Take the scissors to the head...

"Staring at a computer screen can be hazardous to your hair. I did it all day, got really antsy, then decided to give myself a haircut. This might end very very badly. On the bright side, I can always resort to a buzz if this becomes a failure of epic proportions."

--The Facebook Status Update

Ode to Heat

The streets are unbalanced
Tipping with weight of pedestrians
Who gravitate to the side less touched by sun.

We seek shade.

Squares, plazas, seats,
Full in the morning shade
Ghosted by afternoon sun.

Life clusters under shelter.

Even then
The indecision of the breeze
Makes shaded relief temporary.

Walking. Dripping.

Museums, libraries, info centers.
Cool wisps of air beckon enticingly
From their briefly opened doors
Whispering a single promise.
Air conditioning.

But the sun is life
And the blue is joy
And the spring that feels like summer
Of 94 degrees in November
Leads to one conclusion.

It's slurpee season.


(Tapped in the shade at 37"49'05.47S 144"58'07.99E)

Excuses excuses.

Ode to Lost Things

I've left a trail of myself all over New Zealand.

My gray Westmont zip-up hoodie in Auckland, my bright orange ear plugs scattered one by one in a range of hostels from north to south, my cold blue ice pack in Wanaka, and now, my trusty black wallet wandering somewhere between Oamaru and Lake Tekapo. Not to mention the most recent loss of my cooking oil in Tailor-Made Tekapo Backpackers. Ah mental lapses and rushing against time toward arriving buses. How you slowly strip me of my possessions.

On the quandary of color

The shores of Lake Tekapo

Latitude: 44" 00' 06.95 S

Longitude: 170" 28' 49.25 E

Blue is the color of this lake.
That's a lie.
It's green. Greenish-blue. Um. Teal?

Sky is the colour of this lake.
A greener version of the sky.
This colour's lightness belongs in the sky,
not held down on earth, trapped in this lake.

But if it were in the sky,
I'd think the grass had seeped upward to contaminate the sky.

There's just no way to win.
This color is unnatural.

Scott calls it gatorade.

Gatorade is the color of this lake.
Gatorade should not be the color of any lake.

There's exactly one place in nature where this color would be at home: in a hot tropical beach surrounded by bright green palm trees, glowing golden sands and a blinding hot sun.

But no, it's here in the South Island of New Zealand with a chilly breeze and a crisp sun muted by vague clouds. Here, preceded by chalky white rocks that will undoubtedly transfer its white powder to the seat of my dark black pants. Here, bordered by dry, brownish green hills that could easily be transplanted to sunny southern California in the heat of fire season. Here, followed by icy bluish mountains capped with snow.

There is something unfailingly epic about snow capped mountains.

But epic bluish brown snow capped mountains don't fit with unnatural Gatorade blue-green teal sky-seeped-grass colored water that should only be paired with a blazingly hot beach.

Pictures were attempted. But the camera mocks me by adjusting the color until the lake only displays a brilliant blue. None of this green-teal-grass-seepage business.

Maybe that's the color other people see as well. We don't really have a way of knowing how different our perceptions of colors are from other people's. That bothers me sometimes.

This landscape, these colors… They only fit together when you jump off a tour bus in the company of a hoard of camera-wielding tourists, squinting at nature through layers of plastic and technology. Shoot and run. Shoot and run pile hoard back onto the bus.

But to sit here at 44" 00' 06.95 S, 170" 28' 49.25 E, contemplating this landscape and these colors? I'm befuddled.

What a quandary.

Skydiving!

Today I skydived.

Today I skydove.

Today I went on a skydive. There.

This morning I had no idea I'd be going on a skydive. I woke up in Rotorua at 6:15 AM. Walked to the bus stop. And waited. The bus didn't show. Magic Bus, or more accurately, our last Magic Bus driver, screwed up by giving us the wrong pick-up location thus leaving us stranded. We hates Magic!

So we caught an Intercity Bus south to Taupo. It made me feel like a real traveler using non-tour transportation. It was absolutely lovely.

Since we'd be arriving in Taupo at 10 AM with Intercity rather than at 4 PM with Magic, we figured we'd try to get our free skydive a day early.

"Sure!" said the very chipper Lisa at the Taupo Tandem Skydive. So it was set. At 11:40 AM, we'd skydive. That was unexpected.

We call at 11:10 AM to confirm. Friendly Lisa told us, sorry, the weather is unfavorable. Clouds and rain. No go for skydiving.

Reschedule for 12:50 PM.

Call at 12:20 PM. Sorry, says nice Lisa, the weather is still crap. We've postponed everything 'til 2 PM.

I'm not expecting much. So I take a nap.

Scott calls again at 1:30 PM.

"Call back in 5 minutes."

Scott calls at 1:35 PM.

"Call back in 5 minutes."

Scott calls at 1:40 PM.

It's ON! "The shuttle will pick you up in 15 minutes."

