World Wide Love

August 4, 2006

2006-03-12T14:06:00.000-08:00

Just about done

2006-03-10T15:21:00.000-08:00

March 10, 2006

Waiheke Island, New Zealand

7:52pm

I have no more tales. No more anecdotes. Even though we are here three more days, I know I am done. Done talking about the small things. Done talking about the funny things. Done talking about the dirty things. I am done waxing on sometimes tritely about the massive scenery and unstoppable imagery this country is lucky to have. I am done trying to poetically capture the harmonious lifestyle New Zealand families seemed determined to possess.

I am finished with earnestly expressing the explosive love I feel for my wife and my son.

Now, if you will, I would like to talk about me.

March 19th 2005, in a plane on its way to Nadi, Fiji through LA, I let tears seep quietly down my cheek listening to a choir group practice on their way to a competition at Disneyland. They were good yes, but it was the sinking in of the journey I was now really on that caused me to silently lose control of my emotions. It was then I was leaving the old Jason behind, ready to let all the things I hated about myself to rinse through my body, to slide off my cheeks like those melody induced tears. Gone were the days of self inflicted incompetence and cubicle hiding in a job I held on to for pure easy comfort. Gone were the days of yearning for childish moments of bathroom stall debauchery with all my friends who I place so much value on, while constantly questioning the same value they have for me. Gone were the days of shirt yanking over bulbous stomach to hide the very apparent fact that I have a weight problem, as if a stretched shirt could somehow conceal the three cheeseburgers I managed to eat. Gone were the days of oppressive insecurity, bloody fingernail spitting anxiety, knee wobbling self-confidence issues. This was the opportunity for me to change all of that. To set my life on a path of pride, of integrity, satisfying my desire to be true, to be real, to be utterly and eagerly great. Not great at something. Just great.

The choir stopped singing. I stopped crying. The plane landed in Los Angeles.

And… scene.

So here I am. Ten months later. Under a moonlit sky, overlooking a very large ocean, questioning how much of that idealism I was able to turn into reality.

Er. Problem. I don’t know. My yearning for the bolt of lightning to flash from the sky and change me from a type I-don’t-fucking-know personality to a grinning, flashy do-it-all type ‘A’ personality was fleeting and immature. I recognized this after one of my many internal anxiety attacks in the past year. I also realized that losing fifty pounds and writing a punchy 429 page novel did not give me the sense of accomplishment I thought it would. I have yet to stop and look in the mirror and wink and pose and nod and congratulate myself for these two admittedly significant tasks. Is this the quiet desperation I have heard so much about? The ability to never satisfy ones self? Of course it was easy to surmise it is difficult to find perspective living in the family bubble as I do. I argue that easily because it’s Steph’s pride I seek more than anyone, and eventually Hud will be a very close second. Yet sadly, they did not matter. To think the confidence will return with a couple you look greats and wow, you wrote a book from my family and friends are bunk with no insult intended. It means nothing because it should be rooted within myself. I remain cowering in the corner. And the room is about to get bigger.

So did I change? Did I get better being away from my old life for this long? What will happen when I return?

Answers, I do not have Skywalker.

Maybe I should approach it from a different angle. What good came of this trip? The first answer is predictable and easy. I was able to spend an enormous amount of time with my wife and son.

What a luxury. And it is a luxury, to loll and lounge and leisurely get to know your wife again, without the pings and pangs of everyday life getting in your way. To love her for being able to sleep in, for the way she looks like meandering out of the ocean, or knitting a sweater on a random, plucked couch. She is a marvel and a wonder and a mystery and a true goddess. She was my best friend before we left. After spending 99 per cent of my time with her in the past year, she is now and will always be the complete love of my life.

Hud. He went from a diaper-clad baby to a blonde boy with a way too big heart like his dad. He is sweet and emotional and funny, so funny. Not only was he burdened with over emotion, but also he is blessed with the compulsion to make others laugh. He is a ham. A big, baked, pineapple ring laden, clove dappled ham. I can’t wait for everyone to see him when we get home. I can’t wait to see his and all of your expressions when he says something so wise and old and smart you can’t help but laugh until you cry.

He may forget this trip, but there is no way he was not influenced by the showering of warmth and security and comfort by both Steph and I. His roots are firm. His roots are juicy with love.

I also learned that it is easy to put family first, and let everything else fall into place. I am not so idealistic to think money is not a very real issue, particularly when Steph and I still like nice things. I do think this trip will be a reminder to what is really important, making it easier to make future sacrifices. Easier, not easy. This we learned from the families we met here in New Zealand. With lots of kids and nothing jobs they make it work, everyone in the family so happy and healthy, not left wanting. It was refreshing. We were lucky to meet each and every one of them. We will never see them again.

So I didn’t change as I thought I would. Looking back now it seems like I was both literally and figuratively with my head in the clouds on that first airplane. It’s ok though, I am ready for the next chapter of my life. I am scared shitless but ready. I know we are fortunate to have a wonderful circle of love and support from family and friends.

We are so eager to see you all. Smile and laugh with you all again. See new babies. See new marriages. Touch hands. Hug. Raise a glass. So much to catch up. Hear about all the little things that made up your past year. Quietly. Listening to every word. Not saying anything.

I am done talking. I am done writing.

Writing this at least.

Except for one more short picture post after this one the day we leave.

Do me a favour, leave a comment, and tell me who has been following us this past year.

Love to all,

J.

Hey is that a pear with no skin?

2006-03-08T12:30:00.000-08:00

March 8, 2006

Waiheke Island, New Zealand

8:31pm

Well, I convinced her.

Actually it wasn’t that hard, and of course, as I giggled through every minute, Steph managed to disrobe and flaunt the top shelf with a certain elegance and natural grace. Beneath the equator remained concealed; she is a free bird, but still a bit of a lame duck.

I, on the other hand, dropped my shorts (no underwear, I think the last time I wore them was back in Christchurch in November) and faked being relaxed all the while trying to telepathically convince the hammer to quit receding into my pear shaped body and come out and see the world.

Of course like every other nude beach I have been to (last count? Two), the majority of the patrons were people in their mid to late sixties. Sure there were a couple of people our age or younger, but mostly they were single guys lying in poses where nothing is left to the imagination.

As mentioned prior, a number of Waiheke residents are true hippies from the sixties, thus the reason for the people sixty or over dappled up and down the nude beach. My reasons for coming to a nude beach are equally split into thirds, captured perfectly by Stephanie the first time we discussed potentially coming to this beach. One third is strictly voyeuristic. I don’t care the shape, or the age, or even admittedly the sex; I just like seeing naked people. The freedom is sexy to me.

The next third is me being this free, not caring about what I look like, feeling less inhibited then if I was wearing a simple bathing suit.

The last third is so I can tell people I went on a nude beach, which I guess I am doing right now. I am not a complex man.

You may question the bringing of Hudson to this type of beach, but I don’t. He chose to wear his suit, and couldn’t care less about the naked people, ages ranging from three to 75. A cynic may peer down the beach, looking for the pedophile, but I choose to believe in the ideal that people sometimes like being naked, lying on a white sand beach, occasionally swimming in a clear blue ocean. It is a special feeling.

I would be remiss in mentioning that just prior to leaving a couple of young hippie chicks arrived, disrobed and galloped into the ocean. They were not old. They had no tan lines. Ahem. Down boy.

Before embarking on our nude beach adventure we took a drive to Whakanewha National Park and did a short loop walk which included some Maori relics and some very scenic lookouts back to Auckland and down the beach.

Hud always complains about this walks as they commence and thirty seconds later he is the happiest kid in New Zealand, poking at shells of bugs and running through dense, fern laden forests. Kids are fickle. Lesson number 3423 on this trip.

This is the third last post before leaving in six days. I will not keep up this journal after we return home. It was about the journey and I have other, more arcane writing outlets to release all my anxieties. This outlet was for me as well, but it was also to stay close to people back home, and to also force myself to record this 10-month trip in words.

We have taken close to 5000 pictures, but to me, sometimes the memory is captured so much better in words, even if it takes up more space.

On the page and in my heart.

Love to all,

J.

Finding Jason

2006-03-05T12:54:00.000-08:00

March 6, 2006

Waiheke Island, New Zealand

6:23am

As you can plainly see my ability to sleep has drifted away like a Viking funeral. My thoughts range from our new rental house back in North Toronto to my lack of employment to my unedited novel, to my poo that I had to hand in to the lab for analyzing. Actually Steph handed it in for me. What a wife.

So the anxiety has returned. Welcome back old friend. No offense, but you were not missed at all.

Yes, we have a place back home. Through the diligence of e-mail and my father and stepmother, we were able to secure a detached home in a nice part of the city for a price we can barely afford. We knew it was going to be pricey no matter where we got a place. In the city the places are expensive, out of the city transportation costs becomes an issue. What we did sacrifice by living in the city is space, but we can deal with that for now, and if we don’t like it? It’s only a year. And years can go by very quickly as I can attest.
My favourite part about this new place is we can get Alice back as soon as we are settled. It has a large fenced in backyard and the owners were cool with us having a small, mature dog as my father sold it. Woo hoo! Alice. I can’t wait to take you on my morning walks. When it gets warmer of course.

The last four days here on the island were spent reacquainting ourselves with all the little nuances that make this one of our favourite places in New Zealand. It has the perfect blend of hippie bohemia and yuppie amenities. Meaning you can drizzle your backyard grown organic mixed greens with $25 garlic and red pepper infused olive oil if you want. A perfect example of this blend was the Saturday market we attended. Good old fashioned alternative lifestyle dread locked people selling their old clothes right beside the bakery booth selling pain de chocolat. Other highlights included the very obvious transsexual with hands bigger than mine and a dress prettier than Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. They also had a small gathering exulting the benefits of bike riding instead of ugly cars. This was mostly for kids as there was a helmet decorating competition and a story, which we all watched intently, Hud occasionally growling at the other kids as he is prone to do.

Two hours at the market was enough so we went home, got our gear and made our way to Palm Beach as the sun was making an appearance that day. Being the general perv that I am, I suggested this beach because I read in one of the many brochures that the western end of Palm Beach is reserved for nude sunbathing. Very hippie, very bohemia. I was firmly denied my suggestion at the three of us going over there by my sometimes shy wife, so we settled on a spot too far away to see if anyone was actually nudie.

Hey Hud, do you want to go for a walk down the beach? Snicker snicker. Sure dad.

We were off, rounding the rocky corner and lo and behold there were all the naked people, about fifty of them, totally intertwined with the clothed people, all very relaxed and down to earth with their nakedness. Of course I have been on a nude beach before, both Steph and I braved our respective modesty and shunned our clothes for a full week on our honeymoon in Jamaica. It is quite liberating to dangle down the beach and jump into the ocean buck. I was up for doing it again, but Hud wanted to build a sandcastle and all his sand toys were back with his mother. Another time perhaps.

So. My poo. Here goes. On Thursday I finally broke down and with Steph’s help we entered the medical clinic to book a doctor’s appointment for me regarding my sour tummy. Since Northland, and my spastic weight loss, I still have some pain in my stomach and a lot more activity than normal. And normal for me was never normal. We were both surprised the doctor could take me right away and five minutes after making the appointment I was sitting on a cold chair talking to a warm doctor. He made numerous suggestions about what my gut rot could be, none of which seemed that bad, and explained to me that before he could accurately diagnose my sickness, they had to test my sample. This is when he passed me the small plastic container.

I will spare you the details of the actual “catching” of the sample, just know that I firmly believe that it should be more funnel-like than the prescription size bottle they gave me.

Now I want you to imagine the discomfort of having this sample in the house prior to drop off. Thankfully we did not let Hud in on the gag, or he would have been juggling it like a clown. Steph, on the other hand, was rightly disgusted by the little bottle. She was going to yoga that morning and I asked her if she could drop it off as the lab was on the way. Reluctantly, she agreed and I made the mistake of leaving it next to her purse, on the table where she was about to eat her breakfast. Well shiver me timbers did she tear a strip of this pirate, and made me place it in a plastic bag so she did not have to look at it while she ate thank you very much. Fair enough. She still dropped it off without further incident. Poo is poo is poo. I get the results back on Wednesday.

So we are literally counting the days until our return. It is difficult to enjoy the Island as much as we would like, the weather has been iffy as well, leaving us housebound a couple of days. With eight days left before departure you almost want to pack now, getting ready for the 24 hour journey back to Canada.

Got to get to the nude beach though. Got to let it dangle like shark bait.

Shark bait ooo ooo ah.

Love to all,

J.

Great White Hope

2006-03-01T13:57:00.000-08:00

March 2, 2006

Waiheke Island, New Zealand

6:47am.

Last stop…Waiheke Island.

The circle is complete. August 29th of last year we arrived here, our first real taste of New Zealand (outside of Auckland, which doesn’t count because its basically like Toronto, but smaller and with an ocean instead of a fetid lake) and now we are back, in our own cottage this time, instead of a sleep out tacked on to a home. More on this particular cottage later.

The last two days spent in Auckland were ok. The highlight being the guy day with my son as Steph went to some of the retail districts to try and find some worthy souvenirs for some worthy family. Hud and I went to Kelly Tarlton’s Underwater Adventure, an aquarium just outside of the downtown core.

We were able to snag a ride from the hotel shuttle, driven by a gimp with a bad leg and a bit of lisp. Nice enough though. The aquarium itself was not huge by any stretch of the imagination, but it had a huge stingray tank, and a penguin habitat which you could view on a terrain vehicle on a rail that took you beneath the water to see the large King penguins swimming and frolicking, culminating in a fake orca fake eating a fake seal.

I thought it was cool, you could imagine the wide-eyed fear/glee of a three and half year old. The other neat part was an area where you could stand on a conveyor belt and sharks and rays and other fish that sharks don’t swam all around you. Appropriate underwater muzak accompanied this adventure, and some of the sharks were over 3m long.

No Great Whites though, much to Hud’s chagrin (and mine). The last part was just tanks of random fish, including piranha, which have always fascinated me. They look like bulldogs with their bottom lip pulled over their top, couple of fangs jutting out on either side. Another tank held crayfish, which we like to call lobster. They were huge, somewhere between 30 and 50 years old, and a couple of them over 20kg. The kids were all fascinated by these prehistoric looking creatures, but the parents you could tell were all mentally snapping the claws and dipping them into a bowl full of melted butter.

I, of course, overestimated the amount of time it would take to exhaust the aquarium, and did not want to go back to the hotel room, so I suggested to Hud we go get a bite to eat and go up the Skytower again. He was all for it, especially the lunch in a food court bit, as they had a McDonalds, who, and I commend them for doing so, somehow have latched their marketing talons into my son and he sees it as a circus with McNuggets opposed to the grease machine it really is. I had a falafel from another stand; convincing myself that somehow my greasy meal was healthier than Hud’s. Next up, the Skytower and thank goodness Hud was free for all these places as it was expensive enough getting my tired ass in and out the admission gates.

We took the see through elevator up to the observation deck, rode it with a guy who was heading to the top to jump off, got off at the observation deck, watched the guy jump off, went to the café, walked around in circles, until I told Hud the floor of our hotel room was just as comfortable to play with the kid’s meal toy as the Skytower’s. He reluctantly agreed and we walked the five blocks back to our hotel room.

I have yet to truly confirm this, as our e-mail communication is back to hot spots or cyber cafes, but we were on the cusp of securing a place in Toronto through the wonderful help of my father and stepmother. This was a bit daunting, but with digital pictures and a ringing endorsement my both parties, it seems like a nice place and we agreed. It was hard to commit to the city, but both Steph and I realize that it is where our employment opportunities will come (fingers crossed!) so we will give it a year to see if we can stomach all the things we dislike about the city. It is in a more affluent neighbourhood, one where I grew up, so it’s not like its right downtown or anything. There are big trees and parks and hopefully a ton of kids Hud can get to know right away. He needs friends as much as I don’t need mine. The best part about the potential new place is that they said it was all right if we had a dog, and it has a nice big yard, meaning upon our return and moving in, I can go and get Alice and bring her home. It makes me cry just writing about it.

So that was Auckland. Two days of spending too much money and feeling anxious about being in a city again (note the irony). I think I was anxious because I came from an area where the dead penguin population matched the human population, and there were only a couple of dead penguins. Suddenly, after an easy five hour drive, we were smack dab in the middle of the ant farm, smelling the coughs and burps of the city, hiding our eyes from all the blinding billboards and signage, holding our wallets firmly in place as stores and restaurants begged us to spend money. It was a difficult adjustment and by day two, I was assimilated, covered in spanking new attire and Asian noodle house menus.

Yesterday we went to an even more affluent Auckland neighbourhood to take a stab and completing the shopping. Here I was just annoyed as my stomach is still giving me trouble, leading me to every bathroom in every mall within four blocks and the fact we were in this stupid area trying to find knick-knacks. I hate shopping for knick-knacks.

We were somewhat successful so we began driving to Half Moon Bay to catch the ferry to Waiheke Island. We arrived an hour early, but Steph was able to secure us a spot on a ferry that was leaving in three minutes. She piled back in the car and we drove right onto the ferry until the scruffy guy gave us the thumbs up letting us know we can park and get out.

My anxiety and anger and annoyance left my body with each chug and gurgle of that ferry as Auckland turned into glass city in the distance.

So. Our cottage on Waiheke. Our last accommodation. There is always some trepidation arriving, but it was quickly squished when we pulled into the long driveway. The place was bigger than we expected, which is a rarity when picking places from pictures on the web. It his a beautiful, open concept, two bedroom cottage with an ocean view and a fire place.

It is all white wash clap board, with a large deck and nice outdoor furniture, the kitchen is small but well appointed, and the bathroom large and clean, which is all we require. The two bedrooms each have a queen bed, and wonderfully firm mattresses and pillows, unlike the hotel where one would disappear if lying in the middle of the bed.

So we are very happy with our last place. Especially Steph. It is riddled with home furnishing magazines, letting her dream about decorating a house we may never have.

Two weeks to go. It’s hard to believe.

Love to all,

J.

Now or never kind of guy

2006-02-26T00:00:00.000-08:00

February 26, 2006

Tokarau Beach, New Zealand

8:41pm

Whether it was Cable Bay,

with its funky pink sand, or Coopers Beach with overhanging trees to shield the sometimes white hot sun

or, our particular favourite, Matai Bay

which could easily rival any south pacific or carribean beach for most scenic, we certainly chose the right area to just kick back and watch the world go by. It also will be, I am sure for all of us, the warmest February on record.

We are off tomorrow, to Auckland, for two days, to get some last minute city things done, as well as Hud and I going to the aquarium, which I think I am looking forward to as much as him. Steph will spend a day at retail therapy, searching for appropriate return gifts for family and friends. She is envious of our little underwater jaunt, but something tells me wandering in and out of little boutiques squinting at the way too expensive price tags is not her idea of a bad day, particularly without the picks and prods of her whiny husband and demanding son.

We are almost all packed, just a couple of things left to jam in our bags, and then we will drive the 450kms to our swank hotel in Auckland, check in, eat pizza, and watch cable television until our eyes explode. Isolation is fun sure, but so are city amenities and a potential cold draft beer in the downstairs bar.

I enjoyed it here, but I am sure I would have enjoyed it more if it was in the middle of our trip or the beginning. This close to the end with not very much to do allowed me to ponder our future, and I really had to focus to keep the ball of anxiety at bay. I will have to do the same in Waiheke, which has equal majesty and lack of things to do.

It also means, barring a rare wireless neighbour again, that we will be without home based internet for the last two weeks, meaning answering random sports trivia or what we ate last night for dinner e-mails may be delayed in response.

I will miss my walks here though. 9.5km of beach walking and not even making it halfway. Even seeing the old guy’s schlong couldn’t completely destroy these memories.

Oh, I finished my novel. 168,000 words, 439 pages.

The easy part is over.

Now the log must be whittled to a toothpick.

Love to all,

J.

Sweet Chariot

2006-02-22T23:20:00.000-08:00

February 23, 2006

Tokarau Beach, New Zealand

7:58pm

Close your eyes and come with me along a magical journey.

Imagine awaking to a gentle fog coming in across the ocean, smothering the cute cottages and rolling hills surrounding you. You dress, quietly, hoping your early morning ritual does not wake up your family. You open the door and smell the cool, sea soaked air. You begin your walk, knowing as the sun moves higher in the sky, the fog will drift away, and the cool air will quickly become quite balmy.

The first part of your walk is along the street, running perpendicular to the beach. You nod stoically to the men in their early morning construction trucks; you wave gaily at the female bus driver beginning her route. After 20 minutes you reach the end of the street and the beginning of the beach. This beach is long, 18km, and wide, at least 30 metres when the tide is out, like it is this morning. The fog is almost gone, skimming the water, hovering as if hummingbirds are pulling a large blanket across the surf. The waves roll in sets of five, the back one breaking hard, looking big even though its at least 100 metres away. The first of the set, the leader, trickles up to your toes, kissing them, before sucking back to the waiting sea.

You look down the coast, and you squint, looking for any sign of life. You see a dog chasing a flock of gannets, leaping in the air as they tease him with their easy flight. You see big ugly gulls, with eyes like rats and beaks curved in a scowl. There are many of them, picking at dead fish, cracking open oysters and clams plucked from the moist sand. They part as you walk, but they do not go far, they are afraid, but not terrified, knowing full well if they wanted to, they could gather, circle and do you in Hitchcock style.

Looking further down the coast, appearing almost like a mirage, a visual whisper, is a shape entering the sea. A person, looking to begin their day with a dip in the ocean. You look harder, somehow hoping that this person is a female, draped in seaweed, blessed by Neptune, and ready to sweep you into your own personal moment of ecstasy. You keep walking, noticing that this person is indeed naked, furthering your fantasy even more.

You pick up your gait.

As you approach, the figure becomes more apparent, it is long, lean, balding.

It is a guy.

You brush off your fantasy quickly and chuckle at your own silliness. As you continue walking you notice the man, the naked man has finished his swim and his rinsing off his mask and snorkel in the surf. He does this bending over. He is not facing you. You shudder.

He stands up and starts walking toward his camper van or cottage beyond the dunes. You continue walking.

You slow down your gait.

It is unavoidable. To stop would be rude so you continue walking, now knowing that no matter what, fate is meeting you at the intersection.

You approach. He approaches. The man is old. Not ancient, but much older than you.

His testicles are hanging down just above his knees. He is uncircumcised. It looks like an interrupted banana.

You smile politely. He smiles and says:

“I thought I was the only person on the beach this morning..” He shrugs.

You are speechless.

You pick up your gait.

You don’t look back.

Love to all,

J.

Burned my fingers

2006-02-20T10:16:00.000-08:00

February 20, 2006

Tokarau Beach, New Zealand

6:25pm

Ok, so a lot of it was water weight, giving me the false impression of what my new goal weight would be prior to hopping on the plane back to the mighty Canada. I am still comfortably ahead of schedule so my disappointment looking down past my stomach, over the bulbous phallus and down to the flashing weight on the scale was short lived. Needless to say I have already spent too long talking about my weight loss or lack thereof.

Why talk about weight loss when you can discuss our day trip back to the Bay of Islands to visit the quaint little town of Russell, full of cafes and art galleries selling, yes, you guessed it, ceramic kiwi birds and pedantic paintings of New Zealand landscapes? Can you tell I have had my fill of small towns and their false allure? Small towns and playgrounds. I am done. Sorry wee Hud, we will have to find alternate things to do then slide down graffiti speckled tubes or dangerously wobbly monkey bars.

Ok, Russell wasn’t all that bad, we did lunch looking out over the marina and docking of the pedestrian ferry. We took the car ferry located 9 kms outside of the metropolis of Russell.

I had a BLT and Steph and Hud split a burger served topped with a fried egg and a cooked pineapple. No beet root surprisingly enough. After lunch we managed to find a beach, recommended by the information centre, which was nice, but nothing compared to the majestic beach just up the road from our cottage.

Only one more week here in Northland before heading south to Auckland and over to Waiheke Island for 13 days, completing the circle as Waiheke was where we started back in August. Bizarre. 10 months it will be when all is said and done. I am not about to wax poetically about the time spent abroad. I am sure I will find an appropriate crestfallen mood to meander through the ups and downs, the yips and yaps and so on. Right now I just want to write to fill in the gaps between posts. Otherwise I might forget about all the times we spent lounging in the morning, eating lunch and then dashing up to Matai Bay to swim in seawater as clear as a virgin’s conscience.

It gets boring to write about it. It almost, and I say this perfectly knowing what a lucky fucking chump I am, is boring to do. So yes, I admit this beach based boredom knowing the majority of the people I love are shoveling themselves daily out from the grey and icy murk of a Canadian February.

So even if we are biding time to our illustrious return, I can’t think of a better way of doing it. It’s just at this point we want our lives to begin, knowing full well this bohemian life of fantasy is coming to a sudden and drastic conclusion.

I hope I never forget this type of luxury. This type of white-hot fun.

Love to all,

J.

Size Matters

2006-02-14T21:21:00.000-08:00

February 15, 2006

Tokarau Beach, New Zealand

5:31pm

Please excuse the lack of post, but for the last five days or so I have been battling some odd form of stomach flu, which finally has turned the corner and allowed me to begin eating real food again. I had a nice fever for 36 hours (since gone) and was basically never far away from the toilet as the word urgent would come into play quite often.

The bonus? I lost 6.3 lbs in one week! Steph calls me Mary Kate Olsen as I was relishing in the fact a solid sickness allowed me to lose a substantial amount of weight in a week where I was already on the path to losing my projected two lbs. I say if I have to suffer a couple of sleepless nights and have to poo through the eye of a needle oh, every thirteen minutes, bring it on! I will be a whisper of my former self by the time we get home. 38 waistline jeans? It’s Jason calling. Remember when I was nine and I could slip into you with ease? Well spread your legs again here I come!

Wait a minute. That didn’t sound right.

There really is nothing else to report. Oh, a little tidbit. After almost jokingly sending out pictures of our boy to a couple of agencies, our little Hudson has an appointment with head of the kids division of Ford Modeling Agency on March 21st in Toronto. And of course Steph has already received potential work from a company she sent a resume to a couple of weeks ago.

Me?

Well, with a son and wife working I can concentrate on what I do best. Shit, what was that again?

Oh, here are a couple of pictures of Steph and the biggest telegraph (English) cucumber I have ever seen.

And it’s not just the length, check out the girth.

Insert your own jokes accordingly.

Love to all,

J.

been there, done that

2006-02-11T00:07:00.000-08:00

February 11, 2006

Tokarau Beach, New Zealand

8:18pm

30 days today we get on a plane in Auckland and begin the long journey home. Feels odd writing that, 30 days, a month basically, before frost seeps under my skin and icy boney fingers wrap around my brain. I guess my goal here is to burn the hell out of my skin to ward off the cold back home, because I am getting nice colour brown, to at least look good when I am pawning for change at Queen and Spadina.

Today we were at a restaurant for lunch and Hud was immersed in the collection of toys the restaurant provides for toddlers and infants. We had finished our food and we going to go across the street to pick up some shampoo and body wash from the Four Square grocery store. To entice Hud away from the toys, I did what all good parents do; I bribed him with a promise of a Popsicle. To which he replied, very matter of factly I might add… “That’s ok Dad, you can go across the street to get me a Popsicle, I don’t need to go with you, and I will wait here.” He is three and a half going on 25. I was stumped. I almost jumped out of my seat to cross the street for the Popsicle. Needless to say he accompanied us with a scowl and a whine.

Two days ago we made the 100km trip to the very tip of New Zealand to a place called Cape Rienga. We did stop on the way to take a look at 90-mile beach, the western coastline that runs up to Cape Rienga. It was pretty awesome, the sheer magnitude and strength of the ocean crashing into shore for such a long stretch.

You can drive along the beach, but are warned that you can get stuck at any time due to sand depth and pliancy. I was game, but Steph was not, convinced by the roving band of locals and their trucks lingering about, waiting to yank the dumb tourists out of the sand in their 20-year old cars. Steph, as usual, won this argument. The only other problem with witnessing this expansive coast was arriving at the same time as all the tour buses, stealing the serenity and solitude of the moment. Hud did find a dead shark, so that was kind of cool.

Next up, giant sand dunes. Rolling, massive mountains of soft sand about 25km before the tip. We stopped and climbed, me making it to the top of one tall dune, almost dying of a heart attack before muscling to the summit.

People were sand surfing, something I really did not know exist before being there. We watched and sat in this huge desert before snacking on some sesame crackers and continuing up the to the top of New Zealand.

Cape Rienga, where the Pacific Ocean meets the Tasman Sea. The geographic northern tip of New Zealand. A place of Maori legend and a trap for tourists. It was beautiful, with a lighthouse and a MASH like sign, which demanded a picture.

Hud and I climbed a little mountain to look back down the coast; him being such a trooper when I want him to do something I know is just for me/

A couple of pictures later and we were back in the car, finding a hidden beach with a camp site right next to it, making me wish we actually camped on this trip, instead of some of the way too expensive places we stayed in.

Oh well. Next time.

Love to all,

J.

Maori yo

2006-02-08T00:24:00.000-08:00

February 8, 2006

Tokarau Beach, New Zealand

8:53pm

It’s been two days since Waitangi Day and I thought I better get something down before I forget. I was going to wait until after tomorrow when we go up to Cape Reinga to watch two oceans collide, but that, as they say, is another story.

As previously mentioned, Waitangi Day is the celebration of the signing of a treaty between Maori chiefs and British settlers back in 1840. It is celebrated all over New Zealand, but we are lucky to be staying only 95 kilometres from the actual location of the signing, Waitangi, so we made the drive to at least soak up some of the history of a country we have loved and called home for the past six months.

Our interaction with the Maori people and their specific culture has been limited mostly to casual small town conversation and one Vegas like show back in Rotorua in October. I am not fully versed in their spiritual enlightenment, but I know it is more about nature, the ocean, the sky, the forests, then an individual all mighty deity. I know a lot of the Maoris live in poverty, and live with resentment about what has been taken away from them and what they deserve. I am some of their gripes are justified, and I don’t know enough about their plight to start making accusations about either side. I do know that for whatever reason, they have chosen the anti-establishment role with a certain verve, and even though they have automatic weighted representation in their parliament, they still manage to constantly complain about not being properly represented.

One thing that I do have difficulty accepting is their passion for the gangster culture of the United States and to a lesser extent all of North America. It is everywhere here, the graffiti, the gang colours, the hand gestures, it is intimidating and was everywhere in the small community of Waitangi on Monday.

For the most part though it was interesting, seeing the Treaty House where the document was signed as well as the wood carved meetinghouse of the Maoris back in the 19th century.

We also were witness to a planned protest, which everyone was expecting to turn ugly but was actually just a well-organized group of Maoris voicing their concerns about the disappearance of their land.

But for a second there, when the cops kept marching into the circle surrounding a tall group of flags,

it flashed through my mind that if something goes really wrong here, the white people were outnumbered at least 2 to 1.

Waitangi itself and the surrounding Bay of Islands resort community were beautiful. This is the primary weekend and summer getaway location of Aucklanders and you could tell.

It was way more commercial than any of the other sparse locations we had been, and way busier, but that could have been because of the special day.

We will go back some other time when it is not as busy. Maybe swim with some dolphins or something equally out of this world.

Yesterday and today were low key, grocery shopping and walking and hanging out with Hud catching spiders and watching ants eat them.

You know, normal stuff.

Love to all,

J.

No shirt, no shoes, no dice

2006-02-04T22:27:00.000-08:00

February 5, 2006

Tokarau Beach, New Zealand

6:46pm

Excuse me if my writing reads all garbles and nonchalant. You see, sand from one of the seven pristine beaches within a ten minute drive from our holiday home may be lodged underneath my fingernails, or at least in a small part of my brain.

We sure know how to finish off an almost year of leisure. Doubtless Bay (named by Captain Cook, who named half of New Zealand, at least all the places you can pronounce) is like this little round oasis of marine activity, with islands and hidden rock formations, and, as mentioned so thoughtlessly earlier, a number of really sweet beaches.

We are basically settled. We went through Kaitia on the way to Tokarau, spending a wad on groceries, foolishly thinking it would last us a couple of weeks, when, after four days, we are basically down to Ryvita and pink hundreds and thousands cookies. What are hundreds and thousands cookies you may ask with your eyebrow queered and your heart all a titter? They are cookies with pink frosting with multi-coloured sprinkles on top. They call the sprinkles hundreds and thousands. They also call bathing suits, togs. Why? I have no idea, and when last week I mentioned I had to change into my bathing suit before going for a dip in the pool, Brenden laughed and asked me what a bathing suit was? A tog I replied. Oh he chuckled. He thought I was going to come out in one of those one-piece striped jobbies from the early 1900’s. I admit, bathing suit does sound odd, but togs? Pass me a hundred thousand cookie and give me a frickin’ break.

We are in serious money hoarding time, so our activities are limited to waking up leisurely, staring at each other until beads of blood form at our temples, and then getting in the car and going to the beach. I was never much of a sun worshipper, particularly recently, as the red rash from hell let me know it may not be a good idea to lollygag at high noon under ozone layer free sunlight.

But, my rash has since disappeared, I figure by acclimation, and reading a pulpy garbage paperback, while your son’s hair gets blonder and your wife’s tan gets deeper is simply not a bad way to end this completely wacky journey.

So if I am little darker by the time we get home, well, at least more radishy, it’s because of our time here in Northland.

I am back under my adult all time low weight again, which is good after a couple of weeks of chips and dip and no walking. It did not take a long time and my guess is I was not eating as bad as I thought. I am so much more aware of the sixteen or seventeen pepperettes I am eating now, as opposed to prior to leaving, where you mind as well attach a conveyer built to my lips and get the hell out of the way.

Awareness is key, as is little pieces of motivation. I now have an almost selfhelpy homemade sign up near the pantry and fridge, telling me to do something other than eat out of boredom. That is a big problem of mine. Hey, nothing going on, why not snarf down a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. Ha ha laugh, but I have done it. In one sitting. I also used to make BLT’s with a loaf of caraway rye bread, slicing it clean down the middle, and layering at least ten slices of bacon on top of very little lettuce and tomato. It was more like a GB, then a BLT. Yum a greasy bacon sandwich. Oh, not to forget the trough of mayo to give it that added, pass me the defibrillator, kick.

