Off to Auckland and Billy Joel!

Back to the present for now...

Tomorrow we're off to Auckland, City of Sails, which also happens to be the nickname of the city of my birth, Milwaukee. I've been surprised at just how excited I am about this. The longer you live in rural remoteness, the bigger of a deal going to "the big city" becomes. It makes me feel like a bit of a hick, and also makes me feel like I'm getting a vacation from this paradise prison.

Yes, I know. I love love love living here. It still dazzles me with its beauty and peacefulness. Every single day I feel grateful for being here. But what you have to give up can suck too. I'm used to the convenience of a big city -- both New York City and Bangkok have twice as many people in them as the entire country of New Zealand! I love this change, but sometimes it's challenging.

Big cities have Asian groceries, luxurious bookstores, ethnic restaurants, shopping malls. Basically, big cities are a mecca for a bunch of stuff I can't get while I'm here. I ran out of fish sauce the other day, and well, I may be surrounded by a gorgeous ocean, but there probably isn't a bottle of fish sauce within a 150 mile radius. Fish sauce, you say? Who gives a fuck about that obscure foodstuff? That's kind of my point! Big cities have all that stuff that a lot of people may not give a fuck, but a few people, like me, are like OMG, I NEED THAT! (Seriously, you have no idea how much fish sauce I use in cooking. Seriously).

And when you cannot just run down to the store quick when you need something for a recipe, or when you run out of bread or sugar, it can kind of suck. We're not 19th century pioneers or anything, we'll hardly starve, but with the grocery store 50 minutes away (or at least an hour when Beau drives), you can feel at times like you're living in the distant nowhere.

So, in true J. style, I've already compiled a file folder of lots of possible "to do's" for the trip. Like, the 30% off coupon for Border's which I'll use for the book I've been coveting. It's a bestselling book I tried to get, unsuccessfully, at 3 different bookstores within a 90 minute drive of us. I called up the the first of three Auckland Border's on the website and with a quick "yes, ma'am," it was available and put on reserve for me! Just like that. I didn't even have to order it and get that "it MIGHT show up within a few weeks...but there's no guarantee" answer that I would "locally."

I've also got printouts for where to find the Thai food exporter, the address of the two Asian food courts, the posh and pleasurable shopping mall, and the weekend market. Oh yeah, and SOMEHOW I gotta get Beau's hair cut. It starting to get those weird wings it does when it begins to go wild, and he's done the UNTHINKABLE -- threatened to wear a ponytail if it gets longer. Uh uh, not with this wife!

I also have the info for Sal Rose restaurant, which is owned by an American, John Palino, the guy who heads up a reality show here that we LOVE called The Kitchen Job. It's kind of like Extreme Makeover, but for restaurants, and with pissy instead of grateful people. John Palino goes to shitty, deep-in-the-hole NZ restaurants and tells them how to fix up their decor, service, and food. And he always has a critic friend come in secretly to trash-talk the place as well.

Of course, what makes it interesting, is that although people may be as high as $250,000 in the hole, their doors on the verge of closing for good, they'll still be completely offended that the host finds anything remotely wrong with their restaurant. In the end, they'll do what he says, for the most part, and it becomes obvious that the host has totally turned their restaurant around. People come, the food is better, and hey, that waitress is smiling! What is kind of sad, is that when he comes back a couple months later for the follow-up visit, almost always the restaurant will have reverted back to a few of their old ways (putting back the obnoxious decorations, the owner is still the ultimate asshole, the food has gone back to cheap/crappy/nasty). I'm really curious to see what Palino's Italian restaurant is like. It looks good from the website.

