinema, cafes, and tons of parking for cars. So I was shocked to find, thirty minutes into the ride, that I was about to get seriously seasick. And so was just about everybody else on the boat.
When I started feeling queasy, we went out to sit in a large atrium area, next to the doors out to the viewing decks, hoping that a little fresh air would be good. Well, within about 20 minutes, the room was FULL of people, vomiting into white paper bags, hyperventilating, crying, and generally freaking out. The ferry staff went around calmly with big garbage bags, collecting the smaller paper bags from people and passing around ice (apparently sucking on ice keeps the sickies away). It was mass chaos for the middle two hours of the three hour journey. I fought with everything in me – sucking on ice, staring out at the horizon line – to not get sick and managed to avoid it. But yuck! It was just awful. I was thoroughly relieved to be on solid ground in Wellington.
So here we are! We’re back on the North Island, with just under four weeks left before our departure on May 8.
We had planned to do a four day trek around Mount Taranaki, a volcano on the western side of the North Island, but a cold snap recently struck and covered the mountains with snow and ice! Tramping in the snow and ice? No, thank you. So we continued to drive east yesterday, finally ending at Tongariro National Park, where we did a one day trek today (weather conditions were much better there). The Tongariro Crossing is an extremely popular day hike, but we figured it would be fine at this time of year. What we didn’t consider is that we had selected the Saturday of Easter weekend to do this hike, and as we were told by a tour guide earlier today, that’s the busiest day of the year!
We arrived at the trailhead and were BAFFLED by the numbers of people. Hundreds of people were milling about the parking lot, being dropped off by tour bus after tour bus. We set off walking around 8:30 AM, and were quite literally in a line on the trail for the first three hours. I felt like I was back in New York City, having a fit of walking road rage at the slow pokes ahead of me. MOVE it, people! We didn’t have ten feet of space in front of or behind us, and as far as the eyes could see up and down the trail were PEOPLE! It was incredible. I don’t hardly have anything to say about the hike itself because the sheer spectacle of the whole thing was much more interesting.
It was a nice walk, but we’ve done nicer. I’ll put pictures up next time (next time!).
Okay. We are off into the woods tomorrow for four days. Doing a tramp in Te Urewera National Park on the eastern side of the island. There ought to be very few people there. Fingers crossed.
Must go now. There’s a movie on in the lounge at our holiday park. Happy Easter, everyone! Much love to you all.
When I last wrote, we were heading off to Golden Bay, a gorgeous bay on the northwest edge of the South Island. Golden Bay is known for its beaches, and its laid-back lifestyle and homegrown produce. It has a bit of a reputation in NZ for being eco-friendly – lots of cafes selling organic this and that – as well as being an artist community. We arrived first in Takaka, an adorable little “hippie” town, that consisted of one main street with shops and cafes and long-skirted, dread-headed folks wandering about. In towns like this (and I’ve come across them back home, too), you just get a sense that people care about the town itself. Takaka’s public bathroom (every town here has one – usually they’re decently clean, but spartan and sterile smelling) had been painted a bright orange color on the outside, with Men and Women written in an appealing cursive, and bubbly figures dancing across the walls. There was a bar of nice smelling hand-soap by the sinks. It’s such small stuff, but it makes an impression. Somebody out there is doing this stuff themselves – or else the whole community really does care so much that they budget in art work on the public bathroom. It’s a nice touch.
Anyway, we spent a couple days wandering around Golden Bay, and then headed out for a couple days on the Abel Tasman Track. The Abel Tasman is a Great Walk. There are something like nine Great Walks in New Zealand, and the designation basically means that it’s accessible to anyone who is decently fit. The designation also implies that the huts cost $45 per night to stay in, and that the track will be fairly crowded. For the record, a single person can stay in a dorm room in a hostel here, with sheets and pillows and blankets, and access to all the comforts of the hostel (kitchen, kitchen utensils, shower, television, etcetera), for around $22 per night. At a Great Walk hut, you get a shelter from the elements, a thin mattress upon which you can throw your own sleeping bag, flush toilets, and a cooking stove. For twice as much as a bed in a hostel! It’s an unbelievable rip-off, and I get really steamed about this, so let’s not get started.
Suffice it to say that Bjorn and I have avoided the Great Walks as much as possible. They’re highly trafficked, and it’s simply annoying to have to spend so much money trying to enjoy the great outdoors. The Abel Tasman, however, is probably the most popular of all tramps in NZ – Great or otherwise – and boasts spectacular beach scenery and a warm climate. I was going to have a hard time leaving NZ without having at least seen Abel Tasman, so we decided just go out onto it for two days and one night of camping. I’m really glad we went because the beaches were awesome, and, by going in early April, we missed the worst of the summer tourist season crowds. The track goes from lush rainforest to perfect beaches, so you spend a good bit of time actually walking down the beaches. Definitely a change of scenery from the sub-alpine conditions further south!
The beaches of Abel Tasman are exquisite. The water is calm and is of a vivid blue color that I have never seen before, and it rolls gently up to dark gold sands. The blues and the golds, against the deep, green hills of the rainforest – it’s just beautiful.
