Love is Pain

I have been separated from Beau for about five weeks, and to talk in hyperbole, it has been pure torture. I feel like I've been walking around half alive, a shell of myself (more melodrama, yes). But it's true. I sleep, though I haven't had a single good night's sleep since I arrived. It's hard to sleep so close to someone for so long and then suddenly be alone. Your body feels the absence and objects via its restlessness.

But, Beau arrives in the United States, specifically Milwaukee, tomorrow, and this should all come to an end, FOREVER. In fact, he should be somewhere over the Pacific (along with my cat, Bina) right about now, watching his third movie and having his sixth drink and second meal. I don't envy his nightmare trip, which involved some desperate dashing around in L.A. trying to get Bina released from the airlines, passed through customs, and back to the airport to get them both back on the plane to Milwaukee all within two hours and 45 minutes. If he doesn't make that plane, I'll probably have to do something drastic, like drink a bottle of tequila and sing Bohemian Rhapsody over and over.

And of course, I'm very very very excited. I kind of have a habit of overdoing presents, particularly for birthdays, which I think are very special and sadly lacking in the appropriate attention. I mean, if you love someone, shouldn't the day that celebrates their existence on this planet be a BIG deal, no matter HOW old they are? *cough* Anyway, for Christmas I have gone all out for Beau again. I'm feeling the pressure since last year i got him a mandolin and he was so stunned and overcome with emotion it kinda scared me. So, how to top a fantastic Christmas trip to NYC and a mandolin?

Well, for starters, I bought him a charcoal grill. Beau is a HUGE BBQ man, which is great for me too since i reap the benefits of his great cooking, and we sold the old grill when we moved to NZ. Now, I know it's the middle of winter, but I'm sure he'll figure out a way to use it 12 times before the temperature reaches above 50 degrees. But that's not all! I bought him a bunch of ornaments that would have a personal meaning to him (I'll spare you those details), a nice shirt for work (he'll wear his clothes 'til their threads otherwise), and I oil painted his family's Scottish clan crest (Ferguson) on an 8x10 canvas in bright colors.

But wait, there's more. This was the biggie. I don't know exactly why it came to me, it wasn't my plan, but I do have a kind of belief in fate, well, sort of, destiny, kind of, and I just follow it. A week ago I walked into a tattoo parlor and started asking questions. By the time I left, I had made an appointment for the following Friday and the artist started to do his pre-tattoo drawing. Now, i've already got two tattoos, I'm very happy with both of them, and they're both perfectly placed somewhere where'd you'd have to see me in a bikini to be able to eyeball them. That suits me fine, since my tattoos are very special to me, and FOR ME. That's why i never totally understood the ones on the back of the shoulder or above your ass. Those are obviously for other's enjoyment. I love to look at my tattoos, even today. I got the first in Kanchanaburi, Thailand in a night market. Yeah, it sounds crazy now, it seemed like a cool idea at the time. It's a symbol from Arizona -- a saguaro -- that I thought represented me in many ways. Getting it was more painful than I'd expected - originally I was going to have a more elaborate tattoo and stopped after the saguaro was done -- but he did a great job and there were no problems.

The second I got in Missouri; Beau and I each got one at the same time. Mine was a Maori symbol -- a Koru -- long before we left for NZ. His, he likes to call a "war pony." I like to call it "that cute horsie."

So, why get another? I don't know. And the "faith" part of it is the real kicker. Since Beau used to be a real darn cowboy, I thought what I would do was get a cowboy hat and then have his name in cursive below it. "Cowboy Take Me Away" has always been one of our songs, so it seemed fitting. But anyone who knows anything about tattoos knows that that's the taboo of the tattoo world -- NEVER get your lover's name, never! It puts a jinx on the relationship and you always break up. And yet, over and over and over again we do it. Now, is that FAITH or what?

The tattoo parlor was staffed by two men, one a late-40's guy who had a long beard, crazy hair, little glasses, and kind of that old school Harley guy thing going on. And of course, lots of tattoos. He was loud and obnoxious, and kinda turned me off. His partner was barely an adult, with piercings, a bright red beard, and a body so skinny, that the whole thing seemed concave, from neck to feet. He was lost within his clothes, and pointy bones jutted everywhere. He had that "whatever" stoner voice and speech, and laughed frequently at the older man's obnoxious remarks. And of course, lots of tattoos. I was told Junior would be doing the tattoo.

That was a Saturday, but I couldn't do it til the following Friday after I got my first paycheck from Target. As the days crept by I kept telling myself, "You can get it out of it! They don't know you. You just don't show up." But I didn't want to. Even though the whole thing felt spontaneous, something I am firmly against when it comes to getting a tattoo, it felt good, and as the days advanced, I found myself growing excited. I even stopped by Thursday to check in and see when I should come and to see Junior's drawing. It was great. Junior had the idea of making Beau's name, still in cursive, look like it was a lasso rope. Very cool! He even put a little star above the "i" in Beau's name (*cough* yeah, obviously Beau is not his real name). My only request was to make it smaller, since I don't like the idea of a tattoo crawling across my body.

I cashed my check Friday and came in. I brought a pair of shorts and a Janet Evanovich book. I knew trying to read while getting a tattoo, which hurts like a motherfucker, was going to be a challenge, but i needed SOMETHING to do. If I just laid there and took the pain, I'd go insane and run screaming out of the parlor. I entered the place and chatted with the guys for awhile. The more the older obnoxious guy ("Senior") talked to me, the more he seemed to like me, particularly interested in Beau's cowboy past.

I watched Junior very slowly and methodically set up all the tools and dye. It was nerve-wracking, cause it's like watching a phlebotomist prepare his needles and gauze before he jabs you in the arm for blood, and you know the tattoo is going to take MUCH longer and hurt MUCH worse. Also, I'd been through this twice before, and thought it a pretty rough experience (though worth it). This time I didn't have two friends cheering me on like in Thailand or Beau holding my hand like in Missouri. This was my surprise present, and I was alone. Junior transferred his drawing to my leg, high up on the outside of my right thigh, just below the panty line. It looked good. Then, I had to lay down on the bed in a somewhat awkward position, shorts hiked up pretty high. Honey, there's no shame in the tattoo parlor. I opened my book and prepared to read.

FUCK! Fuck fuck fuck! It really hurts! For anyone who hasn't gotten a tattoo, it's the initial part, when your tattoo is being outlined in black, that is the most painful, though I'm not sure why. Later, when they're filling in all that color, it hurts a bit less. And as Junior was carving up my thigh, I thought about that long, coiling rope of Beau's name and how it had all those details on it. I grimaced and tried to dive into my book. Surprisingly, I could read, though as hysterical as Evanovich's books are, they don't make tattoo pain disappear. I did get through a great deal of pages though as the tattoo progressed. I tried not to look back, because as the inking progresses, I kind of put myself in this state. It's like, "Ohhh that's painful that hurts, just hang on, it's almost over, it's almost over..." just to psych myself through it. And tattoo artists know what they're doing, they'll etch away and just when you think you can't stand it, they lift up their gun. I mean, if I tried to tell myself "Just hang on for 40 more minutes!" I probably couldn't deal and would sprint from the parlor with a half-finished tattoo on my thigh. I suppose it's what women must tell themselves when giving birth, though I don't kid myself; I know that THAT pain must be 10,000x worse.

Senior walked in a few times, making conversation, and commenting on the quality of the tattoo (always nice to hear). He seemed to continually soften the more I talked to him, and a lot of his brusqueness melted away, which was really nice. At one point, mid-tattooing, he came in and handed me a small silver and gold piece, which looked like a tiny square belt buckle, that had a beautiful saddle on it. He said, "This is for you, you can keep it cowgirl." It turned out to be the top piece for a bolo tie! I thought it was really beautiful and touched by the gesture. A few minutes after that he came in and deposited a pen between the pages of my open book, which was engraved with the tattoo parlor's logo and address. Another little gift. Hee hee.

FINALLY, it was over. I went and checked it out in the mirror, and a gorgeous tattoo glared at me from my reddened thigh. I loved it. They both commented favorably how I had taken it so well, without a peep out of me. Junior said that sometimes with women they either scream or start to cry. Not that it doesn't hurt, but geez, to me it's one of those things where you kinda want to stay as still as possible. Your body racked with sobs probably makes the outcome of a neat and detailed tattoo a bit risky. Besides, I'm not that tough, I'd just be too humiliated to bawl in front of these guys.

