Bellingen, Australia; June 2011

Random Meanderings

In less than three weeks my faithful travel compadre and I will be stepping foot back on US soil. I want to try and reserve any judgments regarding how I’ll be feeling when this monumental day comes, but, that’s hard to do; most likely it’ll be a mixed bag of happy/sad/bitter/excitement/merriment/sorrow and heaps of contemplation, kind of how I’ve already been feeling at this stage, as the days tick off, one by one…..

I’m currently writing this from our new WWOOF host’s home outside of a very small town called Bellingen, only a few hours north of Sydney, our final destination in this sunburned country. The bus dropped us off at the info center, just outside the village, where our super cool host, Louise Cranny, picked us up in her truck. She had to grab a few groceries in order to feed us for the week, so we stopped in the town center and Dave and I wandered a bit while Louise shopped.

We’d heard that Bellingen was a cute, little hippie joint full of culture, cafes and second hand stores, which is right up our alley. The majority of the east coast is overflowing with Subway, tourists, and 20 year old backpackers that aren’t like our pals Dan and Alicia (HI KIDS!) but more like Snookie and every drunken frat boy you’ve ever been slobbered on by. We only had about a half an hour before we had to be back on the road to Louise’s, but we wandered enough to discover that Bellingen indeed lives up to its cool, laid back reputation, thankfully.

18K’s and one long and winding, semi-dirt road later (trips to town only happen once or twice a week, as we are in the middle of nowhere again; hooray!) we arrive in a stunningly beautiful valley, where chateau de Cranny stands (a cozy, 4 ½ room home), where a river meets a stream which runs alongside the house, and where we are surrounded by hundreds of acres of temperate rainforest! The neighbors in the valley, mostly garlic farmers and donkey farms, are a tight knit group, so it’s somewhat reminiscent of Golden Bay in New Zealand; this makes me happy, and even more so when I see the bungalow Dave and I will call home for the next five days.

Since we left Magnetic Island, where we snorkeled the GBR (which was spectacular!) Australia hasn’t felt very, well, Australian; for me anyway. That is, until now. Personally, when I travel, I don’t want to feel like I am anywhere close to home, or that my environment is too familiar for that matter. What I mean is this; traveling, for me, is about re-learning how to see, speak, taste, touch and smell; I want to leap out of my comfort zone and into a whole new way of experiencing the five senses. This is probably why I loved China as much as I did when I visited my Uncle Tom on business in Shanghai; I felt that the only thing I had in common with the Chinese was that I was a human and so were they. I really appreciate the exotic factor when I travel, and love learning about how and what the rest of the world eats, breathes, thinks, hangs on their walls, and whether they have indoor plumbing or not (here=no.)

So, when I’m living 18k from the nearest traffic light, in a temperate rainforest, surrounded by garlic and donkey farms, living in a one room cabin on a hill that has 2 beds, a fireplace, a Huntsman in the cupboard, a banana tree outside the door, and smells musty like a cabin should, and a 3 meter carpet snake (a type of python) lives under the front step of the house (which we have seen and pet), and I’ve already been used as a juice box by three leeches, and a glance out the kitchen window leads to seeing a wallaby hopping by, and we can step outside on the patio to a lovely pink and orange sunset laced with fog rising over the rainforest valley, complete with kookaburras laughing in the distance and exotic, unidentifiable birds soaring over the treetops during the sunset, and our toilet is either the longdrop (outhouse) or the lawn (and if you’re going to use the lawn, then watch out for the leeches) and there is only dial up that doesn’t always connect, and Vegemite is ever present at the breakfast table, and we stop for tea and biscuits midday; it is then, that I am in my travel bliss.

Now don’t get me wrong; living on the vineyard for ten days with two of the sweetest people in the world who treated us like their children was heavenly. I got to mow an entire vineyard for hours on end (mowing is my zen), and we were incredibly fortunate to have an Aussie bush guide take us hiking up two mountains, connected by a saddleback, on a perfect, sunny, fall day. We pruned, planted and fertilized beautiful gardens in gorgeous weather with cappuccino breaks that were accompanied by scones and fresh cream and jams, we drank homemade lemonade with freshly picked lemons and mint, ate incredible meals and desserts every day and night, attended the county fair and ate cotton candy, watched fireworks, and gawked at locals, we poured wine at a catered event where we listened to live music, looked at art, and ate cheeses and olives and spreads and breads, went kangaroo spotting and saw roos-a-plenty, we ate fish and chips and drank wine by the sea, and at the end of each relaxing day filled with sunshiney breezes and great conversation and laughter with both our hosts and the Canadian wwoofers they took in (that would be the “kids” I referenced earlier, Dan and Alicia) we would lay our full bellies and happy hearts on our cozy beds at night, and sleep heavily and fitfully, only to awaken to yet another day of living in paradise.

Sure, we had toilets that flushed, didn’t see marsupial mice darting in and out of corners like we do here, and never thought twice about deadly snakes and spiders, and the same went for where we just left, Byron Bay, a surf town we spent the last week in, living with a very sweet family with righteous teens (I’m old), in a rather beautiful and architecturally eclectic home designed and built by the owners, where at the end of each day we’d either take a hike on a trail through the woods, along the ocean, to a lighthouse, and out along a rocky outcropping where we would watch the sun turn the sky and the clouds into a Monet painting, hear the power of the ocean smash into the rocks below, and see dolphins swimming in the distance, or, ride the family bikes for a 20 minute pedal into town and end up lying on the beach ogling surfers, and digging our toes into the squeaky, soft, warm, white sand. Not too shabby….where was I going with all of this?? Oh, right; it’s been a good life as of late.

Sidenote: It hasn’t always been dolphins and rainbows; there was that four day stint with “the hoarders” (see Facebook pics for the wretched details.) Yet, I even found my moment of travel zen there as well when I took a long walk with The Hoarder’s two, exceptionally cute dogs, Jack and Lucy, down a dusty, country road lined with sugar cane fields, on a spectacularly warm and sunny day. For two, glorious, serene hours I traipsed along by myself, in what some might call “God’s country,” soaking up the sun and warm breeze, pausing now and again for the dogs to finish their swim in the creek or a run in the sugar cane, and whistling Waltzing Matilda all along the way (and always watching out for deadly snakes.) When I was a kid my mom used to sing that song to me, and throughout my adult life I have sung it to many children I’ve cared for; so when I found myself whistling the “unofficial national anthem of Australia,” a song I’ve been singing all my life, but this time on a country road IN Australia, it sort of resonated with me how cool that actually was.

So anyway, there you have it; we’re still happily adventuring along, anticipating our Upstate NY summer, as today was the first day of winter, which means it’s 70F instead of 90F, which is AOK with me.

Sleep is calling me; nature calls as well; but, I don’t want to squat in the dark for fear of leeches or spiders crawling on my bum. I also want to slip into sweet dreams and pretend I didn’t just hear the squeaks and squeals of what might be a white tailed rat; earlier we recognized a rat trap under the sink, and I definitely flicked some sort of rodent poo off my blankets before I crawled into bed this evening. It’s not that I’m ecstatic about living with vermin or Huntsman, or enjoy picking leeches off of my body; it’s merely the adaptation and adventure of having to do so, and the story that goes along with it.