Uh, okay! I hurry and gather my stuff. I'm still stuck in a haze from lack of sleep the previous night, general irritability and my recent semi-nap.

We pile in the shuttle with 6 other people. One girl looks terrified beyond belief. I'm still rather indifferent.

I'm going skydiving right next to a lake larger than the size of Singapore in weather conditions that postponed the dive on multiple occasions. Shouldn't I be nervous?

We suit up in bright orange jumpers slightly reminiscent of prison and a baby's onesie. Odd combination.

They help us put on a lifejacket belt and completely awkward harnesses. "Can you breathe?" asks the lady. "Yup, no problem at all," I reply with ease. "That's not good," says she. Oh dear.

Finally we're all prisoned/babied/tightened/secured. Sorta like this group who went after us:

They eyed us skydive survivors with trepidation and awe as we walked back like we were an Apollo mission going to the moon or group of Hollywood movie heroes who just saved the world from complete annihilation.

I'm totally making that up by the way. Except for the part where they eyed us with trepidation. Shouldn't they eye us with relief since we who went before them didn't die or break or dismember anything?

We clambered into the cramped plane. Skydiving makes sitting on a stranger's lap, awkward spread-legged positions and a complete lack of personal boundaries entirely acceptable. We are a many-layered human sandwich of yellow and orange.

I have yell-conversations with my instructor. He takes my lack of nervousness and absence of hand-wringing as a challenge. "We're at 2000 feet," he yells, shoving his wrist-strapped altimeter in front of my face. "This is where we try to open the parachute. TRY." I laugh at him.

Moments later... "So, if there's a choice between landing among horses and bulls, which would you rather?" I ask if he can maneuver us to land ON a horse. "Do you ride?" he asks. "Nope!" I yell. "Then it's probably not a good idea," says he. Well, pfft! You're the one trying to scare me with talk of landing in the middle of a herd of large animals! We might as well get some horseback riding in if that's the case.

Moments later... "Can you swim?" Yessir. You're gonna have to do better than that if you're trying to freak me out.

Well, he didn't really have to try much longer. Because suddenly, less than half a minute after telling me we might have to hover for a while as the pilot looked for a clearing in the clouds below us, the side panel was lifting loudly, and the first skydiver was leaping into a freakin freezing free fall.

And I was next.

I am very happy to report that I do not have any video or photographic evidence of the terror on my face during the first few seconds of freefall. I don't think I felt that terrified. But I remember the muscles on my face freezing into a mush of terror and worry and oh my god, I can't breathe panic. It's cold air rushing past you. The initial tilt as you fall from semi-vertical to face first with nothing but cold grey unfriendly clouds beneath you. Not even beneath you. That would imply looking down toward your feet. No, this was like a stomach flop onto cold and blasting nothing. I breathed through a wide open mouth as if that would help. I'm fine with falling. Really. It's the turns and twists and anything but straight forward straight down that really messes with my head.

It was exhilarating!

My tandem guy had to mime opening my arms to me because I wasn't confident that the nudge on my shoulder was really him tapping me to tell me I could let my arms fly free. In hindsight I wish I'd done something ridiculous like flap my arms like a flailing bird. As it was, I yelled something that was incoherently gleeful.

The parachute opened and it was just tandem dude and me gliding down with gorgeous views over all three hundred and sixty degrees. Snow covered mountains (including Mount Doom) to the south. The lake larger than Singapore to the west. Farms and green all around. Tandem guy yelled, "Look! Baby cows!" and proceeded to tell me that he recently saw one cow giving birth and that it was cool. And disgusting. Tandem guy was highly amusing. I enjoyed him.

Looking all around me was beautiful. Looking directly down put our height in perspective and really really messed with my head.

"Wanna direct the parachute?" he asked.

YES.!!

So I stuck my hands underneath his in the loops. Yank down on the left to swirl left, yank down on the right to swirl right. Easy peasy!

It was fine and dandy until he took his hands out of the loops leaving my nervous hands completely in charge of the parachute.

"BAD IDEA!!!" I yelped!
"Well, it's your life," he said.
"Yeah, yours too!" I replied.
"Shit." (That would be him, not me. Though it would be an accurate representation of my sentiments as well.)

We were instructed to lift our legs up as we approached the ground. I was a bit over prepared and kept lifting my legs to a horizontal position too soon. In my defense, he told me to do so way too early just to mess with me. Most people did land on their feet. I didn't even try. It was butt down for me! After a second with my butt parked on the grass I yelped, "You mean I have to get up on my feet now on my own free will!?" As you can tell, yelping was a rather common occurrence today.

So I sat there on the ground for a bit longer, basking in the fall and glide until tandem guy laughed at me and yanked me to a standing position by way of my harness.

I skydovediveddidaskydivewheeee!

(They asked for your full name, so that's what I gave them. I figured it was in case you got maimed or died or something. I think it was just to make these things look more official. Ah well.)