Then we all walked out to the front where i paid (it was quite a bit more than I had been expecting, but worth it, it IS forever). We had a friendly chat, and when I brought up the tattoo curse about putting your lover's name on your body, they kinda sheepishly admitted that they believed in the curse too and were a bit concerned when that's what I said I wanted. But they admitted, it happens all the time, and it's not like you're going to tell someone "No." Junior said, "I just see it as a list. If it doesn't work, you put the new name under it." Hahah. Senior said, "Besides, it's more work for us. People come in later to re-do the tattoo after the break-up. More business!" I guess that's one way to look at. Despite all this, the parlor's boss (a woman) had put her lover's name on her arm, in such a way that Junior said, "Made it impossible to ever change it into something else." Then Senior added, "Yeah, and she's crying into her pillow every night now." Oh great. And yet, Junior himself had put a small heart on his arm with his girlfriend's initials inside. "I guess you could always fill in the heart if you had to," I said. "Yeah, heh heh," he replied.

Then I began to leave and they waved and said, "Come back in if you ever need us to change that name again!"

"Better yet," I said, "I'll bring HIM in to get MY name tattooed on!"

"There you go!" they said and smiled.

Then I turned, and slowly limped away.

Merry Christmas, Beau.

*****************************

P.S. I just HAD to show this tattoo 'cause it so grossed and freaked me out!!!! Can you imagine being the woman seeing that coming at her vagina? Let alone, giving this guy a BJ??? That'd turn you off of the act forever.

The Word of Tarot

I'm a big fan of Tarot cards. I picked up my first and only pack when I was 13 years old at a Renaissance festival somewhere in northern Illinois. Since then I've bought a few books, made a few honest attempts to learn the cards well, and occasionally given readings. Any reading by me is a bit tedious, to say the last. I sit there with my favorite Tarot reference book open in my lap, flipping through the pages to read the results for each card, and then in the end try to tie it all together, usually with a great deal of help and prodding from the person I'm reading for. It's actually pretty hard, but it's also a lot of fun. Each card in the Tarot has its own little story, its own positive (and if you like, negative) spin, and can be interpreted by itself and in conjunction with other cards that "influence" it. To learn the story for each of the 78 cards and how they intertwine with each other, and then seeing "the big picture" can be rather daunting. Not to mention I have the memory of a field mouse, so that doesn't particularly help.

Shortly before I left New Zealand, Beau and I stopped at this Gypsy Fair that was set up in one of the larger cities we often traveled to on weekends when "escaping" our own little village. We didnt' know the fair was there, so that was a treat. A slew of caravans, small trailers that were decorated jauntily in "gypsy" style, sat upon a grassy, high school sports field. I have to admit I was a bit disappointed by the whole thing. I thought it would be authentic, but if you ask me to define what authentic means, I couldn't really tell you. It was just a bit disappointing. I knew it would be commercial, I'm sure this was how they made their living, but it was the same kind of stuff you see at every and any kind of fair -- silver jewelry (lots of Celtic knots and fantasy rings), soda and snacks, magnets, posters, t-shirts, and clothes and kitsch from India, Nepal, and Tibet (oooh SOOO mystical! Sheesh). I did get some cotton candy, which though I don't believe was much in terms of gypsy food, I rather enjoyed, as I always do.

But, oh rapture(!), we did finally see one caravan advertising tarot card readings. The woman had a small blackboard outsider her trailer which boasted her credentials of 20 years of training and readings, her personal philosophy, and lots of other very eager and earnest words to her legitimacy. NOW we're talking! Since I've already had the opportunity for a couple readings in my life, both in the Philippines and in Thailand, I thought Beau should go ahead and pop his divination cherry.

We waited outside the woman's tent for a very. long. time. as she was giving another reading. This was both good and bad. It means at least she really gives you a nice, thorough reading, but we were sitting there for so long, I started to doubt she was ever coming out, or maybe just actually shooting the shit with a buddy and not noticing our presence. Finally, she did emerge and ushered us inside. Wearing what i took to be a gypsy costume, she came out to greet us, sporting wild blonde hair, no make-up, small blue eyes and a rather weathered-looking face that had me putting her in her late 40's. I found her interesting immediately. I think I was just as eager to see the inside of her caravan as I was for Beau's reading. I was astonished at just how tiny and simple it was. It was still set up in gypsy style, but it looked like her worldly possessions must have been very few, as the whole thing consisted of a sink and tiny counter, a padded wooden bench that ran the width of it, a modest table and chair in front of the bench, and a small loft-bed behind and above the bench itself. There were a couple of small decorations here and there, but that was about it. I sat on a rickety stool which I eyed uneasily as I pressed my weight upon it, and leaned forward as much as I could to take in Beau's reading.

So Beau sat down and went through the motions of shuffling/cutting the deck and thinking of his question (but not announcing it to her). We pretty much wanted to know about our future, since we had JUST decided to move back to the United States and fate was a bit murky at the moment. Then the woman stunned me by laying out the largest spread I had ever seen, basically using the whole deck, *flip flip flip flip* she plunked them all down. From what I could decipher, she did one whole reading for each month of the coming year, rather impressive at the mammoth amount of information she would have to process for us. In the end though, her message was pretty simple and short, and I was surprised that for all intents and purpose, the reading ended pretty quickly, and she proceeded to prod Beau to ask her questions so she could expand.

One thing we found interesting was that the woman basically told him he would be going through a lot of crap, financial and career-wise for awhile, and that it would all come together in a good way, probably in August/September. A job would come about and his life, and all the bullshit she was reading for the eight months preceding that, would magically clear up. Seeing as how Beau expected to simply be substitute teaching in Montana and hopefully getting a full-time position at the start of the next school year in August/September, this was a welcome revelation from the cards.

The reader also kept stressing that Beau needed to slow down, slow down, slow down. Over and over the cards said he needed to just let life flow, not to rush or push any important decisions for awhile, not to make any big travel, monetary, or career plans for a bit. Since we had basically just made a major decision that affected all three (the return to the U.S.), that sort of made us uneasy. Her analogy was that if he didn't listen to this advice, which appeared to be screaming at her from the cards (I, sadly, heard nothing), the cosmos would realistically or symbolically "break his leg" to force him to slow down. Oh, excellent, and us without health insurance. Nonetheless, there wasn't much of a choice for us in that matter. We had to leave now, the contract was ending and so were our visas. Besides, as much as I love a Tarot reading, I'll be damned if I let it be any more than a fun and interesting experience, not a life-altering guide.

Oh, and there was a really shitty month coming up, I think it was March. Damn, see, I told you my memory isn't worth a crud! I bet Beau remembers many more details. But anyway, March is supposed to suck. Just great!

But in the end, like a lovely bedtime story, we're supposed to ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after, we just have to stick it out until Fall 2007.

I guess we can do that. Do we have a choice?

We’ll Be Home for Christmas? - Part II

Author's note: Back in New Zealand in our little village, I didn't have internet access on my laptop, just occasional access via the school's computers (which had the most rigid, militant controls i have EVER seen on a network). So, I wrote all my blogs in Word with the hopes of future postings, until about two months later when I got one of those USB drives. Because of this, my blogs were all backed up, so every blog you have read from New Zealand probably actually happened anywhere from 2-5 weeks before I posted it. I know. Awful. It's like I'm cheating. Suffice it to say, I am ALMOST caught up now -- as I am currently in Milwaukee, Wisconsin , working an icky seasonal job in a retail store (details later), and climbing the walls as I wait for Beau to arrive this Sunday.

So, here we are, now "fast forwarding," though in reality, going backwards, to when I arrived in Milwaukee in mid-November 2006. Confused yet?
-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
(November 15, 2006)
So, I'm back! But the sad thing, is that I'm back alone. Hold the phone gentle reader, it's no tragic tale. Beau has to stick it out in NZ until mid-December when his contract (and the school year) ends. I decided to rush back to the U.S. ASAP to try and get some holiday work, instead of twiddling my thumbs in New Zealand and just being dead weight. It looks like I arrived a couple weeks too late as several places told me they already hired their holiday help, damnit! But, despite this, I did nab a job as a "team member" at Target, Tar-zhay, The Bullseye Boutique, or as my friend calls it, her "happy place." I agree. It's no career move, but it's a quick way to make some cash so by the time Beau gets here we have a little bit more to move with.