Cape Tribulation, Australia; April 2011

Australia: Not For Pansies

Australia makes me feel like I’m five again, which is a pretty awesome feeling, in one sense, and a not so great feeling in another. Here’s why it’s awesome: when you’re five, everything is obscenely magical, utterly fascinating and requires incessant questioning; the color of sky, the smell in the air, an ant on a leaf, the vine on a tree, a log on the ground; everything deserves a closer look, a poke, a prod, and now and again a taste, often with wrinkled nose.

Here’s why it’s not so great: sometimes, upon closer inspection, you realize that what you originally thought desperately needed your attention, turns out to be quite the opposite; such as when the vine actually IS a snake, or the log actually IS a crocodile. Fortunately neither of those have rang true for me, yet; although in my 5 year old imagination, and out of the corner of my eye, every vine is indeed a snake, and every log is indeed a croc. Needless to say, I’m a tad jumpy in Australia; like an overly caffeinated, strung out, bomb defuser with post traumatic stress disorder kind of jumpy

For instance, this one time I was vacuuming one of our host’s homes and came across an interesting looking, rather large, and dead, bug, which I deemed worthy of further inspection. I delicately picked it up by a corner of its body, and holding it at arm’s length walked it over to Aemon, our host’s 12 year old son. “Aemon, what kind of bug is this?” I naively asked, with which he replied wearing a deadpan expression, “That’s actually a microbat; you might want to let go of that.” This was followed up by his mom, Frances, with her own deadpan face, “Yes and if you see any fruit bats, they carry disease so leave those be.” Welcome to Australia, where you think it’s a dead bug, but it’s actually a disease addled bat.

And so although this weird, wild, wiggling world of wonder called Australia (or OZ, as some call it) makes me feel like Jack Skellington with the number of times I have pointed and asked, wide-eyed, “What’s THIS? What’s THIS!?!” it also scares the shite out of me. And it’s big. It’s big, and it’s scary, and sometimes I want my Mommy….. or the big, tall German, who will pretend he’s brushing a bit of debris out of my hair, and then afterward tell me it was actually a Huntsman that found its way onto my head, he just didn’t want to scare me. And yes, that actually happened, and this is a Huntsman: http://www.escapethecity.co.uk/wp-content/gallery/scraps/scrap-huntsman-spider-australia.jpg

Let me give you a little more insight as to why Australia scares me (albeit less and less each day), and should scare you, too. I just finished a great book by the wonderful travel writer, Bill Bryson, called In A Sunburned Country; it’s about his own travels, and tribulations, around Australia. On page six he says this, “It (OZ) has more things that will kill you than anywhere else. Of the world’s ten most poisonous snakes, all are Australian. Five of its creatures- the funnel web spider, box jellyfish, blue-ringed octopus, paralysis tick, and stonefish- are the most lethal of their type in the world. This is a country where even the fluffiest of caterpillars can lay you out with a toxic nip, where seashells will not just sting you but actually sometimes go for you. Pick up an innocuous cone shell from a Queensland beach, as innocent tourists are all too wont to do, and you will discover that the little fellow inside is not just astoundingly swift and testy but exceedingly venomous. If you are not stung or pronged to death in some unexpected manner, you may be fatally chomped by sharks or crocodiles, or carried helplessly out to sea by irresistible currents, or left to stagger to an unhappy death in the baking outback. It’s a tough place.”

Along the way I created a new slogan for Aussie license plates: AUSTRALIA: NOT FOR PANSIES.

But sometimes I’m not scared at all, and just in complete awe; like the day Dave and I took a long walk down a dirt road in the rainforest on a sunny day, which was lined on both sides with hibiscus plants, as tall as two of me, and fluttering in and between the bright, orange flowers were the most incredibly stunning butterflies I have ever seen (outside of a glass box) with wings shimmering in iridescent, electric blues and greens, and had names like the Ulysses and Bird Wing butterflies, and it was all so enchanting I couldn’t even believe it wasn’t a movie set, and I’d just stand and watch, slack jawed, like when I was five.

Or like when we were standing in the middle of another rainforest, but on a rainy day, in an orchard of exotic trees eating homemade ice cream made from the fruit of those trees, with weird names like Wattle Seed and Soursop, and the guide who drove us to get the ice cream pointed out into the orchard and said, “Look, there’s one.” And he meant a cassowary; an endangered, flightless bird, standing as tall as me, hopping up to grab a piece of fruit from a tree, and looked like a cross between an emu and one of Jim Henson’s muppets, with a bright blue head and neck, a long, red waddle dangling from it’s chin, a shock of fluorescent orange around its neck, and a golden crest topping its crown. I just stood there, again, in awe, watching this bird that looked more like something from Jurassic Park than it did a real, live animal standing in front of me.

It was one of six cassowary sightings we were fortunate enough to experience in our three week stay in the tropical rainforests of Queensland, Queensland being one of the five states of Australia. We spotted another one on a nature hike, through the dense rainforest foliage, among winding swaths of vines and branches and leaves and casks of fig trees entangled in more vines and branches and an abundance of life everywhere you looked; we were certain a pterodactyl could emerge at any moment,

Another cassowary was wandering around outside of our sleepout one morning at the Rainforest Hideaway lodge, a brilliantly designed accommodation built single-handed by our host, Rob, a sculptor and wood carver, who dotted the trails, ponds and porches with his sculptures, and furnished the establishment with his hand carved furniture. Our sleepout consisted of a very, small, raised room, a treehouse essentially, with two raised beds on either side, encased in netting on three sides, with a rope and slat-board bridge linking us back to the lodge, which was wide open and backed into the jungle of the Daintree Rainforest. Cassowary sightings were common there, as the lodge stood in the heart of the rainforest; which is why we saw, and heard, verdant wildlife; four foot long monitor lizards ambling around the driveway, scrub hens, bush turkeys, white tailed rats, huntsman spiders, golden orb spiders, snakes slithering into the woodpile, geckos, skinks, tree frogs, a catbird that sounds like a screaming cat, and my favorite, the laughing kookaburra that, in my opinion, is the king of the jungle scream; here, listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S0ZbykXlg6Q At night, we would lay in the dark, Dave on his side, me on the other (wrapped entirely in a duvet sarcophagus) and just listen in disbelief at a soundtrack we’d only heard in movies before we bunked in a tropical rainforest.

The final three cassowary sightings occurred at the yoga sanctuary we spent nine days at, which had a spectacular view of the Coral Sea from the apex of the mountainous hill the sanctuary sat upon. If you were fortunate enough to stay in one of the eco-tents at The Sanctuary, as I was, every morning the sun rose at your toes, through one of the screened in walls, and looked as if the Sea were on fire with pink and red and yellow and orange flames. Each morning I would gently open my eyes, see the sunrise, smile with sweet satisfaction, and fall peacefully back to sleep. This was a place where you were alone on long, steep walkways to and from the main building, where we would have our meals or work in the kitchen, and where you could turn a corner and happen upon a cassowary, or easily step on one of the thirty or forty cane toads that littered the paths at night in the pitch dark, or, if you were lucky, see a python, or a rare, ring-tailed possum (which Dave did) or a kangaroo in the middle of the road on your way to swim at a waterfall with a cute German (which I did.)

