This is my last week at the crazy Maple Lodge, which is kind of sad because I like any place that houses people who take Scrabble very seriously, and also kind of good because I have been having rather sensual dreams about gigantic bathtubs full of hot water and gleaming Pyrex dishes full of homemade casseroles and a bed that is comprised of a mattress and box spring instead of a pile of wet paper towels superimposed upon a drawerful of pitchforks. I’ve been at my job for four weeks now, in Wellington for five, and in New Zealand for six. Hard to believe, right?

Next weekend I’ll be driving up to the Bay Of Islands with G Funk, learning to drive on the wrong side of a) the car and b) the road and seeing a little more of the North Island while I’m at it. I feel like I was so worried about getting a job when I arrived—I could almost hear my visa ticking–that I didn’t really take the opportunity to see much of the country on the way down here so it will be cool to hang out in rural New Zealand and take a well-deserved break after four whole weeks of working.

Since I’m assuming any weekend that involves a road trip will automatically involve hijinks, it was nice to be a little more chill this past weekend. There was this big 80s party scheduled at the hostel on Saturday and we could talk about nothing else, building up the hype day by day as reports would filter through the lounge about how someone had scored a pink tie-dyes tracksuit or some highwater jeans or a Dynasty-esque shirt. Playlists were compiled and serious discussion about what we ate in the 80s (“things on toothpicks, right, for parties?”) ensued. I was ready with much pithy advice—seeing as how I was ACTUALLY ALIVE then, UNLIKE MANY OF THE PARTY-GOERS—but no one, sadly, seemed to care about how to play Miss Mary Mack or about how much jellies hurt your feet or about how awesome my favorite school outfit was in fifth grade (white shorts that rolled up to show purple cuffs; purple tee under an open short-sleeved white button-down tied at the waist, sleeves rolled up with the tee shirt to show the purple sleeves; white corduroy bootie sneakers with scrunched purple and white socks, ta da!) which is basically what I remember from the 80s if you don’t count the Cosby show, Manya singing “You Be Illin’” the day she struck out a really popular boy in kickball, and when the Challenger blew up.

So Friday, wanting to conserve my energies, I contented myself with ordering Hell Pizza (I’ll have a Limbo with olives and no tomatoes, please) and watching horrible Desperately Seeking Susan to get into the groove, if you will. This was notable not only because it’s a terrible movie and because Madonna wears, in addition to floppy bows in her hair and crucifix necklaces and everything, these weirdly unflattering baggy high-waisted pants, but also because it marked the occasion of my trying Hokey Pokey ice cream for the first time. I was invited out to the Southern Cross but opted out, starting a whole weekend of my not going to the Southern Cross. I’m moving to a new flat in Berhampore after I get back from Auckland next weekend, did I tell you? So probably most of my weekends will involve not going to the Southern Cross from now on.

Saturday morning was very exciting because I was going to do some 80s shopping. All the girls had big plans to get ready together, which I knew from prom is often the most fun part. I headed into town, thinking that I should have brought my goomie bracelets with me from the other side of the world, and ended up buying some bright green footless tights, some matching green huge hoop earrings, and some pink and purple socks with hearts on them. These were all at a regular store, by the way, ostensibly for regular people to buy and wear around for real and not just for 80s party purposes. Sort of stunning.

Wait, can I just say something about something here? It’s not going to be a rant about skinny jeans, don’t worry. I mean, I don’t understand them, and I don’t know how all of a sudden everyone knew to wear them, and I think I’ll probably just stick with flares, thanks, but whatever. Fashion Gets Recycled And Isn’t That Weird. You know what’s really weird, with clothes? Realizing how much you miss the Gap, of all things.

I’ve often said, since I’ve been here, that I don’t have much culture shock because hello, I’m living in a Westernized English-speaking country and most things are pretty familiar. It’s the little things, like needing some work clothes and recognizing pretty much no stores, that throw me. I had no idea what things were supposed to cost and where just regular normal people shopped. The sizes are the same, as far as I can tell, and I know it’s just fashion right now and not New Zealand in particular that makes all the windows be full of pink polka-dotted bubble skirts. Still, though, that doesn’t help me when I have only two pairs of pants to wear to work, does it. I’ve had two afternoons at Lambton Quay where I’ve sort of dazedly wandered around the stores, unsure of what a good price is for academic casual wear is and not even knowing who to ask about such a thing. The day you begin to miss Old Navy is a strange one indeed.