And where are we moving to? Montana. Beau SERIOUSLY wanted to move back to Montana, his home state. That's really fine with me, I hear great things about Montana and I know it's beautiful. My only stipulation was that it had to be a big city (as big as one can get in Montana). I know now that living in a small town may have its quaint advantages, but it just doesn't work for me, and literally, it has no work opportunities for me. I need to be in a good-sized city that has administrative or educational positions. So, Missoula it is. And my former flight attendant friend informs me that it's a pretty place and just like a mini-Madison, Wisconsin which is great news to me since Madison is one of my favorite places I've ever lived. I like college towns.

Oh, and right now I'm in Milwaukee at my mother's house. Yeah....33 years old and living with my mother. This feels pretty crappy. Furthermore, the relationship between my mother and I is strained at the best of times and since it's just the two of us now (and her sacred cat), I'm feeling mighty uncomfortable. At least it should only be 'til right after the holidays, but STILL!

I'm actually sleeping in my sister's twin bed, and get this, it's a loft! It's like sleeping in a bunk bed's top bunk. So every night, I climb up into the thing and use a long broken handle of some cleaning tool to turn out the light switch by the door. In the middle of the night when I have to use the loo, I slowly slide off the edge of the bed, hands gripping the mattress, legs dangling above the ground, and in one brave moment, plop down to the ground with a muted thud. I feel like I'm twelve. Lord.

I know I did this, this leaving Beau behind and rushing back to the U.S., mainly for money. We spent thousands to move to New Zealand, thinking it was "forever," and it's going to cost a whole lot to come back. All those boxes to send, the plane tickets, the cat (FUCK, it's another dramatic and financially-crippling disaster getting her back), selling our car, etc. etc. etc. And now we have to start over, AGAIN, in a new city, both of us jobless and homeless. This used to be exciting for me, now it's just exhausting and terrifying. I'm not 22 gallivanting around Europe with my Eurrail pass and a just enough francs for bread and a hostel in my pocket anymore. I'm rapidly approaching my 34th birthday with no hint of a career, no house on the horizon, no plans for kids anytime soon, student loan debt that produces a gasp in anyone I mention the grand total to, and again, no money. Working at Target for a month or two may get us some precious cash for our move to the great north, but I think I should admit to myself there's more going on here.

A part of me feels guilty, like a tiny voice inside my head that says, "Money wasn't the ONLY reason you left. Money in and of itself is never the only reason you do anything, otherwise you wouldn't always be so broke." This is true. When I lay awake at night, up in that ridiculous loft bed, alone, and missing Beau, a part of me just wants to apologize. Maybe, deep down in me, past the part with the good intentions, past the part that said, "Okay, we can go back to the United States," past the part that puts on the brave face and tries to think positively about Montana (despite my aversion to living in extreme climates), way down there at the bottom is that angry, vengeful side of myself. The part that says, "Beau, you made us leave. New Zealand was our big dream, a dream we made come true. I could hardly believe it myself; I was ecstatic, on top of the world. Sure, we didn't land in an ideal location there, but we knew that going in. You ripped us away from there. You stayed there for just six months before throwing in the towel. Now i have to move to a cold place, that yes, may be beautiful, but where we have no prospects and no home. (Plus, we'll be near my in-laws, YUCK!!!). I never ever wanted to leave New Zealand, just that tiny little village we were in. I wanted to move to Dunedin and get a house and have my garden and get a job at the University of Otago and eat lunch at that great Asian food court and stare at the gorgeous blue blue water every single day of my life. Now, for love, and yes, willingly and by my own choice, I am leaving all this behind. Fine! Fine! Then you can stay here and finish out this damn contract. I'm going back early. You can clean up the mess. All that packing and shipping and cat bureaucratic shit I had to take care of by myself when you left for New Zealand without me, now YOU can handle it all on the way back! I'll get work, make some money, but part of me is punishing you for doing this to me. The selfish part of me is angry, and very very sad."

It's an ugly, ugly side of myself that I'm ashamed of, and yet, here i am writing it all out in my blog. Masochistic dork. Furthermore, punishing Beau, even if only from a tiny part of me, is idiotic considering I think I am suffering even more than he is from the separation. Not to mention the tension between my mother and I is making me homicidal. I just think I have to face up to that part of myself, even if it's deep down and only surfaces occasionally late at night as I lie awake in bed. That guilt that slaps me in the face and says, "You are not so noble! You may have done this for love, and you may really be okay with it, but you are not all-forgiving!"

I am flawed.

21 more days 'til Beau arrives. As Elvis Costello sang, "God, give me strength!"
Note: In reality, he NOW arrives in 4 days. *cough*

The Word of God

This thing is so much damn fun! I just had to stick it on my blog.
http://www.churchsigngenerator.com/

I'm sending them out like Christmas cards to friends.
Enjoy your wickedness.

We’ll Be Home for Christmas?

So, New Zealand is just not working out for Beau. The more and more I learn about his experiences at the school, the more I "get it" and the more sympathetic I am. But still, it’s pretty devastating for me. As I’ve mentioned before, I knew that the adjustment to a new country would be rough, particularly for first-time-abroader Beau, particularly the first year when you’re constantly shifting, constantly forced to test your own beliefs and push your capabilities, and particularly in being flexible and adaptive. I just didn't think it'd be particularly this rough.

Before Beau left (he departed six weeks before I did), I made sure we’d go out to our favorite restaurants like El Tapatio *wistful sigh* and I’d give him these friendly little “This is what you can expect, the good, the bad, and the ugly” lectures. And we made a few deals together. One of those was that we’d give the first location, which we knew was going to be somewhat out in the boonies, a six month trial, and if it didn’t work out, we’d try one more place (particularly one of my “big” city choices - Dunedin or Christchurch). Now, the end of the school year and the six month mark will all come together in late December. It’s pretty obvious that our little, remote Maori town is not going to work out for us. I am basically a prisoner in my own home with zero employment possibilities, and Beau is unbearably miserable at his teaching job. This is so hard to watch. We’ve all been there – a job that we absolutely abhor going to every day, the job that when you wake up in the morning your whole body just deflates in dread, that job you can’t WAIT to quit. And what really kills me about this, is that Beau LOVES teaching. I always tell him it’s his calling, though he dismisses this romantic notion.

When Beau first came back into my life, we had a long phone conversation, a good bulk of it was about teaching. I had been back in the U.S. for about a year and a half by that time and was just starting to miss teaching again. Hearing him talk about it just completely brought up all these feelings in me. He sounded exactly like I sounded that last year – confident, happy, excited, and completely in love with teaching and the kids he taught.

Now here in NZ, Beau is losing his confidence as a teacher, and it’s completely demoralizing him. He’s in a school where kids walk in and out of class (if they even show up at all), frequently shout out “Fuck you!” to teachers while giving them the one-finger salute, and an administration whose staff support is communicated as “Deal with the students yourselves. Don’t send them to us.”

He struggles to get students to understand simple scientific concepts and finds himself constantly having to go further and further back in the basic teachings of the subject just to give the students the foundation they don’t possess. Just the other day he came home, both astonished and saddened, that he couldn’t do a simple Science lab, because it involved long division to get percentages – something that many of the students simply couldn’t do. A fun lab (which included lots of chewing of Hubba Bubba!), suddenly ground to a halt over what shouldn't have even been a speed bump.

The irony of all this is that the school has just informed him that they are offering him a one-year, “fixed-term” contract for the upcoming school year (which begins in early 2007). Sure, despite all the crap he's dealt with, it's still an option, and we discussed it, but not very long. In fact, every time since then that Beau has brought it up as an option, I stop him immediately. Normally, I am a BIG discusser of options. I like to lay them all out on the table like a tarot card spread and go through each one thoroughly, to look at the big picture, but consider every detail. But when it comes to sticking around at this school, I just refuse to consider it. If you could see someone you love slowly falling apart, would you just keep watching or would you say, "No more!"?

It’s weird, for so many years I lived alone and supported myself. This led to a deliciously-selfish existence that I deeply enjoyed. I hate hearing how hard marriage is, 'cause besides the fact that it makes one think marriage sucks shit, it kind of sets up expectations in a negative way. I mean, most of the time, marriage is fantastic! The real point I think, is that when marriage is hard, it's fucking hard. When you're by yourself and you have a hard time, it's just you that you have to deal with. And for me personally, it's not so much compromise, which I think I'm pretty good at, but having to deal with another person's need or desire that at times can be so completely opposed to mine. I don't think that's exactly compromise. Sometimes it IS compromise, sometimes, it's just letting go (especially if you're one of these people who have to prove you're right). but in a way that feels not like losing something or giving in, but loving someone. Loving someone more than you love a thing, an experience, or a place.