Yet if only these scenic destinations and momentous occasions could be as innocent as they sound, because they aren’t. Australia is like that, though; it’s this wild rollercoaster of, “Oooooh, WOOOOW! Look at THAT! How beauti- Ooooooh…. my GOD what IS THAT!?!!!!”

For example, on our walk to the beach from The Sanctuary, we could see and hear and smell the beauty of the Sea in the distance. But, as we’d approach the entrance between the breezy, coconut palm trees, there was the most morbid, yellow caution sign you’ve ever seen, of a man entangled in either a giant squid or a box jellyfish, the latter which will kill you in just about twenty minutes if you’re unlucky enough to encounter one. Maybe you’ll be fortunate enough to avoid the box jelly, though, and only get stung by the iricongi that is literally the size of your pinky fingernail, and will cause you so much pain and agony, for WEEKS, you only wish it were a box jelly sting so that it had killed you. Oh, and then there’s the saltwater crocodiles; here’s a little story for you…..

Paul, our host at The Sanctuary, was taking a swim out to Sea one day (at the same beach we frequented during our stay) only to glance over and, lo and behold, greet a croc swimming right next to him. For some reason or another it bypassed Paul (he thinks it was because it was mating season, so it was looking for a mate, not Paul) and calmly, yet shocked with fear, he turned around and swam back to shore. No big whoop. Just fourteen feet of jaws and teeth so perfectly engineered for tearing flesh that it hasn’t needed to evolve in 200 million years. In life, you only get bit by a croc once; after that, game over man.

With that said, let me tell you something we’ve noticed about Aussies and all of this deadly creature business; from the moment you arrive in Oz, you are bombarded with information about what can and may kill you during your stay. From the Sydney airport, where inside the walls are covered from head to toe with pictures of underwater scenery, and pictures of creepy, sprawling spiders, and the text asks you to guess which creature is the deadliest from the lot of deadly creatures displayed (answer: the box jellyfish and the Sydney funnel web spider) to books provided by our hosts, books in gift shops and in small markets, and on posters in our host’s homes and in their garages, to the stories about swimming with saltwater crocs and bites by redback spiders that cause death by heart attack; it’s all fascinating stuff, until you consider that it’s not just in a book; in reality, it’s all around you.

Yet when we show the slightest bit of hesitancy when we’re asked to go into the tall grass behind the old, dead bathtub and rotting garbage bins and start pulling weeds (when we’re way the hell out in God’s country, hours from a hospital) or we show the slightest bit of fear when asked to get into the pond and start wading around and reaching in to collect debris from the bottom, or when we dare question as to whether there might be a snake or spider or man-eating leech in said weeds or pond, this is what we get, “You silly Americans and your crazy ideas about Australia! It’s fine! Just do it!” I’m not even exaggerating. I have the good Bill Bryson to back me up on this one, where, on page 151 he says, “Australians are very unfair this way. They spend half of any conversation insisting that there’s nothing to worry about, and the other half telling you how six months ago their Uncle Bob was driving to Mudgee when a tiger snake slid out from under the dashboard and bit him on the groin, but that it’s okay now because he’s off the life support machine and they’ve discovered he can communicate with eye blinks.” Thank you, Bill.

Aimee: “Paul, you’re sure it’s safe to go down to the beach?”

Paul: “Oh yeah, sure, it’s not a problem.”

Paul’s daughter, Eve: “One time Dad was swimming and a crocodile swam right up next to him!”

Paul also has a huge jellyfish laceration/scar across his chest.

Aimee, three feet up on a ladder: “Paul, what’s this spider you have here that looks like a scorpion and moves every time I do? Is it dangerous?”

Paul: “Oh, I don’t know; it’s kind of cute though, huh?”

Aimee: “Yeah. Cute. That’s the word I was looking for. I just wanna give it a cuddle.”

Next scene: scorpion spider, meet Aimee’s shoe.

And that cassowary? All six feet of it that looks like an adorable, funny faced muppet?? Hear this; on each of its feet it has a razor sharp spike, and when provoked, or whenever it feels like it, it will come running at you and kick you with BOTH feet (both spikes that is) and slice you wide open, spilling your guts all over the rainforest floor…..which is probably great fertilizer, so you’d really only be adding to the beauty.

But oh, those Ulysses butterflies…. they’ll just dazzle you…. and distract you, so that you don’t see the hill of electric ants you just stepped in…..

New Zealand overture; March 2011

New Zealand: A finale in five somewhat scattered, possibly disjointed parts..... ie. why I should blog more than once a month

By: Aimee B. Jones

ONE.

The immense beauty of New Zealand is behind us, the rainforests, reefs, beaches and deserts of Australia are ahead of us, and the journey is now half over; this seems like the perfect time to reflect….. and where I may get a little wishy washy; hey, it’s our blog, we can write what we want.

I had a really hard time leaving New Zealand, for a multitude of reasons, but for one major reason; it was the first time in five years I felt at peace in my heart and head about myself and my life; New Zealand, therefore, has left an indelible mark on my heart for that reason alone. It’s like when you were a kid and you fell down and got hurt and ran to your mom, and she held you in her arms and consoled you; made it better. That was New Zealand for me.

The consolation this time was dancing and laughing all night to samba music, languishing under millions of stars and unfamiliar constellations, it was long, heartfelt talks below silvery, moonlit skies, in a natural hot spring tub, in vegetable gardens, flower gardens, and along white sand, black sand and golden sand beaches. It was a two hour barefoot hike through a wet, lush forest lined with cool, clear streams running with us along the way, it was unfathomable sunsets at a beach at the end of the world, it was exquisite naps on said beach in the middle of the day, complete and utter isolation for an entire week in the middle of a stunning national park, and non stop laughter between the two of us, for weeks on end.

It was also unbearably cute Canadians and Kiwis, and an adorable Italian with a beautiful heart (and accent) who helped me remember and resurface an innocence about myself that has been long forgotten and sorely missed. It was everything I needed, and much, much, MUCH more, and I couldn’t possibly express the avalanche of gratitude that I hold for having taken this journey, and with a friend who has become like family to me.

TWO.

If I weren’t so close with my own, dear family, and actually wanted to watch my nieces and impending nephew take their first steps and say their first words over Facebook (which I don’t) then I would without a doubt, in two shakes of a lambs tail, move to the area of New Zealand called Golden Bay.

Dave and I can both agree, I believe, that this was the region of New Zealand that we loved the most. It was, in fact, the reason why we never made it to the more drastic and stunning areas of the South Island, those with jaw dropping views of snow capped mountains lining mirrored, glassy lakes. Our friend, Stu, in Karamea (which was as far as we got on the South Island, which was about an eighth of the way down) put it this way; one evening as we watched an achingly beautiful sunset on the beach, Stu murmured under his breath, in his characteristic, raspy voice, and with a half smile, “This, is just an entree.”

