Cherry bomb!

I'm finding that this whole "keeping up with the blogging" thing is a lot harder when I work full time than when I'm traveling in inspiring places with unforeseen adventures awaiting me... But I suppose this builds an exercise in finding the extraordinary in the ordinary of the daily grind.

The past two weekends have been great Oregonian/Portlandia weekends. Two weeks ago, Jacob and I (that's the wonderful guy I mentioned in the last post), volunteered at Zenger Farm , "a working urban farm that models, promotes and educates about sustainable food systems, environmental stewardship, community development and access to good food for all." We spent about 2 hours planting sunflowers on a new plot the farm acquired that will be used for a low-income CSA program. It is, we learned, the first CSA program to accept food stamps, and will ensure that the fresh, organic produce stays right in the Lents neighborhood that surrounds the field.

The new plot is on a tract of property that used to belong to the Furey family and is aptly named Furey Field. Zenger tracked down some members of the family to cut the ribbon along with County Commissioner Dan Saltzman. The festivities wrapped up with free biscuits from Pine State Biscuits! (Click and drool). Jacob ate 3. Gut. Bomb.

I had a serious case of unexpected DOMS (delayed onset muscle soreness) the next day, but nothing compared to this week's after a weekend at Smith Rock in central Oregon for a real dose of amateur rock climbing.

After a Friday evening of wine and "Bridesmaids" with the lovely ladies of my workplace, Jacob and I set out early in the morning to head to Terrebonne, Oregon for the rest of the weekend. A quick stop in Madras at a storage locker to reclaim some of his equipment from a climbing buddy left us empty handed in terms of the cams we sought but one Coleman grill richer, which made our leftover bolognese dinner that evening much easier to cook (and put the folks at the table next to us eating Chef Boyardee to shame). Camping in style!

We staked out our spot at the campground, had a couple of sandwiches, and then hit the rocks--literally. Jacob expertly lead the first climb up "Dancer" on the front face of the rock. I was feeling pretty good about m' skillZ since only a month or two earlier I had effectively dominated the novice climbs at Portland Rock Gym. And I seem to have a selective memory of my last trip to Smith Rock, thinking that it was no problemo. In my first attempt to climb, I made it about 3 feet off the ground when I slipped, scraped my knee and then....wait for it...I cried.

We figured we'd try for something a little easier and crossed the river to check out "Rope de Dope." Also too hard for me. Fail. Since we'd gotten a late start that day, we decided to call it a day after Jacob expertly cleaned our anchor as adeptly as he set it. So back to campground we went, enjoying the defrosted leftovers of my birthday bolognese, a bottle of wine, and a beautiful view of the Crooked River, Smith Rock, and the 3 Sisters.

We got a good start in the morning after some hearty oatmeal and a mile hike to what was guaranteed to be an easier climb. Success! I didn't cry! But I didn't get to the top either. We opted for a 7 mile hike instead. It was beautiful and I continued to jaw droppingly marvel at my super hero of a boyfriend who pointed out some of his "favorite climbs" aka "really scary looking seemingly sheer rock faces."

The weekend capped with giant pieces of watermelon and a pizza/brew combo at Double

Mountain Brewery in Hood River.

And now, for something completely different, I'm off to a dinner at Uptown Billiards where the theme of the night is "Cherry Bomb!" (hence the title). Each of the 5 courses will incorporate cherries in some way. Maybe it will be blog-worthy.

A Cube with a View

It’s been over two years since I last blogged. Two years! (See photos for summary). If you’re reading this you might be thinking, “Well then surely by now she’s lived in at least as many places.” False. I still live in Portland, OR – an urbanish skyline dotted with mountains peaked with summer snow, perpetually rainy/gray skies that obscure said mountains, and lush greenery thanks to said rainy/gray skies. Many things have happened since March 21, 2009. Short version: decided not to go to medical school, have reconsidered going to medical school, decided not to go to nursing school, dropped out of taking pre-requisites for nursing school, worked at least three temp jobs, and have been gainfully employed at the same organization for over a year and a half with great medical benefits thanks to the last of those temp jobs. I’ve met a wonderful guy, still sing in the choir, and have started volunteering more and riding my bike to the grocery store once in awhile.