But of course, the REAL reason we're going to Auckland is to see Billy Joel in concert. I am SOOOOOOOO psyched for this! I haven't been to a concert in nearly a decade. And Billy Joel has been a favorite of mine since I could learn to talk, and that's no joke. When my mother had me (during those 0-5 formative years), and we spent a LOT of time in her car, like, especially when there was no home to go to, she would play Billy Joel's The Stranger album, which to this day, I still think is one of the best albums of all time. I knew all the words by heart by the time I could form them. I look back with a bit of sad amusement today when I think of the song, "Moving Out (Anthony's Song)" which was on the album. It was my favorite song on the album at the time. I could relate to it; it was about a guy who was moving! And well, to my small brain, it seemed like mother and I moved...a lot...like, every day. There were hotel rooms and great grandmother's couch, and as mentioned, the car. It wasn't until many years later that I realized that the song was about materialism and how Anthony should "move out to the country" to get away from the 'working two jobs to afford a cadillac' mentality. It was only my mother and I who moved around so much.

I can't wait to hear Allentown, my personal favorite, and bop to Tell Her About It, My Life, and Scenes from an Italian Restaurant, sway to Don't Ask Me Why and The Piano Man, grit my teeth and smile through We Didn't Start The Fire or Uptown Girl, which I do think are a little dumb, and probably openly weep when he sings And So It Goes or Goodnight, My Angel.

And I'll laugh and dance to Only the Good Die Young. Did you know that the song is about a guy trying to convince a Catholic girl to give up her virginity to him? It's hilarious if you listen to the lyrics closely.

And on the way we have to drop off Tonks, our monstorous 4-month old puppy, at the boarder, or shall I say, the "pet lodge" *snicker*. I feel like a total chump, but we can't take her with us, and truthfully, she's too much of a handful to hand over to anyone else. Plus, in all honesty, the way I've seen some animals treated around here, I'd be too frightened to leave her with anyone else. Beau's words often echo in my mind, "It's your job to protect her." I know if I leave her at the boarder, recommended by our lovely vet, that I can relax.

So, I'll see you in a couple days, with our car bursting with new books, summer clothes, toiletries, Thai food ingredients, and of course, fish sauce.

Dead Presidents

Back on the road, all that was left to do was try to beat the sinking sun to Mount Rushmore. Kind of felt like we were in a movie, because it was already pretty dimly-lit out. At least the fate of the known world wasn’t at stake. I would say about this time, it was about 4:00pm and we knew that anywhere around 5:00pm is lights out. Luckily, like the rest of the state, there were hardly any cars on the road, and with no more Wall Drug signs to distract us (except for the initial ones right as we got back on I-90, desperately informing us that if we got off at the next exit, we could still make it back to the Western emporia!), it was just a straight shot, through flat roads. I was surprised at how nervous I felt. I mean, if we didn’t get to see it, it wouldn’t be THAT big of a deal, but it really did kinda feel like my only crack at the thing.

According to our brand, spanking-new Rand McNally map, once we turned off of I-90, it should only take us 24 minutes to get to Mount Rushmore. Of course, what the map doesn’t say is that a steady, unending, uphill climb through the mountains in an overpacked Honda Civic that’s forced to frequently downshift instead of rolling backwards may not take you a mere 24 minutes. It’s pretty sad when semi’s loaded down with enormous lumber logs pass you in a cloud of dust laughing their asses off at your feeble attempt to ascend (and with Beau flooring it the whole time).

We finally began passing through the small town that harbors the monument, which was akin to a mini Las Vegas for cowboy and Mount Rushmore fanatics. Yet again, nearly every shop, restaurant, and even the hotels were dark. You could tell that the place would make quite a glitzy show when lit up, but again, it was just another ghost town.

But to end what is surely making-you-crazy suspense, I will tell you, we made it. Woo woo! Just as dusk was drifting down, we drove up to the main gate where one lonely attendant stood. We paid our entrance fee (good for a whole year! Ha!) and she directed us to a very specific section of the parking garage, which seemed a bit peculiar considering the entire structure was empty. At least I hoped our assigned space was right under Abraham’s chin!

Well, not quite, but it was close enough. We exited the garage and climbed the many many steps toward the monument. It was pretty clear that in summer they must enjoy enormous crowds, because the place was built with a vastness in mind, dozens of benches, wide open sets of stairs, etc.