Yet, the entire three weeks we spent dawdling in Golden Bay was worth every inch that we missed in the South Island. The moment we came down the winding, snakey road on Takaka Hill, which was a mountain of a hill with jack knife turns and resplendent views of the Bay (and calling it a hill is kind of like calling Mt. Rushmore a knickknack) I looked over at Dave in the bus seat near mine, eyes wide as saucers, and watched as he mouthed one word to me, “Wow.”

THREE.

Golden Bay is where a lot of the things happened that you might have read from the list in my last post, such as meeting Karlo the gypsy who taught me some guitar tricks, sleeping in a housetruck, Danny the English wwoofer and Michael the English sub-wwoofer, Diamond Steve and the worst nickname story…. EVER, Kirtan meditation at the ashram in the clouds, dancing all night at The Mussel, our yurt, sandflies, sunsets, and on and on……

I believe I wrote that list while staying at our pal Terry’s house in the Abel Tasman National Park…. which is also where I turned 34 and hiked barefoot for two hours to the Tasman Sea… and where I also pulled some bizarre New Zealand death-wasp from my foot, which was excruciatingly painful…. and also where one of my favorite quotes was born, which was, “I should have picked some sage when we were at Leatherface’s.” …..and also where we met one of our all time favorite people on this trip, Sandy, whose stories about living in Berkeley back in the 60’s, accidentally meeting the Manson family, and sailing around the world on a boat for twenty years, make my own stories go as limp as when Bugs Bunny tries to make a muscle and instead it hangs like a wet noodle….. and also “Yi.”, nashiquila, Rosy Glow, Nang, Te Koru, sweet as your nana, “Hold on, the shaman is banging the drum again and I can’t hear or tell what’s going on.”, and also, and also, and also……

These experiences that have shaped us, our perspectives, our perceptions, our entire lives, past, present and future, are absolutely endless, and even if I wrote a new blog post every, single day, I still couldn’t capture everything that Golden Bay, or even New Zealand, meant to us.

For me, it’s like trying to bottle the ocean; there’s just too much, and even if you could, what you have in the end is just a by product, or a version of something that is just too vast and too rich to be broken down into pieces and put on display. Sure, you can taste it and smell it and see it for what it’s worth, but it’s only a microcosm of something much more grand, and good luck trying to bottle that soundtrack.

FOUR.

Golden Bay is a particularly special place though, with or without those memories; and I don’t think it’s that I was seeing it through rose-colored, vacation goggles either, although I’m sure that played a part in it somewhat. There really is something unique about that tiny speck on the globe and the people who inhabit it, and they know it as well, and when you talk to them about it you can see and hear the gratitude they have for their community.

Here is what it isn’t; the small town where I grew up, called Pulaski, NY, population 2,000, and dwindling, which has one too many dollar stores for its population, not a single art gallery, and although the surrounding countryside is quite pretty, the town lost its charm long, long ago (no offense, Pulaskians.)*

Here is what it is: lying in a basin, at the foot of Takaka “Hill” (we talked about this “hill” business), surrounded by white sand beaches and the sparkling, aquamarine Tasman Sea, as well as miles and miles of rolling countryside adorned with cattle, palm trees and sheep…. lots and lots of sheep, Golden Bay houses an ashram in the clouds, an Inn that is recommended in the Lonely Planet guide for their award winning homebrews and live music (which comes highly recommended from firsthand experience), locally distilled kefir lime schnapps and honey whiskey made by our pal Terry, two, intentional, living communities (Rainbow and Tui), a mouthwatering chocolate shop that rivals Belgium alone, a beautiful harbor, a rock labyrinth, clothing shops, thrift shops, buskers (street musicians), a really cool and well designed bar called Roots that serves their own, delicious homebrews, and plays reggae on Friday nights (which we familiarized ourselves with quite well), restaurants and markets that sell superbly delicious organic, locally grown foods, and those are merely the highlights.

Also, everyone is barefoot; no shirt, no shoes, no service does not apply; you STILL get served, even if you have naked feet. Naked torsos? I didn’t test that one out; although my guess is that it probably could fly, as the town holds an annual Naked Bike Ride every year, which we missed due to a very long, memorable night at Roots. I was going to ride as Wonder Woman…. my costume mere body paint, which wouldn’t have been a first for me….but, I digress.

The crème de la crème of this quirky community? Multitudes of art galleries, everywhere; and in the stores and restaurants the walls are loaded with even more quality art made by even more talented, local artists, and not a stones throw away from one gallery is yet another artist** in his or her studio, painting or sculpting or carving or firing, and they are always willing to show you around, even if you’re just a curious traveler peeking inside. It’s my own little utopia.

So, can anyone tell me where, in the U.S., its clone may exist? Don’t forget the beaches, I need a beach; you know, for the naps.

Oh, but wait, I haven’t even told you one of the best parts yet…..

The people. From Lisa and Geoff, to Steve and Melissa, to Seb and Sam, to Nang, to Diamond Steve, to Melissa’s ex the reggae spinner, to Steve’s ex Haley, to Terry and Rachel, to Sandy, to Crazy Dave who turned out to be much more sane than his friend Crazy Steve, to Marina and Rianna, to Danni and Sue, to Eyebrows, to Ishka…Uschkae…Uieashkae….to Mr. Banasi the former Canadian who picked us up hitching one day and brought us to the gypsy fair, only to meet him again at his school, to the crew at the ashram, to Brett, to Roy….. the town is full of character, and characters. By the end of our three weeks in Golden Bay, we were practically locals, saying hello on the streets and in stores to our own group of regulars that we had familiarized ourselves with during our stay.

So what has drawn me most to that area probably has less to do with gypsys and housetrucks and dancing under the stars, but more to do with what is at the heart of this thriving little community of 3000 people, and that’s just it; community, and the immense support of local arts and artists.

*I will say, though, that my dad has more commitment to his community, in his pinky alone, than everyone in Golden Bay combined; which is saying more about my dad than Golden Bay. Ie. he’s a hero of mine.

**one should NEVER throw stones at an artist

FIVE.

Our entire experience in Golden Bay was nearly captured in one, lovely and memorable evening at Lisa and Geoff’s home, who were our very first wwoof hosts, in Takaka (one of the towns in GB) and were conveniently located 2k down the road from the infamous Mussel Inn. Oh Manuka brew, how I miss you so.

Lisa and Geoff embody nearly everything about Golden Bay that I love; first, their desire to live self sufficiently and respectfully from the land. Their meat comes from their sheep in their paddock, their eggs from their hens, their milk from their goat that they milk each and every morning, their veggies from their veg garden, their juice from their fruit, and they can pay for their land through the sale of the juice they process from the fruit in their orchards. They compost all of their food scraps, use rainwater for all of their H2O needs, utilize clotheslines instead of dryers, and take/use only what they need. Their home is simple and uncluttered, quaint and comfy, and if it does all come down around us in 2012, they can just sit back, relax, and live off their land… where they might find me standing, with one of those sacks hobos carry around that are tied to a stick, full of my belongings….. but I digress.