From Abel Tasman, we cruised east along the northernmost part of the South Island, which is famous for its fruit orchards and vineyards. The orchards are incredible to look at out your window, as you’re driving along. It’s a ridiculous thing, but I’m not certain I’ve laid my eyes upon a real apple tree before passing through the apple orchards of this area. And even if I have seen one before, I’ve certainly never seen a SEA of apple trees – short, delicate, leafy beings bearing perfect red ornaments. “LOOK!” I exclaimed as we passed the first orchard. “There are APPLES!” Endless apples. And pears. And cherries. And kiwifruit. It’s incredible.
Even more incredible is this honesty system they have at some of the orchards. They’ll bag up a bunch of their extra produce, put price tags on it, and set it in a little shack down by the road, with an “honesty box” pay system. We stopped by one and picked up one huge bag of apples and one of pears for $2 each. Unbelievable! And not a soul was there. Trust is such an amazing thing…when it works.
We crossed all the way over to the eastern side of the South Island to the Marlborough Wine Region, famous for its Sauvignon Blancs. We hadn’t done any real wine tasting since arriving in NZ and were eager to get going! We had booked a hostel in a little town called Renwick, right in the middle of it all. The hostel was perfect – such a treat after two whole weeks in the tent – and they even had bikes for rent…for touring the vineyards. The land is so flat, and the vineyards are all so close together that cycling around is a perfect option for touring!
And tour we did. We went out on our bikes around 10 AM and returned around 5 PM, after visiting eight vineyards and one chocolate factory. We probably tasted at least 5 different wines at each vineyard, and well, those tastings start adding up after a while. But they’re onto something – riding around wine country, warm with wine, on a beautiful day. I’m not sure it gets any better. It was SUCH fun. Exhausting, but great. I’m not sure that hitting eight vineyards in a row is really the best way to taste wine. We found ourselves getting more and more profound as the day wore on. Taking a sip, putting on your most thoughtful face, and exclaiming, “Oh, yes! That’s just LOVEly. Reminds me of…smoke, coffee grounds, rose petals.” Good grief.
After ridding our systems of wine, we headed on to Picton to catch the ferry to the North Island. When we took the ferry across the Cook Straight from Wellington to Picton 7 months ago, it was a lovely, three hour ride – a peaceful cruise. Well, this time was not so lovely. The waters of the Cook Straight were insane that day (though the ferry people called them “moderate”), throwing the boat this way and that and splashing huge waves of water onto the decks. The ferry isn’t a little ship, either. It’s probably the size of small cruise ships, with lots of area to wander around, a cinema, cafes, and tons of parking for cars. So I was shocked to find, thirty minutes into the ride, that I was about to get seriously seasick. And so was just about everybody else on the boat.
When I started feeling queasy, we went out to sit in a large atrium area, next to the doors out to the viewing decks, hoping that a little fresh air would be good. Well, within about 20 minutes, the room was FULL of people, vomiting into white paper bags, hyperventilating, crying, and generally freaking out. The ferry staff went around calmly with big garbage bags, collecting the smaller paper bags from people and passing around ice (apparently sucking on ice keeps the sickies away). It was mass chaos for the middle two hours of the three hour journey. I fought with everything in me – sucking on ice, staring out at the horizon line – to not get sick and managed to avoid it. But yuck! It was just awful. I was thoroughly relieved to be on solid ground in Wellington.
So here we are! We’re back on the North Island, with just under four weeks left before our departure on May 8.
We had planned to do a four day trek around Mount Taranaki, a volcano on the western side of the North Island, but a cold snap recently struck and covered the mountains with snow and ice! Tramping in the snow and ice? No, thank you. So we continued to drive east yesterday, finally ending at Tongariro National Park, where we did a one day trek today (weather conditions were much better there). The Tongariro Crossing is an extremely popular day hike, but we figured it would be fine at this time of year. What we didn’t consider is that we had selected the Saturday of Easter weekend to do this hike, and as we were told by a tour guide earlier today, that’s the busiest day of the year!
We arrived at the trailhead and were BAFFLED by the numbers of people. Hundreds of people were milling about the parking lot, being dropped off by tour bus after tour bus. We set off walking around 8:30 AM, and were quite literally in a line on the trail for the first three hours. I felt like I was back in New York City, having a fit of walking road rage at the slow pokes ahead of me. MOVE it, people! We didn’t have ten feet of space in front of or behind us, and as far as the eyes could see up and down the trail were PEOPLE! It was incredible. I don’t hardly have anything to say about the hike itself because the sheer spectacle of the whole thing was much more interesting.
It was a nice walk, but we’ve done nicer. I’ll put pictures up next time (next time!).
Okay. We are off into the woods tomorrow for four days. Doing a tramp in Te Urewera National Park on the eastern side of the island. There ought to be very few people there. Fingers crossed.
Must go now. There’s a movie on in the lounge at our holiday park. Happy Easter, everyone! Much love to you all.
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