Welcome to gluttonville, population me.

So hopefully those days are gone. I told Steph that I never want to be over that particular milestone weight I just passed. It is an ongoing battle, but as mentioned, awareness is so key.

Tomorrow we are going to Waitangi, to watch the Waitangi Day celebrations. Waitangi Day is a celebration of the treaty at Waitangi in 1840 where Maori chiefs all over New Zealand agreed to relinquish power to the British Monarchy in return for some land guarantees. This of course is the basis of every Maori land dispute now and another wonderful example of the people who were here first got the worst deal.

But, as all who know me can attest, I am just a tanned dude in search of the sun.

I don’t get wrapped up in that political mumbo jumbo man….all I need is some tasty waves, a cool buzz and I’m fine.

Spicoli out.

Love to all,

J.

Doctor, doctor, give me the news

2006-02-01T23:50:00.000-08:00

February 2, 2006

Tokerau Beach, Doubtless Bay, New Zealand

8:06pm

We’re here. Our second last destination in New Zealand, not counting flying out of Auckland on March 14th. We are in Tokerau Beach, a tiny beachside community in Doubtless Bay, almost at the geographic tip of the North Island. The actual tip is called Cape Rienga, where the Tasman Sea meets the Pacific Ocean, where swells can exceed 10 metres, where we will be making the 100km drive sometime in the next four weeks. For now its about chilling, getting to know the immediate area, and unpacking all our bags and cleaning out the car of all the popsicle sticks and Diet Coke bottles.

Oh, and how is this for sweet, I flip on the computer and it recognizes a wireless network. We are in the middle of nowhere with one neighbour never around, and the other a small family who moved here from Australia. A small family with a wireless internet server mere steps from where I sit. So we are connected for the month, unless they get mad and disconnect us. I did tell the wife we were able to catch her signal, she was not pleased, but what are you going to do. I did offer her money, she declined, but maybe she will change her mind once I start downloading all that porn.

The Hokinga Harbour experience was wonderful. It’s amazing how we just toss darts at a map and fret about where we are going to stay and it turns out to be this huge harbour, surrounded by even bigger sand dunes, and a wonderful little resort with a posh pool and cold beer and friendly staff.

We didn’t do much, other then visiting a Kauri forest to see a tree the size of a small apartment building.

It was cool, but brief and a coastal walk, which looked even sweeter was unavailable due to the tide being in. Not that we really had planned to do anything massive, and besides, I was in one of my bitchy moods, driving Steph crazy with my inane picks and prods, until finally she told me off. I sulked for about seven seconds before realizing how right she was and tried to jump back into funny, goofy husband role instead of the crusty old skate I was portraying at the moment. I did manage to get some nice shots of what looked like an old boat ramp and a cow cooling off area.

That night we bit the fleshy bullet and had dinner at the resort. It was a little costly, but to stare out over the harbour, cheersing fellow resortians, watching Hud play with Maori kids and a bunch of Jack Russell puppies, it was so worth it. It was also the place where able to witness a boat come out of the water and put a 220lbs blue marlin on a hook to be weighed. It was just under the size of the entire boat and took two and 1/2 hours to land. Pretty awesome stuff.

The drive yesterday was pretty tame, we were only about 200km away, including a small ferry ride over the harbour from Rawene to another town I can’t spell or pronounce.

It was one of those last minute decisions we were glad we made, even if it was $16 for a ten minute ferry ride. It did cut our trip about 40kms, and at $1.52 cents a litre for gas, it is almost a wash.

Our actual abode for the next four weeks is a two-bedroom cottage about three minutes from 18km of Tokerau Beach. The place is a good size, with some counter space, a nice size dining table and bunk beds for Hud again. It will be perfect for some really good reflective time and also serve as the place where I will finish the first draft of my manuscript. I would wax on a little more about my novel writing, but I am afraid a certain asshead solicitor will call me out via e-mail.

Anyhoo, not the most entertaining entry, but I am still keen on documenting every little crag and cranny of this journey.

I did manage to find a good little four-mile walk this morning. Food and exercise wise, the last two weeks were one half of the yo.

Now to find the other yo.

Love to all,

J.

Road Trip

2006-01-31T10:17:00.000-08:00

January 30, 2006

Hokianga Harbour, North Island, New Zealand

9:01pm.

Five days. 1400 kilometres. Five different beds. A car that smells of melted butter and stale crackers and here I sit, looking out at the Tasman Sea, close to the top of the North Island, and just an hour away from our second to last New Zealand destination. I am all swirled with melancholy and relief as the trip nears the end. It felt weird getting back on the ferry in Picton, to travel the Cook Strait, leaving the South Island for pretty assuredly the last time in my life. Hence the melancholy. The relief comes from inching closer to the return home, the scary familiar and of course, the wonderful unknown.

It all started back on the 25th, where we drove three and half hours from Ruby Bay to Blenheim. Our friends, the early retirees, with their methodically verbal son, bought a house about 20kms north of Blenheim, the South Island’s third biggest city, on a nice piece of land that looks out to the gnarly Pacific. The sand is black and pebbly. The garden is exotic and will take effort to maintain.

Glenn is tall and nerdy. Tana is earthy and cackles when she laughs. Their son, well, his speech pattern has accelerated past sloth on Valium like and is now a bit more normal, and a little less annoying. He is smart and builds things and does not watch television at all. Qualities I do not mind Hud aping. He is a tad strange, and very clingy to his mother, who walks him like a dog sometimes for fun. Even having him eat cereal that looks like pet food from a bowl on the floor. Good boy heh heh. Good times.

We spent the night where I started gulping too many beers the moment I started to get a little bored, which was surprisingly late in the evening. Steph claims she had to lead me to the bathroom a couple of times due to my weird sleepwalking habit, but I think she just makes this up so I will suck up to her the next day. If she is, all the power to her, it works, I am at her whim after hearing tales of my pathetic imbibed murmuring as I trudge around strange locations looking for interesting places to drain the main vein. She managed to corral my bowling pin body ensuring all corners and dishwashers remained urine free. The next morning we left, it was a good time and they were nice people who were very nice to Hud and us. My bitterness stems from the fact they are able to spend the rest of their lives wondering what to do this afternoon, go for another sea kayak or another gentle round wine tasting. I am deep as new sidewalk hoark, I know.

The ferry ride from Picton to Wellington was basically the same as the first time, spent in the basement of the big boat, watching Hud on the intermingled tubes and slides, which serve as a playground. This is fine except for the whole area reeks of kid head sweat and on occasion, older kids, kids whose parents banished to the basement so they could sip lattes in peace, get a little out of hand and I fear for Hud’s safety. We did manage to see some of the Marlborough Sounds on the way out, before the secret smokers overwhelmed us and we had to leave. The Pacific Princess it isn’t.

We arrived in Wellington a little after 4:30 and were only a few minutes away from our hotel. We checked in without incident and ordered pizza for dinner. The last time we were in Wellington we ordered pizza as well. It is a local company that we remembered for its great taste. This time we did not have a menu so when I ordered I asked for a meat one for me and a Margarita one for Steph and Hud. The guy on other end (who was way too happy and eager and kept on saying “sweet as”, which I think is the New Zealand version of “right on” or simply “cool”) did not know what a Margarita pizza was, so I told him, it’s just tomato sauce and cheese. Sweet as! He said and hung up. Dum dum dum, time passes, the pizzas arrive and I have a slice of mine and it is as good as I remember it. Steph tries hers. She tries another bite. Taste this she says and I do. Is that ketchup she asks? I try it again. Yes, I reply. Tomato sauce is ketchup here in New Zealand. They gave us a ketchup and cheese pizza. It was gross and after the fourth slice I just couldn’t have anymore. That night in bed we ordered Wedding Crashers and laughed our self to sleep.

The next day we went to the Qantas office and booked our flight home. We arrive in Vancouver at 7:40pm on March 14, 2006. It means leaving our last destination one day early, but the only other flight that worked was on March 29th, and we are broke enough as it is. So that is that. Off to Taupo.

The drive from Wellington to Taupo is about 370kms, about five hours with stops and treacherous curves. Our location for the night is a bed and breakfast we found online. We had not really stayed at a bed and breakfast on the trip and wanted another opportunity to meets some true Kiwis along the way. We found the place with relative ease; it was a new house, just outside of the town of Taupo, overlooking a river. It was a great location and a nice house. The couple who owned the house, Kim and Martin, were retired farmers, both very rural people who had sold everything and moved into the “city”. Both were hard of hearing, Kim calling Hud, Hutton for the first couple of hours. Martin was a salty fart, with crisscrossed yellow teeth, telling me yarns about one thing, like traffic, before being led into another tale completely different, like his golf backswing, all with me just nodding politely. I think I have figured out why people open their homes to let travelers stay. It’s not the extra income. It’s to have someone to talk to. I did my best not to be rude, but I just drove five hours and was just not in the mood to be someone’s conversation sponge. I slipped away and lay on the bed, allowing Steph do the listening.

Our area was two bedrooms, a toilet and a nice soaker tub. Out of curiosity I opened the closet doors to see what extra pillows and blankets were available. Sitting on the shelf, on top of one the pillows, I noticed the familiar pink and bubbly design of a pair of panties. Panties. Panties. They were kind of tossed up there and I thought it odd the closet was not cleaned prior to our arrival. I picked them up, thinking I would just give them to Kim. Oh goodie, they were….dirty. Dirty Panties was the name of my first punk rock band, how weird is that.

Needless to say, I folded them and put them back on the pillow, saving Kim and I the face-to-face embarrassment.

Later that night, after a Thai food dinner in Taupo, we returned and they showed us to a sitting room where we were able to watch some television. Hud went down pretty easy, being gymnast flexible again about all the different beds he sleeps in. Steph was mucking about so I sat down in the chair across from a large television screen ready to catch up on some sports due to their ESPN channel. Sniff. Sniff. Yikes. This chair reeked of old guy bum. I know it sounds gross but it was true. Martin must have sat in this chair six hours a day watching Sky TV; the Murdoch owned satellite television empire. I moved to the couch and watched a game of Texas Hold’em Poker.

The next day, Kim made us a nice breakfast, satisfying the other B. Hud of course schmoozed them both into thinking he was their grandson, and I thought they might shed a tear when he hugged them goodbye. We were off to Whangamata to spend two days with the Pugh’s, a family of five we got to know during our eight week stay in the Coromandel back in the Sept/Oct.

Before we left I did manage to sneak in a swim in Lake Taupo, New Zealand’s biggest lake and the site of a lot of holiday homes and motels. It was clear up to about ten feet, and a little cold, but man do I love swimming in fresh water.

Hud came in for a spell, dunking his head then demanding I return him to shore to his mother and a warm towel.

This is also the spot where our camera finally broke, for good this time, after 4350 pictures, forcing us to make an impulsive purchase of a new one. Not a tremendously expensive one, but one that will take quality pictures for the next six weeks and then some.

The drive from Taupo takes four hours or so (back through Rotorua! Fart town!) and we pulled into Brenden and Sheridan’s driveway around three or so. They were all there, swimming in their small but totally refreshing pool. They have three kids, a six-year-old girl, a four-year-old boy and a six-month-old baby girl. He is a painter/plasterer and she is a stay at home mom. They live in a five bedroom home moments off the main strip of the surf town of Whangamata, winter population 5,000, and summer population 50,000. Steph met Sheridan at play centre back in the fall, and we shared a couple of meals back then, becoming friendly enough to be invited us back to stay at their place for two nights as we make our way back up the North Island.

It was great. These are ex-Aucklanders who moved to a smaller town to focus on their family and try to eliminate stress. He is a bit wound up and very opinionated but a good old boy who likes a good steak and a cold beer.

She is sweet woman with a nice smile who takes care of the household with a bit of an iron fist. Their kids are well behaved and fun, the four-year old being an excellent playmate for Hudson.

The first night we just ate dinner and reacquainted. The next day Steph and I found ourselves at the grocery store alone, Hud too enamored with toys to care where we were. It was an odd feeling, both of us constantly looking behind us to see where Hudson was. We need a date night Steph and I, a real Saturday night, Sunday morning special.

That night, other people came over for a BBQ, including Tina with her daughter Sasha. She was the daughter of one of the couples who lived across the street from us in Onemana. Six year old girls are kind of fun, even if they do enjoy slapping me around a little. I still dug the attention.

It was great for the kids, six of them racing around, playing dress up, eating sausages on the bun (a Kiwi child table staple) and then all sleeping in the tent that night.

I slept there as well, next to Brenden, who snores, making sleeping next to a sawmill appealing. Good thing as well, as Hud woke up and crawled into the single mattress with me, making it cozy and completely impossible for me to sleep.

The next morning we packed up and said our goodbyes, with bloated promises of perhaps hooking up before we leave and other perfect things to say before leaving. Steph was driving, thank goodness, as Hud and I were on the edge of sleep moments after departure.

The drive from Whangamata to Hokianga Harbour was 400kms, taking about 5 hours, quicker this time due to the major highways through Auckland. We are at kind of resort now, for a couple of nights, before heading about an hour away to our February destination. It’s beautiful here, a lot less people, more Maori influence, and a nice swimming pool.

The only thing it lacks is a grocery store, leaving us with take out food. The diet has been lacking as we meander up the Island, and I am eager to get back to casual starvation once we get settled.

The next four weeks will be Internet minimal, so I will post in intervals like I did in November, and at other random points on this trip.

Pretty soon there will be no more posts. My actual moving lips instead.

Love to all,

J.

Nelson bye bye

2006-01-24T13:48:00.000-08:00

January 25, 2006

Ruby Bay, New Zealand

7:13am

It is just pissing out right now. I contemplated going for my walk about 45 seconds ago when it was just a pretty little drizzle, but now it is pelting the roof here like gunfire, and I can see the waterfall storming down the windshield of our car. Our car that needed a wash. Just hope it lets up for our drive today.

The summary entry. This place will always be where Hud spent his third Christmas. It will always be where I saw a dog pee on a dead penguin. It will always be where I witnessed a giant pig eat a massive round of venison salami.

It will always be where my father’s face almost slid off. Mostly it will be the place where we spent eight weeks on the South Island. Swimming at Kaiteriteri Beach and Rabbit Island. Walking part of the Abel Tasman Coastal Track then diving in the blue water on a secret beach.

Sailing with one of my best friends and my family as dolphins leapt out of the water and smiled at all of us, especially Hud.

Jumping into testicle squishing icy cold spring water at the source of the Riwaka River. Meeting a crowd of people who tend crops or serve coffee out of the back of a trailer for a living. Racing down the Buller River dressed like a Navy Seal only to be bucked into and under the water, thinking I may die until realizing I was really just living. Drinking cold beer sitting on hot rocks laughing with my wife as the surf saddled up to the sand. Lots of good times here. All of course with the undercurrent that, with each day passing we were getting closer to return to daunting yet oddly comfortable reality back home.

I did not finish my novel and will attempt to do so in the next seven weeks. I am close, but not three pages close, so at some point I will have to buckle down and get the words down so I can start the first edit. I did not lose all the weight I wanted to here. With Christmas and Tony and other beer related incidents I was more maintaining my weight as I still walked the 4.8 miles every morning. The next seven weeks will have to be more focused on shedding instead of simply maintaining.

The last two days were spent socializing mostly. On Sunday, a family that Steph met at swim lessons came over for a bbq. They were sweet and simple with two kids, a five-year-old boy and a two-year-old girl.

Hud and the boy raced around the grounds like madmen with the wee girl waddling on after them. They all played really well together and the adults were able to just gab about the differences and similarities in our lives. He was a former builder, who was now into the more administrative end of Aluminum siding sales and installation. He loved it and had warm eyes and a growing belly and talked so fast that I had difficulty understanding a lot of what he was saying. I just nodded and smiled and sipped beer after beer. We had a mixed grill bbq with sausages, drumsticks and burger patties. I made a green salad which only the woman and I ate, she also made potato salad which was still warm, but tasty nonetheless. It was a nice afternoon and they left around nine after getting here around four so we obviously didn’t mind each other’s company, even lamenting what a drag it was meeting them days before our departure. Such is life as a traveling wilbury.

Monday…what did we do Monday….oh yeah. Nevermind.

Yesterday Steph went into Nelson for Aqua fit and Hud and I hung in our underwear playing with all his toys he splayed across the carpet. We ate crackers and peanut butter and watched, I kid you not, The Six Million Dollar Man, complete with slow motion running and the furrowed brow of one of my childhood heroes, Lee Majors. The best part? The Marine Biologist who was taking underwater readings in powder blue short shorts, a tube top and high heels. She looked like a stowaway hooker. Ahh the seventies and its blatant sexism. Pass me a scotch; a mustache and a pantsuit would you?

Last night we had dinner at the main house here at Nelson Coastal Barnstay. It was long overdue as David kept hinting at it, but never coming through with a dinner invite. I marinated chicken all day in a peanut satay sauce, so we brought that as well as a chilled Chardonnay and a sixer of Speight’s. It was a nice night. Dinner was typical fare. The chicken I brought, the chicken they made, and have course, sausages. Gill made a green salad, a tomato onion salad, boiled new potatoes they picked out of their garden that morning, beetroot sliced thin, cut carrots, cukes and eggs to complete the table. It was all farm fresh and delicious. The couple staying at the cottage up top joined us for dessert. These are the Toronto people that arrived about a week ago. I could have easily written an entry specifically about her and her histrionics, but I am feeling warm and fuzzy about this place and do not want to offer up any barbs, however accurate they may be.

We left a little after ten, with Hud being the sweetest perfect little boy the whole night. He mingled with everyone and played with his trucks, mingled and played, batting his eyelashes at the women and grinning at the guys. He went to bed with ease when we got home.

I did too and my tongue is a bit fluffy this morning from all the wine and the beer.

We’re off to Blenheim for a night with the slow talker and his parents, the early retirees.

The journey continues.

Love to all,

J.

Hey Ike, stop bogarting

2006-01-21T17:44:00.000-08:00

January 22, 2006

Ruby Bay, New Zealand

9:50am.

So much for writing everyday. So much for completed my novel by the time we leave here, and while we are at it, after last night’s peanut butter festival, so much for sneaking under my lowest adult weight ever barrier. Although I have yet to confirm the latter, my fear of actually stepping on the cold scale is keeping me from actually seeing that I have somehow gained five pounds in 24 hours. Irrational I know, but I use weight gain fear as a motivator so it’s all good.

Talked to Andy yesterday. He finally picked up the phone after the 18th time calling him in the last six months. My dog Alice is fine, fatter he said, but that’s maybe because of having the munchies all the time. I hope she remembers me, although they say short-term memory is the first to go. Andy also filled me in on some of the goings on in his life in the last eight months or so, including some highlights from his wedding. I am sorry I missed that event. Although if the one-sided phone call is any indication, I am sure I will hear about it in detail upon my return. Having a friend with a penchant for the herb, but an unbelievable and rare ability to remember every little thing is sometimes a bonus. We both said we missed each other before we hung up. Both of us were telling the truth.

The last days here are being spent doing things for the last time. Two days ago we went to a picnic organized for Steph and Hud by one of the PlayCentre moms. We were the only people that showed up. Nice. We may have got the location wrong, but I do not think so. I think it was organized too late, and the moms and kids were already booked doing other hippie organic things. Maybe they were picking lavender or plucking their mother’s arm pit hair. Who knows. Steph was not too upset, leaving me to believe the connection with other mothers was not as strong as it was with the group from the North Island. We had a nice picnic by ourselves, watching the tide recede and Hud befriending a group of older girls who were walking a dog up the coast.

They got out of eyesight so I followed, rounding the corner to see the three girls fighting to see who could hold Hud’s hand on the way back. All three girls were very cute, including a seven year old with dark curly hair and crystal clear pale blue eyes. She looked like a painting. I swear Hud winked at me as he looked back over his shoulder running with the girls back to where Steph was waiting. Attaboy.

Yesterday was the last day spent at the Nelson Market. The only thing I will really miss is the Bratwurst on a baguette slathered with brown mustard served up by one of the many German immigrants living in the Nelson/Takaka/Golden Bay area. She was just starting to recognize me as I ordered one every time we see her, which is often because she moves from market to market. I think she may think I am a stalker. The sausage stalker. Yeah. Dig the moniker.

We got home and had lunch, Steph and Hud eating the spinach, feta, red onion and pepper pizza I made the night before and I ate a spinach salad with Tuna and yellow pepper with a lime mint dressing, not yet plummeting into the land of gorge until the evening.

In the afternoon, after the sun hit its highest point, and as the tide began to move back out to sea, we all went for probably our last walk to the beach closest to our little barn.

I brought a couple of beers in a bucket, and we lazily walked down the path, Steph and I holding hands and Hud racing up and down the dirt bike trail beside us.

The sky was blue, Hud’s hair is blonde and all was right in the world at that moment. Sigh.

We sat on the rocks while Hud played with Toshke and gabbed about nothing. Steph and I get along so well lately, her accusing me of finally relaxing, which is ironic due to the trip winding down factor. Whatever it is, it’s been great. She was always my best friend, sometimes scarily just that. Now she is my wife, my lover, my partner, and a really great mother to our boy.

Luck is my lady tonight.

Love to all,

J.

ohhhh sausage meat

2006-01-18T14:06:00.000-08:00

January 19, 2006

Ruby Bay, New Zealand,

9:39am.

First up, Steph mentioned there was not any recent pictures of her on the blog, perhaps giving the illusion that somewhere along the way, she had ditched Hud and I and was off frolicking with some rough and tumble Kiwi bloke, steaming up some tent on a beach somewhere. Alas, to her dismay, she is not, she is here, being the housewife she never thought she could be.

Originally I was not going to say anything, mostly because I was afraid of the failure, but this morning, I weighed myself, and am the lightest I have been in at least 10 years, eclipsing my $1500 Dr. Bernstein experiment by one pound. I am not done either, wanting to lose at least twenty-five more pounds before May 1st, putting me at a weight I would be comfortable for the remainder of my life. Of course, talk is cheap and chips and dip are good so I will try to remain on course to squeeze myself into normal sized pants upon my return. Husky section be damned! Fuck you George Richards Big and Tall! Triple X will be for my porn collection not my casual shirt size!

But, I reiterate, talk is cheap and sausage meat is so tasty. Only time will tell.

A brief post because we are basically going through the motions before embarking on basically what are last real travel journey before coming home. We leave here in five days, spending one night in Blenheim with your favourite slow talker and mine, and his respective parents before getting back on the ferry to the North Island. After that it’s a night in Wellington, firming up our flight, then a night in Taupo at a homestay, allowing us another opportunity to socialize with people older than dirt. Then it’s two nights at Brendan and Sheridan’s, a family we really like from our time up in Whangamata, then two nights in Hokianga, which is north of Auckland before heading up to Takaurau Beach where we will spend February. The first two weeks in March are on Waiheke Island, where the whole NZ part of our trip started, where I first fell in love with the countryside, taking us full circle. An apt end to our journey.

I did attend Hud’s swim class again a couple of days ago. He is doing so well, although he sometimes does not listen to the instructor and has to be disciplined by putting his bum against the wall while the others do the fun stuff.

At one point I went over and tried to encourage him to listen and was scolded by Steph to not interfere. She was right. What this trip has done is made me so close to Hudson, that I have difficulty letting go, allowing him to be taught something by an adult other then Steph and I. Turning into a parent I always queered my eyes at in the past. It made me realize that while spending this much time with one child is great, both him and I will have detachment issues in the very near future. I can’t imagine not being there when he wakes up, where he is in true cuddle mode, where the first thing he wants to do is plaster his long body close to mine for a big hug, his wild blonde hair smelling of no tears shampoo and pool chlorine. I think I will weep like a widow the first morning I do not get that hug. What a privilege it is.

I will never take my love of my son for granted again.

Love to all,

J.

Sea hags and smelly goats

2006-01-15T01:28:00.000-08:00

January 15, 2006

Ruby Bay, New Zealand

9:39pm

Ok maybe every other day I will post. Actually the last 36 hours was pretty jammed pack for the Graham/White trio. We attended a Teddy Bear Picnic on Saturday afternoon, which if I sing the corresponding song correctly, it is impossible to sound more gay. Hud went on the small train and played on the playground equipment. Pretty standard stuff, although I noticed there were a number of women that looked like Sea Hag from the old Popeye cartoons. You know the one, she had a crooked nose that almost met her ball-like chin, she would squint and talk out the side of her mouth embedded with exactly no teeth. This look is usually pulled off by women who have drank and smoked for a long time. I am talking well past the sit on the corner bar stool, hey sailor, cougar stage. They usually have a couple of kids, not necessarily from the same man, which I know only because the race of the children are not the least bit similar. They stand off from the main crowd, unleashing their mulleted, rat tailed children on the rest of the throng, while they sneak a butt, talking to anyone who will listen with a voice deeper then Barry White after a big hit off a bong. They wear midriff baring shirts with a ripple of flesh bulging over their too short black shorts. On their calve, or above their breast is usually a tattoo of a scary lion or an attacking tiger, or maybe a butterfly for the softer sea hag set. They are harmless when sober, which thankfully at the Teddy Bear Picnic they all appeared to be. My embellishments here are only mild, so don’t hate me because I spout the truth. I do hope there was someone watching me taking in all my physical detriments and recording it later chuckling to themselves. I can take it.

After the picnic we returned home for only a brief stop over as we were off to a Kiwi barbeque Steph got us invited to by one of the PlayCentre moms. We drove about 20kms into the country before finding the turnoff by the old sawmill. We waved to Huck and Tom painting the fence on the way in. The host couple lived on an apple orchard, right on the bank of the Motueka River. We pulled our old car next to another old car and were greeted by Bridget, the soft eyed, sun wrinkled woman who invited us to this little get together. It became quickly apparent that these people are not really hippies, but rural folk who grow all their own produce and wildflowers and herbal teas. Bridget and Ross have four boys, all under the age of 10, the youngest of which is the playmate of Hud at the PlayCentre. She asked how my book was going and I lied and told her everything was going fine. She asked what I did back home and I told her, which made her immediately throw up in her mouth saying it was her idea of hell. I went to argue and then stopped, remembering I agreed with her, although was still mildly offended at the level of her disgust. Her husband Ross came over and we shook hands. He had a good mustache and talked like a gruff Kiwi, and had a rough and tumble, I eat my own livestock swagger. He rolled his own Drum smokes and told tales of killing stinky billy goats on camping trips and not being allowed back in the tents.

More people arrived, about ten people in total, with about 15 kids running all over the property. There were apple trees to left of us, and the large Motueka guarded by trees and bush to the right. Hud loved every minute, running with the older kids, catching crickets with the younger ones, climbing up and down old apple crates, taking turns swinging on old hammock, all of course in bare feet. This country was built for kids.

We sat around and jumped into conversations when needed. I talked to an Australian guy named Andy. He was bald as well, heavy set as well, and we chatted about a number of things including my novel (he dabbled in writing) and his reason for leaving his cushy job in Oz. We compared values and principles and laughed a little at bad jokes. I liked him best of all, although everyone was very pleasant. There was Chris and Brett, a Brit and a South African with two daughters, one three, the other just a baby. They run a coffee cart that travels all over the region working fairs and markets. Sarah was there with her three year old, telling us the reason why her son limped is because her goats were being too aggressive with him and may have to kill them soon, although they are a little young for killing. Another couple arrived later, and I shook his hand but forgot his name. His grip was strong, I think he was Dutch. Heather, another woman from Steph’s playcentre arrived with her two kids, and no one said hi to her, making me think that she was not really well liked. She had a really bad mullet. Maybe that’s why.

At certain points I just listened to all these people chat about farming and what was coming in well this year, if anyone wanted extra wild chamomile, who kills and chops up their pigs, it was all very interesting. They were all so grounded and real and weird in their own bucolic way. They did not seem to care about anything city; in fact Bridget and her clan were camping on their land even though their house was about 400 metres away. She only went home to do laundry as she refused to wash clothes by hand. These are real simple living kind of folk. Another notch in the New Zealand experience belt. On the way back we stopped at Kina Beach to see the full moon hover over the ocean.

Today we just hung out in the morning before heading off to the Motueka market where I needed to buy cheap sunglasses.

After, we went up to Kaiteriteri Beach for some sun and fun. The tide was on its way out, creating quite a fast little rapid as it drains out all the estuaries surrounding the beach. Hud is so water confident now. We have to watch he does not jump in places where he cannot touch. We sledged the rapids together while Steph watched from shore. Good fun.

Tomorrow we will meet and greet the people moving into the upper cottage. Our hosts are away for four days and asked if we could take care of their place for them. The new people are from Toronto as well, a professor at York or something like that.

They are probably pale and cynical.

It will be fun to watch them change.

Love to all,

J.

That'll do donkey

2006-01-12T22:46:00.000-08:00

January 13, 2005

Ruby Bay, New Zealand

4:22pm

So after this entry I will be writing daily again. The entries will be brief, sometimes it will be difficult to eek out a sentence, but I must attack it every day, or it becomes more of a burden then a pleasure and at the very least it this should be an exercise in writing.

So where were we, oh yes, the tender pining for home and all the smiling faces that it would entail. Perhaps that is exactly what I am looking forward to, the centre of attention, the back slaps from the dudes and sexy hugs from the dudettes. The warmth of my family laughing at my bad jokes again. What I am not looking forward to is the begging for employment. In fact, my dream job was posted on-line and I quickly wrote a heartfelt cover letter appealing to the potential employer how I would be the perfect person for the job. Needless to say the male strip revue was looking for someone more….how can I say it…donkey like? I will continue to peruse the web sites.

The last five days were highlighted by our return to the Riwaka Resurgence, to actually witness the hole where the Riwaka River begins. It was not that exciting. Just really clean, clear water, which we sipped. Down the mountain a little I jumped in the very very very cold water after three younger guys did it first.

I had intentions of doing it before they arrived, but they were definitely the motivating factor for me to take the leap into the water, allowing my testicles to quickly ascend my body to nestle somewhere near my esophagus. The brave trio stood on the shore blue lipped and shivering. We all said goodbye with very squeaky voices.

Ironically, Tana and Glenn and their son arrived at the Resurgence as the same time as us. They are the couple that stayed in cottage on the same property for the first ten days after we arrived. Thier son is the one with the painfully slow way of talking. He was not very interested in Hud, or us, so we parted ways with promises of getting together over the next few days as they were visiting from the other side of the island with friends. They called and cancelled the next day as their son came down with the flue. I had an odd feeling that they may have dissed us. I wonder if they found the web site. Oh well, the kid should simply speed up his speech.

The other day, Hud and I walked down to the beach, leaving Steph to have a little snooze at home. Toshke the fox terrier skittered along with us. On the way down, I had the pleasure of watching my boy and a cute dog walk down a gravel path that split the greenish yellow field on the way to the ocean. The dog was excited to be going on a walk and Hud let her jump up and down his ever-lengthening body. It was like he grew a couple of inches on the walk to the water.

The aquamarine ocean lay dormant in the background, waiting for us to arrive, the tide creeping in, covering our crab hunting spot. The sky was massive, never ending, the clouds thin and scared, the sun somewhere else, too high in the sky to be seen, making its presence felt with a soft, but intense heat.

The whole thing was beautiful, the sight of my boy and a dog and an ocean and a field, and the actual feeling of being with him, in a place so far away from the familiar, us loving each other more every day, only me knowing how lucky we are to share such unique times, in such a unique place. I had to hold my chest to keep my heart from bursting apart. It’s these moments, and there have been many, that makes this irresponsible trip worth so much.

Today was another proud moment as I attended Hud’s swim class. I almost cried as I watched him hold his breath and swim to the bottom of a shallow pool and pick up a plastic whale. He was so happy to see me when he brought the whale up. I told him how proud I was, and that he should be so proud of himself. Yikes I am getting weepy again right now.

So two weeks yesterday we leave Nelson and this wonderful barn.

I will miss it.

Love to all,

J.

Let it snow

2006-01-07T22:16:00.000-08:00

January 8, 2005

Ruby Bay, New Zealand

6:41pm

Life returns to normal. At least normal for the time being. In fact I have no idea what normal is anymore. It isn’t what we left. It isn’t what we are living. Perhaps living like we were back home, with NZ in the back pocket of our hearts will be our version of normal. Perhaps normal is overrated and nothing to strive for. Perhaps salt and peppering your life with completely bizarre and random events is how life should be lived. Perhaps the unpredictable should be the predictable. Although I do miss the comfort of knowing what was next. Knowing that the pay cheque was going to be deposited in my dwindling account on the first and the fifteenth of every month. I guess it’s easier when you are younger to feel the gentle thrill of wanton bohemia. Don’t get me wrong; it’s nice as a balding pudgy man of 36 as well. But the echo of responsibility is bouncing back from the canyon wall. I can feel it. Steph can feel it. Hud, well, he likes playing with trains in his Incredibles underwear.

If the weather was any better, my guess is we would be on the first plane back home. I know that sounds bizarre, considering we just spent the last six hours at a market, a craft fair, swimming in a see through river and then letting the chilly surf blanket our tanned bodies at the beach. Pretty sweet yes. It’s just the pot on the back burner, the one on low, the one just starting to get hot, water just starting to look like Sprite, the one you are going to have to deal with sooner rather then later. I am glad I am not the only one of the group feeling this way. My peaks and valleys have already been documented in this journal and even I am sick of myself sometimes. Although I am spectacularly good looking. And have a penis the size of Florida.

The fact that family and friend were here over the holidays was another reminder of the life we have back home. It also was a real wake up in regards to how much time Steph and I spend together, and how well we get along. It even got better and better as the trip progressed. We get along better now then we ever have, and we got along pretty well before. I thought once all the distractions were gone, the work, the nanny pick ups, the Alice poo clean ups, the dinner/cocktail/birthday/engagement/I’m thirsty parties, she would just stare at me blankly and pack her belongings in a red kerchief, tie it on a stick and book. Nope. She digs me. And I dig her. She’s the mack.

So the novel progresses, Hud starts swimming lessons tomorrow, and we have two and half weeks until we get back on the ferry and slowly move up the North Island, including a stop back in Whangamata to visit some cool people we liked.

I will try not to think about March 15th too much.

Love to all,

J.

