Random Weekending Wellingtonian

Last week at lunch my co-workers asked what I was doing for the long weekend. “What long weekend?” I asked, slurping down the tail end of my tea. Due to the vicissitudes of my Filofax, I can tell you when every bank holiday in the UK is but am always blindsided by things like Labour Day Weekend or Boxing Day (“We get the day after Christmas off too?”). It turns out that Wellington was going to be celebrating its anniversary and that I’d have that Monday off, giving me only a week in which to spring into action and plan a little trip away so as to avoid the mere pleasantness of the last time I was surprised by a long weekend. I’ve travelled a decent amount in the past month, what with Christmas and my mom’s being here, but all of a sudden I am just very aware that I have about six months left in New Zealand and I feel like I haven’t been anywhere except Fidel’s, so I was really wanting to get out of the city a little.

I wanted to go to Nelson in the South Island, having heard it was gorgeous and fun there. Once I discovered that it was a couple of hours on the bus on top of a three hour ferry from Welly, though, I began to wonder if it might not be better to save that for a longer trip. I thought it might be just as fun to go kayaking in the Marlborough Sounds and stay in Picton, just like any other random weekending Wellingtonian.

Somehow all my travel connections Saturday morning (the 7 am bus to the train station, the connecting shuttle to the ferry terminal, the last-minute checking of my laughably light pack and the sprinting to the boat’s gangway) worked out and I found myself chugging slowly out of Wellington Harbour on a nice misty-but-not-cold morning, less than a week after I’d learned that I had an unexpected day off. I happen to love ferry rides and it was cool to see the city and the hills from a different angle than I normally do.

On the way there I was sitting for a while near a group of New Zealanders discussing politics: specifically, American politics: specifically, the war. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but it was a pretty heated conversation and I started to overhear things like “They don’t know their own foreign policy,” and “They’re playing right into their hands,” and “They can’t get out and they can’t stay in.” They were speaking pretty knowledgeably, from what I could tell; it was really humbling, to realize, again, that I’m not capable of having an informed discussion about New Zealand politics—not to mention really frustrating, too, on a level I can’t quite pinpoint. Some of my work mates are pretty fond of taking the piss out of me sometimes whenever there’s something crazy and America-related in the news–which is pretty much every day, right? I never know what to say, except the truth: “I voted against him twice. I have to live not only with the foreign policy but with the domestic stuff too. A lot of people in America don’t like where the country is going and are very worried.” (And then the conversation always ends with “But if you don’t like it, why aren’t you doing something about it?” and I don’t have much of an answer for that either. And then someone will say, “Oh, but you’re not like that…” and then I really don’t know how to respond).

Uncomfortable nationalistic musings aside, we got into Picton and I got to the hostel with no problem, except that I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the rest of my afternoon: I was planning to go kayaking the next day but hadn’t made any plans aside from that. I knew there were a lot of nice walks in the area but I was sort of headachey and I was also really getting into In Cold Blood and after arguing with myself about the point of taking a holiday (“Self, you should totally immerse yourself in all the delights the area has to offer!” “Self, you should immediately take a panadol and get into that hammock.”) I went to the local grocery store for supplies and gave myself up to lazing around and eating mints. After dinner I chatted to some nice Australians and ended up going on a very cool, very dark walk up the hill to see some glow worms in their native habitat, which was great because I love seeing things in their native habitat.

Sunday was kayak day. I’d really enjoyed my half-day at Cathedral Cove and I was curious to see if I could do a whole day’s trip, as eventually I’d like to go on an overnight kayak trip one of these days, something I haven’t done since about six years ago when I spent a couple of nights in the Everglades. I’m all about easing into things slowly, especially physical-activity-type things that do not involve hot tubs, so I thought another guided tour would be a good idea.