We reached the main vantage point, just a wide concrete area below the monument, and far enough back to get a good view. The only other humans around were a modest and boisterous group of athletes from Bismark State, their bus rumbling patiently nearby.

As with the Statue of Liberty, I found Mount Rushmore to be smaller than I’d imagined. I guess when you see photos of things you’re whole life, they take on this giant persona (literally and figuratively). This happened to me a lot in Europe as well, where things I’d seen in books throughout childhood as massive and majestic ended up being interesting, but a bit less impressive when I actually laid eyes upon them. Nevertheless, I really really liked Mount Rushmore. It truly has a bit of grandeur and wonder to it, and like all great structures ever built, there is an interesting story behind it. I was fascinated to learn that the majority of the carving was done by dynamite blasts. I somehow imagined in my mind some guy hanging by ropes with a little hammer and chisel tap-tap-tapping away at Washington’s sizeable proboscis. We continued to stare at it for awhile, and I took photos from every angle I could think of (which weren’t that many), and then there was nothing left to do but leave (and of course, it was dark now). We loitered in the gift shop for awhile, me getting a super cute “Merry Kissmoose” ornament (I’ve been a bit of an ornament freak the past two holidays), and mini flags of a few states and nations. Then, with the night now fully on, we got back into our car and once again headed for I-90 and the nearing Montana border.

The next morning when eating breakfast in a diner, I was reading trivia questions about the monument to Beau, and we both were surprised to discover not a single person died. I have always known great monuments to kill and maim at least a few workers along the way, usually in some truly horrific way. When I was climbing the Sydney Harbor bridge, our guide recounted to us the story of Irishman Vincent Kelly, who fell off during the bridge’s construction and cheated death by his quick thinking (see page two). Five others who fell and additional 11 men with other work-related injuries were not so lucky. I’ve also been told about the construction of the infamous Manila Film Center in the Philippines in 1981. As the story goes, apparently about 169 workers were buried into wet cement of the theater floor when some scaffolding broke, and then Governor Imelda Marcos (the women with all the shoes and the dictator husband), felt it was more important to continue the project which was scheduled to open for the Manila International Film Festival, and so halted any rescue efforts (this has also been claimed to be an urban legend and that only 12 workers died).

I know, horrific. And with that cheerful note, on to Montana.
**********************************************************************

I was a dam builder
Across a river deep and wide
Where steel and water did collide
A place called Boulder on the wild Colorado
I slipped and fell into the wet concrete below
They buried me in that great tomb that knows no sound
But I am still around
I'll always be around..and around...and around...and around...

Does Anyone Live in South Dakota?

Okay, I think my ego took a bashing since I only got 4 de-lurking comments, but I'll wade through the pain somehow. Onward!

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

I don’t know what it was about this road trip, but the drive from Wisconsin to Minnesota to South Dakota to Montana seemed like FOREVER. Strangely, it seemed MUCH longer than driving the full length of New Zealand's north island from top to bottom, the long ferry ride, and then the continued driving on the south island. I guess the fact that it's winter and there isn’t much to look at didn’t help. Not to mention driving in a cram-packed car with your knees up against the glove compartment and a whiny cat climbing in and out of your lap doesn’t make for an especially pleasant ride either. I read aloud from Drums in Autumn by Diana Gabaldon, the current Outlander series book we’re on, though it seems to be slow-going. I think it’s because it’s not one of my favorites and I’m not as excited to get through it. It’s really the first two I love. Once the characters of Jamie and Claire made it to “the New World” I lost a lot of interest. I love historical fiction, but as an American, to have the New World as the setting is just so boring. As an American kid, that stuff is stuffed down your throat endlessly. I’d rather (the story) be in Scotland!

Anyway, South Dakota seemed to go on forever, and there were only two things to divert us from our boredom. One was the strangely infinite number of billboards for “Wall Drug” almost the second you crossed the border into the state. The first one said something like, “As seen on Good Morning America!” followed by others proclaiming their appearance in various popular magazines and TV shows. Hmm, okay, interesting. From that point on they kept coming. Beau thought they ran in the hundreds, though I’m not sure they could possibly have been that high. All I know is that they certainly were interesting and unrelenting. Here’s one of my favorites:

Notice, if you can see it, that it notes the exit is 110. I imagine at this time we were somewhere around exit 38 or so. Wall Drug gave you LOTS of warning. Whoever their Marketing Manager is, s/he needs to take a chill pill.

