Last weekend I had an interesting adventure in town. On a rather boring Saturday afternoon, I decided to accompany a couple of my kiwi neighbors while they filmed a documentary for their local church. I didn't really know the specifics until I agreed, but that's beside the point. The subject of the "documentary" was basically an in-depth character study of a guy trying to make friends in as many ways possible. This portion, luckily enough for me, involved a rabbit. Joe owns a large, fluffy rabbit named Megatron. Dressed in a red jumpsuit and carrying a carrot dangling from a stick, Joe walked his rabbit through central Wellington, maintaining his composure and politely asking people if they did, in fact, notice that he had a rabbit. "Excuse me...excuse me. I've got a rabbit." Joe's delivery was very deadpan and uniquely Kiwi, anyone who's seen Flight of the Conchords will know what I'm talking about. Most New Zealanders employ this sense of humor. It's very dry and quirky and consists of little quiet zingers. So, we basically had the immense honor of sneakily following Joe around and filming him as he pretty much made the day of every person he encountered. The unusual friendliness of New Zealanders combined with the fact that NOBODY can be NOT HAPPY to see a rabbit created a perfect storm of happiness and laughter. It was absurd. I've never seen so many happy people in my life. So Megatron fulfilled his life's purpose that day. At one point we walked into a Burger King and filmed Joe asking the cashier for some lettuce for his rabbit. That didn't work out.
What else? I've come to the conclusion that the famous New Zealand fish and chips basically taste just like fish and chips that I had at home. It really just consists of dropping a fish in some grease, after all. That's not to say, however, that they don't taste good. I am impressed at the amazing wrapping job that the fish people accomplish. It's impossible to replicate. It's like Sam's elvish rope, it won't come undone unless you specifically want it to.
I found out the other day, during a regular conversation, that New Zealand doesn't have basements. You heard me correctly. I was stopped in the middle of a sentence due to my friend's unfamiliarity with the word "basement". They just don't put floors underneath their houses. Can you imagine not having a basement, or knowing what it is? It's a pivotal element of a homestead. One point for America.
I'm 75% done with school here. It's incredible. My second round of essays are coming up in a week or so, and I'm not looking forward to that. After that, however, I'm pretty much in the clear. A couple of exams November 4th and 5th, a quick trip to the South Island for 5 days or so to get some epic skydiving in, and then coming back here and heading home. I'm hoping to check out Christchurch (a very english-influenced city with Oxford-esque buildings everywhere) and Invercargill, the southernmost city in New Zealand and one of the southernmost cities in the entire world. Apparently it's quite cold. Fair enough.
It's not entirely customary to say "bless you" here. The lack of "bless you" blows my mind. When you hear someone sneeze, your subconscious ASSUMES that you're going to hear a bless you. It just KNOWS. There's no question. It's like knowing the sun will come up the next day. Therefore, the silence following the bless you here is the loudest, most gaping and conspicuous silence I've ever experienced. It blows my mind every time. Also, people sometimes look at you funny for saying "bless you". It actually makes sense, because bless you is really a ridiculous thing to say in the first place.
Apparently John Key (New Zealand Prime Minister) was on Letterman the other night. I missed it, but they're making a bit deal of it here, marveling that Keys "came within an arms reach of Obama". They really like Obama here, haha.
I've decided that I need to branch out more in my food selection, even if it does involve spending a bit more money and stretching my budget. I've eaten pasta and meat sauce for dinner every day for like two weeks now. It tastes fantastic, but i feel like it might be detrimental to my mental and spiritual health. Maybe some pizza every once in a while or something. Not that I can find any normal pizza here anyways. I'm happy with my consistent and fulfilling choice of a hearty breakfast. A scrambled egg, two links of sausage, a bowl of porridge, two pieces of toast with jam, and a large apple with a glass of milk. I'm not worried about switching this up too much. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. I really never ate breakfast before I came here and I've realized that eating well in the morning can effect the rest of your day.
Best news: I found a secret way around hiking up Vivian street to get home from the city. Basically Vivian is the shortest but most evil route back home. I swear it's an 80 degree angle. So I found a big hotel that's built along side the slope. So I can get in on the bottom floor of this hotel at the bottom of the hill and take the handy elevator up 6 floors, emerging at the very top of Vivian street. It may be my greatest discovery since I've gotten here. I hope I don't look too out of place on the elevator with my groceries next time I go shopping. This elevator is going to save me from mountains of toil.
So it's Friday and I'm going to a friend's surprise birthday party tonight. Still figuring out tomorrow, might just be a nice boring Saturday. I'm trying to plan a trip the weekend after next to maybe go kayaking in Lake Taupo. We'll see how it goes. I'll try and update more than I have been, this week was very busy. I think I read like 100 pages a night all week. This weekend should be more laid back though. Be back on soon.
Bill