Secondly, their love for their culture, their country, and ultimately, their community; these were the folks that built themselves a two bedroom housetruck and lived in it for fifteen years, traveling around New Zealand, witnessing and learning about their country and culture as much as they could, selling homemade clothes and jewelry for money, while raising their two boys, AJ and Steve. The jewelry making that Geoff did on the road turned into his career off the road as well; he is now a very talented and well known jade carver in Golden Bay, and his studio and gallery, Te Koru Arts (which is Maori for something beautiful, but don’t ask me what) is right down the road from his home, where we dropped a coin or two at. Jade, or greenstone, is a really special stone to the Maori culture, and is incorporated into their creation myth; you’ll notice if you visit (which you should) that everywhere you go around New Zealand, people are selling, and wearing, jade carvings.

The lovely, memorable evening that I am getting at was their annual Harvest Party, or, Nashiquila Party. A nashi is basically an asian pear, and when Dave and I wwoofed for them, we helped (along with Danny, the English wwoofer) harvest nashi pears, apples and lemons. The entire organic crop was then sent to a local juicer and turned into a few hundred gallons of nashi pear/apple/lemon juice they will then sell in town at markets and stores, to help pay for their land. To celebrate the season, they invite their neighbors and friends to their home for a bbq, a “sing-song” around the fire, and serve the juice…. but for us it’s combined with tequila! Hence, nashiquila; GOOD stuff.

There were familiar faces at the party that we had already become well acquainted with (Marina and Rianna!) and new ones we would befriend throughout the evening (Danni and Sue!) and as people arrived they filled the dinner table filled with brightly colored salads and assorted, homemade foodstuffs, which we ate around the fire on bales of hay and old, dusty couches we dragged off the front porch.

But, the most endearing and unforgettable part of the evening happened before we dug into the beautiful spread from the table; Lisa and Geoff had us all gather around the fire so they could speak. They wanted to express their gratitude for all of our friendship, for the food, for Mother Nature, and for the community, and also to acknowledge the changes that are happening in the world (this was post-Christchurch and Japanese earthquake) and that no matter how separated people become from one another in the world, by greed or materialism or what, they felt fortunate to live in a community of people that looked after one another, and the land, and they wanted to express just how valuable that was to them. Then, Lisa sang a traditional Maori song, in the Maori language, which I posted the lyrics to below. It was an incredibly touching moment that really resonated with me, especially once I read the translation of the song.

As the night went on, the party dwindled down to only a handful of people, myself and Dave included (as always.) Guitars were brought out and silly, drunken versions of Moondance and Hotel California were sung, Lisa sang a few of her originals (one a remake she did of the Old Crow Medicine Show song, Wagon Wheel, and she inserted people and places around Golden Bay into the lyrics) and the last moments of the night were of Dave and I listening to the few that were left talk about the direction their country and culture was going; they were concerned, but hopeful, which is yet another reason why I love it there so much; they still have a lot of hope.

I cried pretty hard on our last day in NZ. Poor Gerar, who drove us from Karamea to Christchurch (where we flew out of, and were woken in the night by an aftershock from the earthquake they just had.) He appreciated and understood my tears, but my how a crying woman makes a man squirm!

When we flew over NZ to Australia we were able to view the mountains on the South Island that we missed seeing up close. I’m grateful that we got to see them either way, from the ground or the sky, and I didn’t view them begrudgingly, because I know in my heart that I’ll be back. Aroha nui, New Zealand; until we meet again…..

Purea Nei

Purea nei e te hau
Horoia e te ua
Whitiwhitia e te ra
Mahea ake nga poraruraru
Makere ana nga here.

E rere wairua, e rere
Ki nga ao o te rangi
Whitiwhitia e te ra
Mahea ake nga poraruraru
Makere ana nga here,
Makere ana nga here.

Scattered by the wind
washed by the rain
and transformed by the sun,
all doubts are swept away
and all restrains are cast down.

Fly O free spirit, fly
to the clouds in the heavens,
transformed by the sun,
with all doubts swept away
and all restrains cast down.
Yes, all restrains are cast down.

Rotorua, New Zealand, North Island and Golden Bay, New Zealand, South Island; February-March 2011

A month ago I lost my wristwatch in Lake Tarawera on the biscuit. What, you may wonder, does that even mean? It’s actually something quite meaningful for me; it means that time isn’t measured by the arms on my Swatch anymore, but by the instances in life which happen to and around me, something I’ve always striven for, and now have no other choice, but to just let live and be; it’s a gift, really (both the watch AND losing it; sorry Uncle Scott.) Sure, after sporting various wristwatches since the approximate age of 6 (my Annie watch being my all-time favorite, and the Goofy watch with the numbers reading counterclockwise a close second) I’ve conditioned myself to glance at my wrist at least once (or eighteen times) an hour. But since my watch was ripped off my wrist by the sheer force of water wrapping and winding itself around my body after being tossed like a rag doll from the back of a water raft (the biscuit) which was tied to a speedboat driven by Captain Leadfoot (hi Chris!) I find myself looking for the time less and less, and just letting the day roll along, taking me with it ….. a little more gently than I rolled off the biscuit, that’s for sure.

So where has life taken us since our last blog (which feels like a hundred million years ago) and what instances might we be measuring our days by, you ask, dear Readers??? Well, if I had one hundred pages to blog with, I still couldn’t describe to you all that we’ve experienced since my transcendental bushwalk; but I can say, for the both of us, that it’s permanently changed us and our lives for the better; absolutely.

BUT! Nobody likes answers like that; we’re Americans! We need concrete evidence! So I’ll sum it up for you in a list that you may or may not appreciate and/or entirely understand, but, think of it as a photo album of snapshots; you’ll get the gist of the adventure, but until you decide to undergo your own life altering journey, the air of mystery prevails….. and besides, remember the last time you asked your friends about their trip to Europe, and suddenly you were knee deep in stacks of photographs and caught in the middle of a bombardment of the well intentioned couple’s story, after story, after story? Like a soldier in the midst of a hail of bullets; choose your moment wisely to duck out or it’s your life….

ANYWAY! I won’t be that guy, but here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DyLOkbW9yCI if you listen to this while you’re reading, it may add a little something that will make it less of a “List of Things We Did” and more of “An Overture of the Time of Our Lives.”

What really gets me is that we still have more time left on our journey than we’ve already used up; how much gratitude do we have? Immeasurable amounts.

Cheers!

The last two months looked, sounded and smelled something like this:

hay

a “Hay party”

chickens…. and then the rooster, strutting around outside our door

sheep, outside the door, chewing and staring at us inside the yurt

being treated like family everywhere we go, and eating like kings and queens!

observing a dinner table full of drunken Kiwis (native New Zealanders) and wondering what the hell they’re even saying as their accents grow more and more “lush”

“Good on ya!”

“It’s all tickety boo!”