The second enticement as we tried desperately to get through South Dakota was Mount Rushmore. Now, I wanted to just GET to Montana and START. I felt like my life was on hold and wasn’t in the mood for one of those ‘stop at every attraction’ road trips. But Mount Rushmore was different. It’s something that really interested me and considering I couldn’t see myself tooling through South Dakota ever again, it seemed like my only chance. But we had one thing against us – winter daylight, or lack thereof. We had started somewhat early enough in the day, but I felt the minutes of light just tick tick ticking away and Mount Rushmore, particularly since the monument is at the far west end of the state and we had started at the state’s eastern border, would be chancy. Not to mention that, like, it’s a mountain and all, so when it gets dark, it’ll kinda suck. Yet, we decided to make a go of it.

South Dakota is also the home to the Badlands, which Beau also wanted to take a look at. I knew we couldn’t really miss this either, though it mattered less to me. Still, we exited the highway and raced down the small road toward the Badlands park. It was kinda eerie. I mean, I know it’s winter and all, but the utter lack of human existence was unsettling. Numerous touristy sites, mostly very cowboy-ish, stood in small ghost town-like groups with large “CLOSED” signs screaming from their doors. Obviously, it’s not the high season or anything, but the fact that every business seemed to have closed up shop was just strange. It was winter, but it wasn’t THAT cold, and I’m a wimp! I guess people don’t like to look at giant mountains of presidential faces when it’s cold.

So, we got the gate with that little guard hut at the Badlands, and it was empty, though it informed us that if we went too far into the park, the honor system would kick in and we’d have to pay a hefty visitor’s fee. So, we went just far enough to reach a look-out point, but not far enough to have to pay anything, cause that’s just the kind of people we are! We stood at the lookout point looking at a big vastness of desolation. Growing up in Arizona, I do have an appreciation for wild, uninhabitable beauty, and the Badlands are certainly interesting, but about two minutes of polite oohs and ahhs, we both kinda went, “Yup, let’s go.”

With the little stick-shift roaring from gear to gear, we drove back to the main highway, and of course, were met with another half dozen “Wall Drug!” signs. This was just too much. We had to see this place, even if it chanced arriving at Mount Rushmore post-sunset. I turned to Beau and said, “You know, there’s been so much goddamn build-up on this Wall Drug, that if this place isn’t spectacular, it’s going to really piss me off.” He agreed.

So, many miles, and many creative billboards later, we made the turn-off to Wall Drug. It was in a tiny town, called (duh), Wall, South Dakota. We parked and got out of the car, me in that sort of restless state where you are already late for something and have to make a stop first. As we walked up to the place, I noticed that it looked awfully similar to a lot of the touristy places my family would take visitors to when I was living in Arizona. The kind of places where you can buy cowboy hats, cactus jelly, and Mexican blankets. Usually it was “Old Scottsdale” we took friends/family to, but by far, the very best place, and a place that holds many dear memories of mine from childhood is Rawhide, “An 1880’s Western Town, Steakhouse, Saloon, and Shops right in the heart of Wild Horse Pass.” It’s a hokey place where you can see a shoot out, ride a mechanical bull, pan for gold, eat rattlesnake, ride a donkey or stagecoach, and dress up in those old western outfits and do the sepia photograph (Beau and I already have the “Shotgun Wedding” one which I use as a wedding photo since we eloped anyway). Even for a Western girl such as myself, a chance to ride a donkey or stagecoach and maybe pocket a little rock candy or a jawbreaker as big as my head was a real treat. When visiting their website, I was thrilled to see they seem to still be going strong and have added a few attractions (camel riding??).