Done Dirt Cheap

2006-01-03T23:16:00.000-08:00

January 4, 2006

Ruby Bay, New Zealand

7:23pm

So, this morning, at 3:08am, I found myself walking the brown and white corridors of the Rutherford Hotel in Nelson City in just a pair of navy blue jogging shorts. Isn’t that weird? Because I don’t jog at all.

But, seriously folks, I was sleepwalking, half lit up, after Tony’s last night was spent in the city, bar hopping a little, but basically just reminding ourselves what good drinking partners we are, and how each of us missed the camaraderie that can accompany many pints, greasy food, and sadly, a couple of cigarettes.

In September of this year I will have known Tony for 25 years. He is the first person that approached me in the playground at Glenview that fall in 1981, me with so much curly hair, wearing an ACDC concert t-shirt and a black corduroy jacket. Luckily, he liked ACDC as well, and a chord was struck that still rings true no matter the gap in distance or time between us. I am lucky to have him, and others like him, as friends. I am also glad he is gone. My liver is bloated and my lungs a gentle colour black. Tomorrow the walking and water cleansing begins.

It wasn’t all just beer drinking during Tony’s visit, but it was close. With New Year’s Eve adding additional incentive, we managed to plow through many an icy can of Speights (The pride of the south!), including a lovely 15 each to welcome in 2006.

You would think that would be enough for the two of us to be slurring and cursing, but the beer is light and we started quite early, so all the three of us could do was say “happy new year”, followed immediately by “good night”. We are aged flatulence.

New Year’s Day was spent at Rabbit Island, (which is neither an island, nor has rabbits; discuss) where the weather was hardly agreeable but sure beat the words wind and chill. Hud and I swam and then we all walked up the coast seeking nubile bodies through the corners of our sunglasses. Hud ran most of the time, weaving in and out of cricket players and their mock games with plastic wickets. After the beach we came home and ate homemade pizzas. That night we watched the remake of The Longest Yard, which was both racist and stupid, completely matching my expectations.

The next day, woo hoo, Tony and I were out of the house by 7am to drive the 90 minutes to Murchison where we scheduled to attack the Buller River in a inflatable raft. It was pissing and windy and we were unsure if they would actually run the trip, but when we checked in, the dread locked guide did not even bat an eye at the howling wind and torrential rain as he slid our credit cards through the machine. Next up was the dreading shoe horning of my body into a wet suit. It went better then the sausage incident up in Byron Bay, but it still was somewhat heavy on my lungs. There were 14 of us on the morning adventure, in three boats. All of us piled into two vans and drove down the highway ten minutes where we were led down the bank of the Buller to be taught how to run whitewater in about 10 minutes. The people were split into three groups, Tony and I with Leon and Neve, Leon visiting traveling Neve from Ireland for the holidays. Neve was traveling for a year. The relationship dynamic was not unlike Tony’s and mine, the difference being Neve’s vagina and her lack of partner and child and of course Leon was taller then Tony. But then again, who isn’t?

Adam was our team leader, a pony tailed outdoorsy type, friendly and good at whitewater expeditions, but pretty much dumb as a throw pillow. We were raft two, behind the United Nations raft, and ahead of the Scottish family raft. We began paddling down the river. Somewhere, dueling banjos were playing.

We were actually a pretty strong group so we were soon in the lead, listening to Adam’s instructions and paddling in unison down light and fluffy rapids. The first big set of rapids we hit hard, the raft spinning right around soaking us all, but it was raining so we could care at all. In fact, whitewater rafting may have been the perfect thing to do on such a rainy day. We were totally decked out in a wet suit, including little wet suit booties for our feet. I was actually quite warm. Adam instructed us to paddle back up the side of the rapids to try and surf the swell once again. Well, talk about tempting fate, we hit the rapids and the raft spun and spat me out like watermelon seed. I was in the raging river, floating far away from the raft.

There was only truly about one full second of panic, an actual thought of “I am underwater being shoved downstream” before I popped up like a buoy and heard the white Rastafarian (he was the group leader) yell at me to turn around and look at him. I got into the whitewater dump position, on my back, toes pointed in the air, and turned to look. He yelled at me to swim to the right where a pool of calm water awaited. With three or four good strokes I was there, now wading, and waiting for my raft to come and get me. Adam pulled me back in and I sat up and whipped my long wet hair around my head. Uh. No. I shook my helmeted head and caught my breath. Woo hoo I screamed out loud. That was totally wicked. It was. I felt great.

The next couple of rapids were as exciting, me almost dumping again, before lodging my giant feet underneath the raft bench, almost breaking my legs, but staying in the raft. We also were allowed to jump out at calmer points and just float down the river, laying back, watching the rain fall on our faces. They thought the water was cold. It was about 17 degrees. I thought it was downright balmy.

The last, and biggest rapid was a grade 5 drop, which is about a seven foot waterfall. We actually disembarked to look at it and plan our entry point. I felt pretty cool. We were nominated to go first and all of us were eager to tame this bad bitch into submission. Adam told us to paddle lightly to get into position and then with a booming voice told us to forward hard! We hit the tongue and jumped into the raft into a full on crash position. The raft basically disappeared into the rage and swirl of the furious water and then popped out again. We jumped back into position and paddled safely near the rocks and moored, Adam having to play lifeguard for the remaining two rafts.

What a rush. All four of us were in awe of the water, and of each other as Adam said we did it perfectly. The other two rafts also managed not to dump anyone, but did not look as cool as we did, that being the most important. Of course.

The last half hour was spent lazily drifting downstream, stopping to cliff jump (about 25 ft) and then haul the rafts up the bank to return to base camp. We all took hot showers and crammed into a hot tub, me closer to a barely clothed Tony then I would of liked. Although his nipples were quite captivating. They served us baguettes and cold cuts for lunch and then showed us the pictures Sabine was taking from the bank at various points down the river. Of course this would be the point I would insert a picture if only Sabine knew how to work the camera, blaming the lack of photos on a technical malfunction.

So all Tony and I have is the memory, no tangible proof that we actual spent half a day battling the Upper Buller River. It was enough for me, and I think it was enough for him.

I could go on about last night in Nelson, going to three different bars, the most fun being the time we spent at the first bar, drinking pints, finally figuring out cricket and just being the same old friends we have been for the last 25 years.

The only thing missing was the ACDC t-shirt.

Love to all,

J.

You flipper you brought her

2005-12-30T04:42:00.000-08:00

December 31, 2005

Ruby Bay, New Zealand

12:49am

Woke up after consuming six quick beers and a half bottle of cheap red wine. Basically the story of my holiday season. Not only did people travel across the world to spend time with us on Christmas, but they came to accompany me in the raising of many a beer, scotch and wine glasses to my gaping maw of a mouth. I can actually feel the weight creeping back on my body. I even stopped the morning walks, using a tiny blister on my heel as an excuse, when really it was the lethargy and hazy malaise from all the drinking and eating. Must. Get. Back. On. Track.

Tony is here. Picked him up at the airport the same day I dropped off Dad and Miriam. Felt a bit like an airport shuttle service doing the same drive over and over again. Needless to say the parental visit was awesome and so far so good with the little Italian friends stay.

The last couple of days with Papa and Oma were spent going for drives up the coast to small hippie artisan villages on the coast. This included the drive up and down Takaka Hill, which my father white knuckled in the passenger seat the entire way. It was a bit like a slalom course, and if I was new to my 15 year old car I would have winced a little on the curves as well. I did manage to get everyone back to the barn in one relieved piece.

Later that night we went for dinner at the Riverside Café, a small restaurant Steph, Hud and I attended weeks ago and loved. It was a nice meal with Hud finding a playmate to secretly eat cane sugar with as we feasted on cheese fondue, monkfish, steak and roast chicken.

Hud looked pretty darn cute in his new Canadian hockey jersey, so it was easy to dismiss his arcane sugar woofing down.
Sure he went to bed a little after two in the morning, but a small price to pay to look at this every day.

After dinner, a spirited, spirit filled conversation ensued back at the ranch. I managed to both agree and disagree with my father without getting too emotional. I have a tendency to emote heavily when a discussion gets heated, ignoring articulation, tripping over a collection of tears in my eyelids. But it was all fine, if not resolved, with Steph and I being more the opinion pitchers instead of the problem catchers. The next day everyone awoke with good old fashioned smiles on our faces.

It was departure/arrival day, so with bags jammed into the car, we drove and dropped off my father and Mir at the airport. It truly was a great visit, with enough downtime to get comfy, and enough activity to avoid annoyance with each other. Hud, of course, benefited the most, relishing the new attention, seeking out the love of 2 of 6 grandparents.

And then there was Tony.

After lunch in Nelson city, we drove back to the airport three hours later to find Tony waiting in the airport lobby. He took an earlier flight and was there a mere 45 minutes after we left the airport the first time. But Kreskin I am not, so he got a feel for Nelson by reading the airport brochures.

His first couple of days at Casa Graham/White were spent drinking and eating and generally filling the gap of time between May and now with anecdotal tales of his, and our mutual friends lives. Nothing much has changed he said. Which we knew to be the case. We did manage to get up to the beach for a true taste of what NZ summer holidays are like.

It was pretty crowded, but nothing like Wasaga or even like Toronto beaches in our summer.

Yesterday was a pretty awesome day. One that will go down as a trip highlight, partly because Tony will have the same memory, and partly because what we were able to witness. It started in the morning as we boarded the twin hulled sailboat that was to take us into the park for a day of sailing. It was a bit overcast and chilly, but we bundled up and made our way to various points of interest up the Abel Tasman coast. Hud stayed with Tony for the most part, finding a new friend to chill with, something Tony looked like he earnestly enjoyed.

We stopped in Anchorage Bay for a sausage and steak bbq aboard a floating backpacker home, and then returned to the boat for an afternoon of gentle sailing back home. The other people on the boat ranged from quiet Germans, to friendly Brits, to a talkative buck toothed Asian, who had her eyes on her own little Italian sausage. Prrowwwrrr.

About halfway home, Mark, our curly locked captain asked if anyone wanted to have a go at sailing. I quickly said yes and made my way to the back of the boat to work the two rudders. It was a nice feeling, standing there, sailboat under my control, my son sitting next to me asking if I was steering the boat. I demanded Steph take the appropriate over the top picture.

Almost immediately after relinquishing the controls back to Mark, he announced we were going to take a detour. There was a pod of dolphins to our right and he wanted to get a closer look. The ten passengers all quickly emerged from their various stages of slumber and went to the front of the cat.

I thought we were going to look over yonder and get a glimpse of the curved dorsal of the dolphins as they jumped out of the water. Big whoop, we had seen it many times before on our journey. What I did not expect was the pod of dolphins to approach and swim right along side of the boat for a good five to ten minutes, completely thrilling and surprising all passengers, including an almost giddy three year old. Four or five dolphins actually swam and crested and leapt right in front of the boat, moving with such speed and grace and playfulness it literally left us with non stop smiles. It was quite simply one of the coolest things I have ever seen in my life.

The rest of the trip was spent trying to recapture the joy of the dolphins after they quickly disappeared.

Mostly it was spent under the now clear sky and hot sun, drifting in and out of consciousness, dreaming of Aquaman leading an army of grinning dolphins.

Maybe that was just me.

Love to all,

J.

He remembers nana the best

2005-12-26T00:43:00.000-08:00

December 26, 2005

Ruby Bay, New Zealand

8:56pm

I just went upstairs and my father, my favourite man of all time, is lying on my, now his bed, with a cold wash cloth wrapped on his face to sate the sunburn he received today. He looks like a sarcastic radish.

New Zealand is known for their proximity to the hole in the ozone. A fact I shared with our guests in the car ride on the way home from the airport. It will be a tan tomorrow. My father is part Indian you know, right spike?

So duh, my father and his wife Miriam arrived on Christmas Eve day, father decked out in his traveling sports coat and Miriam looking smashing even though they had spent about a week on many airplanes to get to our little nook of the world. Hudson was shy for about 45 seconds before trying to wrap them both around his little finger. What a joy to watch my son with my father. It was like crystal balling my own childhood to see how I became a goofball. A total treat I tell you.

Christmas itself was a total success. We set up the Thomas wooden set we bought for just under $62,000 and put it under the tree and told a wide eyed Hud that Santa must have put it together between bites of lemon cookies we left out for him.

He was totally mystified and even admitted to seeing Santa arrive at our little cottage, even though he is sleeping on a bunk bed above Steph and I. It was rich and beautiful and the stuff legends are built from.

Hud loved all his gifts, but admittedly, the Spiderman costume stowed away in Papa and Oma’s luggage from my sister and her clan was a pretty big hit.

It was immediately adorned and worn for a good long time before we convinced him to remove the mask so he could eat the cheesy farm fresh eggs I made for Christmas breakfast. Good call Aunty Mitch, good call.

After all the presents were unwrapped.

(I got running shoes!! We bought them four days ago! We wrapped them for Hud’s benefit! Teaching him a non-greed lesson! Aren’t we progressive!) and after breakfast we went for a walk on the beach. Just something you have to do in the whole reverse season phenomenon. I swam; in a rocky, clandestine floored ocean, waiting for a lion fish to puncture my heel before realizing my heel is basically like lathered diamond juice, only penetrated by other diamonds, leaving me to sigh and wade further into the water.

Later on we caught crabs and all three of the Grahams feared the pinch but soldiered on

Dinner was at six, a full turkey ensemble and home made gravy, which was great, if not a little burnt. Steph made Pavlova for dessert, a classic Kiwi soft meringue dish that melts in your mouth and makes you beg for more. All in all a pretty successful holiday dinner.

Today, boxing day, was spent on a small cruise ship up the coast into the Abel Tasman National Park for a day of adventure and walking and golden sand beaching. In other words, total boxing day traditions.

Hud is really enjoying other people. I will give my father and Miriam the benefit of the doubt and say it is because he really loves them, although it really seems he is just happy to have the attention of other adults besides his sometime milquetoast parents. One thing I know, he will love going back home and basking in the glow of the rest of the parents. We have become old and boring to the shooting star himself. Maybe by high school he will dig us again.

Tomorrow we are going up to hippie country for a café lunch and perhaps a couple of gallery visits. Not really my bag, but I will suffer through it if only to watch my crusty goofy father waffle the blonde mane of my crusty goofy son.

I, of course, will continue to muck around in the gap.

Love to all,

J.

Crazy slowly going am I 6 5 4 3 2 1 switch

2005-12-21T15:45:00.000-08:00

December 21, 2005

Ruby Bay, New Zealand

9:04pm

Three days until people, namely my father and stepmother, or Papa and Oma, as I refer to them by accident to Stephanie, because I say it to Hud so much, arrive on the overnight flight from I guess LA. I am waiting for the moment to gauge my reaction upon being around people we have known longer than twenty minutes. I am excited and eager and wary of the hype. I have gone longer in my life without seeing my father. Hud waxes on about it daily. First Oma and Papa, then Santa, and then Tony, quite the triumvirate for a three year old.

The whole Christmas season will be great. People from the outside world, boat trips, both sailing, motor and whitewater all crammed into about nine days. Our trip budget is bursting, but we are happy about it. There goes the kitchen reno we laugh, ha ha, cry, dream, ha.

Our frigging broadband internet connection disappeared for no reason. I have exhausted every software/hardware avenue on this Mac and am left stumped and somewhat stranded on an informationless island. I was so connected for the last three weeks, so current with world events and hapless Raptors scores, I was digging it, except for the consistent distraction from the novel, which, after some quick research, I have found I am already well over the expected word count of first time novelists, with about a third left to write. If you think that doesn’t change the perception of a novel, especially someone as eager as I to finish it, then you got another thing coming sparky. I want to wrap it up right now, not so neatly, with smiles and scotch on everyone’s faces. Alas, I hate movies that do that, hit the two hour mark, and go oh shit, people are fading, wrap it up, wrap it up! Johnny marries Suzy, Suzy’s unrepentant father gets hit by a bus, Johnny’s drunken mother cries a wistful tear, secretly knowing Johnny’s happiness was because of her sacrifice, a rose dies, a dolphin jumps…and….Scene. So I write on. Plodding. All quicksandy.

We met another couple from up the road. Interesting only because they are Aucklanders through and through, a NZ animal we have yet to run into so far on this trip. We were only in Auckland for a couple of nights before disappearing into their island fantasy life in Waiheke. So these were city folk, him working for BASF, her a true soccer mom with workout arms and coifed hair and a good old fashioned gin habit. He was a traveling man, operations and strategy, fast talker, short without the disease, and woo hoo, a beer drinker. We welcomed them when they arrived only because the house sitter pawned her job on us in exchange for the use of the pool, a fair trade actually. Later the next day I met them on the beach as Hud and I searched for crabs on the beach while Steph volunteered at a flower shop. Yes, lovely Stephanie is doing three hours a day at a local flower shop to investigate if that is the next adventure in our lives. Anyway, the couple have three kids, 6, 4, and 2, the younger two boys, the eldest, the sweetest, a girl with a pout and seven million questions, including my favourite, “ do you like sausages that come from a cow?” I did not have the heart to tell her that sausages do not come from anywhere but the floor of a slaughterhouse. Ok, I did tell her, and after she stopped crying she thought I was fun because a skipped pretty well for a fat guy.

So Hud had kids to play with for the last couple of days. He ignored them and went straight to the diggers. Good thing too, because the two boys, especially the four year old was a freak, non stop energy, the aggressive energy that is kind of funny and kind of scary as he swings from the chandelier to try and crush his little brother’s cranium. The parents knew it as well, and curbed it as best they could, but they mostly lived in fear of the impending disaster, whether bloody or just expensive. As mentioned, thankfully, Hud just blinked and nodded, brushing his too long blonde hair from his eyes, and went back to playing with the new toys. He is so wonderfully subtle and serious sometimes. Just watching the crazies go by. God I love his little but big personality.

Doing the guest grocery shopping tomorrow. This should be fun.

Love to all,

J.

Murky life, clear water

2005-12-17T23:18:00.000-08:00

December 18, 2005

Ruby Bay, New Zealand,

7:21pm

Eight days since my last post, not including my tribute to Dora, the little slut. She ran off with Boots and last I heard she is shacking up with Joe from Blues Clues. My heart is still in her little backpack. Vamanos Dora. Vamanos.

So what have we been up to in the last week or so you must be saying to yourself? Well, lots of basic living, with the odd dashes of sunshine and heat in mid December. Both Steph and I are having difficulty getting into the spirit without the blanket of snow, or at least snowflakes lollygagging to the ground. We have since decorated the banister with some cheesy multicoloured tinsel and are playing grainy Christmas music from an Internet radio station in Cleveland. As the late great Dave Villineuve used to say, ho fucking ho.

Since my last post, our neighbours left, continuing their own journey to Blenheim, where they were moving into their new house. They invited us to come and visit either during our stay here in Ruby Bay, or on our way to Picton to take the ferry back to Wellington at the end of January. They were nice, even the little slow motion talker, and our last dinner there was more even, with Tana making a great pumpkin soup with pesto pasta. Pumpkins are squash here, is that crazy? Are you just shivering in your own cold sweat from the excitement that Kiwis actually have different names for fruits and vegetables then us Canadians? No? Me either.

I am having trouble actually thinking what we did this past week. A couple of raspberry and boysenberry picking escapades, where you could fill a Kg bucket in about 45 seconds the fruit was so abundant. Trips to Nelson and Richmond to finish off our shopping, lots of covert op stuff, one distracter, one purchaser, things we must do as we are always together. Always. Are. Together.

The highlight I guess was cutting our own tree and putting it up last night. It is a wild pine and not the most well rounded tree, which matches our family’s personality I guess. We bought some red balls and white lights, the rest we have filled with pinecones and shells and some of Hud’s toys. I did not like it at first, but it is growing on me. It was the first time I cut my own tree for Christmas, so it will have that statistic going for it.

Hud continues to be naughty and nice, and completely immersed in the fantasy of Santa Claus. It will be the best part of the holiday (that and my father being here) I am sure. Watching him open his gifts and be mesmerized on how Santa got in and out without him hearing it will be a joyful ruse to witness. He grows up at rocket speed. I am almost afraid to blink.

Today I can recap cause I can remember it. We ate lunch at Riwaka Resurgence, which may sound like a Maori political group, but actually it’s the origin\ of the Riwaka river which flows down the side of Tanaka hill through caves, underwater and then explodes to the surface, thus the resurgence moniker. Our luck was bad, as DOC (dept of conservation) were doing some repairs at the resurgence point and we were not allowed to climb the bank.

We did get to see and drink the water where it first appears, and it may be the cleanest water in the world. It flows down marble caves and pools at this one point called crystal something or other. It was at least twenty feet deep and you could see the fluttering of algae on the rocks at the bottom. It was so clear, and too cold to jump in, but excellent to drink. We actually saw a guy walking the path when we were leaving with two big water jugs to fill and take home. Not something you see in every country.

I had a bad day emotionally. The first day in a long time where I actually longed to be home. Not because I missed anyone (no offence), but I was getting an impatient feeling of getting our life back together again. Steph and I talked about it, and we reluctantly admitted we were getting a little bored. I want to work again, just not in the same type of job. I am still working on what I actually am good at doing. Good at doing that offers some sort of income.

I am sure it will all pass as people from home arrive and the season wraps around us. We have some nice boat adventure stuff scheduled, so that will be fun. As well as some good old fashioned debauchery with my little Italian.

I miss Dora.

Love to all,

J.

New Love

2005-12-13T21:23:00.000-08:00

Well it was inevitable. With Steph’s new found obsession for knitting, and her constant attention to our son and hair plucking, I was forced to look elsewhere for love.

I know what you all our saying, how could I do this to the woman I promised to spend the rest of my life with?

How could I tear apart a family right smack dab in the middle of the adventure of all of their lives?

But, as the cliché goes, men are pigs and pork is the other white meat, or something like that. So, with apologies to all of our friends and families who thought Steph and I were the one couple that could survive all those drunken group erotic chocolate fondue Friday nights, the hot tub ecstasy wife swapping parties, the Sunday afternoon lap dancing competitions and of course Crisco Twister, you were wrong and you must forgive me as I launch into a poetic soliloquy to celebrate the love of the new olive skinned girl that has since become the reason I keep on truckin’.

You love adventure and I love you for it. You have a pet monkey which makes you kooky and crazy and just adds to the mystery that is you. You are constantly aware of all the danger that surrounds you, that seeks you out, that tries to swipe what is yours. You remain in touch with your childhood friends and that makes you loyal. You constantly seek out answers to all of life’s big questions and I admire that. You skip along life’s path always smiling, always affirming and sharing your victories with your friends.

But I tell you, what I love most about you is your almond eyes, looking at me with your beautifully cocked head, telling me I did it.

No, you did it, sweetness, you really really did it.

Click below to catch a simple glimpse. I warn you, she's hypnotic.

New Lover

J.

Reciprocal

2005-12-09T19:37:00.000-08:00

December 10, 2005

Ruby Bay, New Zealand

3:54pm

Five days since my last post. Not because I have nothing to say. Ok, partially because I nothing to say. Mostly its because our first week in here was pretty low key, with Steph and Hud off to playcentre in the morning, and either chillaxing in the afternoon or doing something small, like the aqua centre or the library, you know, real life things, simple things.

We have spent a lot of time with the couple up the road, and their methodically talking son, who on occasion tells Hudson he is annoying. I bite my tongue bloody, holding back what I think of his forced fucktard way of speaking. How it grates on my soul, how it feels like peeling off the skin on the back of my calves and forking a lemon over it. He is only seven. Forcing me to climb to the next plateau of the old mountain of patience. Slapping my own back in congratulation.

The novel writing started. It will not be finished by the time my father arrives. So he will have to wait with the rest of the masses to get a taste of the magic that is my writing. Please note the sarcasm. Please understand I am battling the inner demons of inability. At this point, it’s about finishing it, polishing it up like a statue, and perhaps tossing it into a fire. The sense of completion being the true reward.

The walks started again, up to just under 8km every morning, a third on the main road, a third on a very quiet farm road, and the last third on the beach. The beach close to us is not the white sandy tropical beach we’ve seen in other places on this journey. It is rocky and a bit stinky. Steph breathes in the brackish, seaweed smell and revels in it. I breathe in and think: Dead fish. Maybe because I never really dug seafood, so the smell if it rotting is not something I want to bask in.

Two weeks until the visitors arrive, which you will all never hear the real dirt about, because they read this as well! Maybe I can slip in a couple of clandestine references about any embarrassing tales. We shall see.

As far as my little Italian friend’s arrival, his tales of embarrassment will be documented in point form for easy laughter reference. His scorn I can take.

We went out to lunch with the couple and slowmo, up the street to a small café with a river running through it. In the river are many many eels that you can hand feed meat on a stick (only $2 a stick!). Eels are gross. Their little mouths opening up and snatching the meat off the stick, their little eyes staring at you, wishing you were on a big stick. Total ick. As a three year old of course, the ickier then better.

So, the other night, I suggested we have dinner together, the couple and their son and us, up at their place (it’s bigger), insinuating a potluck sort of deal, nothing too fabulous, just good drinks and good eats and mediocre conversation (the bar was set low). So Steph and I, as we do, made couscous with peppers and onions, a bean salad that was so good it should be outlawed, and 10 chicken kababs, with tomatoes, onions, peppers, mushroom, zucchinis, three draped in Thai curry flavour, three in a peanut satay sauce, and four plain. I spent the last part of the afternoon pushing meat and vegetable onto the skewers I soaked in water, arranging them beautifully on a tray, so they would be impressed. They were impressed, and we set up all our goodies on their table. I cooked all the brochettes and brought them inside and we sat down to eat. Oh, what did they make you ask? Potatoes. In the microwave. A squash. That they mistimed and served after everything else. I think it cost them maybe three bucks. They are 40 years old and retired. Maybe that is how they saved all their money. I don’t get it. We have been invited back to their place tonight. It’s their last night and I asked if we could bring anything. She said no. I accepted. Although on the way home we stopped off and bought a bunch of pastries we can cut up for dessert. We just can’t arrive with nothing.

I am going to get drunk and tongue kiss the woman while smothering the little boy’s mouth with my hand. The father is shy so he may say something. He may not. Something I will risk. Here are some shots of us and horses.

Love to all,

J.

Sure do got a purty mouth

2005-12-05T01:29:00.000-08:00

December 5, 2005

Ruby Bay, New Zealand

9:27pm

We feed all our wet garbage to a big pig named Ben that lives in a pen at the top of our driveway. Now this is not a wee pink Wilbur with a remarkable smile and a sweet curl of a tail, oinking all around, this is a massive, black with brown bristles, steel ring through it’s snout, wet swine mouth licking and smacking his pig lips as it vacuums up anything we give it. Shall I define anything? Orange peels, grapefruit peels, lemon peels (I looked for a pucker, a shudder, anything), avocado stones, eggshells, bones, small pieces of lumber, a lost Asian tourist and a couch cushion. David, our host, also made sure to tell us to just dump the bucket of slop into Ben’s pen, because if you try to feed him by hand, he will not distinguish between a rind and your ring finger, leaving you a nickname of stumpy for the rest of your life. Needless to say we follow his instructions quite rigidly. I have yet to feed him a piece of bacon or a pork chop bone. Yet.

Day four of our new home and no complaint, minus the ugly fat pig, as we further immerse ourselves into the communities that our near our eight-week home.

Saturday was spent at the Nelson market, and checking out Nelson in general. It is a nice medium sized town that we will probably only occasion on market days and if we need something specific. And of course when visitors arrive at the end of the month. Otherwise it is just a place where we would spend money. We seem to have a desire to watch the colourful bills drift out of our wallets (which I check every four seconds to make sure it is there) and into the waiting hands of all the sweet salespeople with their caked on make up and fairly large asses. The market itself was pretty nice, with a number of hippies or flashy types offering us their wares at low prices. There is a huge hippie element to this region, and its something I actually like, except for their acrid onion pit smell. I like the influence, the “peace man”, the organics of it all, but come on, hop in the shower every six or seven days please, the water conservation argument only works for so long.

After the market we ate Thai and then drove to a place called Rabbit Island, which is basically miles and miles of beach serviced and protected by the regional government. We were only on a recon mission, so we only checked out what locals would call a crowd, which was basically a smattering of people, about 1/50th of what would be on Wasaga any summer weekend, on a beach 50 times the size. There just doesn’t seem to be enough people here to warrant us calling them a crowd. It is a good thing.

Rabbit Island is about ten minutes from our house. Everything we need is basically within a ten-minute drive. This is different from back home where everything you needed was usually within a ten-minute walk. It’s a car culture, but I guess anywhere small enough to be a small town usually is.

The property we are on has three houses. Ours, the owners and another one about 200 metres from ours that is also available to rent. It was more expensive than ours by about 100 bucks a week, with the only difference being a little bit bigger with a clear, clean view of the ocean. There is another couple staying there for 12 days. We all arrived at the same time and were given the same orientation speech about the pig I mentioned earlier. They have a son, a seven year old, who Hud has taken an immediate shine. I, however am less enamored. For whatever reason this kid speaks in such a slow methodical cadence that it takes him about twenty minutes to get a sentence as short as “Can I have some juice?” out of his mouth. He is obviously bright, but it just irks me the way he talks. If Hud starts emulating him, I will immediately cease contact by making up some story about weird Canadian viruses that fester around meaty pigs and olive trees. His parents, Glenn and Tayna are pleasant enough. They are emigrating here, or to Blenheim, about a 90-minute drive from here. They are just a little bit older than us and they are retired. Yep, retired. I did not ask him how (although I was just dying to, but he suspected I did, so I didn’t, how cool am I?), but Steph has since eked out info that he is an engineer and sold a company. They have a house in Santa Barbara, a house in Utah and have just purchased a house in Blenheim, which closes in two weeks. Anyway, on Saturday we went over to their house for some drinks and some cheese and bread. David, our host, and a bit of a gabber, also joined us all as we chatted and got to know each other a little better. I like her better than him, as she laughed at my jokes more, and as you know, that is the only reason I like people.

I drank a nice chewy bottle of Chardonnay and three beers, leaving me of course with a bout of insomnia forcing me wide awake at 4am for the day. The day being Sunday.

Sunday was spent at the Motueka A&P Fair, which is basically a country fair displaying livestock, farm machinery and greasy food. All things we love! There also were logging exhibitions meaning there were a number of men in undershirts. Men that should never wear undershirts.

They also had really old rickety rides that Hud went on and laughed as we cringed as they creaked and bent, leaving us breathless and hugging him immediately after the smoking teenager stopped the ride by holding one of the merry go round horses and plowing his boots into the ground.

As we were leaving we did manage to sneak a gander at the team of oxen being led around by men that looked like the men that raped Ned Beatty in Deliverance. I was more afraid of them then I was of the ox that looked only a little bit smaller than a hippopotamus.

The last part of the day I took Hud on a small car so he could drive us around a small track. He loved it, and I even got him to cut off and Indian woman and her two year old on the inside lane. No one takes the Grahams on the outside.

Today Steph and Hud and Tayna and her son went to Rabbit Island for a real beach visit. I stayed behind and got started back on the novel. I was tentative, but the flow came in spurts, and by tomorrow, when Hud and Steph start at Playcentre, I should be back in the groove. I still like the story, I just don’t love the writing.

Later Hud and I went to the playground and to get an ice cream while Steph had a nap. I love the dad/Hud times. He just listens to me talk about anything with such interest, even if without comprehension. I listen to him as attentively, and we hold hands as we walk down the sidewalk, ice cream streaming down our faces and onto our shirts.

We are quite the pair.

He’s easy to love.

Love to all,

J.

Be Gentle Annie, you too Ruby Bay

2005-12-02T02:04:00.000-08:00

December 2, 2005

Ruby Bay, New Zealand

10:01pm

“Well, that was fun”

This was Hud’s satisfied summary of the evening we just spent in Moteuka at their version of a Santa Claus parade. People in shorts and slides being the only difference from Toronto’s version. Not that the Santa Claus parade at home always had snow, being they hold it in the middle of November, but it is was 24 degrees and sunny today. Santa’s jingle bells must have been a bit dewy.

We made it. Our place is wonderful.

All anxieties are dashed. Our bags are actually close to empty. Dresser drawers are bursting.

The fridge is full of green vegetables. Our car weighs less than a hay filled rhino. The sun sets over an olive grove we overlook from our patio.

The beach is seven minutes away. Sigh.

We arrived yesterday, after a slight detour up to Karamea to retrieve my wallet, which some angel like man found in the middle of the road and turned into the police. Humanity, it’s me Jason, I believe. I also believe my wife’s glass is always full because it was her who never gave up hope that my wallet was out there waiting to be recovered. Oh, and not a dime of the money was missing. Of course if you are reading this first without reading the last entry you have no idea what I am talking about. Of course if this were a real diary I would not be talking to the people reading it. Of course if I were as a real writer, I would not use these silly repetitive sentences to try and be funny. Tough guys don’t dance.

To summarize. My wallet was lost and found and now sits bulging out of the top of my right buttock, with less cash in it only because we had to buy vitamins and q-tips and probably coffee. I loved New Zealand people before, I love them more now.

So we drove, 300 kilometeres from the west coast to 45kilometres north of Nelson, the third largest city in the south island. Our cottage is a two storey, two bedroom converted barn with totally enough room to not drive each other crazy, and even can house two wayward parents and one wayward Italian, although thankfully, not at the same time. Our host, David, is a former committee member of the Nelson tourism board and has provided us with amenities that only being close to a city can offer. The most important being of course, Broadband Internet.

Yesterday we chilled mostly, the town closest to us, Moteuka, pop. 10,000 is about 12 kilometres away and has everything we need in regards to groceries, sundries, cafes, bars, etc… It feels very odd and a little bit nice to be this close to civilization again. The last five weeks was a mish mash of absolute isolation and faux crowds that appeared and disappeared with the flash of a camera bulb.

Today we spent infiltrating the town of Moteuka. We registered Hud for Playcentre, the same organization Hud and Steph attended in the North Island, allowing Hud to make friends, allowing us to make friends with the parents. I went today and scanned the mothers to see if there were any Germans, no luck. Oh how I miss the Germans. So Hud and Steph have two and a half weeks to make relationships as Playcentre shuts down for the holidays until after we are gone. Pressure’s on Steph, work that charm, flash those Chiclets, fake that laugh. Same with you Hud..