“Sweet as!”

“Suck the kumara.”

rosemary HEDGES

lavendar

basil

HONEY

star/satellite/Milky Way gazing while enjoying a Monteith and talking about Life and the Universe

looking at our view across Lake Tarawera at the volcano that destroyed the Pink and White Terraces and imagining what it was like the night it erupted

brushing our teeth to the sounds of laughing hens in the morning, who shared our sleepout

waking up to the rooster at 4:30am….and again at 5am…. and then again at 5:30am…..

birds with songs so beautiful they don’t sound real, and one that even sounds computer generated

cicadas and GINORMOUS crickets with a GINORMOUS chirp

sitting in a natural hot spring tub with a bottle of wine each night after dinner

zen for Aimee: mowing a lawn for hours on end

listening to our hosts tell us the stories of their lives

the FOOD: warm, fresh eggs straight from the hen house, the brilliant, yellow/orange color of the yolks, fresh veg and herb straight from the garden, fresh meat from the paddock, fruit compote made from the fruit trees in the yard, pear/apple/lemon juice squeezed from the crop we picked, and on and on and on…..

walking up the hill behind the sleepout through a shady path into an enormous, sunny field of rolling, amber hills dotted with sheep, into a winding, manuka forest, and out onto a private beach setting on a crystal clear, green-blue lake so private that one could sunbathe topless……if they wanted to

the smell of exotic flowers in breathtakingly beautiful gardens buzzing and humming with giant bumblebees

the scenery outside the bus windows to my own personal soundtrack on my iPod (thanks Mom!)

pointing out huge spiders to each other, and I know they’re big when Dave says, “wow that IS a big one.”

determining whether an article of clothing needs to be washed or whether it’s “clean enough”

hiking the inside of a volcano and having lunch by the Emerald Lakes of Mt. Doom!

useless warning/evacuation signs inside said volcano

partying with people from all over the world

8 bed hostel rooms and a French guy with a lung infection = no sleep all night long

hitching

Dave’s “bubblin mud” song

Dave’s flute playing

Dave’s impersonation of Fabian

Dave’s hilariousness in general

guitar lessons from a six foot tall, 15 year old, righteous chick

guitar lessons from a gypsy

rolling green hills reminiscent of Ireland, splashed with golden hues as the sun sets

strangers from Piha bringing us dinner and G&T’s for an evening in Wellington

stranger from Wellington buying us beers all night

dancing and drinking and laughing to bossanova/samba music at the Mussel Inn, followed by a beautiful moonlit walk home

gypsy sing-song by a full moon and fire, with a true gypsy

housetruck home by a stream and a swimming hole

15 years in a housetruck

tried and true, dyed in the wool hippies

Diamond Steve and the worst nickname story ever

a rockin’ one handed guitarist

“Roy, 2 minutes for Christchurch?” “Oh, yeah, right.”

lavendar balm

sandflies

self sufficient and living entirely off the grid

I’ve Been Workin….I’ve Be….I’ve Been Workin on th….I’ve Been Workin on the Raaaaailroooooad…..

herding sheep and milking goats

ocean walks on beaches that have no end in sight, and a sunset so beautiful you can’t tell where the sky ends and the ocean begins

Danny the English wwoofer

Michael the English “wwoofer”

hundreds and hundreds of sand dollars; sea stars, jellys, hermit crabs, jelly egg sacs

Sandcastle in a yurt by the sea

dislocated shoulder and an extracted tooth

gypsy fair

“Golden sweat I eat the cheese”

an ashram in the clouds

SANDFLIES!!!!!!

being dropped off in a solar powered home inside the Abel Tasman National Park where the closest human is over an hours walk away and the river is our fridge

watching Dave turn a wisteria vine into a piece of art

a campfire under the Milky Way and homemade honey whiskey

solitude.

and so, SO, SO much more………

Alright so I chose one thing from the list and decided to elaborate a little, since it was one of the more memorable things we did (besides hanging with hippies and gypsies, one handed guitarists and chainsaw artists….that’s going to be the title of my wwoofing memoirs, by the way.)

So the people we are currently staying with meditate at the local ashram (a spiritual center) every week on Wednesdays. On our first Wednesday with them they invited us to go, but they got too busy and couldn’t, so they sent us without them in their car; nice! Steve, our super awesome, sweet as pie host, drew us a primitive map of lefts and rights into town, and then simply wrote, “Up and up!” for the way to the ashram, and off we went; me, Dave and the English traveler-in-resident, Michael.

So Dave drives…. on the other side of the car, the other side of the road, a shift stick, in a tiny VW, and I’m in the back. When we reach the base of the climb where do we go? Why up and up, of course! We drive up…. and up… and then we twist, and then we turn, and then we go up some more, and up…. and suddenly, the turns become jack knife turns….. and then, the banks on the road aren’t banks anymore, but instead they slope downward at dizzying heights, and then the shoulder disappears so that staying to the left side where the cliffs are is essential to our survival…. and then, a HUGE yellow sign with a GIANT exclamation point on it, and below it, it says FORD, which means there is a fast stream ahead for us to, well, FORD, and suddenly, there it is! And for each one I am forewarned, “FORD, BACKSEAT!” And! It’s forded! Nice work, Dave.

So, picture it; we are crossing streams, twisting and turning on a slippery dirt road, traveling up, and up, and up, and UP…. and UP!!!!!! And then, we look down…. and we realize, okay, so, we are climbing this entire mountain to get to the ashram; it’s not just up and up, it’s literally Buddha is on TOP of the mountain. After about 20 minutes of this careful creeping turtle’s pace, and two gates to stop, get out, open gate, pass through, stop, close gate, get back in, and go….. STILL no ashram. The white’s in Dave’s knuckles are now starting to show.

But man, when we look back, it is thee most beautiful, incredible, amazing view I have ever seen in my life, of mountains and valleys and sheep and sunset and the ocean and greens and blues and golds, and reflections from the sunset of pinks and purples and orange, and beauty and serenity and maybe even a little bit of what heaven might look like, and an exclamation from the UK that he thinks he could cry it’s so beautiful. And every jack knife turn we take, and every stream we ford, and every corner we turn, I think that I am seeing the most beautiful scenery of my life, until we take just one more turn…. couple that with being absolutely terrified that, as we climb along the edge of this mountain, we could also easily brake too suddenly or gas the car too quickly and end up rolling down the side of the mountain in a fiery ball, makes this one of the most intense car rides of my life. 

We kept this way up and up the side of the mountain, the view growing more exquisite every, single second, until we finally reached….. the clouds! And, in the clouds, was the ashram; THANK BUDDHA (thank you Dave!)

So here we are, me, Dave and the English boy, Michael, at this ashram, at the top of a mountain, so happy to have finally arrived. We enter the establishment to see about 20 people sitting calmly and quietly on the floor, on a rug, in a room; the majority are women with shaved heads, and a few men, also with shaved heads; apparently there is a ceremony on Saturdays where you can donate your hair and rid yourself of attachments; there was only one girl, with long, blonde hair, who was either new, or bucked the system, for she still had her blonde locks. I, myself, would love to shed my hair in such a manner; but I would be afraid of my vanity getting in the way and stopping me of doing so; what would you do?

