Bush Walk

Beau and I have been wanting to take a "bush walk" since we moved into the new homestead a few weeks back. If you look out our "back door"... which is basically a giant sliding glass door ... all you see is a river running into the vast ocean. Awesome. If you look out our "front door," all you see is "bush" heading straight toward the heavens. "Bush" is a term used here loosely to mean forest, jungle, thick foliage, stuff-that's-hard-to-gauge-without-a-machete, etc. Basically, the area of New Zealand we live in is all bush bordered on one side by the ocean, with the occasional house and land. There are a few kiwi orchards around, some random cow or horse herds, several junked cars, and a rare appearance by a criminally-over-priced Ma & Pop shop.

We want to go out into it because we're curious. And because we're now officially fatties. I am 10kg (about 22 pounds or so) fatter than when I was in Thailand a few years back, and when I was there, I already felt chunky. It didn't particularly help matters that Thais found great enjoyment in telling me every day, "Teacher, you are very fat!" I almost had to beat that phrase out of my students.

In fact, one day my tailor took a look at me and said, "You've gotten fatter," and all my future suits for work were then made a bit less snug. And now I'm 10kg beyond that. Fan-tastic!

So, we put on our good hiking shoes (cross-trainers) and slathered on the bug repellent and headed for our goal -- a telephone pole situated at the very top of the ... I dunno... hill, mountain, giant green thing covered in foilage behind our house. I have to tell you, this was one of those moments when NOT being pregnant was a big relief, since I fell a couple of times when I was, and that was always a bit scary. Now, I knew I was destined to fall on my ass or face in this straight-up climb, and at least all that would be hurt would be my pride.

We started our walk, with our dogs Tonks happily padding at our heels. I love my dog, but really, she's a giant pain in the ass, and if she isn't within 3 feet of you at ALL times, she becomes a big whiny baby. So, walking along with us was just bliss for her. As we were rounding through one part of the property (it is MASSIVE), I started to hear Fern, our cat, crying as if her heart was breaking, somewhere behind us.

"Oh, for the love of god. Ferrrrrrrn. Ferrrrrrn. FERN!"

*bar-romp bar-romp bar-romp* Here comes Fern. Great, the whole family is here...it's like we're filming a new version of The Incredible Journey.

We start ascending, and it's a bit challenging, and THICK, but it's pretty cool. I mean, it's like instant jungle, instant rain forest, instant ... fern land. You only need to spend about 30 seconds in the New Zealand bush to see why the fern is one of their national symbols, including nearly all of their sports teams.

We were doing okay for awhile. Beau had found himself a good walking stick to help haul himself up the steep incline, and I was in his wake, trying to find footholds where I could. The big joke of the forest, was that there were branches -- EVERYWHERE -- but every time you grabbed one in desperation, *snap* it came off in your hand and you nearly catapulted backwards to your doom.

It got steeper and steeper, and we were following a trail that really only existed in our minds. Beau was sure that men had previously come this way many times to get up to the phone cables at the very top (far...far). I seemed to remember being told the helicopters were used to get up to those lines. Beau feigned ignorance of such a fact.

I also was a bit uncomfortable with Fern following us. Tonks following us is one thing. She's a dog and loves to push through thick brush. But...a house cat? I mean, I know we let Fern outside now since we moved here, but I still see her as our little kitty, our house cat who spends a lot of the day curled up on the couch. We were getting high up this mountain and our house kitty was hiking right along with us. But Beau said, "J., she's a cat. She'll be fine." And so, whatever. Super cute, kinda weird. Our animals have some serious abandonment issues. Wonder where they get THAT from.

Onward, I continued to "see" trails in the thick brush. I felt like I should be in a Hollywood movie, dressed in khaki Snobby Colonial clothes and wielding a machete as I exhaustedly hack further and further through the mosquito-infested jungle. It was crazy, but when you know your own HOUSE is just like, down there, you don't get all dramatic about it. It's kind of fun! What's the worst that could happen?