I realized I’ve been in Portland long enough to make friends, lose touch with them, and subsequently reconnect. For those of you keeping track at home, that’s a long time for someone who’s spent half of the last six years hopping from place to place. Stability: Totally underrated.

What keeps me in Portland besides the possibility of reconnecting with relatively old friends? Once in awhile the sun comes out and makes the rainy days disappear from my consciousness and I think, “This is the best place on earth!” One sunny day and everybody busts out pale legs that give mine a run for their money (I always win), drinks microbrews on the myriad of patios throughout town with excessive bike parking, swaps out their horn-rimmed specs for aviator shades, and the thick veil of SAD is magically lifted.

So here’s to the best time of year in the best place on earth. And to more blogging.

She's just not that into you either

By now, any woman between the ages of 14 and 64 knows the phrase. No one wants to hear it because, usually, it's true. But everyone wants to use it, because when your friend calls you with the umpteenth boyfriend grievance of the week, it can usually best be advised with these six little words:

He's just not that into you.

Many of you probably recall the first time you heard this simple, yet revolutionary phrase during Season 6, Episode 4.

I'm no medical professional...yet...but my friend, Gabriella, will tell you that I will often prescribe various seasons of Sex and The City to her when she is dealing with one boyfriend problem or another. On Demand has made it even easier by grouping episodes into categories rather than seasons; You can now pick from Fashion Forward, I Love NY, Jet Setting, Love & Romance, and One Night Stands. But if you're looking for simple advice, you can save yourself the half hour (or more, as I tend to watch back-to-back episodes), depending on if you find Ron Livingston's character, Jack Berger, to be "adorably self-depricating" or "unbearably neurotic" (Entertainment Weekly). When Miranda asks Berger to assess the post-date behavior of her most recent romantic foray, Berger responds, "He's just not that into you," and then goes on to say, "When a guy's really into you, he's coming upstairs, meeting or no meeting." Miranda takes it on to spread the gospel, though is met with disdain and sass when she interrupts an overheard conversation between two women about an unsatisfying weekend.

But before any of us ever heard it on television, it was murmured by Greg Behrendt, consultant to SATC and co-author of the subsequent self-improvement book. And, as I'm sure you know, the book then inspired a major motion picture. Because of the multi-media dissemination of this information, we all now know that "If he's not calling you," "If he's not asking you out," and/or "If he's breaking up with you," then he's just not that into you.

All of this inspired me to poll a group of my fabulously intelligent, funny, and man-savvy female friends to come up with their best "She's not that into you" lines, because, obviously, sometimes we're not that into him.

Below you'll find a compiled list of the responses I got. Thanks to Jamie, Katie, Christa, and Gabriella for your substantial contributions. If I get more in the coming days, I'll be sure to include a second installment. I've decided not to edit the list but instead to throw them all together. So guys, pay attention...

She's just not that into you...

...if she'd rather go to the gym than hang out

...if she's dating other guys

...if she's sleeping with your best friend (even once)

...if she agrees to go on a break from your relationship without setting stipulations

...if she farts in front you (a lot)

...if she calls you for guy advice

...if she won't move across the country with/for you

...if she doesn't call you back

*note: if she doesn't call you in the first place, she might still be into you and waiting for you to call her because her friends told her not to look desperate

...if she only agrees to go out with you when she knows one of you is moving out of town in the near future

...if, more than once a week, she would rather go to bed early than hook up

...if you say, "I love you," and she says, "That's sweet!" or "Thanks!"

...if she thinks you're gay

...if she tells you she's just not ready for a relationship

...if she doesn't wax her bikini line

...if she doesn't shave her legs

*Editorial note: I don't necessarily think that frequency of hair removal is directly related to level of interest. But a change in habit might be worth noting.