Anyway, we were warmly welcomed by them all and were offered a bowl of vegetarian soup (which Dave was thrilled about, being a veggie for the last 19 years) and mung patties (saturated in jelly, they were just o.k.) I sat next to a beautiful German girl with a shaved head, and we chatted about her time at the ashram here in NZ, and in India, and she was intrigued by my stories of NYC; god I miss that place sometimes.

After we ate we walked from the dining hall to the structure where they meditate; kind of like a huge version of the yurt we’re in (Google yurt; you’ll see what I mean) and we proceeded to meditate in this style of meditation called Kirtan, which is like chanting and singing and meditating all at once. It’s unlike anything I have ever experienced, and something that I can’t really express through writing without it sounding like just another experience, because it wasn’t; combined with the drive, it was incredibly special.

So, if you ever get the offer to meditate on top of a mountain in an ashram in the South Island of New Zealand, I highly recommend it. It will change your entire life.

Titirangi, New Zealand, North Island; January, 2011

After spending the last week in Titirangi with our hospitable and rather amusing English host/terrific cook Catharine (cheese polenta, wild mushroom soup, homemade hummus, fresh garden veggies, etc. etc. all made for yet another superb culinary score) and her loving, wide-eyed, precocious five year old, Thomas James Miro Forrest-Dawson, Dave and I find ourselves in steamy, hot spring laden Rotorua, and in utopia once again, and that is not at all to say that Titirangi was unpleasant by any means; I couldn’t foresee keeping in touch with our first hosts, especially after they, among other things, revoked our phone privileges (can you say, spite?) but I really look forward to Skyping with Catharine and Thomas.

But, hindsight certainly is 20/20, and had we realized how close Titirangi was to the city we arrived in nearly four weeks ago (Auckland), we would have shot straight over to our current base (Rotorua), right after our first assignment in Waimaku, which was a beautiful suburb of Auckland that took us far from the city to the heart of the country, and onto a farm housing a flock of sheep, two horses, a kunekune pig, hard labor, and one adorable, chainsaw wielding farm boy named Logan (one of our favorite characters on this trip thus far, save for our friend Thomas, and maybe Peppermint Hannah, as Dave has so lovingly dubbed our first host.)

So, as we worked that week in the burbs of Titirangi, Dave mending a fence and weeding the garden, and myself donning my nanny hat once again to lovingly care for sweet Thomas, I couldn’t help ponder, what is it that I am going to take away from this week? What’s going to happen to me that will stop and make me look at myself and the world and my life in a fresh perspective, that will either add to, or diminish, what I once may, or may not, have previously viewed as true, or even valuable? How will this particular experience shape me, and who I am, and, just what the hell were we still doing in Auckland four weeks later for crying out loud!?! Time is precious! Tick tock! The South Island is calling, “Come! David and Aimee! Hike my volcanoes and witness my ancient glaciers! Swim freely with wild and endangered Hector dolphins, and gawk and coo at the feral penguins! Why are you wasting your time in the north end of the North Island!? Nobody spends as much time as you have so far north! AMATUERS!!!!!”

This anxiety slowly drained from my veins after a couple of our favorite New Zealand beers, Monteith’s Summer Ale (savour that ginger aftertaste!) and I snapped back to the reality that A. the South Island can’t talk and B., most importantly, I was in New Zealand…..wait, let me say it again (in the present) I AM IN NEW ZEALAND. I needed to, as my favorite NYU student would say, chillax.

I then took the opportunity to practice the one thing that I try to remind myself of when I start driving around Crazytown with a blindfold on…. stay present, appreciate the moment, have a little (or a lot of) gratitude for what is before you, and Let. Go. Control. Freak. Easy peasy, eh? Not for someone who, for a large portion of her adult life, has insisted on living in the past and worrying about the future; both places that don’t or haven’t even existed yet; crazy? Yes. Hey, old habits die hard, but practice makes perfect…. although “perfection” bores me, and crazy definitely has it’s place; Crazytown, though? I think I’m ready to pack up and decrease the population by one; I hear it’s fun over in Slightly Insane Land.

There’s a lesson in everything, though, and that is one of the two most important things I took from Titirangi; worrying about anything, from where you were, to where you’re going, is only detracting, and distracting you, from where you currently are, which is the only place that really matters or even exists; The Now. Like anything, this won’t last forever; everything is fleeting, so sit back and enjoy the ride while you’re on it. It sounds so simple, and so cliché, but how often do we really adhere to this extraordinarily valuable idea? Me? Well, I hear the iPhone went to Verizon, so now I can get one and set an alarm with a really cool ringtone for five minutes of Presentmindedness every hour! Yahtzee!

The other invaluable moment I took from Titirangi didn’t necessarily have a lesson in it, but it was one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life thus far. It’s something that I’ve felt before, once while standing in the middle of an ancient water village in Xitang, China with my Uncle Tom, and a handful of other moments as well; and although fugitive, they’re probably the most extraordinary and precious memories to me.

These moments are nearly indescribable, and are possibly comparable to how a new parent might feel upon first gaze of their newborn baby, or maybe it’s like seeing things for the first time through the eyes of a four year old, but as an adult. Without sounding too Alice in Wonderland-Hookah Smoking Caterpillar, it’s this surreal mix of awe and fascination, and utter calm and peace, an otherworldly feeling that you’ve transcended time and space, and, for those who know the You Tube phenomenon, it is totally Double Rainbow happiness. And all it was, was a bushwalk I went on with my good friend Thomas, and his German Shepard Keira.

It might sound trite or, again, cliché; but, it is something that can’t be duplicated, nor fully explained without sounding like someone at a Phish show whose friends keep asking them, “HOW much did you take?” So all I can tell you is this: Google “New Zealand forest” and find the most astounding image you can of hundred foot ferns, manuka and kanuka trees, 1000 year old kauris the size of redwoods, all coated in fifty shades of brown and green, sided with every species of moss imaginable, complete with prehistoric weta bugs jumping into pools of water fed by streams and waterfalls, sprinkled with gnarled hobbit tree trunks growing horizontally from the sides of ravines where a lone hiker, a five year old and a German Shepard might carefully creep along on a narrow, muddy path winding through this enchanted forest that looks and sounds and smells like you could possibly be inside the imagination of whatever God is. It’s a kind of place where you can’t help but feel that you’re a part of everything, and everything is a part of you; dig? If not, hell, go have one too many and stand out in the middle of a field under some stars, or on top of a skyscraper looking out over 4 million people; you very well might achieve the same feeling. If not, I highly recommend a bushwalk through a New Zealand forest, with Thomas and Keira as your guides.

Author's note, post trip: after re-reading the last paragraph, it sounds like I actually did learn a little something about being present after all....

Auckland, New Zealand; January 2011

One week down, five and three quarter months to go....