The library was next as I needed something to read besides Guns, Germs and Steel, which I almost got interested in again. We signed up and I took out the last book by Michael Cunningham, the man who wrote The Hours and At home at the end of the world, the latter of which I loved, if only for this description: “He was big and inevitable, like a tree”.

We drove home and ate lunch and almost did nothing until Steph decided we had more towns to see, more things to register for. So we hit Mapua and Richmond, one small and one quite big, the latter where we went to a mall for vitamins and q-tips, did I mention that already?

So the novel writing starts again on Monday. I am terrified. In the last five weeks I looked at it exactly no times. And my confidence is shot because I happened to read two great books, Middlesex and A Fine Balance. What a mook I am to think I can write a novel. I will finish it though, so it can lay covered in dust on a shelf somewhere in the studio apartment we all will be living in upon our return.

It’s still all worth it.

Every last playground.

Every last small town café.

Every waterfall.

Every grain of beach sand.

Love to all,

J.

The drive from

November 30, 2005

Gentle Annie Beach, 45 kilometres north of Westport, New Zealand

9:06pm

I lost my wallet. And this place, no matter how beautiful, and what a nice, simple quiet time we had here, will always be, the place where I lost my wallet. $350. Credit cards. Original birth certifcate. Drivers license. Picture of Hud wearing my basketball shoes when he was two. Gone. Bummer. Guess what I miss most? The cash of course. I may be a sentimental doofus, but I now have over two thousand pictures of Hud. It was kind of ripped in the corner anyway. It was cute though, he put my shoes on and looked like a giant L.

Gentle Annie. It’s where we are now. North of Westport. South of Karamea, the beginning of the Heaphy Track, a world famous four-day tramp. From icy pints, zinc lips, hiking boots and talking to familiar strangers to endless raw beaches, driftwood graveyards, rock pools with black crabs and red beaked oyster catchers squawking at us to get away from their nests. Not that Franz Josef was huge at all, but where we are now makes it look like a booming metropolis.

Other than that, it’s the place where I lost my wallet.

How did someone as smart as me lose my wallet? It’s honestly what I was thinking. It was easier to think that instead of wondering how I could be so stupid. I left it on the roof of the car and drove away. Leaving us to look for it on 60 kilometres of the windiest, steepest stretch of highway you could imagine. Needle? It’s me haystack. Needless to say the moment I realized it was gone, I knew it was hopeless. Steph remains positive and will until we depart this location and make the four-hour drive to Nelson, our home for the next eight weeks.

So that was day one here, not including travel day where we arrived to find our host Ellen doing the last bit of cleaning on the beach cabin we rented very reasonably for the last three days. It is about 100 metres from the Tasman Sea. It puts us to sleep. Its aggressive waves are easily mistaken for cars driving up the unsealed road in front of the cabin. The cabin itself actually is the first place that reminds me of cottages back home. Minus the palm trees on the front lawn. It is rustic enough to feel cozy. And not so pastoral that we are boiling hot water for our baths. It’s a three bedroom, but one room is single bunks and about eight inches of room to get into bed. Hud sleeps in the double across the hall from us. We have a double as well, which has only proven to be too short, where I thought it would be too narrow.

The end of day one did give us the opportunity to climb to the other side of the point and mess around in the rock pools.

The difference in the coast line from high to low tide here was about 100 feet. I walked here in the morning and took pictures of the waves crashing into the rock formations. When I came back with Steph and Hud, the waves were not even touching the rocks. Why I continue to be amazed by the tides I will never understand. Especially from someone who loves routine so much.

Day two, today, was spent here at the cabin, up the road to a beautiful walk along an old railway line, through a tunnel and over bridges, right beside the Mokahanui River.

Good stuff here. At the end of the day we went to the beach. I swam and Hud dug as Steph wondered out to the sand bar to watch the waves and contemplate her simple yet complicated life. After we came home and ate chicken fajitas. All of us quiet, eager for tomorrow to arrive to see what the next place will look, and feel like.

Our host Ellen is an American who came here 32 years ago to teach. She met her husband in Auckland and moved here a couple of years later. They raised four kids here, some of which have left, others have left and come back. It’s about 1000 acres of both bush and beach, including Gentle Annie point, which they lease from the government. It is pretty spectacular.

But what wasn’t in the last five weeks of adventure (for us). Between the stoked jet boating, the lazy seal swimming on our doorstep, the yellow train chugging along on viaducts built 140 years ago, the couple of drunken nights hunkering down and remembering how to talk to people again, to watching Hud adjust to life like a gypsy with the excited smile of a blue eyed monkey.

Everyone says he will forget everything he will have seen and done by the time we come home. He probably will. My hope is it soaks into his alabaster skin. Making him remember for no reason that life can be full of opportunity and adventure.

A new soap opera begins tomorrow.

I am ready,

Love to all,

J.

Ohau do I love it here

2005-11-26T13:23:00.000-08:00

November 26, 2005

Franz Josef, New Zealand

8:28pm

Just when you thought you heard enough about glaciers, we go to a town named after a glacier, or was the glacier named after the town? Who knows? And really. Who cares?

The last day on Lake Ohau was spent walking, or at least trying to do a walk with a boy that quite simply didn’t want to walk anywhere.

So we sat, over looking a river on a picnic table at ate raw carrots. Oh earlier in the day Steph yelled at me for eating the fourth last Ryvita. The fourth last. She was having a bad day. We now refer to it as the “Ryvita incident”. Everything is funnier when you are immersed in a giant land of fantasy.

Yesterday was travel day, and what a travel day it was. We had to cross the Southern Alps through the Haast Pass, one of only three roads that go through the Alps, opening up the gateway to the West Coast, which they affectionately call the “Coast” in NZ, even though the whole freaking country is coastline. It feels weird to being this close to our next eight weeklong stay in Nelson. I am a little bit anxious, mostly because I want the accommodation to be really nice, partially because we spent so much money on it, partially because we are staying so long, and partially because we will be hosting people for Christmas. I want it to feel like the home Onemana felt like. I want it to feel like, well, like a home. I think I am ready though, seven different locations in five weeks were hectic, and not something I could have done for the entire time away. So, while anxious, I am still eager to lay my bed on the same pillow for longer than seven days.

Back to the Haast Pass. It was stunning. Surrounded by mountains, we stopped and visited a waterfall.

We just able to get to the falls before the tour buses arrived. It is weird being in the middle of nowhere when suddenly a crowd of people is standing around you, staring into their digital camera viewers, talking in many different languages. We just smile and nod, meandering back to our 15-year old car that smells like burning plastic.

We ate lunch in the town of Haast. I had a chicken pie and a bag of green onion potato chips. My food regime takes a break on travel days. In fact, it has taken a break today as well as I sip my Montieth’s lively hopped pilsner beer, brewed just north of here in Greymouth. It’s very tasty.

Speaking of beer, last night, after we unloaded our gear in our little cottage in the middle of a trailer park, I drank too many beers. First I will rewind a little and tell you about where we are staying, because I know most of you reading got stuck on the words trailer and park. Holiday parks, as they are called here, are not the shabby redneck tornado tempting places like I original thought when Nicki, in Fiji, mentioned them as a possible option for our November journeys. They are actually quite nice, and as we are millionaires, we decided to forgo the many different holiday park accommodation options, which range from backpacker dorms to tree lodges, and priced accordingly. We of course took the most expensive option, which is the tree lodge, which is basically like a big hotel room with a single and a double in one room, with two hot plates, no oven, a mini fridge and a private deck. Needless to say, while not completely bummed out about our room, we definitely think it is overpriced.
But. And this is a fairly big but. As big as Ouisy Jefferson. There are people here. We are surrounded by people. People of all ages. We can hear them and see them and actually talk to them. And they talk back! And there is a bar on site. With pints and everything! So after a pasta dinner, we all went over to the patio so Steph and I could actually have a couple of drinks on a patio with all these strange people and Hudson.

One of the great things about traveling with a child is his ability to make friends with other kids, allowing us to make friends with the parents. Last night, before our first drinks were downed, Hud made friends with a boy the same age. Within minutes we had pulled up a couple of chairs and talking to Alex and Alex, I kid you not, a British couple that were touring NZ for a month with their two children Boris, a seven month old and Cosmo, a three year old. Boris and Cosmo. I should have a joke there, but it kind of stands alone. We drank and drank for about three hours, until all of us realized that our kids were up way too late and passed the overtired phase and now entering manic freak out stage. It was fun. I even smoked a cigar. I inhaled. Tobacco, I missed you. It’s time to miss you again. Al and Al were nice, but probably not the type we would hang with back home. Their edges were rougher than ours.

I continued my little adventure after, leaving Steph to deal with Hud, making my way to the one street in the small village of Franz Josef. I hit two bars in two hours and drank probably five pints. Putting my total at around 12 for the evening. I was drunk, but I did not fall down or go to some random party and almost break my nose. I did manage to be mean to Steph and she slapped me across the face. Something I do not remember. I regret that, but not the drinks. The pints were ice cold. And I did not have any cigarettes. Yay me.

Today, after a couple of Tylenols, perused the shops and Dept. of Conservation to decide on the walks we want to do. We also met a woman at the playground who did the exact same thing as us. Her and her husband quit their jobs in London, and our traveling the world with their two-year-old Martha. The only difference is they are renting their house. Chickens. It was odd how similar our lives and our stories were. Her father and stepmother are even coming here to visit.

We made our walk decision and drove to the car park of the Franz Josef Glacier, one of the two glaciers in NZ (the other is Fox Glacier, about 30km from here) to descend a mountain to sea level. This happens only here in NZ and in Argentina.

The walk was 90 minutes return, just about Hud’s maximum. A path weaves through a small forest until it opens to the glacial moraine and the glacier itself. This glacier looks like the mountain is sticking it’s tongue at you. From the distance where we first could see it, it did not look impressive, but as we approached we began to realize how big this frigid fucker really was.

At the face it stood at least 100 metres high. And it either descends or recedes (depending on the temperature) a least a metre a day. It was bizarre and interesting and fun to watch the people climbing it. Climbing it is something I debated doing, but decided it just wouldn’t be the same without the wonder and magic of my wife and son standing next to me. I love them both so much.

Half of my enjoyment is seeing what I see through their eyes.

Love to all,

J.

Eating icebergs and other diet tips

2005-11-22T15:33:00.000-08:00

November 23, 2005

Lake Ohau, New Zealand

8:57am

This morning I met a truck on the other side of a one-way bridge. He had the right of way. He tipped his hat as he passed. I promise to be brief today.

Yesterday was our foray into the mountains to boat on the lake created by the ever-receding Tasman Glacier. The lake was a balmy one degree Celsius. We stuck our hands in for ten seconds upon instruction from our guide who looked very much like the impossible offspring of Coburn and Aaron.

He pronounced Glacier “Glassy are”.

After walking about 2km along a path created in the middle of the glacial moraine, we were outfitted with life jackets and led down to our boat. Three other couples signed up for the journey, including a preppy Netherland couple in their late forties (guessing), an interracial couple from just outside of Sydney (she was Asian and all blinged out in diamonds, he was meek, perhaps an accountant or actuary, working sixty hours a week to provide for his wife who bosses him around in broken English. He did not look happy) and the requisite Japanese couple whose fashions were just on the outside of hip, her hat so fauxburry it almost looked cool, until I realized it was attached to her lapel with a potato chip clip.

We were surrounded by the many peaks in the Southern Alps exceeding 3000 metres, including Mt. Cook and Mt. Tasman, the first and second highest mountains in New Zealand. Our small yellow dinghy felt like a palm in a touch football huddle.

It was almost smothering. The lake itself was not the crystal clear blue water you would expect from a glacial lake. It was grey, because of the constant rock and silt falling off the glacier as it recedes and melts. The glacier itself was also covered in rocks and dirt, at least the bottom third of it was, the accessible part. Ben, our guide explained that the top two thirds were that snowy shiny icy part, but the glacier we could boat up to was still impressive. It is a glacier after all. Can I say glacier one more time? Glacier. Thank you.

The best part for me, and I think for Hud, was driving right up to the floating pieces of ice, and grabbing a hunk and eating it. Yes, Hud has now touched and eaten a piece of an iceberg.

Swam the Great Barrier Reef. Ate an iceberg. Oh, and driven a boat.

Three years, 84 days old. Nice.

The whole tour took about three hours, including the walk and the drive in the small bus. The whole Aoraki/Mt. Cook region is a giant National park. You could spend weeks here doing all the walks and tramps. They also have helicopters and planes that land directly on the upper two thirds of the Tasman Glacier. A little out of our price range though. Ok, we thought about it. The once in a lifetime theory is a tough one to argue. Poverty does not win all the time.

I have decided to give serious thought to tramping. I am enjoying walking so much, both visually and how my body feels, that I want to push it a little. I am going to start extending my daily walks gradually past five kilometers and hopefully get to 8-10-12 in the next month or so. Sometime in mid-January I will hook onto a two-three day tramp in one of the two National Parks up in Nelson. Steph thinks it’s a good idea, so everything is a go.

You, of course, will get to read about it.

Or read about bags of peanuts and diet coke farts and the return of the stomach.

You just never know.

Love to all,

J.

November 21, 2005

Lake Ohau, New Zealand

9:05pm

I undo my shoes before I take them off now. I never used to. A sign saying ‘cattle stop’ does not confuse me. Shitty wool around a sheep’s bum no longer causes me to wipe more. Walking 5km before seven in the morning is not just something other people do. Lower back pain is frustrating. Mountains and streams are difficult to get used to. Reading 15 books in 6.5 months may be life’s greatest luxury. Sitting by a fire in a million dollar home writing in a journal may be a close second. Head shaking happens often. Head scratching again, a close second.

Hud sounds at least six years old. If I only really knew what a six-year-old sounds like.

“Are you done your walk Dad?” He says, holding the door open for me.
“Yes my boy I am done,” I reply, peeling off the hood, sweat droplets fall from my temple, land on his perfect foot.
“Was it a good walk?” Still holding the doorknob, shutting it behind me as I lean down gingerly to untie my shoes.
“It was great Hud,” I say, toe removing my sock. “I saw a dead bird”
“Come with me Dad, I made a fort.” Off around the corner, same pink feet smacking the concrete.

I guess I am over my angst and frustration with this place. The views are too nice to walk around with a scowl all the time. It may be the isolation. All three of the weeklong stays we booked during November were very isolated. The shorter stays were in cities or at least near civilization. Places I felt happier. Again, this all may be indicators for future settling locations.

Yesterday we went to Twizel, the small town 40kms to the north of us. Omarama is the small town 40km to the south of us. Lake Ohau Road literally is in the middle of the two towns. I forgot to ask if there were any feuds. Twizel was built for the tourist, as it is the last town before Mt. Cook, the mountain that hovers in the distance looking out from our deck. We visited their information centre and decided quickly to book a trip to take a small boat on a glacial lake on Mt. Cook to drink water directly off icebergs. And to think I came all this way to skip a Canadian winter. With the trip booked for Tuesday, we piddled about the town, visiting playgrounds, drinking flat whites (espresso with not as much milk as a latte), and picking up some produce from their very limited grocery store. We did not talk to anyone, so there are no colourful anecdotes about the locals. I think I miss writing about people. I seemed to be better at capturing the humour with human interaction. Steph and I are great, wonderful even, and it is amazing our routine of making each other laugh has kept us afloat this long, but sometimes I miss people, and it is apparent when I corner someone and talk their ear off. Something I never really did before.

I am changing. Evolving hopefully. But I can feel it, the wrinkles in the corners of my eyes, a new one almost every morning, aging, my mind big picturing, caring less about less and more about more. My baldness remains unchanged. My belly smaller. Hey. I have a penis. Imagine that.

On the way back from Twizel we stopped at a salmon farm to feed the fish and to purchase a nice fillet for the bbq. The bbq we have to bring inside every night. It was trippy, for Hud and I, tossing pellets into the netted tank and the salmon leaping and thrashing in the water trying to score the free meal. After, the gloved lady retrieved a nice $12 fillet and put it in an iced bag for us. I like salmon now. Another change for the better.

Last night was quiet. Hud sleeps right through the night here. It’s been a treat.

This morning I saw the sunrise from my sessile position. I pushed myself up from the bed, testing the new pain in my back. It was manageable so I peed and weighed myself like I do now. The great room revealed a storm in the distant mountains, whipping across the water and dusting the peaks with new snow. You could see the line between rain and snow. I debated rushing out and trying to beat the storm, but was glad I did not as within five minutes rain started pelting the deck. The news was my next best option.

Steph and Hud woke soon after and the storm disappeared as quickly as it started. I rushed out the door, IPOD locked on shuffle and began my walk. It is a road walk, but the road follows the edge of the lake, so I am missing nothing by walking on comfortable terrain. The walk starts from the deck, through a field of purple lupines, down a rocky unsealed road, to the main road, to a bridge 2.6km away. I cross the bridge, touch both sides with my wet shoe, and walk home. It takes 40 minutes. It is brisk but not breakneck. I can talk while walking but I could not sing. Sweat finds my back and head easily. It is a nice daily workout.

After my return, we chilled for a bit, Steph and Hud painting and me putting together our lunch for our planned picnic. I made a bean salad with carrots, celery and feta and locally grown lettuce, a wee bit of oil and balsamic and dill. I made two pb and j’s, more carrots and celery, a fruit cup for Hud, two slices of leftover oven pizza, two red apples, a green apple and two plums, a plastic container of watered down orange juice for Hud, litre of water for Steph and I to share. A feast for kings. Or wayward jesters.

We drove further up Lake Ohau road to Round Bush Reserve, a small camping/picnic area right on the shore of Ohau. We had to shoo a herd of cows and I backed the car down near the water. We ate in the back as the wind was quite cold.

The car sat beneath the red blanket of Beech mistletoe, which grow wild here in the Ohau forest. Steph posed for the appropriate picture.

After lunch we drove further up the road, passed the most isolated motel in the world, most isolated with the nicest view. Weatherall Motel.

If you murdered someone and needed a couple of nights to get your shit together, this is where you should come. It is on the edge of the lake, at the beginning of a sheep station, at the base of a mountain. I almost wanted to get a room just to see what it cost. Steph said $50, I thought more.

Up the road still, through at least two mobs of sheep, over four cattle stops and one ford we found the turn off we were looking for, Temple Valley Reserve. We wanted a short walk to end our day. A small board listed three walks, two over two hours, the last, a one-hour return walk. Perfect. We set out up the mountain. It weaved slowly up, through forests and fields, across waterfalls and through felled trees.

It was marked by orange triangles, a perfect game for a three year old, who overcame his weariness to race ahead to try and find the next marker. He was a trooper and will sleep well tonight. The walk was perfect length and even though the rain returned to soak us all, it still felt great to be in such clean, open, big air. My lungs get pinker by the minute.

After we came home Steph built a fire, while I napped, resting my back after a day full of activity. We ate the salmon, which I coated in lemon, coriander, teriyaki sauce, lemon pepper and sea salt, letting the bbq do the rest. Steph made nice jasmine rice with cashews and mango chutney. Broccoli and cauliflower accompanied. It was delicious.

It’s almost ten now and I can feel myself slipping off, the fire cracking and spitting beside me.

Tomorrow its icebergs and glaciers. Today was waterfalls and mountains.

I look forward to the morning walk now.

I look forward to the new lines at the corners of my eyes now.

Love to all,

J.

November 19, 2005

Lake Ohau, New Zealand

9:05pm

Irritability creeps into me at the oddest times. It maybe the bouncing around the country. It maybe the fact I am back on the new age Jason regime. It maybe my big toenail growing sideways into my calloused skin. It maybe the combination of all three. The fact remains my fuse was short today. Today being the first full day in what could be one of the most beautiful places on the planet.

Staring into Steph’s eyes excluded.

Who the hell do we think we are? We are staying in about a two thousand square foot home looking directly at one of the biggest mountains in NZ, windy Lake Oahu thrashing about beneath our huge deck. It’s a rock star’s home in the middle of nowhere. And when I mean nowhere I mean at least 40km from a town with perhaps 500 people living full time. It feels like we were dropped from a space ship and told to populate this bountiful location. I am Adam. I think. I hope. Where’s my rib?

Travel day from Queenstown was highlighted by stopping first in Arrowtown so my little Georgia O’Keefe could pick up supplies to satisfy another goal of hers on this trip; painting. The other stop we made was at the first bungee jump site ever.

It was not the biggest drop, and I mentioned this was one of things I wanted to try on this trip and what better place to try it then at the original bungee location.

I didn’t jump. I barely even contemplated it. I am fat fucking chicken. I think Hud was even disappointed in me. It did not exceed my own sorrowful chagrin though. Maybe with Tony when he arrives in December.

The drive was quite tame until entering the Southern Range and its Mars-like terrain. It was only about 200km away, but with the winding roads, the pee stops and the groceries in Omarama, we turned off highway on the Lake Ohau side road around 2. It was 19km from the turnoff and very quickly we were able to see the mountains in the background, snow crested and ominous, begging us to come closer. We wondered where the lake was and with 5km to go we rounded a corner and were met by the placid lake, welcoming us with a smooth blue hand. We stopped to take a picture.

We caught our breath. We continued on.

Lake Ohau Village is not really a village, more a pretty darn new real estate development in a location not used to humans. Sheep yes. Possums probably. Humans no. We pulled into the carport of our ultra modern looking house. There was firewood stacked waist high, driftwood piled on top for kindling. Yes Heather. Driftwood for kindling.

We found the under the rock key and entered.

It is difficult to describe the feeling when I walked in. I liked the size of the place right off. The last two locations we all shared a bedroom and that is just cramped. This was a two-bedroom house with a large (34ft by 21ft) great room. Now when I say great room, the image of hardwood and big rugs and roaring fires comes to mind. Not here.

It is stark and modern. Clean lines, smooth wood paneled fireplace, stainless steel appliances. The floor is smooth concrete, with individual rocks pressed into it. It feels like the floor of a high school. In fact, with the 15 ft high ceilings, it almost feels like we are living in a high school. I want to drain a jump shot off one of the walls. And I would drain it. The net wouldn’t move.

The best part of the place is the view and the deck. One entire wall of the great room is glass. All in panels you can open in entirety. This walks onto a deck about half the size of the great room. And looks out over Lake Ohau with its mountain range backdrop. It is a legendary view and by far the most dramatic piece of scenery I have ever witnessed.

So why do I sound disappointed? Maybe I expected less modern and warmer accommodation. It is so white. Not one piece of art hangs on the walls. The furniture is ok, its cheap, it does not match the grandeur of the house. I guess I feel out of place in such wannabe Feng Shui surroundings. There is not a clean line on my coke bottle body anywhere.

The other thing irking me about this place was the list of rules and dos and don’ts that accompanied the e-mail with the key location. It also highlighted satellite television on the website. So far I have been able to get the two local NZ channels you can get anywhere in the country and 8 different religious channels. I get a Kurd channel. I get a Chinese channel. ESPN? Nope. If I did my mood would be much brighter. But that is not really a big deal; I did not come halfway across the world to see the NBA. It just would have been nice to read a sports ticker or one fucking game that does not involve a try or a wicket. I am whining I know.

The owner of this place lives in Melbourne and my guess is she spends maybe 4 weeks here a year, the rest of the time renting it out to rock stars and pretend writers and artists like us. All the magazines are marked with an identifying tag, in case we really wanted to steal a 2004 Air New Zealand magazine. With such fierce winds, all outdoor furniture including the bbq must be brought in every night, and there is such a vacuum created with the wind, that all open doors must be latched or they may shatter on return impact. It’s almost scary.

I think I am just complaining to complain. And because this is sometimes an actual journal and not just a desperate plea for attention, I get to write what I want, even if there are a thousand tiny violins out there playing just for me.

Today the highlight was skipping rocks.

It actually cheered me up more than anyone would understand.

Tomorrow we are going to Twizel. If it’s nice, we may go for a swim in Lake Middleton, the smaller, warmer, less violent next-door neighbour to Lake Ohau.

The lake where I skipped rocks. This last three weeks I feel like one of those rocks.

Sinking will not be tolerated.

Love to all,

J.

November 17, 2005

Tussock Cottage, between Arrowtown and Queenstown, New Zealand

9:33pm

I am not really serious about writing tonight. I am just watching Steph bend over and pack our dry goods in our green environmental bags. These bags have replaced our dog poo plastic grocery bags. We are so earthy. Especially as we peel away in our oil coughing 1991 Subaru wagon, chica in the front seat cackling as she shines up her Gucci sunglasses, me eating personal Dairy Milk chocolates, secretly wishing my son could be old enough for a Gameboy so he would stop pressing his bored yellow sandals into the small of my back.

We are leaving tomorrow. Away from Arrowtown and Queenstown. Away from civilization and into the mountain range, onto the secret lake, into the plush home we dreamed about six weeks ago. Lake Oahu near Mt. Cook, New Zealand’s highest peak at over 3700 metres. It looks like the mountain range lakes you see on postcards, reflecting off each other, not knowing which is real, which is rippled fake. I just want it to be bigger.

The last two days were mildly jammed packed with Asian type hysteria. We slammed Arrowtown in five hours, whipping in and out of the tourist stores until finally settling into a great Thai food restaurant for a cheap lunch. This was after visiting the Chinese Settlement, the New Zealand tribute to the Chinese that bravely ventured here to find gold during the rushes back in the 19th century. The settlement was boring and ridiculous and almost insulting as it felt like a bone being tossed to the Chinese for their limited input to the gold rush back in the day. They actually had a sign put up in front of basically five bricks saying it was the ruins of sum yung guys home. Whatever. It was old. It was gone. Why am I here?

Next up, watching grade school chicks and low rider undies bend over and fake pan for gold in the river as their isle of lesbos teacher watched. It was a gold country field trip. Funny thing about watching all these wee girls get together to listen to their teacher explain the gold panning history, was the random tour bus Asians sticking their noses into the huddle to listen and take pictures like these poor girls were part of some giant show. The girls were so polite. I would have been less so.

Steph and I watched the whole scene and giggled. Hud threw rocks. It was nice especially because the sun kept getting our eyes.

That was yesterday. I am at today and barely can remember yesterday, beyond the pubescent crack flashes and Pad Thai burps. Today started with a drive to Queenstown and poking and muttering about until the bus picked us up to take us to the jet boat. We signed up for jetboating the first day we arrived. It was the extreme adventure thing we decided to do.

It was awesome.

The boat sits 14 people. The boat goes over 80kms an hour. The boat weaves in and out of Shotover River canyon, within inches of the cliffs. The boat can ride in under 8 inches of water. The boat does 360 degree spins over and over again.

It was awesome.

Beyond its awesomability, was the fact that our stoic, sometimes serious son Hud, rode this boat like a bad mule, never once showing an ounce of fear or a smidge of hesitation. He tackled the adventure like an end around sweep. He is the king, always making me feel guilty for doubting his fearlessness.

After jet boating we sucked drinks at a pub looking at mountains. It was all Irish and tasty and cut too short by responsibility. Luckily when we got home, Lee took us in and fed us curry and wine and we talked until our kids’ bedtime.

We talked about the variety of our lives, the comfort of our choices and the laughter in our stupidity. She is just a wee bit older than us, but just as young in spirit. We all held the mike intermittently, without me once thinking someone dominated.

Although I did ask Steph later on if I talked too much. She said I didn’t. But I think I did.

Love to all,

J.

On the right track

2005-11-16T14:41:00.000-08:00

November 16, 2005

Tussock Cottage, between Arrowtown and Queenstown, New Zealand

5:40am

Hud is the greatest child that ever escaped the mellow moist confines of a womb.

Just as he gets used to a location, we leave, and he just asks: “Will there be toys at our next home?” He then gets all swaddled up in his booster seat, surrounded by all his toys, a blanket we force on him, our transferable cold food in a soft cooler in the seat next to him, and falls asleep. When he wakes, we are at a new location, and he runs around, grin goofy and large like a thirsty puppy, asking again where the toys are. If there is none, which there is not, he asks to go on the trampoline that does exist on the lawn near the firewood. At night he sleeps in a bed conconcted from a cot mattress and lots of pillows. He truly thinks this kind of life is the life of every three-year-old. Little does he know how lucky or unlucky he is. And we are even luckier to have him. What a golden egg.

Animals highlighted the last two days in Parukanui. A couple of mornings ago, after my walk, I was hanging my blue wool socks out to dry near the perfect spider webs, and heard a rustle in the water larger then the occasional surface breaking fish. I looked over and saw the familiar wet brown sheen and whiskered nose of a seal. A seal mere feet from where I stood. It was twirling and hunting the bountiful fish in the inlet. It almost looked like he was toying with the fish, as his twirls and leaps out of the water were Sea World worthy.

I yelled out to Steph and Hud and they came running, Steph admittedly thinking I was playing a prank. We all watched as the seal leapt and spun and got his fill before moving back out the inlet and on to the wet sand to sun himself. After a good drying off, he waddled along the sand, very Chapinlesque, before plunging back into the inlet to swim out to open water.

Another wild kingdom moment here in New Zealand.

The other highlight, and this is not mine to talk about, but I will summarize, was Steph’s horse riding adventure. It was one of the things Steph said early on she wanted to do. She had never been on a horse so she diligently found a suitable company to satisfy her mild dream. I made the appropriate jokes about her excitement was due to anticipating something that big between her legs and she of course shook her head wondering who was older, her son or her husband. Hud and I came with her to the small farm up the coast, near the entrance to Otago Harbour. Two women were grooming and saddling the six horses due to ride that afternoon.

Steph was latching on to a group of five that were booked at the same time. The two horse woman were exactly that, horsewomen. They were dusty, stinky, broad shouldered, sun wrinkled, decked out in riding pants and black boots. They talked to each horse like they were humans, scratching their asses and checking their tails for poo like it was normal, which I suppose it was to them.

Hud and I left Steph and had a little father/son adventure time of our own. We went to a park and then to McDonalds, where Hud met another boy named Brooklyn. They played in the giant play land while I read the paper and ate Hud’s meal and then mine. We drove back to pick up Steph and she was sore, but beaming, explaining her initial fear of horse back riding was quickly replaced by her fear of heights as the horses climbed and then descended very large hills on very thin paths. She was happy though for satisfying one of her goals on this trip.

We drove home and began packing up. The week in Parukanui turned out to be great, especially after my initial hesitation about the rustic nature and size of the place.

The scenery surrounding the cottage has to be close to the best we have seen so far. Such raw, beautiful views that I never even conjured before arriving here. I had no idea I would be watching a tide go in and out as coastal birds of all kinds picked and mewed over the many shellfish left exposed. All with giant golden green hills in the background. And a rumbling multi-coloured train running twice a day, like the tides, to boot. All in all pretty awesome.

And now here I am. Immersed in the awesome once again. Queenstown is New Zealand’s answer to Whistler, although less like a village and more like a mini-city. It is very close to a number of ski fields for winter fun, and also serves as the adventure capital of New Zealand. Queenstown boasts you can ski dive, bungee jump from the world’s first bungee jump, and jet boat down the Shotover River all in one day. The town itself is way too busy for my liking. Too many cars and not enough stoplights. It felt dangerous as all the Range Rovers and hippy vans sped through roundabouts. We did end up booking a trip on a Jet Boat this Thursday. It’s a jet-propelled boat that speeds down the Shotover River in six inches of water doing speeds of 50 miles an hour. It comes within inches of the chasm walls and can go through level 3 rapids. It takes 25 minutes and cost a lot of money, although less because Hud turned out to be free. Our hosts here have done it and Lee, the wonderfully charming woman, told us “It feels like your going to die”

They call it Thrill Therapy. Should be interesting.

Our cottage for the next three nights is quite plush. It’s a one bedroom but not to small. All the finishing’s are beautiful including the artwork and silverware. Our hosts, Lee and Jaap, a kiwi and a Dutch, are a little bit older than us, with kids nine and 11, are very nice. We talked for a while before dinner as Hud jumped on the trampoline. After 20 years in Australia and a year in France where they ended up staying in Peter Mayle’s house while he wrote Bon Appetite, they settled here beneath the mountains in Queenstown. They run a small shuttle service company to keep them afloat. It’s nice life.

So we are here until Friday, before disappearing into our own mountain oasis on Lake Ohau.

I am already stoked about the jet boat.

Love to all,

J.

November 12, 2005

Purakanui Inlet, 20 kms outside of Dunedin, New Zealand

8:59pm

Nighttime writing. Sky is still quite bright. Wisps of grey clouds echoed with pink lay on the top the valley surrounding the inlet. The tide is on its way back, covering all the muck, the cockles, the pipi, the mussels, bringing them all back to life. I wonder if there is a difference; in eloquence, or joviality, or basic tone from writing in the morning or in the evening. I wonder even if objectivity would be available to me, or would I just cede that I am specifically an asshole at any hour of the day.

Tonight we met a woman and her son on an after dinner walk. Dinner was steak and broccoli and French fries. No beer. No wine. The woman was large beneath the equator, so big the fat looked fake, and her son’s head was very round, the perfect compass circle. She did have beautifully clear blue eyes. She was American, from Denver, moved here a year and half ago with her musician husband. Never been here before, just up and left, could not afford the reconnaissance visit. Now, as she put it, they have found the perfect spot here on Parukanui Inlet. Her son is seven and goes to a semiprivate school. They invited us over tomorrow so Hud could play with some new toys. He was into it, so we will go after breakfast.

“I went on a train,” Hud randomly boasted to the woman from his swing made from an old car tire.

Which we all did, yesterday, and all had a good time doing so. The train is a tourist train traveling 48 kilometers from Dunedin to Parangaki on tracks and trains the Dunedin city council purchased years ago after the line was shut down. Tauri Gorge Railway was reasonably priced for a four hour round trip which made our son very very happy.

Every kid at every different age goes through stages of what they truly dig in regards to toys and life periphery. For a long time now, Hud’s really been into trains. It started with Thomas and his set back home, and has not faded since, tracks and trains being the first things he picks up in Duplo, or Lego, or any cheap rip off in dollar stores that work for four or five seconds before snapping in half. He also points out all the train tracks on our extended road trips, and if we are lucky enough to see an actual train, like we do on occasion here at the cottage, it’s basically a manic medley of announcements of he saw a train, a train, there’s a train, did you see the train, I can see a train,..etc. So when we confirmed our little journey, he was needless to say, a little excited. The anticipation itself was wonderful.