ANYWAY, as usual, I digress. So we entered Wall Drug, which basically was like a Western-themed indoor strip mall. The place consisted of about a dozen shops, each with its own topic. As with everywhere else touristy in the state, the place was dead – a few shops were even closed up. We decided with just the few minutes we’d allowed ourselves to look around, we’d enter the art store. And as always with me, I left the place pissed off. In Arizona, these places always have some amazing art, often with the image of the hardened cowboy, the noble Native American, or the various “Western” animals of coyote/wolf, horse, or bison/buffalo. And just like in Arizona, the prices for some of the stuff was absofuckinglutely through the roof. I have an appreciation for art, particularly tasteful paintings and native textiles, but I’m not going to forgo eating for a week to buy a Hopi placemat.

We continued on, poking our heads in a few of the doors, but feeling almost like intruders since the only people occupying the stores were the owners. There was one kind of apothecary shop which featured many smelly-looking candles (which I like), but I was too intimidated to even check, knowing they’d be like $20 each and I’d have to slink out of the store, swearing under my breath. So, we just continued walking on the authentically creaky “Western” floorboards ‘til we were out the door. “That was pretty disappointing,” I said. “Yeah,” said Beau, and he turned the key and we were off again.

Now I REALLY wanted to see Mount Rushmore. It couldn’t possibly suck as much as Wall Drug did.

Give It Up!

My last day at Target was on the 1^st. Always nice to end a job with holiday pay. Kinda makes the 8 ½ hour shift drift by a bit more smoothly. Then, the plan was to leave early morning on January 2^nd. Well, this was Beau’s plan, but I had my doubts. I’ve been through so many of these moves, that even with the best of intentions, leaving on time almost never happens.

So we got up somewhat early, I guess. We started packing the car. It’s a Honda Civic which is just what I like – small, reliable, good gas mileage. Of course, “small,” is fantastically unhelpful when you’re trying to stuff two individual’s entire mass of possessions within the walls and trunk of a diminutive car. But even I was surprised at just how fast our bags (enormous pieces of luggage we lugged to and from New Zealand) filled up the car. Looking in the living room where our remaining bags still stood, as well as the hastily-stuffed trash bags of those odds and ends you just can’t pack ‘til the last moment, I began to get a bit depressed. In the past 10 months, I have moved from New York to Missouri to New Zealand to Milwaukee and now getting ready for Montana. And of course, Beau was a part of the Missouri—New Zealand—Milwaukee—Montana moves. As I’ve previously mentioned, each time, in particular the Missouri to New Zealand move, we had to sell/give away/throw out copious amounts of personal possessions, including ALL furniture, almost anything that was bulky or heavy, boxes and boxes of books and bags and bags of clothes. It just sucks.

You go through these tiers – the first tier isn’t so bad – the dress you haven’t worn for a couple years, that book that’s been sitting on the shelf, untouched, that present you got that you never liked anyway. Each tier after that, it gets harder. You start separating your clothes into “like,” “really like,” and “have to keep” piles. You start looking at your large collection of t-shirts and wonder if they are ALL necessary (“but but but this one is from high school, and this one is from that great concert, and this one is from my trip to Sweden!”).

It’s about this time, the third tier, that things get really painful. You start making throw-out piles of things you really DO like. That great book you’ve never read, but always sincerely intended to. That beautiful dress you just love, but just haven’t had that many opportunities to wear. All your expensive camping gear that’s unrealistic to take with you. That awesome TV you splurged on. Those neat bags you brought back from Thailand. More piles of clothes, more boxes of books, more furniture. After this goes on and on, and you have a good cry or two, you shock yourself by still being “stuck” with about a dozen boxes of things like photographs, a minimal wardrobe, a few treasured books, cd’s, and dvd’s, and a group of mementos – things you’ve collected over the years from trips, loved ones, and various life experiences that you’re not willing to pitch.

And you know, I've done this now FOUR times (one being more minor than the rest) since March 2006 and I'm damn tired of it. I just don't want to throw ANYTHING away anymore.