...if she doesn't take down the picture on her desk of her ex-boyfriend

...if she roots against your favorite sports team just because

...if her parents come to town and she doesn't introduce you

...if she refuses to acknowledge you in public

...if she doesn't want anyone to find out you're dating/hooking up

...if she gets so wasted to hook up with you that she pees in your bed

*apparently this is a true story, but this did not happen to the woman who sent it to me

...if her friends have never heard anything about you

...if she doesn't make eye contact at all, ever

...if she doesn't talk with you alone, but always has another friend with her

...if she doesn't know what color your eyes are

...if she answers your questions with one-word answers and doesn't ask you anything in return

...if she only talks to you/flirts with you/kisses you when she's been drinking

...if she holds you off with excuses like, "I just have a lot going on right now"

...if she can't remember any of the pertinent details of things you've already told her...twice

...if she doesn't change her relationship status

...if she never wants to wear makeup around you

...if you're dancing with her and she's signaling to her friend

...if she turns down your offer to buy her a drink...twice

Fairey Tales

I remember the first time I saw the now-iconic Obama HOPE image.  It was a wintery night in Philadelphia and primary season was uncharacteristically still in full swing.  It must've been sometime in March, just about a year ago. Proud to be a Pennsylvania voter during a year it actually mattered, I was holding steadfast to my dreams of an Obama-nation despite the fact that my dear friend and high school classmate, Mike Firestone, would soon be assigned to the region to run Clinton's field campaign after a successful stint in Virginia.  

I walked into North Bowl on N. 2nd Street. Holly and I went to pay the overpriced fee to

 get our shoes and as the guy behind the counter processed my card (as per usual, I didn't have cash on me), I eyed the free postcard rack.  Staring back at me was the white, blue and red image that became increasingly familiar as the campaign progressed.  I was pretty pleased to get the last postcard and even more pleased when I realized it was a sticker.  I ended up saving it for a special occasion and eventually decided to sport it on a white tank-top along with my 1.20.09 baseball hat for a rally and canvass at the Wayne train station in mid-April when the primary officially came to town and Senator Obama was passing through on an old-fashioned whistle stop tour.  

Last week I attended the artist's first solo show at Boston's Institute of Contemporary Art.  Shepard Fairey's 250 work, 20 year retrospective featured what I now know to be his widely spread "Obey Giant" images--meant to both provoke and unify, works commissioned by the ICA, revolutionaries and rock stars depicted in a pop-art meets communist propaganda styling, and, of course, one of the Obama HOPE posters (though obviously not the one now in the National Portrait Gallery).

Many, if not most, of Fairey's works challenge hierarchies and power, and criticize political leaders.  It's interesting, then, to see that the piece that spun him out of a street-based art scene and into the global spotlight (and lawsuits) is his first pro-political piece, a picture of hope.  This, to me, represents the hope of our country as much as the image itself.  

While wandering through the large exhibition, I wondered if I could snap photos, seeing as how the bulk of his work comes from using other people's photos (hence the lawsuits).  My question was quickly answered for me as I saw one of the guards rush across the adjacent gallery and nearly shouting, "No photos!" to one of the other visitors.  I couldn't help but laugh at the irony. 

The best moment for me, however, came a few days later.  My step-sister, Amy, and I went to pick up her daughter and my niece, Lilian, from a friend's house.  We stepped into the garage art-studio where Lilian, Sophia, and Emma were spray painting.  Unlike the other artists in Fairey's genre, these girls were keeping it to paper and shirts.  I said to Lil, "Spray painting?" She gave me a kind of "duh" look and informed me that it was, in fact, Shepard Fairey inspired.  So here's a guy, arrested on the opening night of his ICA show for tagging in Boston, who is now inspiring Boston's finest and most highly educated children.  I smiled as Lilian spray painted a stencil of a helicopter with the quote "Have a nice day" below it directly onto the newspaper in her own mixed-media collage.  I looked at the three girls and kindly reminded them not to take their new talents to the streets.  "Yeah, that would be illegal," they knowingly responded.

Weeks later...

It's amazing that as soon as you have nothing to do and no responsibilities to tend to, then all of a sudden you find it impossible to either make the time or find the motivation to do the things you actually want to be doing.  For example...now that I'm home, I haven't written at all until just now as I sit to at least itemize the rest of my trip.  That, of course, does it no justice at all, and I will attempt to flesh it out as much as possible, but with time go the memories and the details.  