My tandem dude Mikey H. obliged my shutterbugging tendencies. He also randomly had a pipe which I appropriated for the picture. It was fake.

The very sweet Lisa on the phone and at the front desk whispered conspiratorially to us about the existence of a YouTube video containing the aforementioned tandem dude, Mikey H (Michael Holmes), and a failed parachute. I YouTubed and Googled.

Turns out he survived a 12,000 foot free fall after his parachute failed to open. He waved goodbye to his camera as a farewell to life, crashed into a bush, and survived. 

Come to think of it, he did mention something about a man surviving a huge free fall after his  parachute failed. But we were kinda very high up in the air with a cap solidly over your ears where yelling loudly is no guarantee that all your words will be heard. I think he neglected to mentioned the rather important fact that this fail parachute dude was him.

So thank you nice phone-lady Lisa for not mentioning this to me before my skydive with my tandem dude whose parachute didn't open 2 years ago on a skydive from the same height that we did today.

Given that skydiving wasn't something I approached with great fear and trepidation (these horror stories did not make it to my ears until I was safely back in my hostel), I've decided that I need to go bungy jumping in Queenstown. Bungy jumping fills my heart with feaaar. Check back to see whether or not I go through with it.

And don't you dare send any bungy jumping horror stories my way.

Day 10, in snippets

Coffee shop? What coffee shop?
It was a wet day. Not nearly as wet and ridiculous as Opononi when Scott and I foolishly decided to go on a hike, thus giving all our clothes (and my backpack) a thorough soak in the rain. But still wet and grey enough to make me seek out a coffee shop to sit and warm my hands on a hot cup of mocha goodness.

But Rotorua doesn't seem to have any concept of coffee shops. "There's a Starbucks down the corner," said a lady at a bookstore. Starbucks?! Never!! I am from the USA. I am not in the USA. I must not go into Starbucks. Or McDonald's. Or Burger King. Or KFC. Even if the latter was wafting delicious fried greasy smells up my nose from a block away. Must… resist… yummy… smell… aggh! So I refused the Starbucks.

But street after street in the grey wet drizzle only revealed café after café. I gave up and settled down in Milly's, a bright yellow-filled café with two bright yellow couches in the corner, which I took as an indication that hanging out for a while would not be frowned upon. I read the local newspaper, wrote lots of postcards (hint: dear readers, I need your address), and sat there far longer than any other customer did. I will resist you Starbucks.

Polynesian Spa. A Minor Quandary
In my infinite wisdom, I decided to change into my swimsuit before heading out to the spa. Less stuff to carry across town, thought I! Then, after a lovely soak in the sulfurous hot pools at the Polynesian Spa, I meandered into the changing room only to encounter a minor quandary. My swimsuit which was my undies was currently drenched in hot sulfuric water. Do I put my clothes on over it and get awkward wet spots? Or do I strip off the wet and awkwardly go commando on all fronts? I eschewed the awkward wet spots.

Wet. It's all wet.
On the way back to the Funky Green Voyager (our freakin awesome hostel), I passed a delicious looking bookstore. Dripping wet swimsuits do not play well with bookstores, so I wrapped the dripping wet swimsuit in my tiny quick dry towel, burrito style. TADA! Burrito swimsuit plays well with delicious bookstore. Back in the hostel, I hop in the shower to unsulfuricize myself. Hop out of the shower. I'm dripping wet. As is my towel. I squeegee myself with the wet towel like you squeegee your windshield clean at the gas station. I still dripped. As did my towel.

Laundry... Surprise!
The tiny quick dry towel and the swimsuit were still sulfuricized even after scrubbing them with detergent in the shower. Gerard, the awesome funky owner of the Funky Green Voyager, came across me preparing to rinse out out my soaking sulfurous swimsuit. "Don't use that tap," he told me. "The water is full of sulfur. Use the tap by the washing machines instead."

Two days ago I did a hand washing blitz of most all of my clothes. (I don't have enough clothes to justify using a washing machine.) It's been cold all over New Zealand, so hanging clothes up results in fail dry. Hence, a hand wash blitz to take full advantage of the $2 dryer. As Owen from Guernsey said, clean laundry is the Holy Grail of backpackers. I had the Holy Grail two days ago. Unfortunately, I attained the Holy Grail by use of the aforementioned sink and tap that spews water full of sulfur. All my clothes are sulfurous. Holy Grail? POOF!

On English

While preparing for this trip down under, there was a part of me that was disappointed that I wasn't going to a foreign country with a foreign language. Part of the fun of traveling is the language: the mishaps that occur when you're attempting conversation; the glee of successful communication no matter how minor the success; the fun of conversing with someone in broken snippets of multiple languages because you don't share a common first language; and the immediate camaraderie created when you ask someone for their name in their language. (Read more from last year's post On the Butcheration of Language)

But in being here in New Zealand and meeting people from all over the world (Germany and England mostly, but also Chile, Taiwan, Canada, Switzerland, Brazil, and the Netherlands), it has become clear that communicating in English is neither straightforward nor dull. Varied accents abound and communication mishaps still occur, especially with those with English as a second language.