Then comes the next painful part. Shipping. One blessing of the US Post Office is their “book/sheet music” rate which allows you to ship those back-breaking boxes of books at a much cheaper rate than the regular truck or sea rate. Of course, I have never failed to slightly manipulate that. I do honestly stuff a box with as many books as I can, but books, naturally not being all the same size, leave gaps in the box, and when you are trying to take as much shit with you as possible, you’re not going to just tape up that box and send it with all that free space floating in there! So, out comes all the little thingie-ma-bobs you can jam in between the books. Sure, technically they’re not BOOKS or SHEET MUSIC, but hey! Is it really SUCH a crime?

I did make one big mistake on our move to New Zealand though. Like many women, I’m a bit of a candle freak, particularly with lovely little candle holders which typically hold a tea light candle. Due to this, I’ve always got a fat bag of tea light candles in a drawer in my house (you can get like 200 from Walgreen’s for like 2 bucks!). Well, I had just packed a book box, and found the sides had these thin lines of empty space. What a perfect place to simply drop in those little tea lights! It was like playing Plink-O on The Price is Right. Then, I placed it in the back seat of my car, along with another box, each I planned to ship on one of my lunch hours when I had enough time and cash. Well, that was the Missouri summer, which is absolutely fucking miserable in its heat and humidity. What happened to those cute little tea lights in the box in the backseat? Of course, they melted, spreading slimy wax across the box. I still tried to send it – and the postal worker basically…went postal and gave me a big fat annoying lecture. Ordered me home to re-pack the box in a new box. FINE!

So, ANYWAY, back to the latest move – there we were that chilly Milwaukee morning, realizing pretty quickly that we weren’t going to be able to get it ALL in that car. So, you do what you have to do, you start jamming stuff into every crack and hole that’s left, and you decide what ELSE you can live without. Our Christmas tree, our cat’s crate, and other various odds and ends (including more clothes) went to the “whomever wants it can have it” pile, and my heart broke a little when we lugged a suitcase filled with photo albums and Beau’s beloved banjo up to the attic, to be once again pushed into a dark and dusty corner to be retrieved another day. I REALLY had wanted to leave my mother’s house totally clean, with not a single possession left in her cavernous attic that I would be reminded of every now and then. But oh well, you do what you have to do.

So, sometime around 2pm I shoved the frightened and furious cat under one arm, and slung the “stuff you need on the road” bag over the other, climbed into my very tight passenger seat (it had to be pushed forward to allow more room for stuff in the backseat), and we set out. With each mile, I felt my body get lighter and lighter. Living with my mother for about five weeks, working at Target, and just waiting for Beau had been incredibly stressful for me. And though I was embarking on this new phase of my life with some apprehension (no jobs, no house, not much money), I felt a kind of relief and happiness flow through me, as if I had been let out of a cage. Beau felt it too.

And so began our 3-day-ish journey to Montana. It gets a little bit more exciting from here on out. Kinda.

On the Road AGAIN (fuck)

Hey all,

As usual, I've wanted to post a million times, blah blah blah ad nauseum. But I just haven't. I have found that 8 1/2 hour shifts at Target can dramatically deteriorate this pushing-34-year-old body. When I get home from being on my feet (and walking and walking and squatting and walking) for that whole time, I take off my shoes and gimp around like I'm crossing a fire pit, complete with "Ooh owie ahh ooh ouch ooh ouch"s.

Not to mention, Beau's arrival about two weeks ago kind of became the eclipse overshadowing all in my life. Too bad I don't see enough of him.

As for the tattoo, it's the first of the three that hasn't evolved into a nasty, pickable scab and except for one slight flake, has been pristine, and finally, pain-free. Hooray! As for Beau's reaction upon seeing it,....well, let's just say he was surprised. There's no return receipt with this baby though, so he's just going to have to learn to love it, I guess. I still do, though my enthusiasm has been slightly dampened, as you might imagine. Like me (originally), he was not a believer in the "name" tattoos, knowing the big curse around it, but unlike me, he has not yet seen the light. (It's all about faith, baby!). In the end, my tattoos are like my ever-changing hair, although it's great if people like it, think it's beautiful, etc., in the end, it's really for me, and I do it because I have so much fun with it, either looking at my tattoos every time I undress or changing my hair color/style once again (which I just did a few days ago).