Still, though, even if I couldn’t find regular clothes that I might actually wear outside the house, I was very pleased with my horrid green tights and it was with a light step and a merry heart that I met up with Miriam in town and stopped at the Two Dollar Store for some nailpolish remover and some pink and purple hairspray. When we got back to the Lodge some more of the girls were there…all the boys, adorably, having gone to a local park for a kickabout, which I later learned meant to play soccer and not a bloody gangland-style retribution type of beating like I thought it was…and we all had tea, because apparently now I drink tea, and then it was time to get ready.

I haven’t been able to download my pictures yet, so you will just have to believe me when I tell you that I looked just about as freaking awesome as someone wearing a lot of pink and green (including the eyeshadow!) can look. I walked into the kitchen and G Funk (who, by the way, was wearing a disgusting sweater that said NO WORRIES MATE, a pink and green striped baseball cap, light blue jeans rolled up at the cuff, and white sunglasses, looking very much like a sitcom teen about to go out on his first big date) went “I’m the luckiest boy in the world.” And then we all tried to breakdance in the kitchen, and then I talked a big game about how awesome all my 80s music on my iPod was, and then someone challenged me on that assertion, and then it turned out that no, my music isn’t that awesome at all, and then there was a birthday cake and speeches because it was actually Bridget’s birthday we were celebrating, and then I fell asleep, and then everyone decided to go out dancing and I was already in bed but I would have gone but by the time I decided to go everyone had already left and so I figured since I was already lying down in a very warm bed I’d just stay there, and that was the party.

A couple of times random people came up to me and asked if I was having a good time and I’d say “Yes!” and they’d say “You don’t look it,” and I’d say, “Oh, no, it’s just my face,” and they’d nod and then get up and walk away. And it’s true that I will sometimes build parties up past all reasonable expectation, and that even though I know that there will very likely not be an elephant palanquin or a tubful or otters at any given party (although once I got lucky and got to jello-wrestle once), I still feel a little let down anyway. I was sad that I’d missed dancing but I vowed to have an excellent Sunday, and that is exactly what I did.

I got up early-ish and made a nine-egg mushroom-garlic-spinach-leek fritatta that almost killed me and then hopped into the car with G Funk and headed to Owhiro Bay to see a fur seal colony to celebrate our two-weekiversary. I don’t know how you celebrate made-up relationship milestones but here in Wellington we do it by climbing around on rocks that are actually a little too steep for us, thanks for asking, cursing our recalcitrant cameras, and eating fruit leather and chocolate in full view of pinnipeds doing what looks an awful lot like seal yoga. (“Baby, look! That seal’s doing plough position!”) I am unable to watch any sort of animals, anywhere, for any amount of timem without making them talk, so the seals started singing a kind of Schoolhouse Rock-esque song* to each other:

Oh yeah baby I’m a seal!
Check out my flippers whoa whoa whoa yeah yeah.
Yeah baby I’m a seal!
See these ears up on my head uh huh oh yeah yeah.
I got my freezing cold water and some very raw fish!
A layer of blubber and all the rocks that I could wish!
Don’t you know it’s so! Unh unh! Good to be a seal, baby!
So good to be a seal!
Everybody got to be a seal!
Mercy! Unh!
So good to be a seal!

(*I actually made up this specific Schoolhouse Rock-esque song right now as I’m writing this but the other one was just as good.)

After such excitement there was nothing more to be done than to and go to dinner and a terrible movie at the mall, which made me feel to be fifteen years old and to look around to see if my mom was parked outside in her station wagon ready to pick me up. And then it was the end of the day, and time for one more cup of tea. Time to start feeling like it’s the end of one phase of my time here New Zealand…only eleven-to-fourteen months to go!…and the beginning of another; time to wonder what the next phase will be like. Time to be grateful, always, every day to be right here, right now.

Posted on September 17th, 2006 by Chiara
Filed under: Everything, New Zealand, Wellington