Kiwi bus driver to Marisol from Chile: You don't have any mulk in there do ya?
Marisol: Mulk? What is mulk?
Kiwi driver: Mulk. Mulk, you know…
(beat of silence)
Marisol: Meelk? You mean meelk?
Kiwi driver: Yeah, yeah, mulk!

In case you haven't figured out, mulk is meelk is milk!

Even I, a native English speaker, have been thrown off by the Kiwi accent on several occasions.

On the drive north out of Auckland, our bus driver Mike was telling us stories of the Marys. The Marys this, the Marys that, the Mary belief this, the Mary legend that…

"What on earth?!" I thought, "I didn't know that Catholicism and the Virgin were so important here." Then the Kiwi-speak dawned on me. Ohhh, he's talking about the Maoris, not the Marys!

The same bus driver also pointed out good spots for Forest Chicken for all those interested. "What on earth?" I thought, "I didn't realize there were chicken in this area, much less forest chicken. What the heck is a forest chicken?!" I mean, later on I did see some chickens but only on wide grassy deforested fields. Then the kiwi-speak translation kicked in. Ohhh, he means forest trekkin', not forest chicken!

Then there are Kiwis who are in a class of their own. Tawhiri (TA-fee-ree, meaning Windy in Maori), our guide-to-be for the Footprints tour into the Kauri forest at night, came to our hostel to give us the tragic news that due to the horrendous downpour of rain that blessed their normally sunny region, our tour was canceled. "Do you think it'll be the same tomorrow?" we asked. Turns out, the area doesn't get a weather forecast so it'd be hard to tell. Tawhiri told us that the day before it looked like the weather would be bad all day but by nighttime it was perfectly fine. He continued to say that today looked like a beautiful day at first but now, in his words, "it's rainin' like the shitzu!" My dismay at the canceled tour was summed up beautifully by Tawhiri's epic expression, "Flippin' shucks, mate!"

That line sent me scurrying for my journal and a nonexistent pen. I've decided that that phrase should be added to my speech in daily life. Instead of saying things like 'shoot,' 'oh dear' or 'crap,' I should now say with great exuberance, FLIPPIN' SHUCKS MATE!!

(edit 10/8. I've got another one. Tonight at the Mitai Maori cultural show and hangi, our host told us on several occasions that we should learn a "moldy song" to support the chief of our 20-nation tribe. He playfully sang this "moldy song" to us line by line and we sang this "moldy song" back to him, line by line. What on earth is a "moldy song" you ask? Why, it's a Maori song! Oh the confusion.)

On Bikes

That is, on one bike. The shortest bike the Peppertree Lodge had to offer. Unfortunately, my shortness is quite outside the average shortness of this land. (And here I was thinking that hobbits lived here!)

Scott and I decided we'd take advantage of the free bikes our hostel had to offer here in Paihia. He was perfectly fine on his bike.

I, on the other hand, was a failure from the start.

While I could reach the handles and pedals just fine, the handles were still uncomfortably low and my legs were just too short to straddle the bike while on the seat and get pedalling before falling over.

So I fell over. Or at least. started to fall over before I caught myself on the wall of the hostel multiple times with multiple 'eeps!'

Pushing off like I was rappelling off the side of a horizontal mountain, I finally got moving. More accurately, I finally got wobbling.

Really falling over would be saved for when there would be witnesses to my failure! Of course!

All I did was ride off the curb and suddenly, pushing the pedals resulted in clicking noise rather than any sort of engagement or forward motion of the bike. I freaked out momentarily, wobbled back toward the curb and face planted into the sidewalk directly in front of a couple of tourists. Fail! Bike fail!

Granted, it was more of a hand plant and frankly, my pride was bruised far more than my palms. Scott was sweet and pedaled around (on a bike too short for him, of course) until my fail bike worked again.

Unfortunately I now had to remount my fail bike without the aid of an outside support to brace myself on. And it was pathetic sight. And there were more tourists ambling about to witness this pathetic sight! Wobble wobble eep! Wobble wobble.

Stopping was another challenge altogether. Once, I fell over. The next time I semi-fell over by running most of the bike into the curb and hopping off as the bike itself fell over. Sorry fail bike.

Eventually, after much wobbling and whoaaaa-ing, we made it down to a spiffy outcrop of barnacle-y rocks where I could cover some ground on my feet. I trust my feet. They don't roll. They fit me perfectly. They stop when I tell them to and I don't fall over when they start moving. Usually .

Then Scott suggested paying a visit to the grocery store further down the road. I eyed the little hill and tiny pathway beside the cars rumbling around the narrow curve and shuddered inwardly to think of me attempting (1) uphill (2) downhill and (3) a curve! on my fail bike.