It seemed to be getting steeper, and thicker, though once in awhile we'd get a break and find another "trail." There was only one type of branch that was both hearty and strangely flexible and curved and twisted in strange ways, so you found yourself contorting your body to get under and over the same branch. It too, would suddenly 'let go' of its hold in the earth and I'd find myself tottering once again. Beau finally relinquished his stick to me, which I used to keep myself going up, up, upwards. Those telephone cables were real close, right?

We did have a few nice stops where you could make out a breathtaking view of the ocean below, as seen in my lovely photography here. You can just make out the cable on the left-side of the photo.

Unfortunately, there weren't any places you could really stop for long. Definitely no picnics. Usually you had one leg bent at 90 degrees, with your knee just under your chin, and your other leg straight as an arrow, perched on a tiny bit of dirt somewhere below you.

We got pretty high, and like most mountains, you climb and climb, get to a point where you're feeling pretty super-human (as seen by Beau's photo), and suddenly someone goes, "Oh no, the peak is actually over there!" and you look and see another peak, MUCH higher than you've already climbed, and you realize you have like a ton of more hiking to do.

Fuck that.

The telephone cables were hanging just above our heads, and we knew that the pole itself wasn't too far. We felt pretty accomplished, and had no shame in turning back at this point. Besides, how long would it take us to get back down such a steep incline?

We started down, now with me in the lead, one hand on the walking stick, and one hand clutching my camera. I shouldn't really say "me" in the lead. My initial master plan was to let the innate intuitiveness of Tonks lead us expertly through the bush and safely to the ground somewhere far below. Good idea? Well, I spent a lot of time on my ass, so you decide. Most likely the photo to the right is blurry because Beau was laughing too hard watching me slip-n-slide to keep the camera steady.

I was hearing a lot of grunting and various "ow"s and "ouch"s coming from behind me. I turned around and offered Beau his walking stick back. "No, that's okay, I'll just keep grabbing onto this razor-sharp grass for support," he replied.

I guess the bush makes some people a bit snarky.

Finally, at the bottom. Tonks is covered in burrs and both Beau and I are covered not only in burrs, but scratches and scrapes EVERYWHERE. Of course, Fern is still the princess she always is, clean and dignified. When pulling some dead leaves out of my underwear a few minutes later in the bathroom, my dignity kind of went out the window.

Exploring New York City, Part XVI

Due to circumstance, I have been spending an inordinate amount of time OUTSIDE of my apartment. The positive side of this is that I am getting a LOT of exercise and finally starting to shed some pounds. Not only have I been a frequent visitor to my expensive, though lovely New York Sports Club, I have also spent a great deal of time walking, walking, walking, which has allowed me to happily explore this city, which sometimes I love, sometimes I hate.

Yesterday I made my way to Central Park, a place that will probably take me years to get to know. I entered at 96th street, on the west side (or "Central Park West" as they like to say), and as you can see from my classy map here, made my way down...down...down. It was quite a walk made a bit harder by the idiot in me that brought a very sizeable backpack along (it had all my workout clothes including my tennis shoes, bottle of water, etc.). By the time I reached Central Park South, I was red-faced, soaked in sweat, and exhausted. (I know, sexy image, eh?). I even considered walking down to the 40's after that, but quickly discovered that was stupid and got on the subway at 57th street.

But let's take a moment to re-visit that journey of mine, since it was so nice, shall we? It was really a beautiful day! A little warm, but the park offers plenty grassy knolls and shady trees. I got off the subway at 96th and had to walk a few avenues east until I reached the park. 96th street was kind of nice, and as I have been prone to lately, my eyes scoured every doorway on the off-chance that there is a sign advertising a vacant apartment (this has actually happened twice now, including one viewing for me). No such luck.

My path through the park

I entered the park and began trying to make my way east. I saw the sign for the giant reservoir and headed toward that. I like large bodies of water. Okay, maybe this wasn't "large," but it sure wasn't a duck pond! I stared at the water for a bit, headphones in, thinking DEEEEEEEP thoughts. I then settled on the grass to read my book, Taking Lives, and take occasional glances at the lake and the hundreds of joggers huffing and puffing by. And when I say hundreds, I do not joke. If I had one of those people clickers that fat guards hold as you enter the museum, I'd be clickety-clacketing away. I was amazed. There were so many I felt some sort of societal pressure to jump up from my sluggish roost and join them with gusto.