So, finally, I "let go" and agreed to return to the United States. Sure, I could have kept push push pushing to stay in New Zealand and move to Auckland or Christchurch. Who knows? Perhaps after being in a new school with an established structure and ambitious academic goals, Beau would have found himself in his profession again. Then I would be RIGHT! I could tell him, "See, I told you it would all be fine if you just stuck it out!" But as Dr. Phil says, "Would you rather be right, or would you rather be happy?"

I'd rather be happy.

Besides, returning to the United States isn't the dud donkey prize behind door #3. I like America and I like living in it (well, some of it). And returning to the U.S. after living abroad has that same feeling to me when you return from a nice, long vacation. You may have had a great time, but a part of you is just relieved to be back "home" and sleep in your own bed. That's how I feel. I like New Zealand, a lot, but it can't even hold a candle to how I feel with Beau in my life.

It looks like we're coming home.

Beau and Bear walking on the beach near an old whaling building.

On Holiday, Part III - Abridged (For Me)

Since I never wrote up my Part III on our vacation, I'm skipping the whole bit in Christchurch and Dunedin. They were fantastic to visit, but since my blogs are now several weeks behind reality in time, I'm going to skip all that. I'll just talk about our last part of the trip which was to Doubtful Sound, an unbelievably gorgeous sound on the western side of the south island of New Zealand.

This was our big splurge of the vacation, and I was pretty excited, not to mention excited that Beau would finally be able to see some landscapes to rival his unrivaled view of Montana. We drove from Dunedin on the east coast to Te Anau, which is basically a resort town pitstop. Most people go on to Milford Sound which is the sound with more infrastructure. Our choice of Doubtful was entirely due to a bunch of senior citizens we met while touring the Cadbury Chocolate factory in Dunedin. You know the types, they're retired, but they're constantly traveling the world in these large tour groups. They're wearing sneakers and comfy clothes in soft colors, and they know their shit. I like them. Beau seems to attract them like bees to a flower. They're always starting conversations with him. Sometimes very LONG conversations in which I have to send Beau about a dozen not-so-subtle "Let's gooooooo" clues.

I find these seasoned travelers far more adventurous than the smug backpackers who think THEY are the only legitimate travelers in the world. I find many backpackers pompous and boring. I did my backpacker thing in Europe when I was 22, and it was a lot of fun, but I did it because I was broke. I didn't find myself any less of a "real" traveler getting the "real" experience five years later in Thailand when I had more money and more comfort to purchase. Besides, as my three years living in Bangkok taught me, backpackers flock together like migratory birds, and the "legitimate experience" they all think they're getting has been completely fabricated for them by clever tour operators. Just because you sleep on a cheap mattress with a mosquito net and go riding an elephant through the jungle doesn't mean you're getting something authentic.

Any "real" experience simply comes from a) learning the language if you don't already, and b) simply living somewhere for an extended period of time and absorbing as much culture as you can. It takes many many years to really get the culture of another country. I barely scratched the surface during my three years in Thailand. BUT I DIGRESS! Obviously, I have issues with some backpackers. *cough* Let's continue on with New Zealand...

Anyway, these old folks told us about Doubtful Sound, how it was the best thing they'd ever seen, etc. and how it was much better than Milford Sound which was more crowded and annoying now. So, instead of heading south to Invercargill like we planned, we detoured and crossed the island to Te Anau.

The tour was a bit pricey, about $230 NZD (about $158 USD) each, if I remember, for the whole day. Oh well, we ARE on vacation! The trip started out in a smaller town of Manapouri on its lake, where we all boarded a large boat, which was really like a gigantic speedboat. It was a pretty chilly day, and we were inside immediately, since the speed of the boat through the lake and the sheer force of the wind was enough to jostle you and jiggle your jowls around quite a bit. But soon, we got brave enough to venture outside because shit, who wants to miss it? The view was unbelievable. I couldn't take enough photos.

This lake ride ended after 50 minutes when we landed on a small island for a bathroom break and a small walk around the center which had up a large display of the history of the area. Mildly interesting, but we just wanted to continue on the tour. On the island we boarded one of three buses. Our tour operator, who had a classier title like, "Wildlife Educator and Facilitator" or some such, gave quite an interesting lesson, dotted with some fantastic dry humor, on the surrounding flora and fauna, as well as some of the pesky vermin, all introduced by early Europeans, that plagued the area. The bus ride was necessary, since it was the only way to reach the sound on the other side. There we boarded another boat, a much larger one, phew, and the tour of the sound began.

It was named Doubtful Sound by NZ's famous explorer/seaman Captain Cook, who was responsible for naming a great many things in New Zealand (if you choose to ignore all the Maori names that were previously in place, of course). And apparently he named many of them erroneously as we've been informed on several different tours. Anyway, this was named "Doubtful" due to the fact that he took one look at the sound and decided it was "doubtful" they could get their ship out of it again if they chose to venture in. Supposedly he was correct on this front.

The tour was a few hours long and for the first couple hours, standing out on deck which we did for most of it, you just oooh and ahhh continuously. The mountains that rise again and again around you seem so rugged, so crazy, just so uninviting that they seem almost magical. I kept looking around trying to spot a place where a hermit could camp out for his days, though he'd have to make some big ass supply trips once in awhile. I have had frequent hermit fantasies myself throughout my life, which probably explains why I have lived alone so easily, and there's always that one of being totally isolated in some gorgeous forest/lake setting. Of course, I know without internet and cable I'd probably go completely bezerko and in the end be an utter failure as a recluse.

After a few hours on deck, with that pounding wind, you go back inside the boat, get some hot chocolate, and kinda decompress a bit. Even the most amazing beautiful tour can kinda get old after awhile, and you get to the point where you say, "Okay, I'm done, can we go back now?" Not one of our species' finer points I think, but true. Beau and I did have a few revivals, like when we approached the giant rock where fur seals were lounging, the rocks where some elusive penguins were aboding (so elusive we never spotted even one), and then my super-revival came when told to look for bottlenose dolphins, which are my absolute favorite animal, and which I was completely DYING to spot. Apparently a particular pod hung out in that area and frequently jumped and frolicked along with the boat. Yes! Sadly, as we began to exit the sound and go out into open sea, the waves were so rough, the boat turned around and headed back. Despite my unwillingness to give up on the dolphins, and secretly hoping that I'd be the one to spot them and alert all others, they were nowhere to be found. That sucked.

Finally, Beau and I did completely retire inside the cabin and just sort of sat there, listening to the two pilots rattle off their tour schpiel, which was honestly fairly interesting, but by that point we were just warming up and resting, half leaning against each other for warmth and support.

On the way back, the boat stopped at the massive Manapouri underground power station, which is an engineer's wet dream, but by this time, Beau and I were worn out and I wasn't all that interested, despite its awesomeness. But we were all forced to travel far far far underground and then walk around a small room which overlooked the whole thing. Mercifully, we were allowed to return to the bus, and finally make the journey all the way back to point A, in Manapouri on the lake, exhausted, but pretty happy about the whole experience.

I had been feeling a bit ooky during the trip, but was so into it all, that I ignored my body and tried to just have the best time I could. I'd pay for that, for when I awoke the next morning I was catapulted into complete illness hell and continued to feel utter misery for most of our long drive home. Living abroad a few times, I have come to believe that you grow somewhat used to your own country's viruses, so when you live somewhere new and get something like a common cold, it hits you with such a ferocious force, that you feel sicker than you ever have. You keep thinking, "Shit, it's just a cold," but you can't believe how incredibly horrible your body feels. Beau went through the same thing, his illness ending just as mine began. I don't know how he did it. Thank god he's is a driving machine and I got to spend the rest of the return trip wallowing in self-pity in the passenger seat. But if that was the price I'd have to pay for the trip, then I gladly paid it.

Rain Therapy

Beau is down, real down. I am starting to feel like I have two lives – the ME life that begins whenever I wake up and consists of all the selfish, guilty pleasures that have become my routine. Lots of playing Civ IV, watching TV (Dr. Phil is my new obsession), and doing all those other things I’ve talked about, reading, gardening, and especially cooking, which I am becoming a real pro at. I’ve even started up a new canvas in my oil painting hobby. I should probably try finishing one of my four or five UNfinished canvases, but when I get the inspiration to paint, I don’t fight it or redirect it, I run with it. And although many (including those in this teeny town) think I’m a bit cuckoo for living such a life of isolation (as if the fact that Beau actually gets “isolation pay” for working in this “town” shouldn’t be enough of a clue to THEM), I rather enjoy it.