Er, I think I'm going to head back, I told him.

On Scott's suggestion, I manage to successfully get the bike moving by straddling the lower portion in front of the seat first rather than attempting to swing my body over and onto the seat. It worked. Score! Take that fail bike! I score a minor minor victory! Hah! Booyah!

I celebrate with vigor. It helps my ego.

Stopping smoothly was another story. Me being a chicken, I couldn't bring myself to stop in time. When I finally did stop, it was in the middle of the entrance to the car park and it was executed by an awful awkward hop skip hop drag drag drag. Still, a minor success. Nothing touched the ground but my feet and the wheels! No hand plant, no bike plant, whoo! Score! Take that! Minor victory! Whoo!

Finally, at the back of the hostel, I manage to stop and dismount the bike with minimal awkwardness by hopping and stopping in front of the seat rather than on it. Score! Whoo! Minor victory! Wheee!

I curse all average to tall people, say good riddance to the fail bike and take my minor victories to potter off to a shady bench where I sit and sketch a church for two hours. This is one seat I can't awkwardly fall off!

Uh, I hope.

On Maps

Maps are insanely deceptive. The real world hardly ever looks like what you'd expect from reading the lines on the page. What seems like a simple "go here, turn here, get there," or an even more straightforward "cross the street and boom, it's there," NEVER IS. Who put all these extra pathways and forks and buildings and vehicles in there anyway?

Maybe it has to do with the fact that when traveling, I'm invariably using maps that span a whole 4x3 inches on a guidebook page, maps that are crawling with colored bus routes, or maps given out by tourist offices that blare each tourist hotspot.

So combine the simplistic deceptive nature of maps with my complete lack of spatial judgment and you get today's adventure in Auckland…

After a morning with Scott in Davenport climbing Mt. Victoria, playing with large Mario mushrooms, and dropping curry chicken pies on the ground... Aaand after an afternoon in the Auckland Art Gallery listening to a spunky older woman give us a tour while huffing about how Pakehas get shafted for Maori rights… Today's late afternoon goal was to get from my hostel in Parnell (adjacent to the center of Auckland) to One Tree Hill and the surrounding park and observatory.

Step One. Get from St. Georges Road down to an area where 11 brightly colored bus routes converge, two of which should bring me by the upper end of the park. My previous day's walk to the Auckland Domain (another awesome park and museum) falsely convinces me that this is a short walk so I eschew the bright green Link bus that literally pulls to corner as I'm standing there in favor of walking.

My mistake? The walk to the converging routes is actually much much longer than it appears. And just because the lines are there doesn't mean that there are frequent stops along that colored line. I kept walking but couldn't find any bus stops. Neither could I figure out where the heck I was on the very un-detailed map. Desperate for a bus stop, I followed a bus turning down a street and promptly became even more lost and confused staring at the mocking map. I finally gave up and asked a kind Asian storekeeper for help. As it turns out, if I had just kept going on the original road I was on, I would have reached a very obvious bus stop in less than a block! Pfft.

Step Two. Get from this converging lines place down to One Tree Hill. "No problem!" I think. After all, the buses announce each stop and there's a road marked Greenlane West that goes straight through the park. I get on a bus and it trundles onward, but no detached voice helps my lost tourist self along. Does this bus just not stop? Did I get onto an express that goes for another hour?! Then it dawns on me. This isn't a bus frequented by tourists. People here know where they're going. No biggie. I'll just figure out where we are by the street names flashing by. But of course, my free maps are simplistic and cheerfully pretend these streets don't exist. Oh crap.

We halt by a stop named Comwell or Cornwall. Er, that sounds familiar. We pull away. Too late, I realize, "Shoot! That stop would have worked!" I stare hard at my bus map while hiding it beneath other papers in a sad attempt to mask the glaring fact that I'm a tourist. I glance up and out momentarily. "Greenlane West." We pull away. Sh**! That was my stop! We drive on and the surroundings become more and more residential. A litany of dang, crap and other four letter words surge through my head. A local bus rider requests a stop so I hop out behind her on a whim and trek back toward Greenlane West, shooting worried glances at the darkening sky.

Step Three. Get into the park from Greenlane West. Simple right? Greenlane West cuts right through the massive swath of green on the map. But all I see around me are walls. Where's the green!? I walk on doggedly, propelled by my distaste for backtracking. Surely I must have walked halfway across the green park by now. I sneak a peek at my map. I've walked a whole smidge. A tiny freaking smidge. I have a whole slew of smidges to walk before a road line crosses into the green.

But look! A map of green beckons from across the street! Surely a map of green will help me locate this green park I'm supposedly smack dab in the middle of.

I jab the crosswalk button and wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. Finally the little green man appears. Confidently, I stroll across to peer at the green map only to read "Pedestrians use other side." The green map helpfully details the manner in which the sidewalk ends in a smidge on this side of the road. "But, but, but I just came from the other side of the road," I protest pointlessly. Dejectedly, I jab at the crosswalk button yet again.