And now, for the BIG news, though not as big as Lazuli's gender-revelation, we are moving, TOMORROW, to Missoula, Montana.

*waits for cheers, applause, confetti*

Okay, well, maybe it's not New York-New York (what a wonderful town!) or (I left my heart in) San Francisco, but it's a place I can feel excited about. Honestly, if I had to write down five places in the United States I could choose from, Montana would be on that list, so I'm happy about that. Furthermore, it's Beau's home state, and he's been burning to move back there for about 20 years now, so he's obviously excited as well.

My only stipulation was that we MUST land in a city of sizeable...size. As charming as Itty-Bitty, Missouri was (in Spring), it became pretty clear to me that Small Town, U.S.A. was not. for. me. Besides all my own admitted prejudices of small town prejudice, the simple fact is that my particular services (in administration or education) are just not in high, if any, demand in a small town environment. There aren't a lot of immigrants clammoring for ESL (English as a Second Language) classes in White-Bred, Corn-fed, Rural Midwest. Nor are there any large, international non-profit agencies, another field where I have a good deal of experience. Little ol' me is a Lotta ol' useless in a small town. And my uber-complex-to-be-content nature cannot continue my life working at Target since my homicidal thoughts toward the undeniably disgusting thoughtlessness and piggishness of customers (particularly women! GOD!) will explode with the heat of a thousand suns and I will KILL the next person who knocks a shirt off its hanger, onto the floor, and then kicks it under a table!

*pant*

So anyway, *whistle* we talked about it a bit and we decided upon Missoula. Reasons being:

A) Missoula is in the southwest. According to Beau, anywhere in the eastern part of the state is a windy, frost-bitten hell, and the western side is all majestic mountains, sparkling lakes, and "mild" weather.

B) Missoula is a university town (University of Montana), which is a big fat plus to me! I have now had 3 different people who have either lived/spent a great deal of time in Madison, Wisconsin tell me that Missoula is a smaller version of Madison. This is great news to me, since Madison was one of my favorite residences of my life. And now that Madison is beginning to become a monster, it seems the right time to be in a place like Missoula. Also, I loved working at the University of Wisconsin and look forward to the possibility of working at a university again.

D) Missoula is "big" (that is, if you are from Montana and a city of approximately 60,000 people seems massive to you).

E) Missoula is pretty. Well, so I hear. May seem like not a big deal to you, but it is to me.

So, if all goes well, we will be heading out in our little Honda, with each and every crack and crevice stuffed with every item we own (what we have left after all these moves in the past year and a half) and one very pissy cat. Knowing us, Beau will drive, I will read from Drums in Autumn, and we will make it there in one exhaustive day.

But the story doesn't end there. Our first stop? The in-laws.

*gulp*

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.

From a New York State of Mind to a Missouri Bluebird

Hi,

Yes, as usual, it’s been eons since I’ve written. The answer is simple – the fu*$kin federal government raised my student loan payments to $572 a month. Yes, let me just say that again, FIVE HUNDRED SEVENTY-TWO DOLLARS, not Pesos, nor Baht, nor Kwacha. Dollars. And, to keep myself from utter starvation, I’ve taken on a second job. The long and the short of it is that I have been working all day at my regular job in the non-profit world (and by non-profit, I mean non-profit for MYSELF as well), and have taken on a night job as an ESL teacher. The job is fantastic, I love teaching, but it also means I leave my house at 8:30am each morning and don’t get home til about 11:30pm at night. Needless to say, such a schedule, and the fatigue that follows, seriously inhibits any desire to write, and additionally, any more chances for NYC adventures.

BITE ME U.S. DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION.

That’s the shitty news.