Looking through my journal in hopes of finding scraps of immediacy, I find that I also started slacking on my writing towards the end of my trip, which will undoubtedly leave this entry to be a bit lackluster.  But the good news is that I returned home safely, am now on the east coast visiting family, and am looking forward to getting back out west and beginning my life again out there, this time with a new vigor and focus. 

But let's take it back over the dateline for just a bit, as I fill you in on the rest of my time in New Zealand.  I last left you in Rotorua, after a lovely night in the clean, comfortable, and quite pretty setting of the Funky Green Voyager, and a morning of Zorbing and costume acquisition in town. Molly and I hit the road after I insisted we have a kebab for lunch.  I had eaten so many kebabs in Australia, as Christa can attest to, that I had been kebab-ed out.  But now I was ready for another one, only to be disappointed by the different kebabing style of the Kiwis.  More Turkish (and therefore presumably more authentic) and less trendy-street-food-alternative.  The flavors felt off and the toppings were lacking.  I felt that I had let Molly down.  But we got over it and headed to Taupo by way of the raging Huka Falls.  

Lake Taupo is the biggest lake in New Zealand, and if you're looking at a map, you can spot it as the watery hole in the middle of the North island.  This was my first (and last) long haul as driver.  It wasn't because of some grave misstep on my part that resulted in this being my only chance at left-sided road tripping.  Molly just decided that she actually enjoyed driving on the left side, and since I was decidedly against it, our logical conclusion was that she would drive and I would navigate from now on. We stayed at the Blackcurrant Backpackers, a new establishment a little out of the center of town.  Our enthusiastic and lovely hostess, Beth, hooked us up for a good price, apologized for the music (a selection of Billy Joel, Tori Amos, Jewel, and Flight of the Conchords that I, as you might imagine, actually really enjoyed), and promised us a Tim-Tam Slam lesson in the morning.  She also recommended the Barbary with Captain David as the best way to see the lake and its secluded Maori rock carvings for our evening activity. So after a lovely sailing trip on the lake, complete with distance views of the mountains of Tongariro (which we were to see up close the next day), a bottle of wine, and a box of Tim-Tams, Molly and I met up with Jess (one of the girls we had met in Raglan), and also ran into 2 backpackers from Houston that we had met briefly in Rotorua.  Not knowing their names, we tactfully shouted, "Hey, Houston!" as they walked by us, whereupon we more formally introduced ourselves to Braden and Kirk.  We ended up running into them again on the ferry between the North and South islands. 

On our way south towards Wellington, we made a detour through Tongariro National Park, home of Mt. Ngauruhoe, the stand-in for Mt. Doom in Lord of the Rings. The Tongariro Crossing is known to be one of the best day-hikes in the world, but clocking in at at least 7 hours, we didn't have the time or the gear for such an undertaking. We opted for a shorter, 2 hour hike to Taranaki Falls, during which we stopped at every possible moment to get a "better" shot of Mt. Doom, because surely no other view would be as great as the one at that moment.  That is, until we walked 100 more meters and the view was, well, exactly the same. 

We refueled with some ham and cheese toasted sandwiches with blackcurrant dipping sauce, and hit the road towards Levin.  Levin (accented on the second syllable), is a small town just north of Wellington.  A friend of a friend of Molly's lives there, and we were to stay the night before heading to Wellington the following morning for the rugby tournament.  Brett and his girlfriend, Yvonne, were so warm and welcoming and we all went to Brett's parents' house for dinner.  Merv and Cheryl own the local fish and chips shop, so even though Thursday night is usually roast night, we got treated to fish and chips and the best coleslaw I have ever tasted.  And if that wasn't enough, Molly and I each got our own double air-mattress to sleep on, which after a few nights of bunk beds and sharing, was more than luxurious. 