Many smidges later, the road crosses the entrance to the park.

Step Four. Get to the south end of the park where the observatory is before dark. It's an insanely gorgeous green tree-filled shady park. It would be relaxing but for the darkening sky and the lack of pedestrians save for a runner or two. Every person there was a local exercising with workout clothes and no bags save a stroller or two. With my long pants, heavy jacket and bulging backpack, I screamed tourist. And even more awkwardly, I screamed alone.

Further down the road, I engaged my bus map in another staredown, trying to determine whether the left fork or right fork would get me to the observatory. I start following the one person I saw with a backpack down the left fork, but change my mind two seconds later and double back to the right fork, then double double back to the left fork two more seconds later when I change my mind again. I'm so confused. Finally I stop to ask a nice Kiwi couple with a stroller for help and they point me down the right fork. "About twenty minutes," they say in their delightful Kiwi accent, "you can't miss it." Just follow the yellow brick road! (Grey paved actually, but doesn't yellow brick just sound more fun?)

Step Five. Follow the [yellow brick] road. Finally I start to relax and enjoy the park. Dang, I would totally exercise every day if I lived near this park! I pass by a wedding photo shoot, a (closed) visitors center, more runners, then suddenly, SHEEP! Incredible numbers of sheep! Right next to the path, a few on it, and multitudes scattered across the sloping greens on either side of the road. I stop and gape. Then my tourist nature takes over and out comes the camera, ready to roll. I squeal and eep and teehee audibly and quite uncontrollably. They were just so cute! And fluffy! And ridiculous! And slightly pathetic with their "mehhhh" baaaing bleats. Now that I actually want the sparsely populated surroundings that I encountered when I was lost and confused earlier on in the park, of course I'd get to the section heavily populated by locals exercising. Figures. My blantant tourist excitement would have to have as many local witnesses as embarassingly possible. I mean, my god, has this girl never seen a sheep before?

Whatever. I yoinked out my camera anyway, squealing, eeping and giggling the whole way through. Sheepies, you made my bus and map ordeal SO worth it!

(That last bit was for you, Mooder!)

On clouds and bladders, Round Two

(Round one from a year ago: On clouds and bladders)

I had no say in the matter this time.

Qantas only allows you to state whether you prefer clouds or bladders. (That is, window or aisle for those who just visited confusion.)

I'm all about the clouds. Ahem, I prefer clouds. Er, window. But, it was bladder that was assigned.

A disappointment at first, to be sure, especially when the gal who scored clouds promptly chose sleep in lieu of sprawling LA lights.

But as the flight progressed, the bladder did protest once... twice... thrice... But only mildly before the aisle seat proved it's worth and prevented mild protests from growing into full-scale rebellions.

I'm beginning to grow fond of this bladder seat. But to willingly choose bladder over clouds?

It feels like the day I started pairing my socks rather than wearing them gloriously mismatched. It feels like the day I stopped using goofy voicemail messages.

Oh wait, my name is currently recorded as "Fern, like a plant."

Fine. It feels like the gradual decrease in the goofiness of my voicemail messages.

In other words, a slow loss of a playful, impractical spirit. In other words, growing up.

That's depressing.

Where's Peter Pan when you need him? He doesn't have to choose between clouds and bladders. He can fly!

On Socks

I'm sitting in LAX, waiting for my flight to Auckland, and all I can think about is a pair of socks. A pair of fluffy, warm socks.

Flights can be chilly. And since my feet have mimicked my personality in liking freedom and wiggle room, I kindly outfitted them with a pair of flip flops. A nice pair of cool, breezy flip flops.

And now my toes are chilly and have nowhere to hide.

I feel a bit like Arthur Dent without a towel. Samwise Gamgee without his rope. Maybe we'll visit Lothlorien (whose river scenes were filmed in Fernside, New Zealand) and Galadriel will give me a pair of socks. Magic elven socks!

Come to think of it, I don't even have real rope or a real towel. My towel is a tiny speck of quick dry REI goodness. Not a fluffy wrap yourself like a burrito towel. My rope- well, I have a twisted clothesline, sewing thread and floss.

And my socks? Stuck with my speck of a towel and rope excuses in my check-in luggage.

Oh, how I miss thee fluffy warm socks! How it won't be the same when we are reunited 13 whole hours from now! For I will have closed toed shoes then and your warming properties will no longer be needed. In fact, my feet will scorn you for the extra layer of confinement you will then provide.

But for now, and for the next thirteen hours, I and my feet will miss you.

On Customer Service Calls

Traveling.

It requires money.

Nowadays, that involves the use of debit and credit cards. And calling Customer Service for each card to alert them to the traveling that is about to occur.

ING Direct. They pick up immediately. They make you feel like you're chatting to an old friend on the phone. No scripts as far as I can tell. Just nice people who will sometimes ask you to take them with you in your suitcase. I'd fall over with you in my backpacking backpack, I tell them.

