Yeah, so that is an inside joke. As in, something that you would only get if you were here, with my friends and I. Because I have FRIENDS here now. That’s right. I’m not saying this to highlight how not-here all of you are, but more how settled I’m becoming. I no longer get lost trying to find my classes, even when they are in the glass monstrosity that is the new Owen Someone-or-other building. I can give directions to key places around (the best pizza shop, the cheap Asian supermarket, icecream that will melt your heart while it melts in your hands and covers you in chocolate, and of course, the best coffee- (which, if you’re interested, is a tiny hole in the wall Italian café that makes espresso the very smell of which whisks me oh-so-romantically back to Rome)). I know I can make it from bed to class in 13.475 minutes, a handy fact discovered when I didn’t set my alarm and almost missed a presentation class- made it in the aforementioned record time, clutching a peanut butter-banana-toast power breakfast in one hand, my presentation in the other… but with no shoes. Can’t win ‘em all.
This particular joke spawned from a night out with my work mates- smelling like pizza and parmesan, we discovered a wonderful bar close to the restaurant with pool, darts, craft beers, and black-board tables with ample supplies of chalk. I went completely ballistic; covering every surface with scrawls and scribbles, including a T-Rex on Jasper’s black shirt. Ahem. I call it… Artistic license.
Life in this lovely little city is indeed settling into a routine- my week revolves around classes attended, classes not attended in the name of I-study-better-at-home, classes not attended in the name of naps (a noble, noble reason) and working at a local Italian pizzeria (getting this job seemed a little like fate- enchanted by the huge wood-fired pizza and divine smells emanating from Archies, I wandered in to explore… and noticed a staff wanted sign. A month later, I have eaten my weight in mind-bogglingly good pizza, roast veggies, olives and olive oil. I met the supplier of olive oil/olives last night, a wonderful pony-tailed Greek man, and offered myself as product tester/apprentice/anything-at-all-really-please-let-me-just-DOUSE-myself-in-olivey-goodness). Work and class is punctuated with climbing and mountain biking; I am slowly gathering a crew of people I can count on for a head-lamp-only climbing sesh at a local gym, or a burl around the local single track. Autumn has really hit its stride- cooler weather accompanied by a feast of red, red leaves and misty mornings. Cooler weather heralds (eventual) snow; I am now well-versed on season pass options for every ski resort in this country, and am collecting snow kite partners and information every chance I get.
In a wonderful change from this weekly routine, I was visited by a French friend from Australia (turns out most of my friends from home aren’t actually from home at all. Hum.) and eagerly employed the you’re-only-on-exchange-once card and took off up north for the week. Armed with chocolate, kites, more chocolate, and a limitless desire to see/hike/explore/do absolutely everything, we jumped in Sheila, the tubby goddess of the roads, and began winding our way up to Cape Reinga, the northern-most tip of New Zealand. A friend at university (oh yeah, FRIENDS. At UNIVERSITY. Just in case you didn’t note that.) asked me the next week when I returned, tanned and salty-dreadlocked, what the highlight of my trip was- I actually stopped dead, and offered a look of despair- how on earth could I chose? Was it chasing wild horses through a pine plantation forest, only to end up on the beach and see a storm quickly approaching, which prompted a breathless-run back through said forest to Sheila and shelter? Or being surrounded by piglets, grunting and squealing as they decided if we were friend, foe or food? Taking the fins off Nick’s kiteboard and snowboarding down the mega-dunes at Te Paki? (Te Paki actually blew my mind a little. Nick spotted them from the road as we were heading to Spirit’s Bay, and said, ‘Oh man, take the next left. Ah! The next left!’ Having no idea what we were heading for, (and given that he is French, imagining only a mountain of cheese could incite that sort of excitement) it was humbling to come upon these enormous dunes. Once we’d scrambled our way to the sandy top you were enveloped in their scope- I felt like I’d stepped into Arabian Nights or Aladdin. Kept my eye out for genies, but to no avail.) Maybe it was watching the Pacific Ocean collide with the Tasman Sea (which, in Maori culture, is the man sea combining with the woman sea and… well, making baby seas), at the very tip top of New Zealand, and looking back to the isolated cove where we had camped under our kites the night before. Or it certainly could have been swimming under Haruru Falls in our underwear- I mean, there were no guard rails! They were practically begging us to climb down/frolic under/scramble back up! Our water-loving selves not sated, we kited until we couldn’t move anymore, (I consider taking off my wetsuit that night one of my greatest achievements to date) and was then taken in by a lovely kiwi kiter who fueled us with coffee and pastries, consumed on a swinging chair under a full moon, before a long night of driving, smoothed over by good music and good conversation.
Yeah, so highlight choosing? Not going so well.