We followed Brett to Wellington the next morning, and he directed us to our destination on Dixon Street.  We were going to the house of my friend's friend, Derick Tonning.  Derick is from Kentucky, but moved to New Zealand a few months ago and has been living in Wellington and working as an engineer. We had some trouble finding his place, as it's at the end of the street, but then up what seemed like hundreds of stairs each time we had to climb them.  There were probably closer to 50, and the view was worth it.  Derick joined us for some lunch before we got dolled up in our costumes (or "fancy dress" as they say in New Zealand), and headed to the tournament.  Before we got back to Derick's, however, we had one of our more disturbing encounters of our trip.  Right before walking up the stairs, we noticed a small crowd of people and a man in the street lying on his back about 20 meters away.  When we asked if he was okay, one of the women replied that they had just seen him jump from the building. The police arrived immediately after, which kept me from having to employ any EMT skills, and asked us all to step away.  We returned to the apartment, feeling a bit shaken up.  As it turns out, he did not survive, and we felt a gloomy presence each time we walked by that building.  

Trying to shake this as much as we could, Mermaid Molly and I, as a Rhinestone Cowgirl, hit the streets. Molly had scored a great pair of seashells in Rotorua.  Coupled with my green sarong and a flower in her long blonde hair, she was quite a vision (and, as we were soon to learn, quite a hit in the stands).  Molly's familiarity with the 7's Rugby tournament is from her times having gone in San Diego, where it's quite common for women to show up in bikinis and not much else.  But, it turns out that Wellington is not, in fact, SoCal, and her scantily clad torso earned her attention and a few nicknames over the course of the next couple of days. On the other hand, my big red cowboy hat, glittery red white and blue eyelashes, and gaudy American flag (complete with cheesy eagle victoriously bursting through the center) that doubled as both cape and dress at various points in the weekend, did not prove to be as big of a hit.  And despite my patriotic dress, our tireless chants of "USA!" and our efforts to recruit our new Kiwi acquaintances to cheer for our guys since we cheered for theirs when they were playing, USA did pretty poorly in the tournament.  NZ was expected to win, but at the end of the second day (during which we got quite tired and full and left early), England beat NZ in a huge upset to take the finals. 

After an early night to bed on the second day of the tournament, Molly and I got up really early on Sunday to catch the ferry to Picton on the South Island. From there we headed to Nelson by way of the scenic Queen Charlotte Track and stayed in what seemed to be the last available bed in town.  We had called every backpackers in our guidebook and finally found a double room at the Bug, a brightly decorated , VW themed place on the outskirts of Nelson.  It turned out to be an excellent choice, although I guess it wasn't actually much of a choice. We had dinner at the local Mac's brewery (a beer we would get more familiar with on other parts of our trip).  The next morning we drove to Abel Tasman and found our way to "The Barn, " an idyllic settling at the gate to the park. Horses and pastures surround the cozy cottage dorm and campgrounds.

After our arrival that afternoon, we hitched a ride on an aqua taxi to Bark Bay to begin the 2 hour hike back to Torrent Bay.  It was a beautifully sunny day, and so the golden beaches, bright blue-green waters, and tropical cliffs were all the more radiant.  I wrote this in my journal about the scene from the boat: "The line of the ocean against the mountains would require a ruler to paint it, and watercolors for the distance misty mountains, and just two simple brush strokes of white acrylic for the distant sail boat." As I said in my last entry, Bark Bay is the most beautiful beach we had ever seen, and our hike was ideal.  That night we had a delicious dinner with a view, where we sampled more local wine and I got my first go at the region's famous green-lipped mussels.  Back at The Barn, the porch buzzed with wine drinkers, book readers, and journal writers of all ages and many languages.  We chatted for a bit with a man named Thomas whom I recognized from sitting next to us at the restaurant in Nelson the night before.  He was heading to Bali later on in his travels and so I gave him the information to contact Mario in Ubud. 

The next morning it rained, so we were glad to have gotten in our time in the park the day before.  Molly and I had made a decision that because of our time constraints, it was best if we just headed towards the Nelson Lakes region and then on to Christchurch.  We decided to forego any hopes of the west coast and ambitions to reach more southern parts of the island.  As I'm sure I've said before, next time...  