The second life is the BEAU part. It begins when he steps into the door, usually for anywhere from 30-75 minutes around lunch time, then a brief departure to teach his last class, before he returns for the rest of the night. He always walks in the door completely demoralized and just plain sagging. To see the person you love more than anyone or anything look like that, day after day, is completely heartbreaking. So, from Monday to Friday, I feel myself on a mission to get him through the week. I try to be upbeat, have fun with him, make him feel special, and of course, cook him lots of good meals and sweets (oh my GOD I have recently made the most amazing coffee cake, and I’m not even a big coffee cake fan). He’s beginning to grumble about the cooking since he’s gained about 25lbs, but is otherwise enjoying himself in that regard.

Now this doesn’t mean I’m a Stepford Wife all the time. We still fight, he can still get distant and I can still get moody. But, I am trying very, very hard to help him through this. I’ve lived only for myself for so long, and now I’m living with another person who has his own needs and problems. It’s an adjustment not thinking of only yourself. The worst part, is that most of the time I feel like I’m failing. When you try so hard to cheer someone up, get them through a rough patch, and they’re not doing cartwheels, despite your efforts, you feel disappointed in yourself and your powers of good in the relationship. You want to believe you can be more than what gets him through it, you want to be his inspiration to fly.

According to Beau, I am all those things. But truthfully, I know I’m not. I’m not that insecure, I know that without me, he’d be in big trouble, but I’m not making this experience what it could be, what it should be for both of us. Very slowly, I am watching him be squeezed smaller and smaller, the life being crushed out of him. Selfishly, I want to stay here! I want to try again in a new place, in a place with a normal school, where I truly believe when he gets into a more "mainstream," academically-oriented school, and I get a frickin job, we will both begin to blossom. But I’m losing hope that that will ever happen.

One recent Saturday it was pouring rain out. This is not such a strange occurrence around here and one of the few drawbacks to the area’s nice weather and beauty. Beau sort of stared out the window at it. He began to talk about his frustration and what he really needed – that opportunity to just scream, SCREAM!!!! That release of built-up disappointment and anger. Doing it in our house is not really an option. Our house is basically like a flat townhouse, one loooong house chopped in half, with one family in one, and us in the other. We can hear each other, though not too clearly (thank god). But a glass-piercing man-scream might draw their attention.

So, I pointed to the murky beach just across the road from our house, naturally deserted in the weather (and pretty much at all other times as well), and suggested we run out there, helter skelter in the onslaught, and let it all out erupt from his mouth out there. He surprised me a little when he agreed.

We put on our rain gear, heads up, and ran like two six-year olds out to the beach. Bear, my beloved, occasionally-adopted german shepard (he belongs to a local but runs wild half the time), followed us every step. God, I love that dog. We ran down the beach at an awkward, tripping sprint until we were out of breath, which didn’t take too long since we’re both terribly out of shape. The time had come for Beau to let it out, and I was excited, but the run down the beach had pretty much been all the exertion he’d needed. So we stood there, under a dripping branch just off the water, soaking wet and panting. I couldn’t believe it, but it felt so good. It was supposed to be Beau therapy, and it seemed to be helping, but it was therapy for me too. With a whiny, but loyalty-til-death, Bear following along, we scrambled up the slippery slope to the top of the “hill” that runs around the coast. We got to the top, still with rain splattering our faces (including Bear’s), and we looked out from our lofty perch out at the vast ocean. The sky was grey, and the ocean was grey (and nasty), but utterly beautiful. The waves were some of the biggest we’d seen since we arrived. Looking out, I was taken in by the romance of the ocean, by its beauty and terror, by the sailors that had sailed above it and died below it.

Beau looked out at the water, but he couldn’t feel it too. It’s hard for someone to match what I feel, considering my ridiculously romantic nature, but he couldn’t feel it, hardly at all. He could recognize the beauty of the ocean, but couldn’t feel it. The weight of all his difficulties here acted as a wall between him and all his surroundings. I’ve felt like that before, I understand it. When I was studying abroad in France, I was deeply depressed (my first marriage was in shambles), and I knew that I was going through this great experience abroad, but I was so completely saddened by my personal life that it was like walking around half alive.

He recognized that the wall was there, and it just made him feel so sad inside. And me as well. It's hard to know what to do. We stayed out for awhile, my jeans and shoes getting soaked, Bear getting soaked, Beau getting soaked. Despite the sadness there at the cliff, the rain did us good. Ritualistic washing away? I try not to get too deep into that kind of thinking, but I know that in a strange way, it was a special day. Bittersweet.

Our First Fishing Trip...Kinda

My husband Beau is a great lover of fishing. That’s cool with me, I love it myself, though my own background is limited to my years fishing with my 12-foot pull-in (no reel) bamboo pole with its dainty bobber. Don’t chuckle, I could catch about one blue gill per minute with that thing. And I also got my first job ever – a babysitting one – at 12 years old with that stylish pole. A couple walking by with their two small children saw me pulling (literally) in fish and within minutes, I had quickly taught and helped their five year-old son to yank in his very first fish. That boy was screaming for joy. The parents must have been impressed, or thankful, for I went on to babysit those two children for the next several years.

Anyway, back to the here and now. Beau being from Montana, you would think he stepped right out of A River Runs Through It, and he basically has, since he loves Montana and loves fly fishing. I think he’s still a little bit heartbroken about all his fish stuff he had to leave behind in the U.S. (he did manage to lug his fly fishing reel with him, but no pole). Since we live right on the ocean and there are also several rivers around, Beau has had a couple opportunities to accompany some locals on boats where they’ve happily caught such fish as red snapper (yummy!) and returned to fry them up for ‘fush n chups.”

Finally, finally, finally Beau went and bought his own fishing pole set, one for fishing from the shore, since of course, we don’t have our own boat as many other do around here. Actually, we’re supposed to buy two poles, but since Beau’s paycheck is still Still STILL -OH MY GOD- fucked up with the Ministry of Education, our money is very tight. I’m still an unemployed slob (though rapidly becoming one goddamnhelluva cook!), and he’s STILL being paid at level 1 despite the fact he’s been here since late July. Nonetheless, I twisted his arm to go ahead and finally buy it, despite his constant state of financial nervosa. There aren’t a lot of things to do around here besides walk on the beach and get in your car and drive somewhere else. But fishing is one of them, and since I am in my own constant state of Is-Beau-too-unhappy?-nervosa, I thought we absolutely had to get at least one pole, and I twisted his arm to just suck up and spend the money.

So, of course, we had to travel to ‘town,’ to get a pole where there is a decent sports shop that has these package deals. Beau bought a modest pole of a modest price along with a modest supply of extra hooks, weights, etc. The salesman taught us how to put the thing together (the three parts of the pole when assembled must be about 15 feet in length), and I tried to force myself to pay hawk-like attention as he threaded the thing and attached all the thingie-ma-jimmies to it. I know though that if a gun was held to my head, I’d probably be a dead woman before I could figure out how to put that thing together from pole to hook. Beau gave that manly “yeah yeah yeah” gruff nod here and there to show his testerone-given innate understanding. I was suspicious, but we’ll see.

Later on that day, as the sun was sinking on the sea’s horizon, Beau decided now was a good time to get out there and give the pole a try. So, we dressed warmly (once the sun goes down here, the temperature drops about 15 degrees), and I packed several things in a backpack that I thought would be necessary, like…um, a flashlight and a book *cough*. I left all the fishing stuff to Beau and just packed the squid bait, and then we were off.

We asked each other where the best place to fish from our beach was. The tide was extremely low and the multitude of lava rocks were visible and bare far out into the water. Finally, we thought, the best way to get the line out to the deeper part of the ocean, was to walk out across the rocks as far as we possibly could to get out to the deeper parts of water. The tide was lower than I’d ever seen it, and it was obvious we could walk very far out into the ocean across them. So, as it started to get slightly darker, we continued the hike across the rocks, which is always somewhat aerobic through the changing shapes, height, and surfaces of the rocks, as well as the occasionally mini-chasm to leap across. Keeping our eyes glued to the rocky…rocks, we picked our way quite aways out and Beau brought forward the pole. I was taking the opportunity to do what I always do, take photos. Sunset, rocks, Beau with pole, more rocks, more sunset, more Beau with pole.

Now the moment had come! Beau had the pole ready, and a small amount of bait on the hook. He leaned back slightly and cast. Whoooooosh. Beau exclaimed with delight at just how far the line sailed through the air. What a proud moment.