It turned out to be only an okay idea. It was me, the adorably earnest 20-year old guide (he spent some time telling me his life story as we waited for everyone else to catch up with us), and a family of five from Israel. The family was lovely and friendly but it was a little hard not to feel excluded, or as though I was a slightly out-of-place guest on their family trip. For a while I paddled with the older son, and that was fine, if a little shaky for me because I was in the front and couldn’t steer and therefore was not in complete control, but then we switched off and I was with the fifteen-year-old girl, who was very funny and smart and fun to talk to but who wasn’t so much into, like, the whole paddling thing. She took about five strokes for every ten or fifteen of mine, yelling at her brothers in Hebrew and turning over her shoulder every once in a while to marvel “My arms get so sore! I don’t see how you can keep paddling!” as I grunted with the strain of pushing us both through the water. I was a little miffed but I decided to spin it that I was actually this super-strong kayak warrior person who was saving the princess from pirates or something. The fact that it was so lovely there in the drowned valley and that the weather was perfect and also that I saw a lot of cool birds and a couple of stingrays eased the pain, as did my brilliant decision to describe aloud, in detail, exactly what I would be having for dinner that evening. “After I’ve browned the onions on low heat and added the garlic, “ I gasped, the shoreline just within my sight, “I’m going to add a whole container of ricotta cheese.”

I made it back to the hostel, shoulder muscles a-twitter, and realized that something fundamental has changed with me, because the first, the very first thing I did when I hauled in, even before putting my stuff down, was put the kettle on for a cup of tea. I chatted with a nice Irish girl that evening and went in the hostel’s hot tub with the Australians from the night before, and it was only the excellence of my book that kept me awake until after eleven.

Monday morning I had breakfast and walked into town for a smoothie with the Irish girl before walking back to the hostel and just missing the bus to the ferry, necessitating another walk back to town with my pack on. It was gorgeous and sunny and it was pretty nice to bop along the road, looking out over the foreshore and thinking about another fun ferry ride. It was very peaceful, somehow, to be alone in the middle of all those people, walking around and sitting in various places, eating my lunch, reading my second book and looking at the water. The weather was so beautiful that I spent most of the time sitting out on the observation deck, assiduously applying sunscreen and watching two bands of boys act out various homoerotic subtexts by continually tearing off their friends’ shirts and attempting to throw each other over the railing into the Straits. Thankfully, my shades are really huge and ridiculous, so I was able to observe all the adorable horseplay at my perverted leisure. The best part was that when one group would almost succeed in sublimating one of their members over the edge, the other group would, like, roll its collective eyes and go “Can you just shut up? Blimmin idiots.” This happened about five times and I wish I’d taken a video of it.

I made the rest of my connections (shuttle, bus) just fine and walked in the door just as A. was texting about the dinner she’d made me. “Did you get my text?” she asked. “Yes,” I said, even though my phone was off. “I got it with my mind.” It was really nice to come home.

I think some part of me was hoping, a little, for an immediately obviously awesome time, like over Christmas. I had fun this weekend but it was pretty low-key fun: I talked to some nice people but didn’t make any deeper connections, I had a nice day on the water but wasn’t completely blown away. That’s how traveling goes, I guess, when you do it for a long stretch of time. If I were on the road now, going from hostel to hostel every couple of days, I’d count the trip as fairly successful if not extraordinary, which is exactly what it was. I had a good time and I did just what I wanted to do, which is my favorite thing.

Underneath this light recounting of a nice weekend, though, is what I found out when I got home last night: I’m not eligible for an extended working holiday visa, because I am too old. I often joke about how I wasted my twenties, but never before has that been so real to me. I could slap myself for being so scared to travel alone, four or five years ago, for not being ready then to do what I want to do now. It makes me want to wring the life out of every single day here, every experience. It makes just a nice weekend feel like a little bit of a failure.

I will have to think of something else, something that will let me stay a little longer in this astounding part of the world, where the gorgeous and the ordinary are the same thing. I have six more months here and already I’m missing it.