Honestly, nothing extraordinary has happened since the extraordinary event of our arrival, or, as they’d say, there’s not much to write home about, quite yet…. and baby, no news IS good news. Over the last week Dave and I have been looking at one another in bewilderment asking, “How long have we been here again?” as it feels like someone lassoed the sun and we’re stuck in a strange time warp where time doesn’t really exist; but what does exist is the hot, blaring sun (more severe than ever without its protective coating, the ozone layer), sparkling, aquamarine ocean waves pounding the surf in a rhythmic serenade, rolling, emerald green hills and valleys dotted with fat, fluffy sheep, and cool, light, fragrant breezes gently caressing the surface of our skin as if to say, “Sleeeeep, precioussesses….” (I couldn’t wait any long to reference Gollum/Lord of the Rings, sorry.) We were so incredibly fortunate to have been introduced to Glen and Darlene, our superbly awesome hosts here in Tauranga Bay, by a Rochester friend (thanks Phat Mike!) as they have been spoiling us rotten with jaw dropping views, beers laced with lemons fresh from their lemon tree, bocce on white sandy beaches at the foot of the sparkling blue Pacific, lazy kayaking/drifting amidst mangroves along an estuary, fresh lamb chops and good conversation. Tomorrow they’ll drive us to their alpaca farm to meet and care for their four alpaca, Pinto, Quero, Harry and Banjo, and then drop us off at our very first WWOOFing farm, owned by a German couple who moved here 10 years ago, only to never look back; I hear that more often than not, “My friend/sister/cousin/neighbor went to New Zealand; that was X amount of years ago; they’re still there.” One week in, I can understand why.

Auckland, New Zealand; January 2011

Aimee thinks thoughts like this:

Celebrating New Years Eve 30,000 feet over the Pacific Ocean was definitely a first for us; one of hundreds of firsts that will take place on this 6 month adventure of a lifetime. I had been anticipating landing in Auckland, New Zealand for months, worrying about the flight, worrying about money, worrying about poisonous spiders and snakes, worrying… about anything (if you know me well enough you also know “worry” is my middle name; something I wouldn’t mind shedding while here) and now that it has finally happened, and we have landed safely without any engine problems, checked into (and already slept over a couple nights) in the first hostel I’ve ever stepped foot into, and toured the city of Auckland once over, here are just a few insights into where and how my brain is currently operating:

1. Air New Zealand should monopolize and take over the entire airline industry, and rename themselves Air Awesomeness (and fly us to other places besides just NZ.) Being consistently watered with cool, lemony water and tasty New Zealand wines, hearing oneself say, “Mmmm!” when eating airline food, finding a huge selection of really great movies to watch and reveling in a champagne celebration at midnight, all make for one of my best flying experiences yet. I suspect Jim Beam and our super friendly and fun, aisle seat-neighbor may also have had something to do with it….

2. If everyone were as friendly, helpful and down to earth as a Kiwi, there very well could be something really close to possibly resembling peace on earth; hey, that’s a tough one to accomplish, peace on earth…. I’m confident these guys could nearly see it through.

3. The weather in Heaven is most likely that of the weather we’re currently experiencing here in NZ, and while I’m at it, the aroma we walk out of our door into everyday is probably similar to the scent wafting through the bars of the Pearly Gates….. ie. it’s bliss. The flora and fauna here is so incredibly diverse and absolutely, positively enchanting.

4. Hostels actually DON’T equal dirty, bed bug ridden hovels that sleep only thieves and murderers (this is for those who asked me if I had seen the movie Hostel, when I’d mention we’d be sleeping in a hostel when we first arrived.) :D We’ve been fortunate to have our own room to ourselves here in Auckland, but as of this evening we will be in a four bedroom dorm share, so we’ll see how that goes…. it could suck, but so would sleeping on a sidewalk. So far hosteling is just another great way to meet super cool people from all over the world, in a setting that feels similar to what living in a hippie commune must feel like, but with a lot less pot.

5. The internet and netbooks: almighty gratitude for being able to see my family and friends, live via Skype, the day after I fly over the Pacific, and from an island in the Southern Hemisphere(or what my brother refers to as The Moon) yet deep amounts of frustration when we try to upload a single picture onto the blog and it takes a day and a half, depending on bandwith availability and how much the netbook wants to cooperate. Part of why I decided to venture on this journey was to slow life down for a while, and unplug…. therefore, the inability to connect whenever I want is actually a gift…. a gift that I half appreciate, and half want to re-gift to someone else.

6. Hooray for amazingly beautiful and FREE museums that exhibit incredible artifacts and superb information on the indigenous people and natural beauty of this culture and region of the world and BOO, again, whitey, for pi$$ing all over it. Awesome museum though; anytime you’re in the Auckland region, I highly recommend Auckland Museum, not to mention the stunning grounds it sits upon.

7. Having a travel companion who is kind and good and smart and loving and so incredibly considerate, and makes you laugh and think and learn about yourself and the world around you, and knows a CRAPload about plants and flowers, is a very good thing indeed.

8. It looks as if we may skydive for our birthdays (both March/Pisces babies); prepare yourself, parentals!

9. Being this far from my family and friends is just about the most difficult thing for me on this journey; it isn’t sharing a bathroom with 30 other people or riding hours upon hours on buses or hauling my life that weighs over 50 lbs. around on my back and trying to maneuver this way and that on sidewalks and on buses and trying to find the tickets for this or a 2 dollar coin for that while balancing everything just so in order to not throw my back out or fall over…. and the gift from being so far from you all is the profound realization of how incredibly fortunate I am to have every, single one of you in my life.Of course, I already knew that….

10. “I am tired, I am true of heart. You are tired, you are true of heart.” Dave Eggers

    Everything I think I know now about travel and hostels and life and Dave and Kiwis and myself, etc. on Day 3 of this trip will change and morph and become better and worse and indifferent along the way, but what will always remain the same is, deep down, how much I absolutely love doing this. No matter how many times I’ve been called crazy in my life (which 99.9% of the time is taken as a compliment, and is usually followed up with, “But in a good way!”), no matter how ludicrous it may have seemed to have gotten my Masters in Education and then moved to NYC out of the blue to be a nanny, only to have then turned around two years later and quit a well paying job that provided me with health insurance, paid vacation and a daily routine that I never once dreaded walking into each morning, and no matter how it may appear that I’m flaky or flighty or without direction (okay I might be a little flighty; we’re all a work in progress though aren’t we?) at the end of the day, I can lay my head down on my pillow and go to sleep knowing that no matter what, I am true to who I am and will follow my heart wherever it takes me. I encourage each and every one of you to do the same; follow your heart, no matter how crazy your decisions may seem, or how “impossible” it may appear to be; nothing is impossible when you want it badly enough. And when you have a passion, or an itch to do something, anything, whether it’s dance the tango in Argentina, or start an herb garden in your backyard, or paint a wall in your home a color nobody else would, or quit your job and travel to New Zealand and Australia, go ahead and scratch that itch, see where it leads to, because I can guarantee, when your dreams do manifest and become real, right in front of your eyes, it’s the best (expletive) feeling in the world.