Furthermore, I had an IRS refund of $1100 that the Dept of Ed quickly snatched from my salivating self to apply toward my student loans, as an "involuntary payment" (no shit, Sherlock). Despite the fact that I have faithfully been paying them for about nine months, they say the first six months didn’t count (because I was paying a PALSY $325/month then! Not the required $572!). Anyway, I hate the Dept of Ed even more. Good luck coming from a low-income family and getting an education and not remaining deeply-set in poverty for the rest of your life. What the hell is an education for if you’re poor? To keep you poor? I feel like I'm living in some sort of cruel Republican loop of madness.

Now, let’s get on to the better news.

I’m leaving NYC. And yes, that’s good news. Well, not immediately good, considering my first stop. But my second, and final stop, is rather exciting. The Cowboy whom I’ve mentioned in the past, and whom I’ve been dating for about seven months, is going to take in this eccentric woman as his partner – see, cowboys are brave! I’ll be living in Missouri with him until the end of the summer, and assuming all goes well, we will be moving to New Zealand in late summer.

New Zealand, yes! A dream come true! (almost, not quite yet). I’m so totally excited about it, and so is he. He’s always wanted to go there too. We will both teach (he biology, me ESL, and then later English/Lit), and live happily ever after.

Well, maybe.

Having lots of love experience is great (and was a lot of fun), but it sure gives you a whole buttload of doubts for all future relationships. I go all 12-step when it comes to love, “One day at a time.” I no longer look at happily ever after, we’ll be in love FOREVER, etc. Now I think, “Wow, this is great, it’s going really well, I really love this guy, good. I hope it lasts.” And I try not to project too far into the future. Well, maybe just a few years. ;)

Anyway, I suspect that this TEENY TINY town I will be moving to in Missouri will pose a significant challenge for me who has always lived in either large cities or sizeable suburbia. I’ve been there several times already, and although it’s a somewhat pleasant place, it’s really not my bag, baby, and I know I will have to really try hard and fight my own prejudices of the “small town.” The last few times I went I felt as if I was being stared at. I guess when you’re an outsider in a very small town, there’s no blending in. Damn it! I’m all about blending in, and have always been (though that was challenging *cough* in Thailand). Blending in in Boondocks, Missouri might just be as tough. I guess it’s not like France where I’d just switch my white shoes to brown, put my hair up, and try to subdue that American exhuberance the Euros spot instantly. I’ll figure it out; I always do.

So now it’s about 1:30am and I’m waiting somewhat impatiently for my man to arrive. He’s currently somewhere in mammoth Pennsylvania, in the disgusting minivan we’ve rented, since there doesn’t seem to be any other way anymore to move cross-country (U-Haul et al has skyrocketed into mind-boggling charges for cross-country or one-way trips). Normally, I spit on a minivan or SUV when it goes by (that’s a LOT of spitting, believe you me!), but this time it’s the only way I can attempt to cram my pathetic life into a mobile space. I have been desperately giving away pounds of books, clothes, cd’s and other wares. Not to mention the large bags of crap I’ve left out on the sidewalk, and in my neighborhood, that stuff disappears before you can even start your stopwatch. At least I know it’s needed.

And in a few days I’ll be out of NYC. A place I always wanted to live, but never wanted to settle in. I have no regrets. I’ve done everything I’ve ever wanted to do – Broadway shows, been to The Daily Show three times, seen every single major tourist attraction (three times atop the Empire State, loved it), eaten in dozens of incredible restaurants (latest was kick-ass Ethiopian), brushed against celebrities (oh Hugh Jackman *swoon*), become a frequent visitor to the glorious Bronx Zoo and infrequent one to Coney Island, and touched down in every single borough (though Staten Island – barely). Two and a half years have gone by and I am satisfied. I would have loved the freedom and opportunities that more money in a big city can provide, but I am not leaving with any major wishes undone.

In just days I’ll be out of this shithole of an apartment with its raging army of cockroaches, ruthless steam heat, and nearby-exit-ramp-unrelenting-traffic-noise. I’ll be doing something I haven’t done in a very long time (live with a guy), and something I have never done (live in a rural area), and I’ll be jobless and broke.

Damn, I’m looking forward to it!