Yeah, I just read my book, and ate green grapes, and stared at the water, and felt good. I go to the gym enough.

I also watched or rather, looked at those giant, gloroius apartment buildings that make up the famous "Central Park West" or "Central Park South" where the super rich live. They make such an interesting backdrop to the park, which seems like a bubble world, especially that one with the two towers.

That's not the greatest picture, it kind of takes away from the image I had, but it'll do for now.
This picture's a little bit better:


I want to be rich. I know, it sounds disgusting to say it, and I'm not sure that anyone can be really rich without really hurting others or forcing others into poverty themselves. I guess what I really mean is, I want to not have to struggle so much. Living in Bangkok, for the first time in my life, money wasn't SUCH an issue. When you don't have money, it's like this constant, dark cloud over your head. It affects your happiness, your stress levels. Does it mean you can't be poor and happy? No, of course not, but it sure as hell affects your happiness! And money CAN buy happiness! It can buy enjoyment, ease, comfort, and peace of mind. In Bangkok, if I needed something, or wanted something (within reason), it was possible. It wasn't crazy, but there wasn't this constant denial of oneself. Constant "wait 'til the next check to Once again I'd like to take this moment to bitch and moan about parents, and the ones in NYC are NO better than the Stepford Wives ones of the suburbs. HEY! You with KIDS! You are no better, no more privileged, no more special, no more deserving than the rest of us non-breeders. Having a child does not entitle you to push people out of the way, take over the entire sidewalk - forcing people into the street, cut in line, demand attention/service, or have the moral high ground in any situation. And if your child is yelling/screaming/throwing a tantrum, LEAVE (this especially applies to movie theaters). PLEASE listen to George Carlin's stand-up about "Children" and gain some perspective. I was a teacher and LOVED my students. Adored them. But I wasn't an idiot about them. Children are not little gods. They are just little people who need to be cared for.

ANYWAY!

I walked on toward Central Park South where the playground is. I had been there before, where I had spent a very nice few minutes on the swings. I'm an adult and still love the swings, though now I have a fear of breaking the whole swingset. The place was filled with kids though, and I do like kids enough to not want to take over a swing when there's plenty of children vying for one. I thought I'd use the bathroom which I had been pleasantly surprised with on my last visit.

YUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!

It was absolutely, totally disgusting. The bathroom was flooded with watery excrement that covered the floor in a vomitous flood. I was very happy to be wearing my 'water'-proof, foot-covering shoes. I found one bathroom that had a) toilet paper, b) a working lock, and c) the least amount of flood waters on the ground. We can stop the story there.

I walked to the main sidewalk where all the horse, or is it 'hansom' cabs were. The smell of horse manure was a bit overwhelming. I don’t mind the smell so much, since I was around horses occasionally as a kid (especially with those memorable trips to “Rawhide!” out in the desert, but it was pretty pungent stuff.

I passed by all the vendors with their touristy stuff. When I have lived abroad (particulary in Europe, since this is rather hard in Bangkok), I would make some effort to blend in. Wearing black shoes, my hair up, not bouncing too much when I walked or not smiling too easily. Sheesh, it makes Europe sound depressing, doesn't it?

I never wanted to be seen as a tourist and always felt a little embarrassed by others, especially the American (or other nationalities) who were obnoxious, loud, and totally out of touch with their surroundings and the people in it, or worse, the hippies who thought they really WERE. Yet, my one weakness was tourist crap. I love it. I loved my Eiffel Tower keychain (now gone, *sniff*), my Gothenberg sweatshirt, my Kiwi necklace, etc. I totally go for that stuff. I love postcards (and sending them), and find great joy in taking many photos of something that everyone else has seen a thousand times on other postcards or books or tv or movies. The NYC stuff is of course, a bit less interesting, but I still slow down a bit when passing.