I feel I need to end here before I get too carried away, especially as I can’t placate you with many pictures. I was incredibly lazy with my camera while road tripping- partially because it was normally buried under piles of mattress, and partially because I was so sick of seeing the take-picture-move-on hordes of Bay of Islands and Cape Reinga. Instead I chose to simply experience, lingering in the waves, scrambling up dunes and Scottish-highlandesque hills, letting piglets nibble on my fingers (‘That was a love bite!’) and accepting that I will never, ever, get all the sand out of my hair. And I can tell you, black sand? Kinda looks like nits.
This particular joke spawned from a night out with my work mates- smelling like pizza and parmesan, we discovered a wonderful bar close to the restaurant with pool, darts, craft beers, and black-board tables with ample supplies of chalk. I went completely ballistic; covering every surface with scrawls and scribbles, including a T-Rex on Jasper’s black shirt. Ahem. I call it… Artistic license.
Life in this lovely little city is indeed settling into a routine- my week revolves around classes attended, classes not attended in the name of I-study-better-at-home, classes not attended in the name of naps (a noble, noble reason) and working at a local Italian pizzeria (getting this job seemed a little like fate- enchanted by the huge wood-fired pizza and divine smells emanating from Archies, I wandered in to explore… and noticed a staff wanted sign. A month later, I have eaten my weight in mind-bogglingly good pizza, roast veggies, olives and olive oil. I met the supplier of olive oil/olives last night, a wonderful pony-tailed Greek man, and offered myself as product tester/apprentice/anything-at-all-really-please-let-me-just-DOUSE-myself-in-olivey-goodness). Work and class is punctuated with climbing and mountain biking; I am slowly gathering a crew of people I can count on for a head-lamp-only climbing sesh at a local gym, or a burl around the local single track. Autumn has really hit its stride- cooler weather accompanied by a feast of red, red leaves and misty mornings. Cooler weather heralds (eventual) snow; I am now well-versed on season pass options for every ski resort in this country, and am collecting snow kite partners and information every chance I get.
In a wonderful change from this weekly routine, I was visited by a French friend from Australia (turns out most of my friends from home aren’t actually from home at all. Hum.) and eagerly employed the you’re-only-on-exchange-once card and took off up north for the week. Armed with chocolate, kites, more chocolate, and a limitless desire to see/hike/explore/do absolutely everything, we jumped in Sheila, the tubby goddess of the roads, and began winding our way up to Cape Reinga, the northern-most tip of New Zealand. A friend at university (oh yeah, FRIENDS. At UNIVERSITY. Just in case you didn’t note that.) asked me the next week when I returned, tanned and salty-dreadlocked, what the highlight of my trip was- I actually stopped dead, and offered a look of despair- how on earth could I chose? Was it chasing wild horses through a pine plantation forest, only to end up on the beach and see a storm quickly approaching, which prompted a breathless-run back through said forest to Sheila and shelter? Or being surrounded by piglets, grunting and squealing as they decided if we were friend, foe or food? Taking the fins off Nick’s kiteboard and snowboarding down the mega-dunes at Te Paki? (Te Paki actually blew my mind a little. Nick spotted them from the road as we were heading to Spirit’s Bay, and said, ‘Oh man, take the next left. Ah! The next left!’ Having no idea what we were heading for, (and given that he is French, imagining only a mountain of cheese could incite that sort of excitement) it was humbling to come upon these enormous dunes. Once we’d scrambled our way to the sandy top you were enveloped in their scope- I felt like I’d stepped into Arabian Nights or Aladdin. Kept my eye out for genies, but to no avail.) Maybe it was watching the Pacific Ocean collide with the Tasman Sea (which, in Maori culture, is the man sea combining with the woman sea and… well, making baby seas), at the very tip top of New Zealand, and looking back to the isolated cove where we had camped under our kites the night before. Or it certainly could have been swimming under Haruru Falls in our underwear- I mean, there were no guard rails! They were practically begging us to climb down/frolic under/scramble back up! Our water-loving selves not sated, we kited until we couldn’t move anymore, (I consider taking off my wetsuit that night one of my greatest achievements to date) and was then taken in by a lovely kiwi kiter who fueled us with coffee and pastries, consumed on a swinging chair under a full moon, before a long night of driving, smoothed over by good music and good conversation.
Yeah, so highlight choosing? Not going so well.
I feel I need to end here before I get too carried away, especially as I can’t placate you with many pictures. I was incredibly lazy with my camera while road tripping- partially because it was normally buried under piles of mattress, and partially because I was so sick of seeing the take-picture-move-on hordes of Bay of Islands and Cape Reinga. Instead I chose to simply experience, lingering in the waves, scrambling up dunes and Scottish-highlandesque hills, letting piglets nibble on my fingers (‘That was a love bite!’) and accepting that I will never, ever, get all the sand out of my hair. And I can tell you, black sand? Kinda looks like nits.