Citi. I'm put on hold for a while. So I fold my laundry to the sounds of a female voice intermittently reassuring me that my call is oh so very important to them but no one is available to assist poor little me. No painful elevator music at least. Finally, I'm connected to a nice man with a hint of an Indian accent who calls me ma'am at every opportunity. "Where will you be going, ma'am?" he asks. "New Zealand and Australia," ma'am replies. "Okay ma'am," he says, "Let me enter this in.... N-e-w  Z-e-l-a-n-d..." Somewhere out there there's a little 'a' relishing its freedom from the eternal confines of e and l.

Capital One. There exists a script. Overused, under appreciated, without any kind of slowing of the speech to make sure the customer can understand its carefully written words. Confused, I check to make sure I'm not stuck in an oldschool TV medication commercial where warnings are delivered by a super speed reader to make sure no one notices that nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, headaches, body aches, earaches, noseaches, etc, may occur when you ingest that little pill to get rid of a sniffle. Huh, maybe the Capital One superspeed reader actually told me that they were going to slam me with fees galore and I was just too bemused to notice.

Macy's. They aren't for travel. I just wanted a discount on jeans. I'm not using the card ever again. But I still activated it. Shouldn't that be straightforward and not people involved?

Apparently not.

After some automated number punching, I'm transferred to a human who tries convincing me that I absolutely need need need this product. At least, I think it was a live human. It was a southern-sounding female voice who was clearly reading a very mundane script but trying to make it as I'M a reAL HUman, HEar my inFLECtions! as possible, in the vein of friendly prerecorded phone messages. "If you LoSe your JoB," she lilts, "You get ProTECtion!"

Yeah! Saved when I lose the real job I've never had!

"No thank you," I tell her politely. She pauses momentarily, waylaid by the unexpected interruption only to launch full speed into another reading of even more InCREdible BENeFiTs! She stops for a breath. "Uh... I'm not interested," I repeat. Apparently, she takes that as a go ahead. "AlrigHT, let's GO aHEAD and siGN you UP!" Wait. What? It speaks but it doesn't listen. "NO THANK YOU!" I say firmly but failing to keep my laughter at bay. She finally gets it. And my incredulous self is finally free to go.

On the Butcheration of Language

The brain only seems to have two tracks when it comes to languages: Native and Foreign.

Try to say something in a non-English language and the brain just latches onto the most accessible foreign translation.

The most commonly latched language? Spanish!
. . . Joanna asking for two pieces of fruit in the market: ¡Dos!
. . . Me to the waiter: Gracias.
. . . Me to someone I bumped into: ¡Ay, perdon!

Others aren't so predictable in their language-latching and mix up multiple languages:
. . . Sarah at the Vatican: Bonjour! Dov'è, uh, post office?
And in case you didn't catch that, she just covered French, Italian, Groan of despair, and English!

Or there's the whole forgetting of the rules of pronunciation:
. . . Me at the fruit store asking for apples and a peach: Due mele e un pesche, per favore.
. . . In translation, if I had pronounced it correctly: Two apples and a peaches, please.
. . . But since I had said 'peshay' instead of 'pesque' I really said: Two apples and a fish, please.


Hah!


I've been trying to learn Italian by assuming no one speaks English (so that I won't be tempted to just speak English). But the Italians don't quite cater to my mental approach.

Take this short exchange between myself and the local organizer of the Cortona Fortress art exhibition at the opening of the exhibit:
. . . Me: Come si chiama?
. . . She: ____. And you?
. . . . . . (Yeah, I forgot her name. Bad Fern!)
. . . Me: "Mi chiamo Fern."
. . . She: "Nice to meet you."
. . . Me: "Piacere!"
She then laughed at how, in this exchange, the American spoke Italian and the Italian spoke English. "I'm trying to learn!" I explained--in English, because I have no idea how to say that in Italian.

At the gelato store a week or two ago, a similar situation occurred where the Italian would only speak to me in English. (I suppose my accent when I'm attempting Italian clearly gives me away as an American!)
. . . Me: Stracciatella in una, uh, coppa, per favore.
. . . . . . ('in' being Italian, not an insertion of English!)
. . . She: Which size?
. . . Me: Uno quaranta.
. . . . . . (as in the 1,40 euro size cup)
. . . She: Uno ochenta?
. . . Me: Uno quaranta. Um, quarenta. Quaranta?

I finally just pointed (gestures do wonders!) and gave up my Italian-only attempts.
. . . Me: Do you say "coppa?"
. . . . . . (In reference to the gelato cup.)
. . . She: COppa
. . . . . . (i.e. I was far too monotonous in my pronunciation!)
. . . She: Or coPENta.
. . . . . . (Which has worked wonders for me at gelato stores since it seems to refer to the smallest available cup.)
. . . Me: Ah, grazie!