The hook and line finally fell and landed….into a nest of lava rocks. One quick tug by Beau and his face immediately clouded over. Uh oh. Now with a look of slight embarrassment, Beau began reeling in and tugging harder on the pole. The top of the pole curved dramatically into its own rendition of a giant fish hook. This tugging, letting out line, reeling it, 'tugging to tha left, tugging to tha right, stand up, sit down, fight fight fight' continued for some time. Beau’s face was grim, “I’m going to have to cut the line.”

“Oh,” I said, “What a bummer. Where’s the other hooks?”

“Um.”

“Um?”

“I forgot them,” Beau mumbled.

I bit my lip to keep from exploding in laughter. “Oh well, here, let me try.” I made a few attempts at dislodging the hook from the rocks, but it was pretty clear that that that puppy wasn't moving. I turned around and looked toward home, which really wasn’t that far away, but now it was getting dark, and we realized our next mistake, in what was becoming a real series of them. Crawling across uneven lava rock in the light of day is challenging enough. Now we were supposed to pick our way back in the dim light, retrieve the new hooks, and then come back when it was surely to be well into darkness?

Okay, so here we are, our brand new fishing pole hooked upon a giant rock, standing far out into the ocean, ourselves perched on a rock, it’s getting dark and cold, and we have no more hooks. Our entire fishing experience had lasted about 30 seconds. Yipee. Well, unless you want to count the 15 minutes it took us to walk from our house out onto the distant rocks.

Well, I guess we’ll just have to try another day. This story is to be continued. Better luck next time. Cliché cliché ad nauseum.

Dell Computers SUCK!!!!

When I sat at my computer at work and slowly and carefully “built” my Dell computer just a few weeks before I left for New Zealand, I was excited as a pig in shit. Being the internet junkie I am, having one’s own laptop, a NEW laptop, is akin to getting a new car or winning a modest lottery sum. It feels soooooo good. I took my time, and started out with a base laptop that was about $600. By the time I had finished “upgrading” and adding all the bells and whistles I thought were essential or cheap enough to be justifiable, the computer came out to about $1100. Since that’s about what I had expected to pay when I first began my computer hunt, I was pretty satisfied. One little splurge was to give the laptop a dreamy blue cover that glistens in the light. When the computer finally arrived at my desk at work, I laughed and clapped and sang. The mail lady stood stupified and said that was the first time she had ever been cheered when delivering mail. I hugged the box and put it down, claiming I would not open it ‘til I got home. My co-worker Tina eyed me knowingly and said, “You’ll never make it to the end of the day.”

She was right.

At home as I set the computer up, I immediately noticed problems. After several frustrating calls, (the sales people were assholes, the tech people fairly cool), I ended up totally re-installing the OS. That’s not especially comforting in a brand new computer. I called them to replace it, but they couldn’t guarantee me a new one before I left for NZ, so I was stuck with what I have. Since then, problems have continued, though all minor. The new one, which though small, was INCREDIBLY FUCKING FRUSTRATING was the ceasing effectiveness of the spacebar. Now, I’ve had keyboards where a single letter, like “W” stops working, and that’s rather annoying, but easily fixed since keyboards nowadays cost like 10 bucks. What do you do on a laptop though? And what do you do when the SPACEBAR stops working? My god, could there be any key that’s sudden uselessness could be more debilitating?

Needless to say, I eventually KINDA fixed it after prying off the damn thing a few times and having a crack at it. I hate doing that, since often once you starting fecking around with the keyboard, it never works quite the same again, but I was pretty desperate. At one point I had it working, but then the “c” wouldn’t work. I hate Dell. I hate Dell. I hate Dell.

Thanks for Giving Me...

When I was thinking of stuff to list that I was truly thankful for, I realized that it kind of sounded pretentious -- a state I try to avoid if I can. I've always had sort of opposing views about talking about travel. Obviously, most of my blog is based on my travels and what happens to me (which is often a bit like Inspector Gadget), so I can't hate it that much. But on the other hand, I can't STAND travel books and I hate when people go on and on and on about their wonderous glorious travels. It always seems like bragging to me, furthermore, a bit of a "ha ha ha, I've been somewhere you haven't, I have a lot of money, and now my life is more full and interesting than yours!" Well, since I'm always broke, and my life is a constant work in progress, maybe I can go ahead with what I truly feel anyway.

Things I am thankful for:

1) My husband
For years and years, marriage, for the second time, wasn't something I really ever planned, let alone wanted. Our elopement kind of surprised everyone, including ourselves somewhat, but now I know just what a smart...lucky....great thing we did. Marriage certainly isn't easy, and I'm slowly weeding out my more selfish tendencies after years of singlehood, but choosing Beau to be my best friend and lover for the rest of my life *knock knock* has been a true blessing, even for this non-believer. He's not just like me (though we are amazingly similar), and he's no opposites-attract type, he just fits every part of me.

I love you, Beau. Thank you.

2) Travels of a poor white trash chick
The only reason I ever got to travel at all was due to my major in undergrad -- French (and Political Science). I had grown up very poor in a very affluent Phoenix suburb, and dreamed of going to France one day, hell, dreamed of leaving the country at all, which was a complete fucking fantasy for someone who could barely afford her public school fees. As an undergrad I used my student loan money (and am paying like an indentured servant now!!!) to study abroad in Strasbourg for six months. This gave me the chance to do some traveling around Europe (bless Eurorail passes).

My master's degree, studying Southeast Asia, allowed me to travel to the Philippines and later gain a connection which led me to my job in Bangkok, Thailand. The salary I got from my Bangkok teaching job (mostly my end-of-year contract completion bonuses) allowed me to travel some around Asia and eventually to Australia and New Zealand.

And finally, due to Beau and I spending lots and lots of money (including him bravely cashing in some retirement money), we were able to move to New Zealand.

So you see, it's possible. Every time I meet someone new who finds out where I've been, I often get, "Oh my god, that's great! I've never been anywhere! I wish I could go somewhere!" You can! You just have to be like Beau and I, and be willing to go broke to do it. Naturally, not everyone finds that an appetizing trade-off.

But I tell you, as much as I hate being poor, I wouldn't take that money back for a second if it meant I had to also give up some of the crazy, awesome stuff I've been able to do. This is a fascinating place, this world of ours. I have seen so much beauty in every shape and form. We all make our own decisions and live with them...which leads me to...

3) I did it my way
I've purposefully carved out my life in such a way that I was an island for many years. On the con side, there's those lack of funds again, as well as a lack of familial support. But all the pro's I gained has been worth all those dark times of teeth-clenching, suck-it-up aloneness. Most of my decisions and the direction I steered my life in have been frowned upon by my family (and a good many more has completely befuddled them), and I haven't regretted it at all. In high school, my parents considered my French classes stupid since Spanish was the logical choice for one living in Arizona. True, but I didn't want to take Spanish. As an undergrad, I eventually dumped my pre-med major, and all the dismal grades it carried, and picked up French and Political Science. There was an immediate and continual outcry from my family. That moment changed my life. Not only did my grades and my happiness begin to shoot skyward, but I learned that life decisions have to be made by the person who is actually living that life, not others who have their own agendas. After that point, I took the reins of my life, and as Frank said, "Regrets, I've but a few." It's true. I've made dumb decisions, I'm not presently where I want to be in my life, but I have so few regrets. My life, for all its craziness, is a good, good life. I'm thankful.

4) My friends
I don't have that many, and I don't stay as close to them as I like. And the older I get, the less eagerly do I seek out or try to sustain any new friendships. And yet, my few scattered friends across the globe are real diamonds. If you're my friend, and you're reading this, I love you. Let's keep writing, no matter what. And if you don't hear from me, please, have faith and patience in me and try again.

5) My education, despite it's eternal poverty-inducing effects
As a poor, pathetic kid, I always saw education as that hidden trap door. That escape hatch that would get me out of a life I loathed. In many ways, it has -- it has given me travel, incredible jobs, and most of all...opportunity. To me, education always has been, and always will be, the vehicle of opportunity. As an adult, I can truly see now what having kind/intelligent/attentive parents can do for a child. I can see how money gives options. I can see how the right location can yield possibilities. I had none of those, but I had education, and it has taken me far. I have a lot of bitterness on how in this country today, if you are poor, and not a valedictorian of your school, you will bankrupt yourself to go to college, and UBER bankrupt yourself to go to grad school. I have student loans now that equal the price of a house, and I think that's not fair. You could say I chose to go to school, and I absolutely have, and I don't regret it. But it's real tough to be in grad school, surrounded by professors' and medical doctors' kids who didn't have to worry about Stafford loans, and not have that soft landing after graduation. NONETHELESS, I am thankful for my education, which has given me such interesting opportunities, and allowed me to live this life I love. I am thankful.