The actual journey was stunning as well. Following a river at the bottom of a gorge basically the entire time, crossing it on viaducts built 150 years ago, by Chinese and New Zealand men on horses. The engineering behind it all was mind-boggling. The pictures only do it mild justice. What we were able to capture pretty well was Hud’s happiness and wonder for at least the journey out to Parangaki. Two hours is about the maximum time on one subject for a three year old. On the way back, flirting with random blue haired women was the subject of choice. For him, not me.

Again, in our specific car, we had to be the youngest by at least 25 years. We did manage to come away basically unscathed by idle chatter, although Hud managed to woo a couple of comments from some of the elderly patrons and their flesh coloured hearing aids. There was a loud woman from somewhere in the US south who kept us all up to date on her sleeping patterns and her general laziness about her trip to New Zealand. It seems like a long way to come to be lazy, although I question myself about the same subject on occasion. I just do it in the mirror or silently in my brain like normal people.

After the train pulled into the station and we disembarked, Hud remarked immediately and politely that he would like to go on another train. I tussled his hair and admired his insatiability. We drove home. That was yesterday.

I just remembered that I am missing a day. The day we went to Dunedin to investigate tourist options, including the train. Steph and I ended up not getting along to well again, probably travel day residue. The only real highlight was the creepy transsexual in the second hand bookstore where I purchased two new books. The fact that she (I use that pronoun loosely) was a transsexual was not creepy, although I will admit to some mild shivers, it was the fact she was sitting there, not sifting through titles or browsing in any way. Steph and I concluded she was there staring out the window in defiance, as the other half of the bookstore was a Christian library/book store. It was like she was waiting to be kicked out, so she could play the blasphemic martyr card and run screaming into traffic.

I kept on waiting for her to sneak up behind me and whisper in my ear with painted lips covering stubble:

“I can smell your testicles.”

Thus leaving me with the only option of pulling a tall bookshelf on top of my welcoming, cringing body.

So. Today. Today was a farmer’s market in the morning in a steady downpour of rain. We bought a chewy stick of bread, really creamy brie cheese, fresh tomatoes the size of well, testicles, a brownie, homemade hummus and a small a bag of organic carrots. This was the lunch we were going to eat after visiting New Zealand’s only castle, Larnach Castle, located on the Otago Peninsula, a mere 15 minutes outside of Dunedin.

William Lonarch, a British descendant born in Australia, built the castle in 1867 after falling in love with land easy to fall in love with. After years of troubled times and troubled marriages, the Barker Family purchased the castle in 1967 and began restoring it to its former glory. The castle itself was not huge, but still interesting, especially since they roped off none of the rooms, and all the furniture and accouterments remain alive and available in their opulence. They only drag was the request not to take photos for restoration and security reasons. The first I understand, the latter I do not.

The grounds and gardens of the castle was what I enjoyed, furthering my theory that this trip has aged me about thirty years. I even started wearing my pants just below my nipples. It’s just more comfortable.

We ate our picnic in the car as rain still fell quite heavy. Our next goal was to drive to the end of the peninsula, not far really, and geographically the right thing to do. Hud fell asleep quickly and we reached the end, and found two sleeping sea lions. We are definitely not in Kansas anymore.

We drove to the other side of the Peninsula, now actually seeking out sea lions, and took our groggy son on shoulders to Allan’s Beach, a secluded spot ten minutes from a parking area in the middle of a forest smack dab in the middle of nowhere.

No luck. No seals or sea lions and it was pissing and windy but for some reason it still was a cool place to be. Probably the closest to the Antarctic I will ever get in my life. Especially since we are skipping Invercargill.

So an interesting couple of days. Three more sleeps until we are on the road again to Queenstown.

Wow. It’s almost ten o’ clock. Way past my bedtime.

Love to all,

J.

Any new listings?

2005-11-09T16:00:00.000-08:00

November 10, 2005

Purakanui Inlet, 20 kms outside of Dunedin, New Zealand

8:43am

Many tribulations are bound to occur when traveling with someone, for this long, this intimately, no matter how much love is involved. Travel days are the worst for Steph and I, because both of us suffer anxieties regarding the drive and what the next accommodation has in store. Steph’s anxieties are generally milder and more internalized, where mine are severe and bouncing all over the place for the whole world to see. This causes strife between us and can explode in quite nasty bursts of vitriol and venom, sadly not always hidden from our son. But like most things that burn so hot, it does not last and before one of us has a chance to grab the big butcher knife, we are cajoling and power hugging once again.

I love her. She is my best friend. I hate her. She is my best friend.

Such was the case on our drive from the spectacular city of Christchurch, down Highway 1; to the exit for the cottage we are presently staying for a week. I loved Christchurch. My favourite city so far. It had everything you could want in a city. Massive downtown park, with a gentle, thin river running through it. A huge square, about three city blocks, serving as a meeting place, with a giant chess game you could sit and watch, various greasy food trailers, cafés, jugglers, information centre, internet hot spots, with all the cool streets branching out from all sides. If I were to design a city, this is where I would begin. It was clean, hip and historic.

Our last day in the city, I got my hair cut and we did some banking for our glam stay coming up in a week or so. In the afternoon we drove to the Christchurch beaches, about ten minutes from the square I just described, another boon for this great city. The tide was out, so all the rocks and caves were exposed, with thousands of mussels attached to them, in various stages of growth.

We drove around for a long time, just checking out the supporting suburbs of Christchurch, which look nothing like the cookie cutter jobs back home. But we don’t have the sprawling vista of the aquamarine ocean, or the gigantic hills where all the houses sit either. That night we had a coconut, chili and lime chicken stir fry with accompanying full glasses of pinot. We packed as much as we could and all went to sleep in one room, leaving the other full queen bedroom barely touched. There is something nice about Hud having his own bed in the room with us, and maybe portent of the studio apartment we’ll have to get back home.

The next morning, after both Steph and I’s 5k walk, I tetrised the luggage in the car and we were off at around 10am. This drive meandered along the coast and through the hinterland and was neither spectacular, nor that boring. Steph was at the wheel, giving me a chance to soak in the sights, and take pictures of various road signs.

Including this real estate gem

Location, location, location. Yes I am 36 years old.

We stopped a couple of times for gas and leg stretches, and eventually made it to our exit around 4pm. This is when Steph and I start the little bickers and jabs because we know we are close to our destination.

This cottage was booked online, just like all the others, but we took a chance by not seeing any pictures of the inside. In fact, the only picture on the website, was one of people in a rowboat, rowing away from the cottage. They were smiling in the picture and we were unsure if they were happy, or happy to be rowing away from the place. We also read some of the comments of previous renters and they all glowed and raved about what a little oasis the cottage was, so comfy and quiet, it was basically what sold us, even though we are perfectly aware it could be the owners writing the comments or eliminating all the bad ones. Whatever, the price was totally right for a week, and we wanted to be right on the water, which this place boasted.

(I know it sounds like I am setting this place up to be a disaster, but in fact, it is pretty delightful. It just took me awhile to get used to it, so I am going with my first mood.)

It was about 20 minutes off the main highway, with various twists and turns until finally we drive along water’s edge and reach the mailbox described in the e-mail. We have to park the car here and carry our luggage down a path. The owner’s e-mail actually said, “if you have a lot of luggage, you may want to use the pull cart”. If we have a lot of luggage. I feel like Jennifer Lopez we have so much luggage. They probably do not get yearlong travelers so let the unpacking begin. The cottage is about 400 metres from the road, along a narrow, but too narrow path. After thirty or forty trips we finally got all our stuff to the property. Steph located the hidden key after we originally thought to be locked out, causing us to yell at each other for very little reason. It was time to investigate the cottage.

First thing you notice, obviously, is the water. The cottage sits on Parukanui Inlet, off of Parukanui Bay, off of the South Pacific Ocean, very close to Otago Harbour, which leads to Dunedin, the South Island’s second biggest city. The Inlet is tidal, so when we arrived at low tide, it was three quarters wet sand. Behind the sand is a mountain; with yellow goldenrod mixed with coniferous trees and the familiar New Zealand green we already take for granted. Very beautiful, and even more spectacular was the howling train that began snaking across the mountain within moments after we arrived. Hud thought this was pretty damn cool. Steph and I thought it was pretty damn beautiful. I love the sound of the occasional train. No matter the hour.

The cottage itself is old, but refurbished. It has one bedroom attached to the kitchen attached to the living/dining area. It is all told about 700 square feet, so pretty small compared to huge Christchurch apartment. This turned me off at first, because my grand novel writing plan needs alternative quiet space. I have since decided to put the novel on hold until December 1st, when we are in one place for 8 weeks. It’s just simpler and I will have more time to focus. There are two other bedrooms, but they are not attached to the cottage, bunkies basically, and not something we can put Hud in overnight. The bathroom is also not attached to the main cottage, but it is a full bathroom, with a smart heater and a shower. All in all, it is rustic, but very quant and cute.

Steph of course loves it. It has all the little country home knick-knacks, including a wallpaper history book dating back to 1870. It also has a fully operating iron stove. It’s not the only stove, but one they bought and had inserted into the fireplace. I made a black pepper beef stir fry with broccoli, red pepper and carrots in the cast iron pot on the stove last night, which I have to admit, was pretty cool.

There is also a small rowboat available for use, so Hud and I went for a quick row yesterday morning, at high tide, when the almost the entire inlet fills with water. I also had to retrieve a neighbour’s boat that came unhooked yesterday afternoon. The tide was going out so it took me awhile to row back to the boathouse, against the surprisingly strong tidal current.

I have now saved a cow and a rowboat on this trip. Karma dude, karma.

Yesterday we just drove around, checking out the area, visiting more playgrounds, seeing more beauty. Today we are driving to Dunedin, poke around, and take care of some business.

Steph and I are still questioning our future and remain perplexed with what we want to do with the rest of our lives. It is difficult to always focus on the present and appreciate what you are experiencing. It sometimes it gets clouded with the darkness of future uncertainty.

We have 18 weeks left of this trip, so much left to see and do.

Love to all,

J.

When or if?

2005-11-06T13:47:00.000-08:00

November 7, 2005,

Christchurch, New Zealand

7:39am.

Odd dreams last night.

Dreams of movie star siblings on sheep farms, one of them snobbish, the other quite affable, one correcting my pronunciation of the author Jeffrey Eugenides (Middlesex, the book I just finished, top five, if not top three), the other sibling touching my knee and smiling, causing stirring in places that should not stir. Woke up to Hud’s face, smushed full of grog, asking for a cuddle. He climbed in; I peed, came back and moved him to his own single bed beside ours. I lay there, hands behind my head, thinking about all the things I shouldn’t be thinking about until it was time for my walk.

Now, after 52 minutes and 6km, I sip coffee amidst the musky pong of my own morning body, and write because television has lost its appeal.

Christchurch is a great city. Although we have yet to see it full weekday buzz, the pace and lush malaise of the weekend was definitely appealing. There are many clock towers and old (by NZ standards) churches and cathedrals.

We walked through their massive city park, which is split many times by the Avon River. It is much more British here, in architecture and people. There is less of a Maori influence, and strangely, way more Asians. Punting boats can take you, for a fee, along the shallow water of the Avon, the punters wearing the traditional circular hats and striped shirts, pushing the giant stick off the river bed, offering a tour if you let him, or silence if you prefer.

We thought it was a little too expensive so we watched another couple enjoy the forced romanticism of it all.

We stopped at the playground of course, continuing Australasian Playground Tour 2005, and Steph and I drank bad coffee and watched our son run around on spongy fake grass, smiling like a jester and demanding we push him on the swing. After the park we walked through the rose portion of the Botanical Gardens, and while internally I am struggling with it, I did enjoy the roses at their absolute peak of bloom, where the vivid petals seem to be begging for a hug.

At the end of the park, a Saturday market began, mostly crafts, with nothing too impressive. Hud ate a trailer bought tomato and chicken panini as we watched, waiting for any scraps to fall on his jacket for us to gobble on. Later Steph had the best looking chicken soulvlaki on a pita (a tribute to the Danforth she admitted) while I watched and then snapped at her because of my returned exile from food.

We fought a little bit after that, mostly me being an idiot, being hungry and confused about my manhood because I enjoyed the Botanical Gardens. I was able to turn it back to light and fluffy, but not before suffering the aggressive chin of my beautiful wife. Those who know her will be picturing her bugged eyes, and jutted jawbone right now. Aggro-chin we call it, because we name everything for easy humour reference.

Today we have no real plans. Some internet maintenance, including the posting of this, and maybe take a drive to see the outskirts of the city. Tomorrow’s destination is 300km south of here, just north of Dunedin. We did not see any pictures of the inside of the cottage, so it should be interesting.

It did have a little rowboat, so I am hoping my morning walks can be trading in for morning rows for a week. My legs feel fit, my ass taut, but my arms still feel drunk, wobbly, like hocus pocus grade school number two pencils.

Love to all,

J.

November 5, 2005

Christchurch, South Island, New Zealand

9:04pm

Feel a little guilty for not writing in Wellington, the capital of New Zealand, but with only two nights and one day, it was difficult to find the time, or the space, to write with the concentration this journal deserves.

Travel day went fine. Both today and the trip from sheep farm to Wellington. Talk about sensory overload. Went from nothing but sheep and vast green farmland, to high rises and suits and bar scenes in just under five hours. It was a little much at first and then felt perfectly comfortable as the latter was much more familiar than the former.

The hotel/apartment I booked online turned out to be perfect. A one and a half bedroom with full kitchen facilities we did not use once. It was right downtown so we were able to park our car and leave it there until this morning. I say this as a partial foreshadow.

A long time ago we planned to spend our one full day in Wellington, visiting their national museum, Te Papa. We read it was one of the best museums in the world and we were not disappointed. From covering all the geological wonders of New Zealand to all the odd fauna that live here, to its origins both from a Maori POV and from the European, we-want-to rule-the-world settlement POV. All done with interactive touch screen technology and voice activated displays. It even had a house you could enter with a reenactment of the 1931 Napier earthquake. Very cool.

Steph, being the supermom she is, called in the morning and signed us up for the 1:30 story reading in the preschool section of the museum. Being quite ignorant of preschool shenanigans, I was partially interested to see how Hud playing with kids he did not know. Well, he continues to shine, now one of the more confident children, answering questions, trying on the costumes, and racing around showing all the other kids how to work stuff.

Steph is in awe of the dramatic difference from when we first set foot here in NZ and she joined all the playgroups. It may sound repetitive, but it is so nice to witness your child’s mushrooming confidence. You can feel him starting to rule the world.

After the museum we walked the Wellington harbourfront, and I was impressed by the set up and the cleanliness of the city.

They take such pride in their cities here. I love Toronto, but I do not get the same kind of sense of civic responsibility and pride as I do from the people here. I keep on looking for ways to bring it back home, make it commercial even, I think cynically, but then I stop, sluice back to reality and join Hud and Steph playing at the pristine park.

Now this may be shallow, but my favourite part of our day in Wellington was after the museum, after the park. We flippantly decided to have a drink at one of the many bars right down on the water. Hud seemed up for it, so we found a nice table with an umbrella with glass wall preventing our son from leaping into the ocean. So we sat, at around 4pm on a beautifully sunny Friday afternoon, as all the suits tore off their ties finding there own perfect tables, and drank three beers for me and two Chardonnays for Steph. Hud stuck to cranberry juice. Maybe it was because we were so isolated so recently, but I was digging the vibe and the beautiful people filtering in and out of the patio, some locals, some tourists like us, all sunglassy and happy to be thirsty and alive and out among the living. So many of the guys reminded me of me just six months ago, some even reminded me of six years ago, sans the responsibility of son or dog to immediately go home to. The times where I would call Steph to meet up with us and she would say sure, or tell me she already had plans and maybe we would hook up later to take a cab home together. So young, so foxy, sitting on patios and chatting up not really that pretty waitresses or joking around with the table of guys or girls or both behind us. I got caught up in nostalgia and made me think maybe city life isn’t all that bad. Then Steph mistakenly insulted me and I just wanted to go back to the room to sulk. I only sulk when insults ring true. This one did. So it was more an accurate observation than an insult. Still made me feel bad though.

The night held nothing more than sleep and organization for the morning’s ferry trip to the south island. I woke up just before six to start the last minute fridge packing and other random anxieties I needed to quell before my mini travel day panic attacks begin. Steph and Hud woke up shortly after, so I decided to dump the first load of overnight bags at the car. It was parked behind the hotel so I lugged the four bags down the elevator into the lot and tossed them in the trunk.

Checked the watch. 6:30am. Money. We had to be at the ferry terminal at the latest 7:45 and it was only five minutes away, part of the plan when I booked the hotel. I tossed the keys in the air and caught them and began walking back to our room. Two steps later, I thought to myself, why not just turn the ignition, check to make sure every thing is kosher. Why I thought this, why it even occurred to me to pack my large body into the driver seat and slide the long key into the ignition, something I never do, is beyond me. I find quite baffling now. But when I did, and turned the key to hear the heart stopping sound of absolutely nothing, my panic began escalating. The car was dead, the battery was dead, a light was left on, for two days, no sound at all when I turned the key, not a click, not a hum, not even an evil laugh. The ferry was my first thought, 130 bucks down the drain as we bought the most affordable ticket 6 weeks ago. Why was it the most affordable? Non-refundable, non-transferable. The next thought was the room in Christchurch. Another hundred and a half down the tubes, and then to find another room in Wellington for the night was another outlay of cash. Mostly I just used the money excuse as a reason to worry. Mostly I was just bothered by the potential inconvenience of it all.

It all turned out, obviously, as AA (their CAA) came at 7:10am, boosted me and we were idling in line at the ferry terminal by 7:40am, giving the battery ample time to recharge and leaving us five minutes to spare before last boarding.

The ferry was fine, not as visually spectacular as I hoped, or maybe it was but we spent 90 minutes in the basement of the boat to let Hud play on the giant pillowed playground with all the other kids.

We did manage to catch the sight entering Marlborough Sound and approaching the Picton Port on the south island.

The drive from Picton to Christchurch took just over four hours, with Hud sleeping for the first half, and generally content the second half. So far what we noticed about the south island is the land is not as green, more the colour of wheat, but still grassy, and the water is way more turquoise. Why for either we have no idea. Still wicked to see turquoise water and snow capped mountains within the frame of one camera click.

The place we are in now is a two-bedroom ground floor apartment we found online back when we were in Onemana. It is just under the size of our house on Harcourt and way nicer. Why anyone would pay the equitable amount for a hotel room I have no idea.. It’s amazing.

A place like this in Toronto would go for about $2000 a month.

I wish we could find a place this nice when/if we come home.

Like that if?

Love to all,

J.

Scary Gary and bloody lamb's tails

2005-11-02T19:18:00.000-08:00

November 2, 2005

Annie’s Cottage, 43 kms northwest of Napier, New Zealand.

7:48pm

Woke up it’s a Chelsea morning.

My father will be happy to know I finally gained an appreciation for Joni Mitchell beyond her semi-nude album covers. It is her I listen to now as I try to muster up a couple hundred words to summarize my time spent here on the sheep farm.

Help me I am think I am falling.

A half bottle of Marlborough Pinot in, I am teetering on the edge of poetic waxing about livestock and the farmer and the living off the land, and how pets can sometimes be food and wading in sheep dip in rubber boots surrounded by green mountains and hydro poles hovering like scolding parents. But I won’t. I will just typically blather on about what happened in the last couple of days.

I was a free man in Paris.

Monday was chock full of nothing. The weather sucked. Hud ‘s cold hit its pinnacle, leaving Stephanie and I sleepless and a little bored. We are surrounded by nothing remember. So book reading (Middlesex by Jeffrey Eudnides, my new favourite book) and puzzle piecing and tea drinking and general frustration by a boy who lashes out at his forced nomadism by utter disregarding unremarkable parental authority. We did manage to feed lazy eyed sheep and a beautiful pony named Honey. Poor pony. Talk about a life of envy. Ugly horses must laugh and high five horse shoes, neighing to each other, “least I’m not a pony”. I guess ponies do the same thing about donkeys. That’ll do donkey.

River.

After feeding, the sun broke, so Hud and I swam in the algae-filled pool and Steph checked e-mail via the satellite wireless internet connection at the main house about 500 metres from our pad. Gary showed up and I said hi. He barked hello, scaring me again with his natural testosterone presence. The dogs and I cowered and went about our business. I could have posted from there, but why bother, the lack of connection to the real world was a little refreshing. It is different from when it was mere months after I left. I still miss everyone, but the level of emotion has dulled. I am sure come holiday season, the familiar bell of the sharpener will echo in my mind.

My father, Mir, and even Tony will be a welcome respite from the wonderful strangers. They will represent not just themselves, but everyone from back home.

Coming in from the cold.

Yesterday was spent in Napier, Art Deco capital of the world. An odd title, but apt, as in 1931, a massive earthquake literally decimated the entire city, leaving them with the decision of what style to rebuild their city. They chose Art Deco, and the downtown is built in such a style.

They also are very proud of this title, and very keen to preserve it as a tourist destination, because we knew about it very quickly after landing in Auckland. It was interesting, but not breathtaking. It was very clean though, and had a playground that should win awards. The playground tour continues. We ate our picnic lunch and watched our booger filled boy enjoy every ladder and steering wheel and slide in the whole multi-coloured joint.

Both sides now.

After Napier we drove to Cape Kidnappers, home of the largest gannet colony in the world. What’s a gannet? I haven’t a fucking clue. Lack of preliminary investigation made us unaware the only way to get to the Cape was a five hour walk or take our car on the beach at low tide. It was almost impossible, and I questioned taking the mighty all wheel drive Suburu onto the beach, but Steph quickly made it apparent I would be doing it alone, and do to the same fear I have for my wife as I do for the sheep farmer Gary, I let it go and got back in the car.

Urge for Going. End of Joni.

We were frustrated and a little tired, and Hud was in full whine mode, coughing snot, asking every five minutes when we would be home. I lost it a little at the fruit market and ended up using the f-word in front of him for the first time. I was depressed about all the way home. He did not even hear it, but I hate losing that much control in front of his liquid face.

We reached the farm without further profanity or incident and all of us went our separate ways as sometimes, we all just get sick of each other. Funny thing happened though, as dinner time approached, I grabbed on one of our cd’s we burned and popped it in the portable stereo. I flicked on the bbq and Steph unscrewed the plain skin Chardonnay we bought for eight bucks the other day in Havelock North. We pulled up a couple of chairs and watched our son dance and play in the sand as we sipped and talked and laughed and casually touched each others arms and faces, and fell in love for the thousandth time on this trip, wondering how we dare get uptight and upset at each other considering our lives and lifestyle.

This drinking and eating and then dancing

continued until the sun turned bloody

and we took pictures

and we knew it was time to be responsible again but we were okay now so we put Hud to bed about an hour later than normal. We talked a little more and then slipped into bed for reading four or five words before kissing. Really kissing.

Today we did laundry and organized tomorrow’s road trip. Its about 300km to Wellington from here, and on these windy roads that could take anywhere from 4 to 6 hours. We did take a drive later on with the idea of doing a hike in the bush, but Hud fell asleep almost right way, car like valium and all, so we just drove and sucked in the scenery of the Hawke’s Bay farmland.

After dinner we went to the main house to settle or bill and have a glass of wine with Kirsty from the bottle we brought the night of the lamb tail cooking. She sat us down in the kitchen and Hud played with 10 year old Amanda on the trampoline outside next to the dead mouse. Kirsty told us good south island tales and a bit about her giant house which used to be a hotel one hundred years ago. She is in her mid forties, with sun wrinkles around thin lips and a burly British way about her. And after a glass and a half of red, amidst the wonderful scent of her leg of lamb and the kumara she was cooking for the Belgians and Brits staying in her house, we felt connected, and left, putting another notch in our friendly NZ people belt.

So what’s to summarize? It was a great farm experience for all. People were great, sheep are dumb, and I am not becoming a vegetarian.

Big city Wellington tomorrow. Capital of NZ and home to one of the world’s best museums.

Oh, I like flowers now as well, maybe I will get into gardening when I get home.

So gardening and Joni Mitchell, and I already liked Scotch and evil tobacco.

Flyfishing and alimony may be next.

Love you dad.

Love to all,

J.

October 30, 2005

Annie’s Cottage, 43 kms northwest of Napier, New Zealand.

9:36am

Started my walks here on Saturday. It’s Monday here and after skipping the first morning here due to geographical ignorance, I took a chance and went out at sunrise to walk to a sheep water container at the top of a giant green hill in the middle of a paddock. It was stunning, of course, with views to the mountain range to the west of us, where snow sits on top, reminding me of home.

A lot and a little has happened in the last couple of days. This place is beautiful, but too isolated, making Steph and I realize a life this bucolic is not for us. We still have no idea what we want. Actually, we probably know what we want, it’s where we want it that often causes scratches of the head. It’s difficult to compare locations here to locations back home. Locations here are unique to the world. So the small beach town we drove through with pretty almost affordable houses, or the city with the beautiful harbourfront where everyone seemed friendly without pretension, they just don’t exist near the circle of family of friends we hold so dear. So everything else would be settling. That is frustrating.

Being this close to my wife has allowed me to become susceptible to her disease. The desperate virus of wanting it all.

After my walk, after a miniature breakfast, after writing 1,500 words of the novel, we packed a lunch and drove down to the river Kirsty showed during the farm tour on the day we arrived. I wore flip flops, not thinking this was going to be a long hike. As we descended the three-foot hill to reach the rocky river’s edge, I hit a slippery patch of mud and went down hard. Hard enough for me to take stock and ensure no limbs or bones were snapped. They were not, it was more the shock of someone of my size falling quickly on my ass. Steph immediately asked if I was ok. I told her I was, and she replied. “Good because that was really funny.” At least she asked first.

During the last month, the Hawke’s Bay region where we are currently located, received a lot of rain. There was mild flooding and the river we were standing next to was running high and brown, still ridding itself of the flood water. Oh and it was cold as well. Nice and river cold, not like that easy ocean cold I dunked my head in three days before.

So we sat, on the smallest rocks, the ones less anally intrusive, and ate a big lunch which included a salami and cheese, a ham and cheese, a bean salad with carrots, celery, red onions, feta and yellow pepper. We forgot to buy vinegar, so the dressing was a little oil, a little sweet chili sauce and a squeezed orange third to add some liquid.

Turned out pretty tasty. I cut up some other cucumber, carrots and celery and brought the last of the hummus. Three apples, two green and one red for Hud, and lots of bottled water made for the perfect picnic. Oh, and one Oreo each to cleanse the palate with chocolaty goodness.

The sun was high and hot, so we all lathered on sunscreen and made our way up the bank to further investigate this fast moving river. The bank we were on became a cliff, and I wanted to at least dunk my head anyway, so we crossed at safe point, me carrying Hud and then going back to hold Steph’s hand. Made me feel like a husband and a father and a man all at once. These are rare feelings for someone who sometimes cries at sunsets.

We walked about a kilometre further, all of us doddling along really, in 20 foot intervals, Hud finding a random bone, me throwing big logs in the rapids to watch them disappear, and Steph up ahead, trying to see where the sheep we thought were lost went, until we decided to make our way back to the car, but not before searching for crayfish in a smaller creek near the river. No luck. No eels either. Bummer. Then we drove back up the hill towards the farm, we had to make it back in time for the docking.

One of the things I find interesting about life on a farm, and not rub my chin beard, mock intellectual interesting, is how emotionally detached it is to the people that work it. Docking is a great example. Docking is the process of removing the tail of a lamb with propane-heated snips so when the lamb ages, shit does not gather and lump, making shearing more difficult. Now remember where I am, in New Zealand, on a 1000 acre farm, with 1600 sheep churning out wool for our sweaters, and lambs for our lamb chops, so when they herded the 110 lamb and their mothers, through a line of narrow stalls, where Gary, the patriarch of the farm, stood at a gateway, while his entire family (not really, will explain later) and his three dogs terrified the animals through alternating chutes, to separate the lambs from their mothers, the lambs were squeezed into such a small pen, that a number of them were trampled and gouged on the wire fence that it looked like a bizarre wrestling cage match, except with this, all the blood was real.

This is not a good day to be a lamb.

Next up, the tagging of the ears and cutting off the tails. The two sons, age 14 and 12 respectively, had the task of picking up each lamb and shoving them into a machine that resembles something out of a Marilyn Manson video, ass first, legs spread, rendering them helpless while Kirsty tags the lamb’s ear. It’s basically a hole punch with their farm logo. Ouch number one. Then Gary, pulls the lamb by the tail down to where he snips it off with a what looks like a staple gun, but it’s actually a big pair of white hot snips that cuts and cauterizes at the same time. He proceeds to pull the lamb through the machine and drops it to the ground. The lamb, stunned, ass on fire, ear searing, brays until it hears the familiar response bray of its mother somewhere in the pen.

This happens to 110 lamb.

I know the number because Gary ordered one of the boys to count them. Did I dock?

Yes. I grabbed the snips and cut two lamb’s tails off. Why? Because I needed to feel nothing about it. Did I feel nothing? I felt as much as I did when eating a delicious leg drizzled in mint sauce. It did feel like what I imagine cutting a finger off would feel like. So it had that going for it.

As we were leaving Kirsty invited us up later to eat the lamb tails. Yep. We went. Steph and I both tried one. I tried two actually. They cook them on an open fire, in a net, wool still on them, until they are charred black. You pick one up, peel off the char, revealing a fatty meaty muscley bone. It tasted what I imagine a finger would taste like.

But this Gary is a great character. He is not the father of the kids. The father died five years ago. He was his best friend. He stepped in somewhere to be with Kirsty and the kids, and also run the farm. He probably bought into it as well. He is a chauvinist, probably a racist, and growls and barks at the dogs as if speaking their language. He is a hard man with a full salt and pepper head of hair and a tired, wired face that’s seen too much sun and not enough love. He ate at least 20 lamb’s tails and guzzled a bottle of white wine (beer gives him the gaut) before we left for the evening. The dogs cower around him. So do I.

Yesterday we drove to Hastings, a city back on the coast, to go to a farmer’s market.

We bought chicken meatballs, a flat white(coffee with milk) a long black (espresso), lime and chili dressing for the chicken, a hunk of caraway cheese, a gingerbread man, a baguette, a quart of strawberries, and fresh juice. We sat and ate it all (not the meatballs, we had those last night) right in the middle of the open market. It was actually nice to be around people (country chic people at that) again for a while.

The rest of the day was spent touring around Havelock North to stock up on liquor and then up a mountain to see the whole of Hawke’s Bay.

There was a paraglider in the air, and I overheard one of his mates say a world record was broken there last week. 140 kilometeres a guy traveled on a paraglider. Amazing.

Hud has a little cold, but he is fighting it and it seems he is enjoying the time with us again, without the silly distraction of his friends. He seems to be on a dad kick lately and that is fine with me. He wavers between the two of us all the time.

Take your time with dad time little man.

Love to all,

J.

October 28, 2005

Annie’s Cottage, 43 kms northwest of Napier, New Zealand.

8:13pm

We all make choices. Choices affect lives. Sometimes these choices are right, sometimes wrong. Lives are made more interesting because of these choices. My choice to leave Canada on this year-long journey was embarked upon not to add interesting to my life curriculum vitae. I thought, with my past, I was pretty interesting already. Besides, I had other reasons for going on this trip, reasons with depth, with meaning, a life defining adventure with wife and son in tow, seeking answers to all the questions I had yet to ask. That sort of thing. But today, as I watched a rough guy on a four wheel ATV, with three dogs listening to his every whistle and holler, try to corral about 500 sheep into a new paddock,

I

knew, just as a by-product of my choice, my life had infinitely become more interesting.

I am on the front porch of a three-bedroom bungalow style converted farmhouse. There are over 1600 sheep, 800 deer, and 700 heads of cattle surrounding me as I write this. They are not within the confines of this house’s fenced yard, but stretched across many hundreds of acres of the farm we are staying on for the next six days. It is presently dark, so the vista I know is there, waiting for the morning sun to return, to once again steal every breath lucky enough to glance its way.

It may get boring to read about my ramblings about the wickedly green patina this country seems to have, but imagine drowning in grass, as if every blade was short and perfect, as if you were standing in the centre of the Greek guy’s lawn down the street from you, just amplified in square footage by ten thousand. It so green you forget what regular green looks like. Add dots of sheep and cattle and deer and miles and miles of fences, some dangerously electric, some barbed and equally terrifying. Add a couple of rocks, some tall straight pines, and a river running through it all, and there you have where I sit right now.

Last night, our first night here, was oppressively quiet. This after the sheep stopped braying, the pig hunting dogs down the road stopped barking and the constant clicking of the electric fence battery became lost in its own consistency. The quiet was thick, like an invisible blanket over your head, and it made for a tough first night’s sleep. But I should backtrack a little before I start with what happened today.

A night at the Germans. That is how we spent our last night in Onemana. It was their oldest son’s 5th birthday party. Now I like kids, but there is always little things about some kids that I find annoying and often quite disturbing. The birthday boy is one of those kids. He constantly tests boundaries, which is fine if the boundaries are don’t climb on that ottoman, or keep your hands away from the bonfire. But, because his parents do nothing to stop their two kids from doing anything, his limits become, please don’t juggle those flaming chainsaws, or keep your recently salivad tongue out of the electric socket, or, and this is scarily no exaggeration, please don’t wonder off from the party, up a hill, and into a neighbour’s yard a kilometere away right next to a river. Now this only disturbs me, and I write this with every ounce of selfishness in my body, because Hud idolizes this little devil of a child. So when Steph relayed this tale to me after I returned from getting beer (because of the six pack they bought for the 20 people ran out within seconds, (I had three)), I was terrified and wanted to grab a piece of the steak I brought and get the fuck out of dodge or dodgekopf as it were.

Thankfully, there were a number of parents at this party able to buffer my rage with equally disturbing tales of the German’s three and five year old kids found miles away, or paddling in their dingy up the river, or driving their stick shift van to the store. We all laughed and cheers the beer I just bought, but sadly, the accident jump is big enough to be tragic, and it I hope it is just less tragic enough to scare them into setting some rules for these kids. It makes me dislike the Germans on a different level then just making fun of the breastfeeding or the fact that dishes from a week ago were piled in the sink when I arrived. This was a party of at least 10 adults and 13 kids. Other things were surreal as well. They served the cake first. Before dinner. One kid was bragging he ate 5 pieces. One kid left a log the size of Florida in the toilet then ran away, sans wipe. Another time, another kid was taking a loud dump, and his mother handed me her five-month old daughter as she went to wipe. She never met me before. She handed me her child like she was a glass of sweet white wine. It was all very insane.