The Nelson Lakes region is not to be missed.  We ended up spending our whole time at one lake, Lake Rotoiti, with its stunning beauty and mirror-like stillness.  A friend of my sister's suggested getting to Blue Lake, but when I asked the guide how long it was to get there, he said, "Oh...um, let's see..." He stared towards the ceiling and counted somewhat audibly before turning back to us, "A 14 hour hike." Right. Maybe next time.  We opted instead for a 6-pack of Mac's and an evening with the sandflies on the dock.  Once we couldn't stand the flies anymore and they seemed to have had their fill of us, we decided it was our turn to eat and headed back to our lodge for yet another wonderful meal.  We made sure to get some lamb since, after all, we were in New Zealand.  If you haven't been, you might not know, but there are TONS of sheep.  And, as it turns out, they're quite tasty and tender (my apologies to my vegetarian readers).  

After a good night's sleep, some peanut butter on toast, and a couple of lattes to go, we got in an hour-long kayak on the lake before we hit the road for our last South Island stretch and drive to Christchurch.  I think it is safe to say that this was one of the more stunning portions of our trip.  And that's saying a lot, seeing as how at every turn so far we were seeing something more beautiful than the last.  Many times on the trip I had thought about how undeniably beautiful it all was, but it also made me appreciate how much scenic beauty we have within our own country.  But the wide meandering stream valley of Hanmer Forest Park on Route 7 between Springs Junction and Culverden was the first time that I felt the landscape could not be rivaled by South Dakota, Wyoming, or the Columbia River Gorge (landscapes that, until this point, I kept comparing the scenes to).  It was so beautiful and untouched, that one couldn't help but be in awe.  It was at times like this that it was better I wasn't driving, as I might have taken us right off the road. 

We spent a rainy afternoon in Christchurch, spent too much money on some local wool products, and saw a movie. The next day we returned our rental car (our Nissan Bluebird), flew to Auckland, rented another car, and drove towards the Coromandel Peninsula in the northern part of the North Island.  We spent the first night in Thames, a very small town with not much going on.  We ended up watching Whale Rider, as Molly had never seen it, and we thought that it was a fitting place for such a viewing.  From Thames we drove north along the coast towards Coromandel Town, with an in-land detour on the Tapu-Coroglen road to see the square kauri tree, then east towards Whitianga (pronounced, Fit-ee-an-ga).  

Since the point of ending our trip up on Coromandel was so that Molly could fit in some beach time and return home with at least a healthy glow, we spent the afternoon at beautiful Cooks Beach.  We grabbed dinner at the local sports bar, where some local gents bought us some drinks and wanted to know how we were enjoying their town, and the next morning drove to nearby Hahei (which I repeatedly pronounced, "Ha-heyyyy.") Much to Molly's dismay, the rain had started and was not letting up.  But we braved the drizzle for a pleasant, yet a little muddy, hike to Cathedral Cove. It was a nice way to spend our Valentine's Day.  We took our books to the beach there, but when the rain started up again, we took shelter in the cove itself, lamented a dead penguin, then decided that we wouldn't melt, and hiked the 45 minutes back to the car. 

We relaxed in the bunk room for awhile, then at low-tide we headed to Hot Water Beach.  A short drive from Hahei is a beach that, at low-tide, you can dig a hole to reveal scalding hot water just a few inches below the sand.  Hordes of people, including daily tour-buses, flock to this beach with their shovels, and sit in the naturally heated waters.  It's best to let a little of the ocean water mix in so as not to cook your skin.  Molly and I agreed to save our $5 on renting a shovel and join in someone else's hole, but upon arrival we found much more amusement in observing the strange human behavior than to partake ourselves.  We got over it all pretty quickly, and headed back to our backpackers to clean up and go out to dinner.  

At the restaurant down the street, a woman named Geniene introduced herself to us.  She recognized us from the hostel and wondered if she could join us for dinner.  A nurse from Canada, Geniene was a lovely addition to our Hallmark holiday.  After we ate, we went to the bottle shop to get a bottle of wine.  We soon decided that three would be more appropriate.  We took them back to the picnic table out back and started celebrating our single-ness.  A lovely couple (he from Australia, she from New Zealand) joined us and we proceeded to have a rather enjoyable evening which only took a turn for the worst when we ran out of wine and decided that screwdrivers would suffice.  Bad idea. 