On Holiday – Yay! – Part II – Whales in the Ocean & Seals on the Side of the Road

After a nice night’s of sleep, we started off southward. Our plan was to drive helter skelter to Dunedin, which is far down the southern island and spend a few days there to see how much we like it (it’s my #1 choice of where to live in NZ), and then drive to the southern tip, Invercargill, and then slowly make our way up, stopping for a couple days in Christchurch, another "big" city which has the potential as a place to settle. We had been told by the locals here that there was "a great place about 45 minutes from Picton" to watch whales. Heheh, it’s typical for people to tell you about a "great place" but never know its name or quite how to get there. Just today, when I was asking a woman at the local pit stop where a good place to fish was, her face screwed up, she said something like, "Umm, yeah, well, I’m not sure how to get there. Do you know where the dump is? There’s like a driveway there…"

Back to the whales. I was pretty excited about this, and as we made a stop in Kaikoura, it was pretty clear from the garden of giant signs around that THIS was the place. We followed one particular series of signs to the ocean where a giant building was set up just for whale watching. I went in and inquired at the desk. For $125, they take you out on a boat for a few hours and guarantee you at least somewhat of a whale sighting, since they use particular equipment that hears the whales underwater, positions the boat just above them, and then patiently waits for the whales to come up for air. A little costly, but to me this is one of those once in a lifetime things that you just never forget. But, this pricey pitstop was not on our list, and I knew I had to compromise…for now. I’ve never been great with money, and get even worse during a vacation. It’s basically because I believe that you should go all-out (*cough* within reason), since vacations are really what form some of your best, most exciting memories.

After emerging from the glossy whale center, I found Beau down by the shore, gazing out to sea with several others. "Look out there," he said, pointing way out into the distance. There, I could just make out some black forms rolling around on the horizon. It wasn’t exactly a part of our travel plans though, and quite expensive, so I told myself that I would quietly wait until our return drive and see how our money situation is, and if I could somehow convince Beau that this is something we must do.

We got back in the car and continued to drive along the coast, which is always beautiful, and always very subtly changing. At one point, with a mountain to our right and the coast to our left, I saw the sign you see in the photo to the right.

"OH MY GOD! There are seals? There are SEALS! Oh my GOD!"

I frantically pressed my nose to the glass to try to spot the dark shapes of the seals. All I saw, on and on and on, were brown rocks.

Wait a minute.

What if the seals weren't black like you see in Sea World, what if they were more brown? The second my brain considered that was the second I spotted one, and I began screaming, "PULL OVER PULL OVER NOW!" A startled Beau pulled over in a spot on the side where a couple of other cars had the same idea. I almost leapt out of the car, camera in hand, in a complete frenzy of excitement. I stood at the edge, and looked down at the rocks and sea below.

At first you see nothing but rocks in various hues of brown. And then, like in one of those stupid optical illusion paintings, your eyes just SEE them. They were there, perhaps HUNDREDS of them, just all basking on the rocks. These fur seals almost perfectly matched the rocks, so Beau and I kept continuously exclaiming, "Look, there's another one!" as they materialized before our increasingly-trained eyes. I began to cautiously pick my way down the rocks to get closer. My digital camera is great, but its zoom sucks, so I wanted to get close. I didn't need to ignore Beau's warnings, for I was scared enough not to get too close. There were a couple bulls around and they looked pretty scary.

So I commenced to take like 100 photos of the fur seals, and we each posed precariously on rocks as close as we dared get to get shots of ourselves with the seals in the background. As I had climbed down a bit for my own shot, I heard what sounded like a senior citizen's cough. I looked around and just saw some female seals motionless on the rocks, except for the occasional cracked eye which would peer at me for a moment and then clamp back shut again.

*cough cough*

Hoarse and strong, I knew it was some sort of warning, but it seemed too comical. Then I spotted it.

It was a little baby seal, the first real small one we'd seen, tucked underneath in a mini-cave-like hole under a rock close by. It obviously saw me as some sort of threat.

"Ohhhhhh how cuuuuuuute!" I was pretty much overcome with cuteness at that moment. I might have actually melted a little bit.

*cough cough* (a bit louder this time)

I didn't get any closer, but knew I needed a photo of it. The little tyke began to bump and lurch his way up and out of the rock space, coughing away, until he got to the top of the rock next to a female whom I assumed was its mother. She cracked an eye again, but seemed bored by the both of us, so continued on with her nap. The tyke continued to make huffing and puffing noises, and I continued to snap away. Here you can see what I believe to be one of the cutest photos of all time.

Finally, Beau dragged me back to the car and we continued on our trip, me babbling away excitedly while reviewing the shots on my camera. It was totally unexpected, and yet it would end up being one of the most special moments on the trip for me.

On Holiday – Yay! – Part I

Although I’ve only been in NZ a brief time, the arrival of "holiday" (two week break in between school quarters) is about as welcome as the warm sun after a long, crazy rain here. We had our car and some money, though not much, and we knew we wanted to see the country. I had a deeper plan myself. As nice as the people here are, and as beautiful as living across from the beautiful ocean is, the remoteness of this location makes it utterly impossible for us to seriously consider settling in this "village." That is the grim reality of it, and though I am enjoying honing my cooking skills, reading, writing, and painting more, and boning up on my French, I am not one of those people who can remain this way forever. I need to work, it’s part of who I am and part of the reason I spent such a colossal chunk of my life in school. Sadly, this extended education also makes me someone who is not so easily marketable except in larger cities where the type of work I can do (higher level administration or teaching in, preferably, the education or non-profit fields) is available. Where we are living now, there is nothing, just nothing for me to do. Besides agriculture, the only single "industries" in town are local versions of a Gas N Sip.

So, my plan, my hope, is to travel to the south island which not only do I prefer, but I strongly believe, Beau will also. Being from Montana, he is a lover of what I call "BIG nature." He likes his mountains to touch the sky and his rivers to wind endlessly on through forests of pine with a deep rich scent (nevermind that he lived in a shitty area of Kansas for many years). I want him to see the beauty and majesty of the south island, AND for him to see the two big cities of it (Christchurch and Dunedin), and hopefully we could find a fit. His love of big nature in the south, and my need to be in a bigger city with more opportunities. And besides, a "big" city in NZ is about 100,000 people, so it’s really just a nice size for us.

I yearn so much for Beau to love it here, and he is struggling so much with culture shock and adjustment. People think that moving to a new country is just one wild, fun-filled adventure, but usually, it’s very difficult, and you spend a lot of time feeling uncomfortable and out of place, which can be very very challenging for anyone. When you are in this constant state of uneasiness, it’s very difficult to feel happy. Constant uneasiness makes you nervous, irritable, stressed, and indecisive. And yet, I believe, as many who have lived as ex-pats do, it’s all worth it. Of course, it’s not all bad; by being in a new place, you also have the natural feelings of curiosity, wonder, surprise, glee, and appreciation. Beau’s problem really isn’t NZ, though it is almost always his target of frustration. Beau’s real problem is his constant state of unsteadiness at the school. He likes the people he works with and he strives honestly to learn, understand, and apply the NZ system to his classes, but the particularly relaxed approach his school has to education, and hyper-focus on preserving/promoting Maori culture (something he can't really participate in anyway) is tough on a rule-based, assessment standards-disciple that is most Americans, and in particular, my beloved Beau.

So, we climbed into the car with our two small bags. Beau will do most of the driving, and I’ll do most of the reading, although I’ll insist I’ll be driving at some point and he’ll insist he will read when he has a chance or inclination to take out his contacts and wear his glasses. But really, he’ll drive, and I will sit next to him and alternate between cooing at the scenery outside the window and reading aloud long stretches from the current Diana Gabaldon book we are reading together.

We planned to leave in the morning and our goal was to go from our home on the northeast coast of the north island of NZ and make the long drive to Wellington at the southern tip of the same island where we’d board a ferry, car and all, and sail across to the south island, all in one day. Beau had just previously convinced me out of wifely duty to accompany him to a semester-end drink at the local bar with other teachers, which ended up being a delightful time with a group of drunk and happy females, and after questioning them about how long it took to drive to Wellington, we got answers between six and twelve hours. Since I’m the reckless one who tends to lean toward the six hour drive and Beau, being more cautious likes to leave at the twelve hour mark, we compromised.