I have to admit, there were two other couples at this party that were funny and as befuddled as I about this wickedly weird scene. One guy even lamented how upset he was we did not meet earlier as we could have hit the links together, something I was looking to do from day one. We left just after eight. Hud strung out on sugar and evil.

That was how we spent our last night in Onemana. Made leaving the next morning that much easier.

Travel day was cool. We stopped halfway in Taupo for a soak at their large heated pool complex. We stopped in Napier for groceries and then drove the hour to the farm where I am now.

Today, Kirsty, the owner of the farm took us on a tour of the farm, which included watching the shearing of about 500 sheep. Very neat. She took us to feed a pony and the crazy ewe with a wayward eye. She also drove us through her old orchard (a loss leader, being converted into a fattening paddock for the sheep, different grass), she took us down the river with a swimming hole and a place to have a picnic. She dropped us off at around 11:30, us now less ignorant of the workings of a sheep, deer and cattle farm.

At around 4 we tried to go for a walk, but the puppies from next door kept following us. I love dogs as most of you know, but I had to scare a blue streak and give them a little foot nudge to stop them from following us. That didn’t even work so we just went to main house to see 10-year old Amanda, who was to show us a lamb and calve they keep as pets. She was there, eating a grapefruit and watching Sky TV. We have one channel and it’s fuzzy. She took us out back to meet Snow White, the lamb and Rex, the calve. Hud pet them both and Amanda told us about the boys she liked, and said she was mad at one of her friends because she dissed her, so she bitchslapped her. Ahhh hip hop, thank you for such wonderful additions to childhood jargon around the world. We told her we hoped to see her tomorrow at the “docking” which is where the lambs tails are chopped off and then cooked over an open fire. The last words she said to us as she disappeared to watch another hour of the Disney channel on her flat screen was…

“See you tomorrow,” her small hand covered in sheep shit. “I’ll be the one with blood all over me.”

On the way back, we were walking up the road and noticed to our left that Jason, the farm hand, was herding the recently shorn sheep into another paddock across the road. Well, it wasn’t going well, and the sheep started stampeding directly toward us. Jason screamed “Get back!” So we immediately scrambled up the bank to get away from the sheep. Little did we realize that he was talking to his dogs, screaming at his dogs actually, to get in front of the herd and direct them back up the road. This went on for a while as he cursed out his dogs, and even one time, witnessed by Steph, picked up one of the dogs and punched her repeatedly in the head. Bitch slapped indeed. We had to keep telling ourselves we are in a different world and these are working dogs, not pets. It’s easy to judge as us city punks looked on, as he eventually managed to corral the herd into the correct paddock.

It was an awesome thing to watch, these dogs work this herd. One is a barker and one just stares. Their sole purpose in life is to ensure these sheep go where their owner is telling them. Telling them with a series of whistles and random barked out instructions. It was remarkable and made the whole week staying here worth it on the second day.

The rest of the week will be very low key. We will go to the docking tomorrow, Hastings market on Sunday, Napier one day, wine tasting another (total Chardonnay region) and hikes in between.

My novel writing, diet vacation is over tomorrow, the goal is 2000 words a day which should leave me very close to done by Dec 1. It’s a lofty goal, but should be attainable.

If I could just stay away from this damn journal.

Love to all,

J.

first the sun, then goodbye

2005-10-25T03:38:00.000-07:00

October 25, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

9:45pm

First Tuesday sunrise in the world.

Nothing was stopping me from writing tonight, other than my desire to wait until tomorrow so I could; write the night before we leave here, summarizing my time here on the Coromandel Peninsula, and capture the journal writing wet dream of having dinner at the Germans for their son’s 5th birthday party.

But.

Tomorrow night will be hectic enough without me trying to squeeze some writing in and c’mon, once you have captured the dreamy moment of watching a husky fraulein being milked by her toddler son while her gap-toothed, I am faking not understanding you, pony-tailed husband stands, nods, and smiles, there is simply no where left to go, besides, the last three days is jammed enough to offer you, my loyal reader, and me, the loyal writer a couple of good paragraphs to entertain us both.

Sunday morning erupted here with a blaze of sun and a sky so blue and spread out you couldn’t imagine it raining anywhere else in the world. It was our Cathedral Cove day, and the weather offered us the perfect canvas in which to paint or family adventure. Cathedral Cove is a naturally formed cove right on the beach about an hour north of our home, and a solid 45-minute walk from the parking lot. A very full parking lot. A wait for someone to leave to get a spot parking lot. It was the Sunday of a long weekend here in NZ, their Labour Day, and the first dash of sunshine for the North Island in a long time. We knew that going in, we expected the crowds, and were not going to let it squish our day at all. So with blanket, a picnic lunch and an armful of blonde boy we made our way down the path that wove in and out, up and down a cliff to get to the Cove and the beach surrounding it. The sign said 45 minutes, but we know what that means with a now over-confident boy who shows his little truck to every single person within a ten foot diameter from Steph, and me, the balding pack mule with bags and blankets hanging off all appendages. Well. Not all.

So about 70 minutes later we reached the beach and Cove.

What can I say? The Cove was only kind of cool, an open cave that the surf broke right inside of, making it almost impossible to get to the less crowded beach during high tide. The tide was on its way out though, so we decided to go the crowded side, eat our sandwiches and contemplate the cross when the water receded. The crowded beach was still magic; huge boulders, a trickling of water down the cliff you could stand under (Hud did) and view of the ocean peppered with small islands as far as the dusty eye could see.

On crowded beaches, if you get a little spot, spread your shit out enough, it always feels not as crowded. Everyone knows everyone is trying to soak in the sand and sun and surf, so one gets in each other’s space too bad. Although after my exercise in drunken snide writing the previous night, my stomach was gurgling as each whiff of the group of Brits in front of us cigarette smoke drifted up my nostrils. But we accidentally chose a spot very close to the one bathroom, so all was good.

I went swimming. I was so happy. It’s been since the end of August in Waiheke that I last braved the about 65-67 degree water, only because the air was colder. With the sun shining high in the sky, I walked directly into a big wave, never once pausing to shiver or give my testicles a chance to talk me out of dunking them in, one by one by one.

We ate our lunch and Hud just whipped around, never once cowering in our legs or hiding his face as the smokers smiled with their googly eyes and tiny bikinis. Suddenly their was a murmur in the crowd down the beach, I looked up and out to the ocean and low and behold, there it was, a fucking killer whale, rolling in the water, about 40 ft off shore, showing both it’s dorsal fin and then it’s much bigger side fin.

Awesome. I quickly grabbed the camera and got some ok pictures of the pod of five killer whales swimming up the coast, emerging every ten seconds or so to give all us gawkers a story to tell. Add Orca to the list. Amazing.

After the whales, Steph and I woo hooed and high fived and agreed now was the time to try and cross to the less crowded side through the Cove. I went first with our crap, and timed it so water only went up to my thigh. Next up Hud. I put him on my shoulders and we emerged unscathed and unsoaked by the pounding surf on the other side. I placed Hud down and went back to check on Steph, who I thought was right behind me. Just as I approached the corner, here comes Steph, running when walking would do, and stepping into an underwater hole I kind of forgot to tell her about. She goes down. Knapsack gets soaked, pants in her hand drenched, but, and here is when it gets tragic, the Gucci sunglasses fall into the swirling white surf. Arrrgh!! Steph is devastated, because immediately it is hopeless, three foot high waves are crashing into the rocks, a small but steady rip pulling the water back into the ocean. Those pricey specs are long gone.

We start to get out of the water to get Hud, who is running around on the beach like an crab. Steph says one last look and wades out about ten more feet. She looks down, and in only the moment between wave and rip tide, she is able to dip her fingers in the four-foot of ocean and snatch out her now infamous glasses. You could not find a happier woman on that beach. The Gucci’s now have a story to tell.

After more swimming we left, the walk back to the car much quicker with a more determined son, who also rode my shoulders a bit of the way. Cathedral Cove. Check.

Sunday night was spent across the street for a BBQ and Ross and Sandy’s house, more retirees, but this time Tina, the daughter and her partner were there with their two kids, a five year old boy and a seven year old girl. It is difficult to say it was more pleasant then the previous night, but definitely more our speed, as both the older and younger generation were more our type of people. The only thing I mean when I say something like that is they get my jokes. You want to be a friend of mine for life? Get my jokes. Don’t just laugh at them. Get them. I know the difference and they are not that complicated. So the evening was full of fattening food and more bottles of wine. This time everyone at the table got a chance to tell a good story, not one of them just ignoring and waiting for their turn either. I can’t stand that. Everyone was polite and mildly charming and quirky enough to be interesting. Hud of course had a super time with the kids. Such a beam he has when mucking up with other kids, wrestling or jumping on beds. It’s like he is blushing because he is having too much fun.

Monday Morning. A pig farm. Yep. Pig Farm. This was Steph’s gig and I was coaxed out of bed to go much to my lazy reluctance. It was only a ten minute drive away but I thought it was just a coffee talk with Philippine woman and her 16 month old son. Steph got me to come because her husband Tony was there and would give us all a tour of the farm.

When we arrived, our host greeted us at the end of a circular drive, in front of her very nice bungalow style house. In back were wire fences, blocking off a narrow section of land. A medium sized group of barns sat lonely at the other end. Immediately I was led to the garage to meet Tony and a friend of his Mario, who was visiting to work out with Tony. So Tony and Mario are in the garage working out. You would think this was a gym at College and Clinton. But no, Tony was from NZ and Mario was from Slovakia. So my immediate mafia jokes were dashed and chucked to the back of the brain. But holy mother of god were this guys in good shape. Tony, who looks like actor John C. Reilly, looked as tight and hard as a lug wrench, biceps like two oranges trapped under his skin, and to top off the perfect image, a mouth full of gold teeth. He looked like the kind of guy that stands behind the boss punching his leather fist into his palm; making you weep like a sad little girl because you don’t have the money you owe him. Mario, is just under 6’5” and not as tight and hard, but pretty close. He has a round eastern European face with the slight trace of Mongol in the eyes. Basically he looks like a KGB drone that uses the same wire to cut his soft cheeses as he did to garrote prisoners refusing to accept communism as a way of life. They both shook my hand with a steely grip. I am a writer I managed to squeak out as I sucked my unsuckable stomach into my body. What are you writing they asked? How to not pee your pants in situations like this I thought.

I did tell them. They thought it was interesting and they were perfectly nice guys. Mario was training with Tony for fun, as he was actually a real estate agent. He even had the Mercedes with his name on the plate. I should have known he was in real estate. His success must strictly lie in the intimidation factor. I would have bought a castle from him if he wanted.

So before the pigs, we met the dogs. This included pig herding dogs, which our either bullies, or other breeds that can scare big pigs back to the stalls. The other dogs Tony had were pig hunting dogs. I had never even heard of such a breed. These dogs were a greyhound, pit bull something else cross which are specifically designed for the vetting out the wild pig scent, then chasing and pinning them until their owners arrive. They will follow and track a scent a kilometre away and one dog can hold down a 100 pound pig.

The key for the hunter, who hunts with a knife, is to get to the pig before the dog has completely maimed it. These dogs will kill the pigs, and I believe, sometimes, the pigs will kill the dogs. The pigs are dangerous with razor sharp tusks and bursts of speeds that rival horses. These men. These dogs. These pigs. Different worlds. Thank goodness for words.

The rest of the time was spent touring the farm and then sitting down for a coffee. Tony was pretty quiet. I asked him if he was raised on a farm, and he was not, raised in a city, but always wanted to be a farmer. Probably a pretty interesting dude. Said he hated killing the pigs he raised. Part of the job. Yet he hunted wild pigs and slit their throats with big knives. And I complain when my steak is too tough.

The rest of Monday was spent at Onemana Beach. Where me met up with the kids and the Sandy from the previous night’s dinner.

I swam there as the weather continued to be perfect. Dinner was peanut chicken and followed a solid sleep. Busy times again for us.

Today I went to play centre with Steph and Hud. It was great. The place is set up with between six and eight stations of fun. Painting, water play, bikes and trikes, swings, all with individual designs on helping and developing the mental and motor skills of kids ages 1-5. I was very impressed. It’s all run by the parents, with a small government subsidy, and donations and fundraisers adding wherever it can. It seems like a great alternative for preschool or day care. The mothers just have to be there, which is sometimes the problem for a lot of families.

Tonight we went for dinner at another couple that Steph met at play centre. They have three kids, including a three year old that plays with Hud very well. These are the type of people we would hang out if we lived here. Funny, beers and wines, good food, loved to play as much as they loved to work, and loved their kids with all their hearts. It was nice and we will try to hook up with them on the way back up to Northland, but it will never happen, but it was the right thing for everyone to say. We felt like friends immediately and already we are saying goodbye.

That is basically our mood about leaving here. Bittersweet. A community opened up to us and we jumped right in. Just like we wanted to. The experience we are seeking is not just looking at endless beaches and giant rock formations and hills and hills of green. It’s meeting all the different type of people that make a country what it is, gives it its flavour, whether it be a perfectly harmless chatterbox living next door, or a German woman who breastfeeds for her own comfort, or the buff guy who slits throats for food and fun, or the perfectly normal couple who could be us in a couple of years and a couple of kids.

A mix of the inane, the inappropriate, the insane and the inseparable.

Sure it’s like anywhere else in the world. But I am not anywhere else.

I am here. In New Zealand.

For real.

We are off line until at least November 3, after a week on a farm outside of Napier and then in Wellington for a couple of days.

I will keep writing and post large when I can.

Time to pack.

Love to all,

J.

Tony has an easy tell

2005-10-22T03:27:00.000-07:00

October 22, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

9:23pm.

The bookend post. With beverages in between. Giddy up liquor pony.

Liquor? You liquor, you brought her.

That last sentence was brought to you by my excellent friend Tony, who, with all the gumption and moxy in the world, has decided to fly halfway across the world to visit us in fairyland. December 28th. The posts will be drunker for that blurry week. What a stud. What a dude and friend. Thank god for frequent flyer miles. Thank god for an Italian with a huge heart and nothing better to do with his vacation time.

Where does one plaid shirt wannabe writer start? Is it the quilt and craft show? Is it the massive birthday party for a three-year-old whose family Steph met at the religiously based twice-monthly MOPS meetings? Or is the dinner at Carol and John’s, with closet fan Anthony dedicating his entire visit to spending time with Hudson?

I will go linear, because I am organized, and I crossed the 200-page barrier earlier today. 201 baybee. It’s balls and nuts gravy now. The story is written; the rest is just sunshine and applesauce and feathered hair and ice cubes that go chink. Here’s to you Dex and Owen and Tommy. Your episodic life is making my life better.

This is the point where my mother thinks to herself….oh Charlie…is Jason high for this or what…

I used Charlie in my novel today. A sad time in his life, and well respected by my words. He will understand why I included it. Write what you know, sage advice I have read and heard everywhere. It’s amazing how much I love him. Not amazing then, during the bulging bullet head phase, but certainly amazing now. Chuck, Christine… we are all lucky.

Enough of the reaching out. Enough of the pounding fingers just to see what it looks like on white screen. Just enough of the mandatory preamble before I groove into what actually happened on this Saturday in Whangamata on the North Island of New Zealand.

I wrote this morning. I needed to fill the week as Friday was mixed with silent pleading of accompaniment from Steph and lack of motivation from me. So, after my waking up with Hud, after my green hill walk, I disappeared into the bedroom, put the headphones on and transitioned into my novel. Two hours later I emerged with my chapter finished, my weekly goal exceeded by 1400 words and my eight-week goal of 200 pages passed, looking over my shoulder like Ben Johnson at Carl Lewis in Seoul. I did it. 170 pages in eight weeks.

I am a two thirds done my novel and the end seems easy to me now. Is it good? Oh god no…it’s pure emotional tripe, its cloying and histrionic and preys upon every frayed nerve you may have. Will it be better? Of course. I could write 100 pages and whittle it down to one. The key is if the one page is good. Or good enough really. I still think no matter how crap my novel will be, with the minds I know, we could market this into best selling territory. Let my motely crue of fuckers exhaust all their misguided energies to making me famous. I promise I will pay you all back with dedications. Dedications and fat glasses of rye. You think I am lying? Let me prove it to you.

First up? Quilt show. Yes. I traveled ninety hundred thousand miles to attend craft and quilt shows.

Here I thought it was tandem skydiving and plummeting off of bridges with a giant rubber band attached to my prostate. Nope. I am walking along walls and walls of various quilts with a small piece of paper in my hand, ready to plop the number assigned to the quilt I think is the best, so they can win…win what?...yes…the most liked quilt prize. I am the academy. This is the quilt Oscars. If only there were acceptance speeches….

I would like to thank my quilting group…who, without their constant sniping and support I would never been able to add that last stitch, that last cut out moon, that last letter of the alphabet…I thank you needle one, I thank you boring Edna next to me…without you…I am a limp needle.…

I voted for the quilt least likely to get stained during really wet sex. What can you do? I am an enigma. I am a perv ensconced in quilts. Combine a quilt and sex show and I could headline. I would wear a quilted thong. And the blue hairs would cheer until their teeth fell out. Believe it.

Next up? Birthday party. This is where it could get weepy. Not a surprise for all those following the week kneed faggot that is myself.

My son. What a boy. It is hard, even for someone like me, who thinks absolutely in words now, to describe the difference in Hudson from the time we arrived here in Onemana eight weeks ago, to now, four days before we leave. This is a boy, upon arriving in the driveway, was greeted by Carol, our talkative neighbour, and preceded to hide his face behind his tiny palms and sit behind my calves until she left. Now, at this party of over 40 kids, ranging in age from 2 months to 8 years, he got up and danced with the other select brave few, and smiled a thousand watts like his name was being engraved in a star on the Hollywood walk of fame. His shyness is gone. His oppressive timid, submissive, flighty. flaky waves of torment have dissipated like smoke in a windstorm. He is a shiny, talkative, polite, beautiful blonde boy of three, who looks and acts like he is five.

He stands up in a group and the clouds break to let the sun shine down on him.

It has so much to do with the mother he has been blessed with.

If he were a rock in a rock bed he would be spackled in gold.

If he were a convict, the warden would lock him solitary out of instinct, fearing his glow would instill too much hope in the rest of prisoners.

He is the fifty-cent piece in the chocolate money cake.

He is sweet, and friendly, and polite and giving and pushes back sometimes when he gets pushed, and bounces around like a omnipotent super ball and then hugs my leg just for being the dad that watches instead of eating chips. And I love chips.

We left at five. All of us sighing when we pulled away from the little community centre where the party was held.

Last stop…Carol and John’s for dinner. Anthony was there and he specifically wanted his mother to return the dinner party favour and have us over. We agreed and went over around six, about fifteen minutes after arriving home from the birthday party. Carol greeted us at the door with a dramatic hello, like we just got back from the jungles of Africa, when we really we just crossed the street. She led us into the nicely decorated living room and sat us down. Anthony was in the kitchen, pulling the apps together with his flimsy wrists. John, if I am not mistaken, was taking a shit.

Within seconds Anthony was suckered in to building a tall tall tower with Hud and the Lego we brought over, Stephanie was milling about in the kitchen with Carol and I was left to talk to John, who was wearing Ugs and now sitting across from me in a lazy boy, nice and relaxed after his poorly timed bowel movement.

Now I like John. He is big and burly and simple and so fucking deaf I am pretty sure a train could pile through his house when his back is turned and he would just wonder how the tracks got there. I conceded to listen to John early on in our relationship because I have heard Carol talk and I am sure this grey crew cut man never gets the chance to talk for longer than ten seconds. So I did the right thing and let him roll his tongue like a telemarketer until he was done and was ready to listen to a couple of cents of myself. It was great for about five minutes, before the dominator Carol sat down and infiltrated John and I’s interaction with her salty crestfallen tale of her father’s eerie demise. It seems he was able to predict his own death, telling his son, phoning his neighbour mere moments before his cheque was cashed. Good story sure….for a campfire….At a dinner party it left us all with the uncomfortable pause of trying to share our own tales of incredible depression. I almost burst in with the time I slept in the back room of laundry mat before deciding that was just too damn cheery. Suck it up Carol…you are almost sixty…Parents die….get over it….

No offense Scott, Lorraine..Et al.

8:30pm we left. They gave us a nice helicopter photo of Onemana and we gave Carol a $20 gift certificate for the craft store. I drank pretty much a bottle and a half of wine. The half bottle a really good Chardonnay from Hawke’s Bay where we are headed. The full bottle a Pinot Noir from the same vineyard coincidentally.

Anthony was great with Hud the entire night. He is gay. We are so sure.

We will talk about it tomorrow night at Sandy and Ross’ I am also sure.

Then it’s Tuesday at Sheridan and Brendan’s and then Wednesday at the Germans.

I can’t wait to see her leaky boobies.

Love to all,

J.

I yam what I yam

2005-10-21T11:11:00.000-07:00

October 22, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

6:57am

The weather here is awful. Two days of sun in the last two weeks. The rest of the time it’s been rain, torrential rain or just sprinkling but cold, or so windy there is a woman on a bike in the air, stolen dog in her basket.

So what do we all do when it rains? Well in the morning, Steph still goes to her daily play centre and I write. In the afternoons, we all sit across from each other until beads of blood form at our foreheads and we wail out in boredom.

Not really, Steph will do one of the many craft based activities she involves herself with or bake a batch of cookies or muffins to offer as gifts to one of the many houses she gets us invited us to. She is very close to wearing an apron all the time, which of course would be fine with me if that were all she was wearing. The hair bun has yet to be contemplated.

Hello Martha, it’s Jason at the front desk, checkout time at Hotel Steph is now.

Hud will build tall towers or space ships out of Lego, or run in circles around the glass table causing Steph to hold her breath, waiting for the crash or head bang. He will watch movies on the computer curled up in ball with the white comforter. He will do his puzzles and scream I did it! when he is done. I am not sure he even knows it is raining.

Me, on the third hand, do not know what to do with myself. I can’t write if Hud is watching a movie. I am in between books. Or I have books, but I do not feel like diving into them just yet. So I pace, and talk to Steph in short bursts of what I think my perfect life scenario is. Or blather on about my shallowness, or how I see our future. Or talk about my walks, or my novel, or my diet. I must drive her crazy. No wonder she dives into homemaking with same verve she dove into creative directing. And come on, masturbation really shouldn’t be a hobby. My forearm looks like Popeye’s as it is.

Five more days until we get on the road. Things are slowly falling into place. Paperwork is being organized. Accommodation details being gathered. We still have a number of social obligations before leaving, which I hope will offer me some more significant fodder for the journal.

Because this entry sucked.

Love to all,

J.

halfway home

2005-10-18T00:50:00.000-07:00

October 18, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

7:58pm

We have reached, and since exceeded the halfway point of our trip. We are tentatively scheduled to leave NZ around March 16, 2006 and might kick around BC for a couple of days to visit some friends before finally coming home. 22 weeks away with around 22 to go. The journey continues. Even if it ended now it would have been totally worth it. Am I scared shitless about coming home? You bet. Do I feel like we made the right decision about packing it all in and leaving on a big fat jet plane? One look at my wife and son’s smiles tell me yes. Fuck yes.

And yes I am swearing for dramatic effect. I am not drunk. I wish.

Sunday in fart town proved as exciting and as redolent as the Saturday. This time we went to one of the sources of all the sugary sulpheric scents, a thermal activity reserve. It also serves as a meetinghouse and carving areas for local Maoris and has for hundreds of years. So we felt we have done our duty in regards to experiencing some Maori culture with our show on Saturday night and our tour on Sunday.

Colour us less full of Wonderbread guilt.

The rest of the reserve meandered through bubbling mud pools, steaming rivers and finally a spouting geyser. Before I get to the appropriate geyser jokes, I must tell you about setting up the picture below. I was trying to get Steph and Hud hugging in between the two speaker boxes explaining the exotic steaming land beyond. Just as I was about to snap the picture, Hudson announced he had to go poo. Look at his little face in this picture. It looks like its touching cloth. Turtle heading.

I can’t think of a better place in the diary to use those jokes. Needless to say, Hud was big boy enough to hold it until we reached a bathroom. Not before Steph, mother of the year in my books, offered to catch it in the blue bags we always carry for just this occasion. Even I, the king of poo, would not volunteer for that type of effort. You’re a better parent than I Ms. White.

The bathrooms were right near the main attraction of this park, an active geyser.

It looked quite docile so we decided to try and catch the lunchtime Maori show up at the meetinghouse. Sure we saw one the previous night, but I wanted to see if Assy, the Hawaiian hula cougar was doing the Rotorua Maori circuit.

I never did get to find out because as we started walking back, the geyser started to percolate, causing the throng of Asians to rush to the front of roped off portion of the park.

Damn Asians, as if your $8,000 digital camera couldn’t zoom in from the lobby of your hotel.

We were able to squeeze in and watch as this geyser, bubbled and boiled and eventually erupted, sending a stream of steamy water at least 40 feet in the air.

Pretty neat stuff this earth can do.

After it was over, as we walked away from the now flaccid geyser, Stephanie “Pure” White turned to me and whispered in my slightly rounded ear; “Reminds me of something”.

Tee hee naughty girl. Tee hee.

The drive back from Rotorua was highlighted by a stop at Waihi Beach. It was on the way, but still off the beaten path a little. It was another nice beach, the only significant difference being we arrived at low tide, and millions of fully intact shells of all varieties washed up on shore. Hud even found a crab claw, which is pretty much like winning a lottery ticket to a three-year-old boy. It still sits on his dresser. He has smelled it every morning since.

Speaking of every morning since, the last couple of days have been great writing days, with a dash of beach in the afternoon. The sun finally made an appearance on the Peninsula so we have been taking advantage of all the natural beauty surrounding us. It makes for nice days to have such a productive morning writing wise, and such a warm family afternoon. It’s the balance I have been speaking of throughout all these posts.

So, we leave here in 8 days. We are have a birthday party to go to on Saturday afternoon, and then it’s back to Carol and John’s. Light in the loafers Anthony asked specifically if we could come over to his parents house for dinner. He is down for the Labour Day weekend and wanted to make us a stir-fry. He also asked Steph if she would like to go to a quilting show on the Sunday. She has yet to confirm. We were thinking he was going to come out to Steph. Oh the fodder for this journal!

On Sunday night we are going to a BBQ at Ross and Sandy’s house just down the street. They were away for a couple of weeks and wanted to have us over before we leave. Their daughter, the midwife Tina, with the secret past, will be there with her two kids and her partner (They are not married you know, Carol whispered in our ears) Mark. Steph says Mark has a huge tattoo on his back and if get drunk enough, god help me, I will ask him to disrobe during dessert so I can see it.

Tuesday I promised I would go to play centre with Hud and Steph, only if I have reached the 200-page mark of the novel. I am on page 185 now so it's looking good.

I also passed the 100,000-word mark, which was important to me, as well as it now being about ten pages longer then the journal.

That’s a lot of writing chief.

It’s amazing what time will offer you.

Take it easy life coach.

Lots of interaction with my neighbours this week!!

I can’t wait!

Love to all,

J

It wasn't me

2005-10-15T12:38:00.000-07:00

October 16, 2005

Rotorua, New Zealand

7:20am

Yes after many Onemanas in a row, I am finally writing from somewhere different. No, I did not kidney punch Carol after her ninth drop in and drive off manically bobbing my bulbous noggin to Crazy Frog by Axel F (my new most hated song ever, I very much hope it did not become as popular back home as it did here in NZ), we are on a weekend road trip, and I am in a hotel room.

Rotorua, for those who look at a map, this means you Michele, is in centre of the north island, about two hundred kilometers south of the Coromandel Peninsula, south of our town of Onemana. The entire town sits on an abundance of geothermal activity, including explosive geysers, mud pools, fumaroles and hot springs. But truly to me, the best part about this town so far is it smells like one big fart. Steam escapes from cracks in the earth all over the city, releasing relatively harmless sulpheric gas into the air, making it smell like bad eggs, or really potent eggy farts. The smell is constant, but every now and then suddenly gets stronger, and it smacks you in the face like a drunken parent. It is gross, but very cool.

The other benefit of this constant smell of farts is that you can just let your own fly without fear of getting blame. I know I am not the only person to think of this. People walking down the grocery store aisle, from sexy yummy mummy, to sweaty construction worker, can let a squeaker out without fear of someone being behind them holding their nose and scolding them. I, of course, have been releasing gas with wild abandon, shrugging my shoulders when Steph looks at me accusingly, and simply saying….Rotorua.

The drive took about three hours with a stop in Katikati for a coffee and hot chocolate. We went directly to the information centre to see if there were any package deals we could get. The nice lady at the counter recommended some and we concluded to see the Maori performance at out hotel, which includes dinner, and we get entrance to the spa for free.

So it was off to the Polynesian Spa, a cheesy name for a bunch of thermally heated mineral pools, and one big freshwater pool with a slide for Hud to go down. We soaked and swam for just about an hour, feeling relaxed and refreshed from the mineral pools. After we located our hotel, which I booked online, and checked in with no hassle and relaxed in the room, trying to give Hud some down time before the show and dinner started later on in the evening.

At 6:45, a massive Maori man came into the lobby where we waiting with others, announcing his presence with a booming cry. His face was covered in ceremonial tattoos, it they were real, I have no idea, not that kind of dude you go and up and ask, and he was easily 350lbs, dressed in only a loin cloth, an outfit I can’t pull off anymore. He led us into the dining area, where we were seated with two other couples of the octogenarian sect, and offered white and wheat bread as appetizers. Yes I am a food snob.

The show began right away, and it was great. From beautiful Maori love songs to the really aggressive war dance Haka, made famous by the New Zealand All Blacks rugby team, it was very entertaining. Another entertaining part of the show was when they pulled lovely Stephanie on stage to participate in one of the dances.

She was great, following their instructions, shaking her hips and playing with her balls, the balls on a string that Maori women dance with. When they came into the audience looking for men to participate in the Haka, I quickly diverted my eyes and pretended to talk to Hud in avoidance of being volunteered. When they passed me up, I immediately regretted it, suddenly wanting to try the Haka, and mad at myself for being shy or chicken or whatever. I did the same thing at an ice show when I was like 7. It was amazing how familiar the feeling was.

The show came to an end with a resounding round of applause but not before the same huge Maori man announced there was a birthday in the audience and invited a woman up on stage to be recognized. She was maybe turning 50, and I think a group of them came from Hawaii to celebrate. After the happy birthday song, a larger Hawaiian woman was invited on stage to sing a song for this woman, accompanied by yet another woman who would dance a long to the song. Now, the first thing I thought when I saw the birthday girl, who seemed kind of drunk, and much to willing to accept this kind of attention, was, cougar. She had the look. And when the friend, the dancer came on stage, looking a bit like sea hag from the Popeye cartoons, but dressed very provocatively, it confirmed my assumption. They both were cougars. Hawaiian cougars. A rare breed indeed.

Anyway, the big Hawaiian played the guitar while the other woman danced. Well. She danced in I am sure traditional hula way, with no grass skirt, but it was just a smidge less than a feature show at a strip club. She swayed and grinded her calypigous bum until every man was pulling the shirt from his neck and women were wondering when they entered a brothel. It was pretty funny, even if I am probably exaggerating a little bit.

Today we are going to a geothermal park to see live geysers and mud pools. On the way back we are doing a circuit walk near waterfalls. I will post all about it later.

Kia ora!

Google it.

Love to all,

J.

welcome to annoyedville, population, me

2005-10-12T11:09:00.000-07:00

October 13, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

6:18am

Balance of Fatherhood:

You hear your son fussing and singing to himself at 5:30am. You’re angry and frustrated for having to wake up so early.

You go to his bed and lie with him, try to figure out why he is waking up so early. You are confused and tolerant, knowing there is no malicious intent to his waking up.

He says in a little boy whisper, which is barely a whisper at all, “Lets be best friends forever” with not one smidge of provocation and then hugs your head tightly. You swell so big with love and absolute joy from hearing something you hope to hear from your boy for the rest of your life.

Anger
Frustration
Confusion
Tolerance
Love
And absolute joy.

Talk about compartmentalizing. I am a simple creature.

Play Centre started again, after a two week school holiday hiatus, so Hud and Steph have disappeared in the mornings to allow the writing to continue. It will be a good week and still on target to cross the 200 page mark by the time we leave the Coromandel Peninsula. After they come back we have been hitting random beaches for just small walks. The weather has been the shits here, but at least its getting warmer, not colder like home ha ha.

I am getting excited about leaving Onemana. About two weeks ago, I was elated to be in one place for so long, because I felt so settled. And now, as the departure date gets closer, I want to leave because I feel so settled. Because I know it’s going to be over soon. The other reason, and this may be indicative of something larger, is I am beginning to dislike living in a small town. Everyone knows your business. People drop by unannounced. It’s kind of boring. I hate admitting the last one, because it is boredom that has made writing a novel so interesting. But the other two get on my nerves more and more as the time passes here in Onemana, pop. 300. At least at home, strangers are guarded enough to avoid conversations about themselves, limiting interaction to the familiar wave or pressed lips with accompanying head nod. Here I might as well climb up our neighbour’s asses I know so much about them, including all their financial obligations and burdens, a topic more taboo at home then which hand you wipe with. And of course I immediately became the guy writing the book, a label I wouldn’t actually mind if I were this accomplished novelist, seeking solace in small town NZ to solve a wicked case of writer’s block. But I am a green doe eyed wannabe; with absolutely no clue if this novel I am writing has an ounce of merit or value. So when Carol pops by in the mornings to drop off the mail, and then leaves after only six or seven minutes of one way conversation because she wants to leave me to “my writing” I find it a bit irritating. She was also the one that warned the people here on school holidays that I was writing a book. allowing me to summarize the novel to people I barely want to know.

I mean, take it easy star shine, this is not Salem, and I am not Stephen King.