The next morning, with a little less spring in our step than in mornings before, we packed up, gave Geniene a ride to Auckland, and managed to return our car and make it to our flights in time for the long trip home.  Molly and I ended up having a hasty goodbye as we were running a bit late, then she was off to LA and I to San Francisco.  

I think that's just about it.  Fortunately I have no exciting tales of missed connections and cranky airline personnel like during my Christmas travels.  Now I'm back East for a few weeks and will be in Portland March 11 to start the next leg of the journey of my life.  I'm reading a book right now called Super In The City by Daphne Uviller, a friend of my step-dad's.  My mom passed the book on to me but assured me she was not trying to send me any messages by suggesting this delightful read.  But as I rode in the back seat of her car today, I read a passage that, as you will see, hit a little too close to home, thus prompting me to question her motive for giving me the book. So I will leave you with this passage for now, hoping you will find it as amusing as I did.  The biggest difference between me and the character in the book, besides our 2 year age difference, is that she has taken more standardized tests than I have. 

I will try to get into writing more frequently as I discover interesting things stateside, like the irony of not being able to take pictures at the ICA's Shepard Fairey exhibit (of iconic Obama HOPE poster fame). 

From Super In The City by Daphne Uviller:

Yes. I am twenty-seven and I have a B.A. worth a hundred grand and I dropped out of medical school and I biffed on law school and my friends are all prematurely successful in their worthwhile, absorbing careers, and I am frightening my parents and maybe even myself with my aimlessness.

But I would go a different route.  I would be the person who cheerfully went with the flow, who didn't just make lemonade out of lemons, but who invented a new kind of lemonade and not only won the ribbon for her nectar at the county fair, but licensed it to the U.S. government so that it became the only drink NASA would stock aboard their shuttles.  I would create a beverage worthy of a moon landing. 

Notes from a picture postcard

New Zealand born Flight of the Conchords wrote a song called "The Most Beautiful Girl (In The Room)" but I think they missed an opportunity in writing "The Most Beautiful Beach (In The World)" based on their very own Bark Bay in Abel Tasman National Park. That's right. I've found the most beautiful beach in the world. Prettier than Long Beach and Maya Bay in Thailand? you ask. Yes! Prettier than Byron Bay and Tallows? Yes! Prettier than any beach you've seen on the Cape or Costa Rica or Bali or the Caribbean? Yes! I know, it seems impossible. Until today, Tallows Beach, part of a preserve just outside of Byron Bay, was the prettiest beach I'd seen to date, but as our Aquataxi approached the golden shores of Bark Bay, the contest was over. The beaches here in Abel Tasman (established in 1942 as a national park), are literally golden from the iron oxide (a form of rust) that forms on the granite and eventually erodes to form the beaches. I have seen white sand, black sand, regular Atlantic Ocean beach sand, and even green sand (in Hawaii, from the olivine), but I don't think I've ever seen a purely golden sand beach. Molly described it as a brown sugar beach because of the consistency.

But wait a second...last time I wrote to you I was just about to meet up with Molly. Where have I been for this past week before getting to paradise? I'll break it up by city...

Auckland
Molly arrived at 7 AM in Auckland. I was definitely still asleep at Jayne and Greg's house when, what I thought was part of my dream I heard, "Molly's here!" I popped out of bed to greet her. She had managed to fly for 12 hours, find the rental car, and then drive on the left hand side of the road to find Jayne's house. I knew right then I had the right travel partner for this leg of my journey. Competent and cool...couldn't ask for better. For those of you that don't know, Molly and I met 5 years ago (this month) in Costa Rica when we were studying abroad. I've told a few people this ("We met five years ago!") and I'm pretty sure that has contributed to any thought they might have about us being a couple. Anyway...we took the day to get our bearings together and a plan for our first week, checked out the view of the city from the highest volcano, Mt. Eden, and hit the road mid-afternoon to get to Raglan.