But really, non-verbal gestures do transcend the verbal language. At a bar/restaurant in a non-touristy area of Florence, a cute little dessert that looked like a fruit tart caught my eye.
. . . Me: Come si dice {jab finger in the direction of the delectable dessert}?

I hear the woman behind the bar say 'pignon.' I even repeat 'pignon' and receive an affirmative nod. So I take my newly learned dessert word and head to the cash register to order:
. . . Me: Un pignon, per favore.
. . . She: Un mignon?
. . . Me: (with incredible emphasis on the P) Pignon!

She gives up on this foreigner and resorts to gesture, forming a small hole with her thumb and index finger and giving me a questioning look.
. . . Me: (excitedly grinning and nodding) Si!!
I get the receipt. It says 'mignon.' Whoops. It's a good thing I didn't try ordering with a word-for-word Italian translation of "fruit tart."

I frequently wonder what my broken attempts at Italian sound like to native speakers. How painful my butchering of their language must be to their ears! It's not just the constant mess-ups in grammar, gender and the like, it's also the butchering of the accent and the lack of musicality of American attempts at Italian.

We could just take a different route and embrace the meeting of Italy and the American South (since this program is through the University of Georgia) with this hilarious but sometimes cringe-inducing phrase adorning our dorm's message board:

"Ciao Ya'll!"

Note that almost all the requests are for blankets... It's getting chilly here! And look! I'm reflected at the bottom!

On Clouds and Bladders

27Aug--LAX--Minneapolis/St. Paul--12:10p--5:46p--42F
27Aug--Minneapolis/St. Paul--Amsterdam--7:35p--10:55a--33A
28Aug--Amsterdam--Rome (Fiumicino)--1:40p--3:55p--21F

I specifically picked window seats on each of my flights. Just my luck, the window of seat 42F is dirty and slightly maimed. I guess seatguru.com doesn't cater to stare-out-the-window-and-don't-care-about-leg-room-(yay shorties!) people. So I'm left, camera in hand, craning my neck backwards to make use of the very clean and clear window behind me.

I like windows.

And clouds...

Whipped cream, cotton balls, melded dippin' dots, towers, an occasional teddy bear or crocodile… you get the idea. And when the light shines in such a way to make the clouds bright white with a golden glow on the edges, I could easily be convinced that angelic type beings live up here.

One of my favorite moments (I'm enjoying the moments, Mooder!) is when it's blindingly bright and sunny and a thick layer of clouds stretches endlessly underneath us... no breaks or holes to hint at the existence of the real world below.

Then, descent.

I wonder if these clouds will be nice to us and let us pass through without stomach dropping turbulence?

I personify everything.

We break through the bottom of the cloud layer to find that the world still exists below. The contrast is startling-- this world is darker with an entirely different quality of light, filtered through the thick layer of clouds. Less pure but more interesting perhaps?

Then.

Oh dear.

My bladder doth protest.

And there's an hour left. And standing (erm, well, sitting) between me and the restroom are two people, both absorbed in their own worlds either napping or reading, with half-filled cups and wrappers sitting mockingly on their open trays.

I hate disturbing people unless absolutely necessary. I declare this not 100% necessary. Hear that bladder? NOT 100% necessary!! An hour to go... my bladder can handle this...

Except for the extra delay in landing due to turbulence.

Stupid clouds. How quickly they turn from imagination sparkers to bladder killers.

Then the endless taxiing.

Then the sitting--far from the gate--because another plane is now sitting at our gate. Freaking window seat! Once a portal to another world, now a portal to the emergency room because of bladder, erm, burstage.

Then at the gate... waiting for all the people in the 41 rows in front of me to get a move on. Yeah, I picked seat 42F because, you guessed it, I wanted a window seat.

Beauty out the window or practicality in an aisle seat for my ridiculously tiny bladder?

The answer came toward the end of the 8 hour flight that brought me over the Atlantic to Amsterdam. Out the window lay my first view of European soil (since 2003, that is) laid out in the form of the coast of the Netherlands. The clouds are above, the waves are crashing below...

The view is gorgeous.

The window seats were worth it.

And my bladder can totally deal with it.

On felcearto

Fern is in Italy so it's only fitting that the title of this blog should be fern lim(b) in Italian. And fittingly, arto (limb) looks surprisingly like the English word art, which is, of course, what Felce (Fern) is here in Italy for. Clear as mud?

I make no promises to the frequency of updates or consistency of style on this blog nor do I make any promises regarding the interesting-ness or informative-ness of it. It's just another record of my semester abroad… except that it can be accessed by anyone. Ah, how creepy thou art, oh internet!

Currently in: Cortona.
Have been in: Rome, Viterbo, Florence
Will be in: Who knows? I'm open to suggestions…

The internet here is spotty. Like a dalmation. Hence the post to come on clouds and bladders whose events actually occurred a week and a half ago.

Blame the dalmation.