Yesterday we took a walk to Oputere Beach yesterday with what was supposed to be two kids from play centre and Hud, Steph and I. But the father invited himself, crushing my family walk already marred by the addition of two other kids. Can you tell I am in a bit of a mood today? You would think I would appreciate the testosteroney bond of another male older then three, and maybe I would, if this male and I had anything in common. But this is the German dude, with hair halfway down his back and about eight teeth in his mouth. He is pleasant enough, but there is a bit of a language barrier, meaning my sometimes obscure sense of humour falls on untranslatable ears. He just stares as me with a smile that looks mean because, come on, all Germans look mean and then nods and walks away. The other thing is he speaks German to his kids. Not that big of a deal but when his older boy threw sand directly in Hud’s eyes, I wanted him to at least acknowledge his boy’s act of pure evil, but I couldn’t tell what he was saying because it was in German and then they both kind of laughed, leaving me bewildered holding Hud’s crying hand.

These are the same kids that are still being suckled by the mother who did not join us for the walk, who was no doubt at home, eating bon bons and watching television, dressed as a dominatrix of course. I mean she is German.

I may need an ‘I really do not dislike Germans’ disclaimer after this post.

I really am a friendly person. Really.

I think I am just tired.

Nein.

I am just tired of this place.

Love to all,

J.

Bad dates...

2005-10-08T13:07:00.000-07:00

October 9, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

7:18am

Just back from my morning walk. Sunday morning is supposed to be my day of rest, but yesterday it was pissing and windy, so for the first time I bailed due to inclement weather. Actually, the weather over the past month has been pretty dicey, changes every twenty minutes or so. When I say change, I mean it goes from hot bright yellow sun to dark as dusk in the middle of the day in a very short time. Strong winds and huge droplets and then the sun returns and rainbows fill the sky. Such is coastal living I guess. It’s all new to me.

This morning the sunrise was not marred by arcane clouds, so the walk was quite lovely. On the beach, after heavy rain, a river, normally running under the sand, will split the beach in two. Mostly this river is easily crossable, but today, the gap was just beyond stepping across, so I had a decision to make. I could walk closer to the ocean, where the surf mixes with the river flow, and you can time it for minimal foot soaking, or I could try to leap right where I stood. Well, more out of laziness (which is ironic considering I am waking up at 6 in the morning to go for a walk) then brevity, I decide to jump the river. Flashes of Indiana Jones, throw me the whip, throw me the idol, scenes danced across my brain as I backed up two paces, took two deep breaths and,.,..just made it across the raging tornado of rapids. Er. No. Actually when I looked back to judge my heroics, the river looked as wide and vast as what flows into the drain after a storm. I heard strange cackles, and to my left, there were two seagulls and an orange beaked oystercatcher having a smoke, nudging each other’s wings and laughing at me. I soldiered on.

Two things of note since my Tuesday’s serious post. On Wednesday, which is turning into skip the novel writing day, we went to town to take care of mild necessities, no wait, this is not what I wanted to write about. Talk about a blurred life. On Thursday,….wait..Was it Thursday? Never mind. One day last week, after novel writing, all of us went to for a drive through a park/forestry road to a small turn off we heard leads down to a beach. It seems this whole trip has been about seeking out small turns that lead to beaches. It is a nice theme if you ask me. We parked our car, and said hello to a couple that were just about to descend to the beach as well. We were warned about the descent to the beach by a number of different people. They said it might be a bit dodgy with Hud, as it can get quite muddy and it’s about 800m down to the beach, cris crossing down a well-worn path. Steph and I thought, well, we won’t know for sure unless we try, if it’s too much, we will walk back. Although you are probably expecting some wicked tale of death defying repelling and abseiling down this steep mountain, I am sorry to disappoint. The descent was not as bad as we expected. Muddy yes. Steep in some points, also yes. Undoable. No way. I held onto Hud’s hand the entire way and he was fine. It did cross my mind how the hell we were going to get back up the mountain, but before I had a chance to dwell on it, we arrived at the beach and it was well worth it.

There is something so big about coming down out of forest and on to a secret beach.

Not really secret, as the couple passed us on the way down, he was from Philly, she was from South Africa, they live in NZ now, there was also a foursome of boys around 18 who plopped a tent in the woods and were surf casting and snorkeling, but due to the size of the beach, within a short walk, you felt like the only people on the planet. Even high tide reaches close to the rocks, conveniently washing away all old footprints. Helping with the anonymous image.

We walked through holes in rocks and into caves, reveling in the rare sunny afternoon. Hud, of course got down to his gitch and braved the icy water up to his dinglenuts.

I have not been in since Waiheke Island back in August, and it’s killing me. I have been in colder water, water that makes my own dinglenuts stay nestled beside my pancreas for a few days after, but it just hasn’t been hot enough outside to make me bring my suit on our walks, so I remain dry in body, and chicken in soul. Soon though, even if I have to go buck and charge into the water like an angry bull, a naked angry bull, to say I have been in the Tasman Sea in my lifetime. Naked. Talk about shriveled dinglenuts. Like raisins I tell you.

We only spent about an hour and half kicking around the beach before the sun disappeared over the mountain. Steph and I looked at each other and nodded, grimacing at the daunting task of climbing back up, but recognizing the accomplishment we were sitting on. We tied all our shoes tight and began climbing back up. I have been a father for just over three years now, and am constantly surprised how constantly surprised I am by my boy. In my head I resolved I would be carrying Hud on my shoulders up this mountain, something my knees and my back were not looking forward to. But low and behold, did this little egg roll take this challenge on his own little shoulders and start scrambling up this mountain like a lynx. I had to hustle to keep up with him as his low centre of gravity allowed him to use all four appendages to climb the rock stairs and muddy tree roots. A number of times he pushed me out of the way to reach down to Steph to “pull” her up. Mom needs help he would say, offering is mud-crusted palm. Anyway, at the summit, the parking lot, I wanted to bow down to this little prince, but I had to catch my breath first. I was so proud of him, and then did the rewind in my head to think of all the other times he rode my shoulders like a sultan. What a little bugger I thought. What an awesome little bugger.

Our other trip took place yesterday. We drove 90 minutes to Mount Maunganui, a small mountain on the coast, just outside of a larger city, Tauranga. We really had no reason to go to the “Mount” other than it was Saturday, and we wanted to get out of the house. So we braved the nausea inducing curved roads and made it to the Mount just after 11. Our first stop was the Hot Springs. This is a modern complex of multiple hot saltwater pools, with slides for kids, and hot high-pressure showers to rid the body of all kinks and knots. It was nice. Even when it started to rain a little, it was nice to be outside and in water, in these really buoyant massive hot tubs.

My only the observation about these pools was I really enjoy the basic task of getting Hud ready in change rooms in places like this. It’s really a father son thing to do, as for no reason at all, this task has been bestowed upon me, even though he could perfectly go with Steph in the ladies change room and would if I was not there. But I remember being a kid and going into pools and squash club change rooms with my father, and was fascinated by the men, brazen in their nudity, walking around with towels around their necks, rubbing the water out of their ears. Now this may sound homoerotic to some of you (Hello Chuck?), but to me it could not be further from that. It’s all very masculine and who gives a Brut 33 fuck and a Gillette god damn, a world that Hud seemed comfortable in, seeing all the other random aged kids gladly get nudie so they can get out to the pool. Hud even got on the bench and starting to dance a little dance. This I stopped quickly. As all men will tell you, sure it’s ok to be naked, but naked change room dancing? There has to be a line drawn somewhere. Lesson learned for one wonderfully comfortable three year old.

After the pool we went for a quick bite overlooking their 30, yes 30km beach. It started to hail so we timed it all pretty perfectly. Later we walked their shopping street, and made a few purchases, thereby passing our allotted budget for Coromandel three weeks early. Thank goodness for the exchange rate.

We drove home and stopped for groceries, Steph running into another mother from playgroup, a regular occurrence these days. We had a lay out for dinner, a traditional deli style meal inspired by my mother, Lo Lo, which has now become a tradition in our household as well, and one of my favourite meals. Hud and I watched a movie after dinner, while granny plowed through her knitting.

Today we are going to find another secret beach. Near the river I jumped this morning.

I am the Monarch of the sea……

Love to all,

J.

Harsh tokes dude

2005-10-04T23:20:00.000-07:00

October 5, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

6:34pm.

If I were to tell you I left the birthday post up, with me wearing my Dickies sweatshirt for the 22nd day in row, to garner comments and attention, would you think any less of me? More of me? But how could you think any more of me really.

36 years old. Holy shit. My life wavers between asking Steph to pass me my book because my lower back is just killing me to staring at the brown bottle of beer in the fridge, wondering how long it would take to chug it. My honest guess? Less than four seconds. I read another blog about this theme. The, when-did-I-suddenly-become-an-adult, theme. I think half my friends think the same thing. All of us mentally reminiscing about the times we used to hang out in subway stations waiting to overhear about a party in Rosedale. Like these times were yesterday, or at least just last year. Thank goodness I starting balding when I was like 10, so I had a physical indicator that time keeps on slippin’ (slippin’ slippin)’ into the future. The other half of my friends simply refuse to grow up, jerry springering their hand and saying no thank you to time, and make their way to the front of the bar, or to the basement to do buckets.

All the power to them. The future at this point is both scary and exciting. The next twenty years will truly define who we are. Legacies established, fortunes won and lost, the poor house or the big house, marriage kids, divorce, sudden deaths, luck, both bad and good and memories of electric joy and arcane debauchery. It’s pretty heavy duty shit compadre. My excuse right now is that take away Hud, a big minus I will grant you, and I have about the same responsibilities I did when I shotgunning king cans, and sucking up bottle toke smoke. I want to finish my novel and lose some weight, but these are not responsibilities, these are hopes and goals. Sometimes I feel guilty about my lack of responsibilities; that I have yet to suffer, yet to feel the pang and turmoil of an earned life lived, but then I just shake my head and smile and think, not yet, please, not yet.

So 36. Next up? 37. One year at a time I guess.

Sunday we went for dinner at another one of the houses of the play centre mothers. She whipped out the boob the moment I got there as well. Relax. The baby is only three months old. Actually this couple, and another couple that joined us, were all very cool. And there were six kids in total, including the baby, running amok in their reasonably well appointed home. We were invited to try out the new bbq, finally one with a lid, all the other ones are just grills on one side, and a big flat surface on the other, which makes me think this is not bbqing, it’s frying.

I brought over chicken breasts marinated in red curry paste with added red chiles and lime. Everyone loved them. There were steaks and sausages and a couple of good salads. And people were drinking. Thank the big lord in the sky we found some people that actually enjoy the occasional libation. The ladies drank white wine and me and the boys drank beer. The host actually made a point of making me try his microbrew preference, meaning he actually likes beer and is not just drinking to make me feel less like a rummy.

After dinner, I sat with the men, the ladies sat elsewhere. It happened by accident or on purpose, no spite intended, it just gravitates that way sometimes. The host ran his own painting and paneling company and the other dude was the resident IT guy in town. Not too long ago, both families uprooted their lives, moving from Auckland (“the city” as they refer to it everywhere in NZ. There is a general hostile malaise directed at Aucklanders by the rest of the country. Aucklanders return this attitude with a lovely verve of their own. It’s interesting) to the small community of Whangamata. Both families said they were looking to get out of the fast lane, and seek a place where people had the same attitudes about life, work, family and happiness. Their attitudes were not unlike the reasons Steph and I cancelled our lives and started this temporary new one.

I equally expressed my joy about the time I get to spend with my boy and my wife, and how if it wasn’t for my family, which includes my dear friends, I would have no problem moving to this country. I know it’s grandiose to speculate not having what I have back home, because that is what makes our home, home. But when we get back, we will have to find a little life niche that satisfies all priorities. It will be difficult, but it must be done. These people did it. Sure they have the type of support network within a couple of hours that we do. Their decision was not as daunting as the climb the huge mountain picture I am painting. Nor was ours that hard to make to leave either. But still both are brave choices.

Talking to these nice people with nice drinking habits just reaffirmed I need to find the balance of heart, fun, ardor, spirit, and love when I return back home to ensure the next stage of my life, the second half of my life, will not be spent trying to attain things I don’t really want, and trying to be a person I don’t really like.

I guess I do have some responsibilities after all

Love to all,

J.

Yo ho 36?

2005-10-01T00:15:00.000-07:00

October 1, 2005

My 36th birthday

Onemana, New Zealand

5:31pm

It’s my birthday today.

Allow me to wax on how significant the last 12 months has been;
Massive depression after 35th birthday, complete and utter loss of identity, house appraisal, shimmer of hope, house sale, hope turns into reality, giving notice at work, addiction to comfort gone, last day of work, strangely sad, party with friends, strangely not sad, plane rides and beaches and more beaches and holiday homes and waves of depression still, but conquerable, and then suddenly fear of future gone, writing tons, weight loss, confidence returning, love for son and wife never stronger. Phew. No coffee thanks; just the cheque would be great.

As far as change and life disruption goes it may go down as the most dramatic 12 months of my life. Dramatic and brave or stupid. But everyone knows it’s a fine line between brevity and stupidity. A line, thank goodness I cannot see.

Lots to cover today including the payback dinner with Carol and John and their son Anthony, my aromatherapy massage with Holly that Steph got me for birthday, and finally today’s playground opening with tons of mini pirates (and some big ones) running around under a cloud covered sky.

First up, our neighbours across the street over for dinner on Thursday night. I must admit, things have fizzled between Carol and I. I think it’s a lack of communication issue, mainly; I have trouble saying anything during our conversations. She is like an avalanche of words, and I am the one hand sticking my hand up in the snow holding a single word, only to be covered by the next rolling mass of words, until I try in vain to muscle up to the top to stick my hand up again and just as I bust through, sweet Jesus, another wave of words buries me under. I think I will wait for the St. Bernard, dictionary around its neck instead of a cask.

Anyway, dinner was a success, me over exaggerating (never!) a little about not being able to talk, and I did find John quite engaging with his tales of conferences in Singapore (he was a builder) and being roped into buying fake watches, which he reckons are pretty good. He has soft eyes and a simple way of story telling that led me to slap his back in affection and almost camaraderie. And then of course, there was Anthony. A few weeks ago, when we were at their house for dinner, Carol mentioned she had two sons, one older, who was married to a crusty old skate who barely lets her kids near their grandparents, and one younger, Anthony, who was the real “city boy” who loves the waterfront café and bar scene and lived with a 45 year old woman. Anthony is thirty. Steph immediately made the assumption he was dating the older lady, where my immediate assumption was different. My gaydar starting beeping, and I was almost positive that Anthony is playing for the other team. It was just they way Carol described him, almost apologetically, but still with heaps of affection. So when they arrived, I was curious to see if my instincts were indeed accurate. Well within minutes of smelling his cologne, seeing his fancy dress shirt and him saying the word fabulous to describe the roast beef I made for dinner, I felt confident my instincts were correct. He was a great guy and it was nice to have someone around our age to talk to. He also liked red wine as much as Steph and I, which was a relief, everyone else in this tiny town never seem to have more than one glass. I, of course, never like to have less than one bottle at a good dinner, but maybe I am the exception and not the rule. See how much smarter I am getting now that I am 36?

Hud took a shine to Anthony as well, playing on the ground with him after dinner, building a great Lego building, which Hud kept intact for almost an hour, a household record. They left at around 9, and Steph and I pat our backs for still being great hosts, no matter where the hell we live. Oh, for the foodies, we had a roast beef which I stuck whole cloves of garlic in and covered with red wine, slow roasted it as it wasn’t the best cut, with it we served roast potatoes with garlic and other dried herbs, carrots with mint and steamed green beans. Steph made scones with fresh whipped cream and a berry coulis for dessert, which we ate with dark coffee. Well I had a beer in a wine glass as per my norm. First beer since September 10th I will have you know. Weight loss and all.

Next up, Friday. Steph has been great all week stealing Hudson away to let me get writing done. It was another great week, just under 16,000 words, and 29 pages, leaving me at just over 120 pages in. 200 pages before November seems pretty attainable at this rate. We shall see.

So after Steph returned from the beach in the morning, we relaxed until it was time to drive me town for my aromatherapy massage appointment, my birthday present. Now I have had two real massages in my life, one on my honeymoon, where I first realized how close they get to the old franks and beans, and once just before we left on this trip, when I had a mysterious fever, and this Asian fucker pressed his hands, fingers, elbows, whatever, into me so hard I almost stood up and back handed him across the room. So my feelings were mixed. But this was nice. Holly, a Maori woman took me in the candle lit room and shook my hand. She was a big woman, as Maoris tend to be, but had a real pleasant face and a really soft voice. She instructed me to take off my clothes and lie face down on the table. Being green in the massage area I asked how much I should disrobe. She said as far as I wanted, if I wanted to leave my underpants (sounds so three year old!) on I could. I didn’t want to, being naked doesn’t bother me, I just didn’t want to get all buck and then hop on the table, only to have her scream a war cry upon her return, seeing my white ass propped up on the massage table.

She did not scream when she returned and she gently covered my entire body with warm towels to let me get fully relaxed. Fully relaxed. What does that mean exactly? You see I had a four-bean salad for lunch, (with spinach and celery for the foodies! Wink), I also am a reasonably easy-to-arouse man, add that to the fact that I am always wary that my dogs might have a pungent tang to them, and I was tighter than fist buried in cement on that table. I was so afraid that something on my body might release, harden, or smell, so my relaxation was a little hard,..er…I mean difficult to come…er…achieve…er…I couldn’t quite relax ok?

I did get over it. She was a professional and nothing hardened (thoughts of baseball, and monkeys and shark attacks helped), nothing released, the beans not quite doing their work until later (lucky Steph) and my feet were so lathered in lavender oil, that they just smelled, well, like lavender.

After, I was all oiled up and we went out for dinner. A nice pizza pasta place with all sorts of other kids, so Hud felt comfortable. I had a penne carbonara, perhaps the most fattening dish on the planet, Steph had seafood pasta and Hud had the Hawaiian pizza. It was a great birthday meal. We drove home and waddled inside. Sleep came easy.

Today. My actual birthday. At least this hemisphere’s version of my actual birthday. Steph let me sleep in, which I almost did, but then I just read my new book (Mailer’s Tough Guys Don’t Dance, so far, so good) and relaxed. I went downstairs and continued to relax while Steph made banana pancakes and Hud presented me with the card he made with his mother. He had already presented it to me the day before but it’s easy to sell happy to a kid with an electric smile.

We ate, I read, Steph played with Hud, I napped on the hammock overlooking the cow pasture and ocean, I slipped upstairs for a real nap and general forced laziness. At 1:30 we got Hud ready to go to the official opening of the new playground. He looked great with his pirate gear on, but suddenly became hesitant because of the impending interaction with kids he does not know.

I have to learn how to deal with his mood swings better. Every day is a new lesson to learn as a father. We arrived at the playground and the place was teaming with kids in various states of pirate dress. Hud hung back a little, checking out the scene, eating the free sausages donated by the junior rugby league. I had three sausages, but who is counting. After the cutting of the ceremonial ribbon, the Coromandel FM dj hosting instructed everyone down the beach for a treasure hunt.

Hud, now fueled by chocolate and sausage became more animated and dug with Steph to no avail.

I took her place and within seconds we found the little plastic bag with a number on it. We handed it in and got a little gold bar as our treasure. A gold bar of chocolate. Hud snarfed it down accordingly.

It started to rain so everyone jammed under the tent (sponsored by the local real estate company of course), to see who won the best-dressed pirate costume. Well our little boy won one of the loot bags, and the DJ called his name so loud on the microphone that he burst out in a little puddle of tears, thinking he had done something wrong. Poor little man. He is so fragile sometimes.

Oh, before I forget, earlier on in the week Hud and I and some other kids got our picture in the local paper. It was an article about the opening of the playground and we happened to be there when the photographer was there snapping pics. Everywhere we go, the media is always hounding us. I will post it here when someone e-mails us the scanned picture.

Also, a magazine back home has asked me to write a couple of articles on spec, slice of life kind of things. I may have some words for her.

So that is that. A long post to catch up on the last couple of days. Most of pictures are from today. Where I got to where a big plastic earring and say arrrrrghhh maties all day.

I loved it. Happy birthday to me.

Love to all,

J.

Oh. March 15th if anyone is interested.

Bacaw!

2005-09-27T21:49:00.000-07:00

September 28, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

3:29pm

First off. Congratulations to one of my best friends and my best man and his wife on the birth of their baby girl today. Or yesterday really. The same birthday as her mother. Very cool. Chicken Jimmy has his own little hen to raise. How cool is that.

Now that she has finally has arrived and my other best friend Cobes is married, can all the focus be returned to me? I mean I am the one who quit a job I loved, sold a house way under value, and came to a country that everyone says is really really ugly. Focus please people. Spotlight back on Jason.

But seriously folks, shout out to the chicken, who as a provincially recognized breast stroke champion, finally proved that his boys could swim as well. I love you brother. And now Hud will have a choice between Davis and Charlotte to take to his high school formal. And then back to his hotel suite. Prrrowrrr.

Speaking of Hud, we had a good father son day on Sunday. I think I will take him every Sunday to give Steph time to knit and drink expensive coffee. Hud’s lime green sweater should be done just before we leave here. Or in a week. Steph takes to things pretty fast. She is as smart as she is pretty.

We kissed her cheek and drove to town to take back movies and library books. My pocket was full of the random change we put in a small bowl for Hud to have his own money to spend at Sunnys, New Zealand’s answer to a dollar store. They have a huge assortment of toys for $2. They are all Chinese made and have delightfully absurd translations on the box covers. In fact, here are the bullet points on Pirate regalia we bought today for Saturday’s celebration at the playground. (it’s a big ship).

• Classic Pirate appropriation equipments (what?)
• Shortcut in the ocean tool (huh?)
• The metals defends the true version (come again?)

And finally, in bold, after those three gems. Beautiful Music Function. Is that great? The package includes an eye patch, a small cutlass and a hoop earring. Of course it does.

So we dropped off the books and movies and went to Sunny’s where Hud bought a snake. Hud informed me quickly: It’s not a snake it’s a cobra! We settled on calling it a cobra snake.

We drove further along the town and tried a new beach access. It’s school holidays here in NZ, so more people are in town and more people are on the beach. Not in the water, its still too cold, but walking and wishing they could go in the water.

The NZ school year is split into four semesters. They get three two-week breaks and one six-week break (Mid December to end of January) in between the semesters. It seems like a lot, but it’s about the same as ours back home time wise.

Hud and I sat at the edge of the surf and played with the new cobra snake, or at least he did while I got suckered into watching the ocean. It’s like a campfire. You just get hypnotized by the never ending waves that break against the shore. I could watch it forever.

After about half an hour, Hud decided he had enough and announced we should go. So go we did because I am not just his father, I am a servant to his every whim and delight! Yes sir I said hopping to, and buckling him into his thrown, please do not strike me with cobra snake, your trusty head of security and merlinesque advisor.

Next stop, an estuary down the coast a little, for an orange chocolate chip ice cream cone and watch kids surf their kayaks into shore on mini waves. Holy neato did it look fun. Uh oh. Due to my five litres of water a day consumption, I have to pee oh, every 23 seconds. I had to use the washroom. Luckily there was a small beige building near the access path to the beach. We approached and I noticed a green light flashing above the vacancy sign. High tech I thought and we entered and the door slid shut.

“Attention, the door is closed, please press the button to lock the door” The toilet was bossing me around. I pressed the button.

“The door is now locked. In ten minutes the door will unlock” And then, I kid you not, Burt Bacharach’s classic, What the world needs now is love sweet love came on, serenading me as I held the one thing I love the most in this world, my penis.

Hud thought it was pretty cool too. A talking toilet he said to me with a huge smile. Yes my boy, a talking toilet, what an age we live in. And the ten minutes should be enough for anyone.

But it sure would be funny if after a night of cheese and bananas, you were sitting on the throne and that the mellifluous toilet voice announced the door would be opening in three two one…

The scramble to wipe is a very cartoon like image. Cartoon or George Costanza.

We drove home soon after. Steph still wasn’t home so Hud and I played a little more with cobra snake. He hissed at me. I hissed at him. I ruffled his hair. He ruffled my scalp. Steph came home. We kissed her on the cheek again hello.

The last couple of days have blurred into each other. I have written a lot of the novel and was going to have a record week but today was blown apart by my agreeing to go to town with Steph and Hud.

Yesterday I hung out with Hud and three other kids on our street. A 12, 7, and five year old. We ate Mandarin oranges given to us by the old guy from his trees. We rolled down the huge hill on our bikes. I pushed them all back up and almost passed out. We played with a superball. Steph made us pick up our peels and put them in the garbage.

Then the lights came on and I had to go home.

This trip was so worth it.

Love to all,

J

Oh and we are booked in NZ for February. The trip continues.

blankets of blue

2005-09-24T13:46:00.000-07:00

September 25, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

7:45am

I don’t have much to write about today. The smell of French Toast downstairs is overwhelming and pretty much dominating all my senses. I am going to have a grapefruit. Picked from our next-door neighbour’s tree. When I cut one in half, the smell of grapefruit is overwhelming. Hopefully the citrus and the eggy bread can have a little scent battle with the tang being the juicy victor.

Friday we went to Pauanui (Pa nu…..I have no clue) after a morning of writing for me (15,522 words in a week) and a morning of music class for Hud and Steph. They all wore their pajamas to music class this week. It’s held at a Baptist church. Those last two sentences have nothing to do with each other. Carol told us about Pauanui when she had us over for dinner. Said it was all hoity toity with cafes and stores. This immediately made Stephanie want to go, and on Friday she got her wish. We drove the 20km up the peninsula and parked near the water.

We took our blanket and walked down the path to the beach.

Spread out amongst burnt firewood and about 3km of beach, we all sat and soaked in a rare sunny day. Hud and Steph eventually went on their ritual walk, leaving me to fade in and out of afternoon nap. It was lovely. I eventually joined them down the beach and watched Hud play in and out of tidal pools of very cold water.

Kids just ignore cold water. My testes sunk into my chest just watching him. We went back to the blanket after a while and Hud played with wood and jumped all over my head as per the usual.

We went to the café and stores after, more like a little strip mall. Steph got a short white and I got a cappuccino and we watched Hud play on the little playground for a little bit, him running around showing off to the two little girls sipping sodas on the picnic table.

Later when we arrived home, I received a surprise phone call from one my friends. We had a nice chat, him talkative for 3 in the morning on Thursday, but then he just arrived home from a bar. At the end of the conversation he mentioned how crazy his week had been, meetings and running around, and he said it must be different for me. I told him three hours ago, I was lying on the beach on a big blue wool blanket, listening to Oyster Catchers caw around me and I fell asleep. I told him at that exact moment, and I told Steph this later as well, I told him I had not one worry in the world. I am talking that exact moment in time, not ten minutes or two weeks, or the dreaded six months from that moment, but that exact moment. There was not an anxious moment of worry in my mind. I was utterly relaxed and happy. It was a bit histrionic, but very true.

Later we watched a movie downstairs on the computer. The Station Agent. We both loved it.

Yesterday was adventure Saturday. We drove back to Karangahake Gorge, a place we visited in our first week here, but had no real time to explore. It’s a gorge that served as a battery back in the 1800’s.

We hiked along a river, along walkways, suspension bridges and then finally the tunnel.

It was truly the only reason I wanted to come back to this place. I had read about the old mining tunnels that were part of some of the tramps. It was about 300m of old mining tunnel directly into the mountain.

It was cold, dark and just on the edge of creepy as water dripped down the walls and collected in puddles on the bumpy concrete floor. Every 50 metres or so on one side of the rounded walls was a sealed up passageway to an old tunnel. It went in about eight feet before the solid wall. It was the perfect place for someone to hide to pop out and turn your hair white. It was pretty neat. Hud held the flashlight the whole way, randomly yelling to hear his echo. Ok, I yelled too.

We finished the walk and had a picnic by the river, laying on the same blue blanket that I feel will became a theme here in NZ. We ate cold basil and ricotta ravioli and peanut butter and jam sandwiches on really grainy bread.

We had raisins and dried apricots, triangles of oranges from the huge bag we bought from the orchard for only five buck, thin ginger cookies like the ones mom has at home, and lots and lots of cold water we bought before we left. It was delicious.

After lunch we waddled back to the car and drove further south to Paeoroa. This town is famous for producing a lemon drink called L&P (Lemon and Paeoroa) so we stopped at their little café for a splash of lemon goodness and a couple of designer coffees. Hud had a brownie. Ok. We all ate it. Ok, I ate it.

Last night we had burgers that I added chili and lime paste to and they were excellent. We watched movies again on the computer and drifted off to sleep just before midnight.

Today I am leaving Steph for some alone time. Hud and I will go to town and….well you can read about it all soon I guess.

Love to all,

J.

It was the breast of times, it was the worst of times

2005-09-22T01:48:00.000-07:00

September 22, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

6:52pm

So it seems the way it’s going to work is a post every other day. There just doesn’t seem to be enough substance to write every day and I am not going to wax poetic about my love for my wife and son every day. It’s just too gooey. And too much goo means sounding trite. And sounding trite means I am not being earnest. And not being earnest makes me seem about as deep as a puddle. And the last thing I want to seem is shallow. Even if I am. Anyway. I am dying for a cheese nip. Or a finger full of peanut butter. Or a dime bag. Or Jennifer Connolly. Or a sarcasm free day. Or the old afro back for a couple weeks. Or shoes that smell of cookies baking. Or a hug from my ma. Or pocket fishhooks. Or a long snaking putt for birdie. Or soft vanilla ice cream cone dipped in that crackling chocolate. Or fingernails. Or unconditional love from my son. Wait a minute. I have that one. Forget the others. Oh shit that sounded trite. Cheque please.

Ok. I am ready to begin now. Yesterday we spent the day with a family Steph met at playgroup. Steph went to their house last week for lunch, so this week it was her (our) turn to host. Steph made the delightful beef and barley soup I love so much, to be served with nice crusty, store-bought bread and some cut up vegetables to dip in a sun dried tomato hummus, also purchased from New World, our local grocer in Whangamata. This couple, this German couple, arrived here from Hamburg about four years ago. At least the male half of the couple did. I believe the woman, Frederique, has been here for longer and is now a landed immigrant due to marrying a NZ man prior to settling down with Stephan. They have two kids, one five and one three-year old, which both go to the same play centre as Hud. Hud likes and almost exclusively plays with the older boy because he is more his size with language skills closer to his own.

Oh and by the way, she still breastfeeds both of them.

Huh? What?

I have never seen a breast more in my life than I did yesterday. This coming from a man with a massive digital cable adult film bill before we left. Oops. Sorry dear. We might have been able to spend an extra month away if not for the $10 porn on-demand cash cow that Ted Rogers is running back home. Luckily, the five-year old only breastfeeds at night, otherwise it would have been each kid attached to each breast for the entire afternoon. The three year old would come up to his mother every hour or so and lift up her shirt to get a little liquid snack to tide him over until lunch. Now, I don’t mean to sound harsh, both these people were pleasant, warm human beings with an obvious amount of love for their children. Language barriers aside (they constantly went back and forth between German and English, making me think they were yelling at me half the time, German is such an aggressive language) the afternoon was fine except for the teat flying out every time I glanced over at her. Once, at the beach, after running around for a little bit, I got a little parched and thought about asking for a wee nibble at the milk button. But nope, the boy scooped in and latched on before I had a chance to pucker up.

The only other issue I had with this day, was, after serving lunch, after we all went to the beach together, after we had spent a solid five hours with these people, in the parking lot, both of us packing our cars to go, Steph and I ready to say goodbye, they somehow weaseled an invite back to the house for another cup of coffee. This of course gave the little one another chance to suckle at his mother’s breast, where he proceeded to fell asleep, and she did not want to leave until after he woke up. Lord help me.

They left after six, after arriving at 12:30. As mentioned, they were nice enough, just different types of people from Steph and I. They suggested we spend another day with them to go up the coast to Cathedral Cove, a rock formation that is supposed to be beautiful. I just don’t know if I can do it. But we will be too polite to say no. I guess I best get used to the giant nips flailing about for the whole world to get a gander at, perhaps even take a sip from. If the wee one gives you the chance.

Today was better. Writing in the morning for me (will be my first 15,000 word week and my new weekly goal), play centre for Hud and Steph. In the afternoon we all drove to the next, even smaller town then Onemana (population of Onemana – 400) of Opoutere (Oh poo ter ee). The parking lot is right down on a spit, which you have to cross a bridge to get over.

Looking out over the bridge was a visual feast.

After the bridge, it’s a 700-metre walk through the nicest smelling pine forest and then you are at the beach. A desolate wonder of a beach that must run about 5 kilometres.

The tide was out so we walked, picking up shells and throwing back wayward starfish.

It was very familiar to all the beach time we spent in Australia and Fiji, and because we have made Onemana very home-like, it was a nice break from the day-to-day routine we so quickly have fallen into.

This weekend we will either drive to Rotorua, a town built on sulpher hot springs that supposedly smells like a thousand rotten eggs, but also supposed to be quite beautiful and fun. Hell, the rank sold me, without the accompanying beauty. Or we will go up to Coromandel town to maybe take another ride on an old locomotive. It’s supposed to be nice up there, an old mining town that retained its sense of spirit.

Now, if I could just get the image of the breast out of my head.

Now there is something I thought I would never write.

Love to all,

J.

Polly want a slacker

2005-09-20T00:57:00.000-07:00

September 20, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand.

6:57pm

What a great update from Steph. She has created such a nice weekly routine with Hudson, and he is more animated and confident because of it. And Steph, well she absorbs the newness like a champ, dealing with whatever gathers in her net with a big toothy smile and warm, comfortable acceptance. I am blessed with such a flexible and wonderful partner.

The last couple of days have been a furious writathon, with over 19 pages written in the last two days. The characters are becoming richer, more textured, and the language continues to be colourful without being too repetitive. I am 1/5th complete. I was 1/8th two weeks ago. Things are progressing at a rapid pace. All it took was the opportunity of time. That and a new respect and love for coffee. I seem to need at least one bad thing in my life at all times. Coffee seems to be lesser of all evils. Besides I found it difficult to locate a heroin dealer in this tiny town. Although there are a couple of elderly folk that walk around in a bit of a quirky daze. They might be riding the H train. It’s either that or incontinence issues. I’ll ask them at our next lawn bowling tournament.