In the end, me with a constant grip on our flip-page road atlas, and Beau driving fast, but never too fast, it ended up being a very tight trip to the ferry, the drama enhanced when I decided to read over our ferry confirmation and suddenly noticed that it required we be there in line a full hour before the boat was scheduled to leave (we were unhappily planning on coasting in about 10-15 minutes before departure – naïve fucks, I know).

But once we made it to blustery Wellington and frantically followed the ferry signs to the check-in point ("THERE IT IS! TURN LEFT TURN LEFT!") and got in line, suddenly we both deflated with relief, got out of the car, and walked to the water’s edge, where we watched our ferry slowly making its way in to shore. It was a pretty exciting moment, and as we drove our car slowly onto the ferry, clanking and banging along the way, I felt pretty thrilled. As soon as people parked their cars inside the massive ship, there was a mad dash up the stairs to the civilized part of the ship, and there was a slight mob dash to the crappy food court where I unintentionally snatched up the last order of fish and chips from a woman with her four wildly indecisive and whiny children who stood in the line ahead of me for a full two or three minutes frozen in her own doubtfulness. I did one of those polite gestures where you kind of point to the food and point to her and mumble "Do you want those? Are you still in line? Can I FUCKING move ahead of you PLEASE?" She seemed to indicate that I could move on ahead, so I grabbed the last order of fish and chips and walked on. I saw her look at me with shocked indigence and realized that somehow I had misread her, but by that time, I kind of didn’t care.

The rest of the trip was uneventful as Beau and I had a so-so meal and then, due to the crazy wind and rain outside, spent the three hour trip playing Civ IV on our laptop ‘til we arrived, late that night, in Picton, New Zealand – the south island.

Solitary Photo Shoot

Today I did a couple things I never did before. I took my tiny tripod with me to take shots of the water (and of myself in front of the water), where I became my own little fashion show, both photographer and pouty model. Also, I took my beloved (sometimes troubled) laptop with me, which I’m sure will dismay Beau greatly as he’ll be coming home from work any second and will find his source of Civ IV vanished (I did leave a note on the TV, I’m not totally heartless).

I set off on my now-favorite jaunt – go to the “scary” undertow beach and walk along it until it starts to curve around toward our beach. This is a mild hike over lava rocks and depending on the tide its level of difficulty varies from not bad to somewhat heart-pumping. The tide is amazing. You can see it actually moving in (it always seems to be moving in to me) as you’re walking along the rocks which always gives me a sort of paranoia that I’m going to end up stranded out there on some tall lava rock and no one will know where the hell I am since I’m completely out of sight. That’s the other thing, my favorite tramping area is almost completely out of sight of land, which I like, because in any small community (and this is teensy tiny) you have that feeling of living in a fish bowl, and being the “foreigners” of the place, that is magnified. I like to be out of the way to do things that may make me look somewhat foolish to the locals, like hiking on their lava rocks and scrambling up the sides of cliffs that tend to shift from an unnerving 45 degree angle to a heart-in-the-throat fearful 65 degrees.

And I am not such a complete idiot that I don’t recognize that a fall from these cliffs is fairly dangerous, not so much from the height which is not great, but from the loving solid arms of only lava rock below, and also not only due to the fact that being out of sight to save one’s dignity also makes one out of sight to be saved from one’s such foolishness. But most of all, due to the fact that there is only one single person in the universe who would think to look for me, Beau, and he would a) not do so immediately, we are not the Corsican Brothers, despite our closeness, and b) would take quite some time to find me. My problem is that I like seclusion, “special places,” nooks and crannies, which is rather chancy at times for a woman, who always has that “rape/murder” thing somewhere in the back of her mind.

The other day I was climbing up the side of the cliff, and it just felt really good. I haven’t been active hardly at all in the past couple years, particularly since I left NYC where I walked miles every day just by circumstance, and I have been packing on the pounds. I am not yet fat, but I’m certainly in the far end of Bridget Jonesville. I find that I get tired easily when Beau and I go walking around cities, and I’m not very good at exerting myself anymore.

So anyway, I had almost totally encircled this beach, where I was out only facing the ocean and nothing else around, and I saw these gorgeous pink wildflowers growing right off the side of the cliff in this thick, straw-like grass. And I got this crazy notion that I’d take a picture of them from the ground, then climb right up to them and take a picture. I don’t know why I got that into my head. It seemed kind of fun at the time. So, I started scrambling up to the flowers, with my book between my teeth, and both arms and legs in use as I monkeyed it upwards. I reached the flowers and had this overwhelming sense of happiness and accomplishment, though it had been pretty easy. I took my photo and kind of sat there, living the moment. Then I looked up and saw the top of the cliff wasn’t that far and I wondered what was up there. The top of the cliff is not large, and I knew it was no big mystery, but there’s something weird about it in that it’s never the same thing twice when you get up there. The first time Beau and I climbed up one part, we came upon a Maori cemetery, right there at the top of this cliff (with the dog Bear following us the whole way). It kinda creeped Beau out, but I thought it was pretty fantastic, and coming out on the opposite side of the cemetery found us on an easy slope off the cliff to the ground (and the other side of it, on our house side). Of course, as we made our descent, we saw a large sign which absolutely forbid dogs in the place, and there we were in full view of the entire village, Bear happily trotting along beside us. Great. Way to make it good with the locals.

So again, ANYWAY, I continued my ascent up the cliff, feeling really good about it, finding the thick grass easy to grasp as I went higher. Just near the top, I saw that the cliff kind of jutted out, which would have meant I would have kind of been climbing upside down in a sense to reach the top. I paused.

Hmmm..


Now, I’m really close to the top, but I am also just using hands and feet (and starting to slobber on my book), and somehow the thought of having my head and back parallel to the ground as I climbed those last few feet seemed just…fucking stupid. Then I did something else just as stupid…

I looked down.

I know I know, they always say, “Don’t look down!” Well, duh, I had to since I had to figure out how to get down. It wasn’t like I was climbing down the rungs of a ladder. Suddenly, the grass I’d grasped on my way up, did not seem to be such handy foot supports for the descent. So there I was, 90% up a cliff, clinging on to the side of it like a marsupial on its mother’s back, and wondering what the fuck was I going to do. I had to go down, and I started to, only to find my foot somewhat slipping and not finding any kind of foothold. Great. I’m going to die right here. I’m going to be an entry in the Darwin Awards. Dumbass.

So, very slowly I did climb down. And all was fine. And no one would know of my silly adventure. Well, except for anyone who is reading this, and we all know I have like four readers worldwide.

*cough*

And yet, the other day I was startled when Beau said I was a rather reckless person.

“My mother calls it fearless!”
“I don’t call walking the full length of Harlem at 1am in the morning fearless.”

Now, Harlem is a very awesome place, well, some parts of it. Harlem is like anywhere else in NYC, you can be on one street and it will be charming, cute, and secure. The very next block can look like Lebanon. It’s true, I did walk for a very long time, very late at night along the streets of Harlem one night (to feed a friend’s cat), and I will admit to being somewhat nervous at certain corners and blocks, but I lived.

I don’t see myself as reckless though, nor do I even consider myself fearless. As mentioned previously in my blog, that comment from my mother surprised me as much as Beau’s. I think when you’re a person who lives alone for a long time, who supports oneself and makes all these decisions and plans toute seule, well, you just do things. They’re not given over to intense analysis. Besides, also being a single woman for an extended period of time, you develop a sense about you, a sense of your surroundings (particularly creepy-looking men). You develop a way of walking (full-on confidence, speed, and the pepper spray cocked and ready). I think I am much more aware of what’s going on around me then I’m given credit for. Which is probably why every couple minutes when I hear a blade of grass stir near me I crane my neck around trying to see if anyone’s near.

For, I have found my little spot. After circling the scary beach and climbing over much rock, with the wind whipping up a mess of white water around me (both beautiful and somewhat annoying), I scaled the little cliff again – in a much safer, easier spot, and it was a tiny little patch of nothing at the top. I walked toward the other end of the cliff, the one that faces my home, and I saw that below there was a tiny little ledge area. Well, the ledge area itself was actually a pretty good size, but it was completely covered with nice grass, not that harsh straw stuff, and a wall of trees shielded it from view of the shore. Awesome. So, I climbed down to where I am now and have been sitting here happily in my hidden sport where I feel I can see all and not be seen. I’ve even typed out a bunch of stuff (mostly this blog), and have taken even more pictures of both surroundings and myself (every single one of me has a Jay Leno chin, goddammit).

I’ve been here awhile now and my fingers are starting to get cold. I gotta figure out now how to get back.

And hope the tide hasn’t come in too much.