Raglan
We had called ahead to book a room at the popular Raglan Backpackers. Note to all of you--if you're going to Raglan, stay at the Raglan Backpackers. My friend, Cameron, had stayed here a few months earlier, but I had forgotten this and didn't realize it was the same place that he had highly recommended until I recognized the courtyard from his facebook album. Upon realizing this I asked Ian (working reception at the time) if I could check out the guest book. "Who are you looking for?" "Cameron Madill from Portland, OR." "Yeah! He stayed here," he replied without much hesitation. "Are you friends with Stacia, too?" Small world. Small town. Stacia is a friend of Cameron's that I had met back in Portland and had since moved to Raglan. This brings me to what we did in Raglan. Most people go to surf, and while I received a fair amount of peer pressure from other backpackers to give it a go, I decided to hang on to my $90 and check out the the beach from, well, the beach, and not the surf. So Molly and I hung out, met some other people that we agreed to meet up with later on in our trip (which we did, successfully), and went to see where Stacia had been living these days. A picture wouldn't even do this plot of land justice, but she is living on the most scenic plot of land I have ever seen. Granted, the house isn't built yet and the bathtub is outside, but when I asked her what she and her boyfriend, Kev, were going to do that day, she said something about tending to the garden and getting rid of the possum that had eaten all of their peppers and corn. Doesn't sound too bad to me... We said goodbye and hopped back in the Nissan Bluebird to head to...

Rotorua
Rotorua is a stinky town because of all the natural steam vents and bubbling pools. We decided to take advantage of the town for its Maori culture and Zorbing! But before we got to Rotorua we stopped in Waitomo to check out the caves. We took short tours through two caves, including the glowworm cave! Millions of glowworms make their home in the dark corners of this now well toured cave. You take a little boat through the water in the dark and looking up is like looking at a sky of green stars. It's amazing! From there we checked out Aranui cave and then after a hearty lunch of hummus and crackers, hit the road to make it just in time for the Hangi, the traditional Maori dinner.

Tamaki Village, like other Maori villages in the region, are highly commercialized at this point, but bring traditional Maori ceremonies, food, music, and dance to a bunch of white people who are willing and eager to pay to see it. If you've seen Whale Rider then you are familiar with some of the dancing and "goofy" faces characteristic of the Maori traditions. It's pretty wonderful to see and the music and people are beautiful.

That night we stayed at the Funky Green Voyager, another wonderful backpackers. Remember what I said about not being that into the backpacking culture? I lied. It's awesome and people of all ages stay at these places which gives me hope in my 20 year plan to come back here and not have to spend a fortune. Gerard, our Funky Green host, recommended yet another great place for us to stay the next night in Taupo. But before we left for Taupo, we had things to do....like Zorbing! Cameron best described Zorbing: For sheer stupidity, nothing can top this. You basically climb into an enormous beach ball that is filled with water, and roll down a hill smashing into things. Seriously, this was incredibly cool. The stupid factor was off the charts. And as you exit, it has the added bonus of looking like you are being birthed from some strange purple alien vagina. I'll leave it at that. An additional comment I'll make is about the very friendly staff that directed me and Molly to the local emporium to find our costumes for the upcoming 7's rugby match in Wellington that we were headed to from there.

This entry is already quite long, and there is much more to report, but I think I will hold off until the next entry to do so. So tune back in in a few days to hear about Taupo, Tongariro (Lord of the Rings country!), the rugby matches, our day in Abel Tasman, and our adventures to come. I will just say this: I can now add "giant stingray" to the list of potentially lethal animals I almost stepped on in the water. Now the python won't be so lonely.

so much to say, so little time

Lots to update you on in this last week, but I'm on my way out the door for a hike. Just wanted to let you know, in case you're checking in periodically, that I'm alive and well and on the south island of New Zealand. We don't have enough time here to see even close to all we want to see, so we've both concluded we'll just have to come back someday. I'm sticking it into my 20 year plan.

Check in later for accounts of rugby, spiderwebs, and tales of driving on the left side of the road.