How do you blend in in NYC? You wear dark colors, you dress relatively well (not in the Midwestern sweatpant/big t-shirt uniform I'm used to), if you're a girl, you don't wear masculine shoes (I like to wear fake doc martens, stomp stomp, oh well), you walk very fast, you look pissed off, you have little patience, and you don't look up. Ever.

Salsa, Frida, and Book Reviews

So, I had this kind of embarrassing experience. I've joined this gym to get my fat ass motivated and moving (the astounding price I paid for the first three months is enough to get me to go anyway). They have a wide assortment of aerobics classes every day from dawn to well past dusk. I noticed a "Latin" one listed and was pretty excited, since I love Latin music and dancing. It took me a couple weeks to work up the nerve to join though. Not only was it listed as an intermediate level, but it was late at night. So, one night I worked out hard in my t-shirt, umbro shorts, and cross-trainers. I did all the required running and sweating, as well as some weight training. Sweaty and ready for an aerobics workout, I walked up to the room. Outside I saw a small Thai woman dressed very stylishly in a swirly mini skirt, sexy orange shirt with a little orange scarf tied around her throat, and some flashy high heels. Truly in my mind though I was rolling my eyes, "Why do people come to the gym dressed like this???" I walked into the workout room and saw that everyone was wearing skirts and high heels. ???

Turns out that it was a Latin DANCE class (Salsa, to be exact). I was both thrilled and appalled. Also turns out the cute little orange woman was the instructor! (okay, the clothes are therefore approved). There I was in my mammoth shoes (I'm already large by Thai standards), with an impressive sweat ring circling my neck and down my back. Everyone else was fresh as a daisy and seemed to know what the hell they were doing. No one was really volunteering to dance with me. Nonetheless, I gave it a try, and besides standing around alone most of the time and feeling like an idiot (there are never enough men to go around at these things and I can't ask some guy to pay a load to join the gym for this), I had a pretty good time. In fact, I went again, wearing my heels and smelling April spring fresh. This time they said I was a good dancer, which was a total lie, but I am much better! Hooray! Here's to tackling your fears, even if you think you look like an ass. Now I can salsa! Kind of!
**********

Just saw the movie, Frida here. I admit knowing nothing about this woman before the film (besides the few things you heard about her body, her husband, and her sexuality, sadly, less about her art), but after this movie, I sure would like to learn more. Wonderful film; best I've seen in awhile. It's rare that I'll hate a film, but it's rare I'll love one too. Also, the soundtrack is fucking fantastic, so run out and buy it. Chavela Vargas' (herself a past lover of Frida),"Paloma Negra" (an old recording) is fantastic, as well as her live performance in the film itself, La Llorona many years later.

Quickie Book Reviews

The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - A
Sure....it's outdated, and features wisps of racism (Africans called "savages"), sexism (all the women are beautiful, helpless, and long-suffering, or ugly and evil), and some interesting drug use (Holmes' interest in cocaine, for example), but you cannot beat these stories. My ear-flap hunting cat's off to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's arrogant, asexual hero and his helpful, also long-suffering sidekick, Dr. Watson. Bonus: This book contained actual reprints of the stories as they appeared in The Strand magazine nearly a hundred years ago, complete with the original delightful illustrations. It'll take you about a century to read this (it makes "bible print" look magnified), but it's well worth it.

Immortality by Milan Kundera B+
Okay, he's one of my favorite authors, though kind of confusing or annoying. And though he claims he doesn't write philosophy, he's not fooling me. This novel deals (mainly) with the analysis of what it is like to return to your home country after many years away as a "refugee." And in his usual style, he takes out long passages to focus and deeply analyze single words and how that one word is interpreted by different kinds of individuals. I really liked it; he always makes me think and he must have about 12 good quotable quotes in each novel, this one no exception. I will be giving it to a friend as a gift, but if you're not as epileptic reader as I, I recommend you read the fantastic, The Unbearable Lightness of Being instead.