I hope to be finished the novel by the time the Grahams arrive for Christmas. Allowing my father to be the first to read the first draft. Other than Steph, who I read what I wrote every day.

Other than the writing, the only other writable event was today I took Hud to the park. We brought his new soccer ball and he is starting to get the hang of kicking it, instead of picking it up and running with it. I never thought the first sport I would teach my son would be soccer. But there are no hoops anywhere. What is wrong with this country? Don’t they know who Sean Marks is? He has a NBA championship ring! (There is only one reader that is for, you know who you are).

Once we were finished running through the grass, we got to the pirate ship park, which, we recently found out, was only just built back in May. We are attending the official opening on October 1st and I can’t think of a better way to spend my 36th birthday than watching my boy run with all the other kids, all dressed up like pirates. I think I might wear an eye patch myself for the event. I also will annoy the hell out of my wife for the week prior with my incessant use of the term, shiver me timbers.

Silly jokes are funny. Then almost immediately they are not funny, they are stupid. Then they are really quite annoying. Then quickly kind of funny again. Then, after repeating them for a couple of days, they become really really funny. It’s the circle of joke life. That is my humour lesson for the day.

When we reached the park, Hud went directly to the climbing pegs installed on the side of the mock ship. They are the same pegs installed on indoor climbing walls and are scattered all over the playground. Hud tried, with my help, for about three seconds to climb up the side. I quickly became a little perturbed. C’mon Hud try again. Nope. Onto something else. Hudson, come over here and try to climb the wall. Ignoring me completely now. Please Hud, try again, just because it’s hard does not mean you should quit. I just want you to finish something. It’s important to finish what you start! The level of my voice kept rising with my pleading, and Hud began to get a little upset, well, a little sheepish and confused why his father was getting angry at him for wanting to play on the see saw. It was when he got pretty quiet that I realized what I was doing. I was basically talking to myself. Or desperately trying, at a way too early age, to instill a work ethic, an ethic in general, that I never had in my life.

I so want him to try things that are hard, finish things that he starts, give an honest effort into even the small things in life, because deep down, these are the failings in my own life. Correctable yes, but looking back, if I could change some things, it would be to finish some of things I started. Sure, there are a lot of things I should not have started in the first place, including the red sports car in the garage in Burlington when my parents were away, for a drive around the block (you never stop learning). But mostly it was the hard things that I quit, basically because they were well, too hard.

Now I don’t blame anyone for my lifelong trait of coasting. Life simply happens to people and you try to cope and adjust and mold yourself into something of value, full of love, and warmth and honesty and patience. I find myself lacking in some areas, while being blessed abundantly with others. I want to be the person that finishes something. That will choose the hard path, not because it is hard, but because it is worth it. I am trying to get there. To get to the place of pride in myself. A new sense of self worth.

I so want to put a Dr. Phil joke right here, but I am trying to remain serious.

I also want Hud to be that way. I want him to tackle life and challenge himself and not back down when things get tough and to finish what he starts, even if it hurts a little.

I just think I chose the wrong time to tell him.

I’ll get back to you in a couple of years Hud.

I’ll still be the guy holding you up as you try and climb the pirate ship.

Shiver me timbers,

J.

Days at Play with my Hud

2005-09-19T01:10:00.000-07:00

Jason has mentioned in his journal that while he writes his novel, Hud and I take off to various activities around the Whangamata town. I thought that I’d give a few more details and pictures of Hud at play. Here’s the breakdown of a normal Monday to Friday week:

Monster Monday:
Jason up at 5:30. Downstairs to prep for his grueling daily walk. First he must check his emails, chat on messenger and check sports highlights.
Hud up at 7ish. Jason makes Hud’s and his breakfast and they watch cartoons.
Steph up at the leisurely hour of 8ish.
Mad rush to get showered, dressed and out the door by 9ish for our daily activity.
Activity: Playcentre in Whangamata. It is an amazing centre for kids from age zero to five. It is play heaven. All the messy things that most kids don’t get to do at home, they do here. There is, painting, crafts, play dough, costumes, grocery store, dolls, trains, cars, puzzles, story area, snack area. Outside there is a huge sand pit, jungle gym, trikes, swings, trampoline, building area, playhouse… It goes on and on.

After almost three weeks of being here, Hud is really getting used to playing with other kids and just having fun with all sorts of new kid stuff. I feel like I am getting this amazing opportunity all over again to be a mom. While working so much at home,
I almost forgot how to play. It has been a bit of a learning curve for me too. It is slightly different here. The moms are more relaxed about some things. For one, the kids all run around in bare feet. It’s like shoes are optional. I do get a little freaked out about Hud running around in his tootsies in the building area where there are nails scattered on the ground. They also seem to let their kids explore things without as much doting. Like hammering and sawing. They get their hands and bodies for that matter into the paint without a single mom saying…."not on your shirt sweetie". I am trying to be more relaxed. But when no one is looking, I do sneak over and pick up the stray nails and put the jagged saw back in the cupboard.

Tickle Tuesday
Same routine as Monday.
At playcentre, Hud’s favourite things to do right now are costumes. They have these animal tails that Hud manages to go home with everyday. He wears them all around town growling at the locals. Last Tuesday, we also had a play date at someone’s house from lunch on. This week they are coming over here, to give Jason some interaction.

Wacky Wednesday
Morning routine same.
Activity: M.O.P.S. (Mothers of Preschoolers). This is a bi-weekly event that happens at the local Anglican Church. The mothers get together in one room and the kids are looked after by volunteers in the next room over. Last time the moms talked about scrap booking. We did have a prayer before hand and had a little discussion about “spirited” children. This situation is all very new to me. They did serve cake though. Gooey pineapple cake with frosting melting down the sides. Food obsessed.
Hud didn’t like it last time. The other crying kids freaked him out. We’ll see how it goes tomorrow. The topic for tomorrow is Christmas stockings.

Thoughtful Thursday
Morning same.
Playcentre again.
Last Thursday the kids made shortbread cookies. This Thursday is the last day for playcentre for two weeks. It is school holidays. We will have to set up more independent play dates.

Freak-out Friday
Morning Same.
Activity: Mainly Music at the Baptist church. This is where the kids & parents sing songs and dance. Some of the songs are religious. Hud hasn’t asked about God or Jesus yet. Jason and I haven’t really talked about this subject. It’s on the to do list. Not every mom in the group seems religious, but religious organizations seem to be the foundation that offers most of the activities for the people of the town. The other thing that I noticed was that everyone church hops for the different events. So we sing and dance, get a snack and tea and then say Amen.
After this, it is off to the Toy Library to get some loaner toys. Right now Hud has a FP castle and an FP pirate ship. They have to go back on Friday. I’m not sure whether Hud completely understands that these toys are on loan. We’ll face that when we have to.
This Friday’s music class is a Pajama party. Do you think that means dress up for the moms too? I can just imagine it now, I put on my best lingerie and am the only one feeling cold and unwholesome.

That’s our week in a nutshell, full of new friends and fun. We do miss our friends at home. Please don’t feel threatened in any way. We are not accepting any permanent friend resumes. You’re all in good standing.

Love & miss you all,

Steph & Hud
xo

My pretty

2005-09-18T00:21:00.000-07:00

September 18, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

6:40pm

Home comes up more now. We are approaching the halfway point of the planned part of our adventure. By adventure I mean dinner at Carols. We are booked until the end of January, but we are desperately trying to skip the Canadian winter so options are being discussed. But we do talk about home now, and if indeed home is home, or home is somewhere near home, or home is nowhere near home, or if home is on the range, where the deer and antelope play. As mentioned, options are being discussed.

I think it is the fact we are set up here as a normal family, not as transient, and it feels very much like a home. Even with my allocated “work” schedule during the week, I find myself both relieved and disappointed on the weekends that I do not have those three hours to bury myself in the novel. I say I can write on the weekends, but the fact is, Steph takes Hud for most of the weekdays, and I want the time with Hud, and Steph deserves a spell.

This past weekend, after the enchanting meal across the street, and the even more enchanting post meal, back at home, fireside chat a la wine and nudity with my wife, was pretty dull. The weather is not co-operating with our grand weekend road trip adventure plans, so on Saturday all we did was drive up and down a mountain to a town called Thames. We went to a mall, and wondered wide eyed like a trio of yokels at all the pretty lights and shiny sales. We ate our packed lunch at a playground, where Hud ran hunched over, exaggerated arms flying, to all the new-to-him equipment. Finally we went to see the Wallace and Gromit movie at a tiny old theatre with about twenty other kids. I ate too much candy and not enough celery and almost, almost fell asleep with my ball cap over my eyes about an hour in. I am really getting old. I used to only be able to sleep, lying, in fetal position, with a pillow between my knees, and my head on a nice flat pillow, in a queen sized bed. Now I can fall asleep anywhere. ……………………………………..huh what? See?

We drove home and did not feel like making a big old dinner so Hud had the beef and barley soup Steph made last week. Ten minutes later, after picking at Hud’s, so did I. I told Steph it reminded me of the Campbell’s beef and barley soup I loved as a kid. Mental note: Comparing homemade soup to Campbell’s is not often viewed as a compliment. Hud went to bed pretty easily, so Steph and I got all cuddled and started to watch Passion of the Christ. I feel asleep reading the first five minutes. Steph watched the whole thing and fell asleep disturbed, tossy and turny.

Last night a storm ripped through Onemana and I thought it was going to tear the roof off. Carol mentioned that September brings strong winds through the Coromandel, but I honestly thought I saw a witch on a bicycle when I looked out the window in the middle of the night. And the rain. Massive droplets of rain for five hours straight. It sounded like machine gun fire on our roof. Needless to say, I did not sleep that well. I woke up at 5:30am and came downstairs; staring at the storm like it was a long lost enemy. I always went for my walk to feel the fury of this wicked wicked storm, but it was Sunday, my day of rest, so it was easy to decline.

Today we simply hung around. It pissed on and off for most of the day, so Hud watched a couple of movies and I finished one of the stupidest books I ever read. The main character was so arrogant, so unappealing, she managed to make me hate her even though she was the parent of a child molestation victim. Not an easy task. The only benefit I took from this book was the fact that if this woman can get published, over and over again, to acclaim even, then my hard-nosed, fun tale of booze, broads and diamonds the size of doorknobs may have a chance.

We did manage to buy more groceries and play at the pirate ship park for a little bit. Steph did a classic mother of the year move in between two other mothers and their respective children. She got Hud on the big swing, gave him a big push, and he fell off backwards. It scared him more than it hurt, but he still cried and we walked away smiling, Steph’s tail between her legs. It has happened to every parent I am sure at one time or another.

Now I am full after the steak, roasted Kumara and potatoes, broccoli and cauliflower meal I just made. I started another book, a mystery this time, my ninth read in four months.

What a luxury.

Love to all,

J.

Jason, Steph, Carol and John

2005-09-16T02:10:00.000-07:00

September 16, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

8:27pm

We brought a bottle of New Zealand Shiraz. I drank it in maybe four glasses. I was nervous. It’s not Carol I was nervous about. It was John. John is a builder. Been working with his hands all his life. Whereas I think manual labour is a Peruvian dissident. And besides, his wife has been giving me the look since the moment by burly mass crossed the doorway of her heart. Needless to say, no sparks or fists flew.

It started at 5:40. Just before the later time Carol gave us the option of attending. Just come over between 5:30 and a quarter to six she said. We rebelled against the former time; we were submissive to the latter, later time. She greeted us at the door. Let the whirlwind of chitter chat begin. John get up from the chair, Jason, Stephanie and Hudson are here. John rises. He is not the Billy goat gruff I thought he would be. He is affable with a warm smile and a little bit deaf. That makes three out of four of the residents I have met in Onemana who are hard of hearing. It’s like being surrounding by a neighbourhood of my father, without the Burt Reynolds sex appeal. I keep waiting for the longhorns to come out. They do not come. Shattering my image of elderly folk and sitting on rocking chairs and saying what’s that sonny? Over and over again.

First thing I notice, or try to notice, is how John deals with the incessant, but harmless talking of his wife. Within seconds I realize he does not deal with it, he cannot hear it, and talks over it. So in their living room, in their fine looking recently renovated cottage, all four adults are talking. I glance down at Hud on the floor playing with an old wooden train and I swear he shakes his head and said…fucking chatterboxes…

Chugga chugga woo woo Hud…chugga chugga woo woo.

We were given the tour. A nice old bungalow home turned into a two-floor house with the top floor done in tongue and groove pine. They don’t use the term tongue and groove here, and frankly I am a little bit embarrassed writing it out. But I can’t remember the term John used, I think it was finger in hole pine, or dink in box pine, something like that, but whatever, now I am being juvenile.

Give me a break; my first real social interaction in months is with people my parents would think are uncool. And my parents think we are uncool. So there.

Dinner was great. A roast chicken with all the fixens. Potatoes, green beans and peas for Steph, kumara, which is sweet potato, stuffing, which was served cold on purpose, broccoli and cauliflower. A traditional Kiwi roast meal, Carol announced, with her fingers curled just so. It was excellent and there was something endearing about the both of them. My best strategy in scenarios like this is to question the country, and their experiences dealing with the politics and geography in their long lives. They have been together since she was 19, making them married for at least 35 years and I admire that type of dedication and relationship patience. The fact that neither could hear each other for that length of time may have something to do with the success, but who am I to question that endurance. They chatted, mostly Carol, but with John trying to offer his opinions on the successes and failures of New Zealand world policy. They were proud of a particular Labour leader who died recently, but led them through the nuclear policy they denounced and the boycott of the South African rugby team during apartheid. It was interesting and warm and full of red wine that kept magically sliding down my gaping throat.

She served pavlova for dessert, which is basically baked meringue and fruit, and for a couple who have been dieting for the past two weeks it was like heaven for us, even though we emphatically waved our hands at her suggestion we take it home. We would finish it before we crossed the street, Steph said to many laughs.

There is sadness to Carol that I would be remiss in mentioning. Humour aside it seems her daughter-in-law is estranged from her, and as a result denies or at least limits the access to her two children. Leaving Carol a grandmother to phone calls. She seemed genuinely delighted to see Hud’s blonde mane tornadoing around her aptly decorated retirement home, and there was a bitter mention of the fact that her grandson has been to see them once, and he was two. The four year old has never been up to see them. This is a beach resort town built for grandkids. It was sad. It was the only time she stopped talking.

So no footsies under the table. No ass grabs near the microwave. No making out behind the glass shower curtain. Just a pleasant meal with two retirees who are trying to create a life out here in Onemana.

Who happened to neighbour a threesome of meatheads from Canada.

Ok, I kissed her, just once, and she fainted.

Hud is the only one who saw it.

And I gave him some pavlova to keep him quiet.

Love to all,

J.

Wear do I hang my tie?

2005-09-15T12:24:00.000-07:00

I don't want to get you all excited.

At least not as excited as I am.

But.

Dinner at Carol's is on.

Tonight.

And when I said I didn't have a suit to wear.

She said.

Get this.

You can wear your birthday suit.

Prrowwwwwr....

Here is a picture of Hud and a sunrise on my walk to keep you going until tonight's apres dinner post.

Love to all,

J.

Snap, crackle and run

2005-09-13T14:32:00.000-07:00

September 14, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

8:10am

No preamble today. Well, a small one.

Yesterday Steph took Hud to his play group and was invited to lunch at Frederica’s house after, a german mother of two who also attends the play group. She still breast feeds her two children. One is five and one is three. That, is another entry all on its own. All I can say on that right now is…”Can I get a hit Ma, I’m going out with the boys…I’m just going to jump in the shower, can you put it in this shot glass? I see the future.

So, I was presented with pretty much a full day on my own. This whole portion of this trip has afforded me the luxury of being alone. A strange feeling when you are used to the frenzy of 24/7 wife and son companionship. 9:30 they are gone. Hud running back along the front porch to give me one last hug. I meet him down on one knee and stay there for about 11 minutes as my muscles have locked up after the morning tramp (I could use a morning tramp duh dun dun tiss!).

So alone has many options. Alone could be Dr. Phil. Alone could mean lighting a fire. Alone could mean the tussled bed upstairs, heating pad still on, waiting for my spread eagled body to dive in. Alone could mean raiding the cupboard for deliciously evil carbs, with their seeds and crusts, and crunches and doughy delights. Alone could mean the cleaning of the house. Alone could mean carnal thoughts and the slippery jar of hand cream. Alone could mean writing.

Alone did mean writing. From 10-12, break for lunch, then from 1-3, I wrote almost 3500 words of the rapidly progressing novel. Writing this is kind of fun. I have the giant story. I have three solid characters. But each day the path widens. Or splits. And you tack on little vignettes to add value to the characters. To give them depth. We have memories. That is what makes us somewhat whole. These characters have memories too. And writing them is interesting, particularly because they have no boundaries. Well the same boundaries of gravity and lack of fire breathing, as this is not a science fiction novel. Anyway, it is fun and I actually miss it when it is impossible to write, i.e. when Hud is climbing Mt. Dad.

At 3:20pm, Steph and Hud had yet to return, perhaps they were all suckling at the giant teet of the fraulein, who knows. I decided to check out a hike suggested to us from Ross, our neighbour who doesn’t let me talk, across the street. The walk began at the bottom of our street, before the descent to the beach where I walk everyday. I cut through the park and jumped a small fence where I could see a path leading off to the distance. Ross told us there are small beaches at the end of these walks, so I had an idea of what my goal was, I just had no idea how to get there. I followed the path along the farm fence for about 200 metres before it swerved into the forest. A small river cut through the forest and down towards the ocean. I could not see the path, so I thought maybe I was to follow the river, which had quickly turned into many many little waterfalls. It was very zen, in the middle of a thick forest, listening to the waterfall, watching it cascade down to the waiting sea. But there was no path here. I was holding on to large vines and scaling down mossy rocks. I must have taken a wrong turn. I climbed back up the waterfall, praying these vines would support my weight, and stood at the point where I initially decided to climb down. Across the river I noticed a small opening in the forest, right on the edge of the cliff. I crossed and looked down. It was at least 100 feet directly down to the ocean. I looked out for a little bit. Nope. No urge to jump. No urge to test my non-existent wings.

To my left was the path so I followed it. More forest and then a clearing. A clearing that teetered on the edge of the cliffs again. I looked down. All rocks. No beach. Was Ross insane? The path continued back through the forest and then along the edge of farm fence again. There were cows grazing on the endless landscape of green as far as the eye could see. I plodded on. I climbed over low branches and ducked under not as low ones. I tested the metal fence to see if it was electric. Actually I did this at the beginning of the walk. The path was too close to the fence to try to avoid it the whole way, so got down on my knees and stuck my tongue to it…just kidding…I slapped it as fast as I could. No jolt. All good.

About twenty minutes into the walk, after climbing and descending large grass hills, I finally got a glimpse of my destination. I was still really high up so was beginning to fear the descent was going to be beyond my ability. But there it was. A beach. A small horseshoe shaped cove with about 200 metres of sand. I soldiered on. The descent was not severe at all. It zig zagged and was pretty gradual, not as severe as I feared, and secretly hoped. At the end, about fifteen feet above the beach, lay a slick rock. I saw a root and grabbed on to it to support my repel. It wasn’t a root. Just a tricky stick. I slid about ten feet and landed on my right knee. Ouch. It hurt. A lot. But the initial pain subsided quickly so I knew I was going to be ok. Besides. I made it.

Certain times in my life I have remembered feeling like I was the only person on the planet. Once on a horse farm near the Oregon sand dunes, I was smashed on rye and ran down the trails as fast as I could, only to come to a clearing right on the coast. A velvety blanket of fog swept through me as I stood there, and there, I felt like the only person in the world. Here, as I trudged through the trillions of broken shells acting as sand, watching thick chunky waves crash over rocks and almost soak my feet, not a footprint to be found, I felt like the only person in the world. Usually I feel small at these moments, such a pinprick, but today I felt huge, like I was part of it all, like I was the cause of it all. It was a nice feeling.

Of course, within seconds, I found a fakenstock sandle, and noticed other flecks of human kind scattered about the beach. At the end, hanging underneath one of the trees, was even a swing. A swing I had to try.

Now the wonderful person who decided to trudge the rope and plank of wood down this path was probably not thinking a ball of gristle the size of myself was going to jump on his/her swing. So needless to say I was a little wary about sitting on it. It was elevated; you had to climb on a rock to get up to it. Slowly I evaluated the risks involved. The tree was still alive, so there was a good chance the branch would not just snap. The ropes were worn, but not ancient, so they may just start to unravel, giving me ample time to jump off. I concluded to jump forward if indeed I heard the dreaded crack of the huge branch hanging about thirty feet above me. All of this became bunk as I swung for about thirty nervous seconds before jumping off back down to the beach.

So I sat for fifteen minutes, and watched the surf. I promised myself at least fifteen minutes before heading back. I made sure I soaked this moment in, not just immediately dreading the return walk.

On the walk back, there was only one moment of mild humour. I climbed up one of the grass hills and rounded a corner, and there, on the side of a large hill, were about forty cows, mostly bulls, grazing and mooing. Every single one of them stopped and stared at me. It was like I rounded corner on a subway platform and ran into a street gang beating someone up. Everyone staring, waiting for the next move. I stopped and tried staring down all these cows, but they just stood there, staring, chewing, mooing. It was pretty funny, if not a tad unnerving.

I made it back in one piece, my legs covered in scratches, my knee a little swollen. Steph and Hud were home when I arrived all sweaty and glowing. Steph hilariously recapped her afternoon with the nice German couple who live here without working and can do so for another five years. Like us, but with way more scratch. Hud greeted me again on the porch with a big “Daddeee”.

He smelled like granny smith apples and love.

Love to all,

J.

Walking in syrup

2005-09-12T02:12:00.000-07:00

September 12, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

8:32pm

I miss television. There. I said it. I get three channels. All not very clear. One has a constant whir in the background so you almost have to lip read to get what anyone is saying. Maybe I should get one of the many hard of hearing neighbours to pop over and read lips for me. We could do some quilting and natter on about the oddness of some of the neighborhood residents. Then we could have a cuppa. Then we could learn how to tie nooses.

Sunday it was miserable for the first time since arriving. Foggy, really windy with a thick misty rain spitting across the ocean. It was the first day I skipped my morning regiment. I did not feel that guilty, although at one point, standing and staring out the sliding glass door, I almost went. It’s only rain you big pussy. It’s only mist fruit cup. Then I lit a fire and made banana pancakes for my little sleepinners. They melted in our mouths. And yes I played the Jack Johnson song while I made them. I am so not cool. As the syrup dripped down my chin and puddled on the glass coffee table, I thought to myself, this is so much better than climbing Mount Onemana in the pissing rain.

It’s like my heart is one shoulder saying…c’mon..do it…it will hurt…you will get wet...but I promise to pump for four more days at the end of your life….and there is the ol’s stomach, green, festering like a boil on the other shoulder saying….fuck it…have another pancake tubby…you’re funnier when you’re fat…fat is the new skinny.

Such is life as me.

Later on Tina and her son Zach came over for a little impromptu play date. Zack is five and just a little bit taller than Hud. Within minutes they were playing with each other, or playing beside each other, which is fine. Tina sat and had tea and filled in some of the blanks on some of the empty and occupied houses on the block. So basically we gossiped. Next door to us is a welfare mother, whose teenage daughter ran away and is set to come back, this time with a fetus in her 15-year-old womb. The father is bipolar and last summer was taken to a home after a screaming outburst that was the talk of the town. Tina herself seems like a cool chick. She is a older than me and claims she was once the black sheep of her own family, going over to Europe for a supposed six months and coming back two and half years later. There are stories there, and eventually I will pull them out. She is going to teach Steph to knit. So needless to say, with her two kids and her new job as a midwife, she has settled down quite a bit.

It was great watching Zack and Hud play and then watch a movie together. I sat with them, stealing their popcorn, poking them both in the stomach for a cheap giggle. I do not get the opportunity to see Hud interact with other kids this intimately, so I was eager to be involved, and support his communication. He seemed fine. He is going to be shy big kid. Nothing wrong with that.

Last night’s dinner was Taranaki, a white fish cooked with lemon and onion and served with green beans and carrots. I avoided the rice as I am trying to keep any bad carbs before noon. We were a little bad on the weekend, but it felt good, and I will suffer the gaining back of a half-pound if I can lose three during the week. Last night we watched an Irish thriller in bed. It kept us both awake until the end. That’s saying something.

Today, back to the routine. Did the walk in record time. The clouds were so low it looked like the horizon was hiding under the covers, peeking out to see if Mother Nature was coming. I sucked in the ocean air. I watched my feet collect wet sand, weighing them down. I touched the red wooden box housing the life saving tube. I smiled at the small waterfall near the place where I turn around. The halfway mark. In distance, but not in effort, as the return is one kilometere directly uphill. I swing my flabby arms to assist as the pace slows, like I am walking in the syrup I am trying to burn off. I get to a mild break in the incline and it relieves me. My legs burn and feel hot to the touch. Water streams off my forehead in huge, salty beads. My new sweatshirt feels soft against my slick skin. I am almost there. One more chorus of The Strokes song on my Ipod. I am there. The house is still silent. I make coffee. I light a fire. I check e-mails. I check sports. I shower. I sip. I watch the fire dance. I sigh. I feel great.

Rest of the day included:

I wrote 1840 more words. Made a grilled cheese sandwich for Hud, which I took a bite of and spat back out a la Lorraine. Steph went out for some solo time. Hud and I went to the beach traveling back down the morning hill I conquered. I pushed him on the big boy swing. Such a big boy now. He went swimming in the river near the ocean. Water cold as bejeezus. Steph picks us up. Peanut Chicken for dinner. I let Hud play in the bath for a long time. Read his new Vesuvius Poovius story to him, Steph leaning on my leg, all of us cuddled up on his single bed, Wiggles poster on the door.

Kiss. Hug. Goodnight.

Love to all,

J.

meh num uh nuh...do do do do do....me num uh nuh...do do do do.

2005-09-10T00:26:00.000-07:00

September 10, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

6:21pm

You may be wondering why I am writing at this moment. You are perhaps wondering why I am not presently at the dinner table at Carol’s house sliding my toe up and down her knee high nylon calf. Well she cancelled. Her husband is suffering through a brutal chest cold. I think he was catching on. And to avoid the potential fisticuffs, she cautiously nixed the invite. She was breathing heavy when she dropped by to let us know. To let me down. She said the breathing heavy was because of helping John pull something in the garden. But I think we both knew the real reason. She’s got a bad case of Jaseitis. And Carol baybee, it’s time to put down your quilt pattern. Cause I got just the tonic.

Wrote another 2,000 words yesterday. Moved on to another voice. The pretty boy. It is harder to write as him. It’s easy to write as the snake. Hmmm. I think I can pound out 8,000 words a week. That would get me to completed book by January. Enough room to edit out the crap. Which it may all be, who knows. All I know is the morning three hours has been a blessing for me and my roller coaster mood swings. The sense of accomplishment drives happiness home.

Yesterday afternoon we bought another boatload of groceries. Basically more of fresh produce we need to sustain the healthy regime. Steph’s new found mommy friends were nice enough to give us some local tips on where to buy the produce and which butcher to use. There is a large supermarket here, but there is something about getting your produce somewhere, and then your meat somewhere else, and just the sundries at the supermarket. I did a price comparison and it was all basically equal. But if the lamb chops we had from the butcher were an indicator, it is the quality that will give the local people blue ribbons. Small towns. Affectionate I am becoming.

I also strangely enough am enjoying the act of hanging our laundry out to dry. We have no dryer here so there is only one option. There is something about seeing my boxers, which the neighbours must think are some sort of novelty underwear they look so massive, swinging in the wind, that makes me feel good. And the smell of freshly outdoor dried clothes is like a hug turned into air.

I am so gul darned country. Pass me a whittlin’ stick ma, I’m gonna go sit me out on the rocker for a spell…

Today started nice and slow. I went for my walk, which is great only because we had kind of agreed to slack off on the weekends so we can enjoy ourselves. But I am enjoying the walks, so I did it anyway. When in my life am I going to be able to wake up just after sunrise and walk along a beach with waves so big and menacing it feels like they are going to reach up and pull me in. My shiny head disappearing quickly under the white foamy aggression. So I will continue to do the walks. The uphill part still hurts. But less so. And I know if I ….er…when I keep this up…I will have to make them longer to ensure optimal physical value.

After breakfast (grapefruit, three flatbreads with light cheese and tomato, fat free yogurt) Carol dropped by to tell us everything we already knew about the area. I was just getting out of the shower when she arrived. You be the judge.

Before we left on our driving adventure, I called home to try and catch Andrew at his stag. I did not, but I did manage to talk to Jim, Tony and Sam, three other lifers. None of them sounded to eager to talk to me, but strippers were in the room, so I will give them the benefit of the doubt. It was still nice to hear their voice, especially Jimmy, who is on the cusp of fatherhood. So much so that he is wearing a pager and not drinking at the stag. Yeah right. He’ll be pissed in the delivery room.

Our day began by driving 75km up the coast to a town called Whitianga. The town was basic, but I was able to snag myself the birthday present I was looking for. A huge grey sweatshirt with a hood, which they call hoodies here.

I love it. I had been searching for a couple of months to find the exact cotton of my youth. And I know, barring any unfortunate misplacements, I will own this sweatshirt for the rest of my life. Hud will wear it one day. It will be massive for him. It will never ever fit him well.

I did get ahold of Andy, and wished him well. There were forty to fifty people at his stag, proving how well liked he is. He is such a special and warm human being. I am lucky to be one of his friends. It kills me to not be there.

After lunch at a small café (BLT’s and salad, remember, weekends are free) we drove back down the coast and stopped at Hot Water Beach. Hot Water Beach is aptly named because between two hours on either side of low tide, you can dig into the sand and very hot water created by underground geothermal activity will fill the hole, allowing you to have your very own hot tub as the cool water of the ocean washes over you. We had planned to come here at a different time but we were in the area and realized it is only about 40 minutes from our place, instead of two hours we anticipated before.

An adolescent rugby team was there at the same time as us, playing in the waves and digging into the sand with shovels they brought with them. It was a lot of fun and we will go back when low tide is in the middle of the day, and it is a little bit sunnier out.

We continued driving, stopping a couple of times to bask in the beauty of our surroundings and take a few pics. It is almost exactly as I pictured it to be here, and that is saying something. Back in Toronto I thought there is no way it can be as beautiful as I imagine it to be. But it is. It reminds me of being back home and rounding the corners on country roads and seeing a golf course in the middle of nowhere. The shock of the green. The carving and shaping. Well it is naturally like that everywhere here. The dormant volcanoes and the dairy farms (way more cows than sheep where we are) are all covered in this almost fluorescent colour green, only interrupted by the occasional big mountain, or thousands of miles of beach and ocean.

It’s phenomenal.

It’s earth’s phenomenon.

Love to all,

J.

Scratching my underbelly

2005-09-08T13:14:00.000-07:00

September 9, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

One more day until dinner at Carols! I am one large rippled ball of excitement!

My legs are sore. Today’s daily walk choice included 400m of direct incline right at the finish. I could feel the thick blood rumbling through my veins. My heart like scared lungs. Up down, in out, up down. And then I was home. So sweaty and puffy. So red and lovely. I jumped in the shower. Mildly cold shower. Didn’t take. Still sweating, I ate a grapefruit and drank green tea. Finally the tap shut off and I was able to sit for a spell. It was when I stood up the re-streching of thigh muscles occurred, and I almost toppled like a card house after a sneeze. So I sat back down. To type.

Yesterday was pretty uneventful, except for the beautifully ugly 2,500 words of CMSG that I feverishly wrote while listening to techno and staring at the ocean. I was happy. I am happy about it. In Byron I had convinced myself the only way I could write that story was to be half drunk with a full pack of smokes beside me. I romanticized it. Recluse writer. Drink in one hand, smoke in the other, ranting at the screen, yelling at my wife, getting in fights with locals. What an asshead I am. Now that the groove has been established, the routine has been accepted, the three hours a day of power writing is starting to be something I look forward to, instead of dreading. It’s at 45 pages. I am 1/8th finished.

Yesterday another neighbour Sandy dropped by. She was actually the one left the firm and juicy oranges in a bag at our door. Very interesting. Soon I will be courting all the sixty-year old women on the block. Pitting them against each other. Making them ache for taste of the big chunk of fudge. I need a really good name for this soap opera. Love After September….Way Down Under….Your Oranges or Mine….Call Me Momma….Ew. Nix the last one.

Sandy invited us over for tea, so after our lunch and a movie for Hud, we walked across the street and sat down to talk to Sandy and Russ. Russ immediately took me outside to show me his garden. This was not unlike us scratching our sacks and shooting whiskey, except a lot gayer. Russ is also hard of hearing so, instead of attempting to actually listen, or have an aid, he just keeps on talking, opining, lecturing, while I stand there, mentally smacking him upside the head.

He did ask what I did for a living and I told him what I used to do, and that I am trying to be a writer now. He asked what I wrote and I said right now I am attempting a crime fiction novel, about the darker side of life, the underbelly. Have you ever been involved in the underbelly he asked?

This is the point where I wanted to say…. well I once shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.

But I did not, I shuffled my feet, kicked a nearby stone and just as I was about to answer, my mouth open, my finger poised to make a point, Russ began talking about volunteering in a prison and how, if given a choice, the prisoners would choose pain as punishment instead of confinement. I thought it was an appropriate juncture to punch Russ right in the wiggly jaw and he dropped 25 ft to his garden faster than a bag of hammers.

After that round of fascination, we went back inside and Tina; Russ and Sandy’s daughter had arrived with her five-year-old son Zach. They will be staying here this weekend, so everyone was trying to get Hud and Zach to play together. They did eventually, going out to the garden and circling the property. The property is very nice, including the garden. The lookout directly over Onemana beach, a view I could never get tired of.

Tina was ok. She was all scowly and quiet when she arrived and I think she was tired or not really happy about being at her parents’ house. She is a midwife covering a much too large region, so she spends a lot of time in her car. It was nice to have some interaction with someone my own age. Steph gets that with her playgroups. I get that with Steph. It’s amazing how much you miss talking to people.

Last night we had a great bbq pesto chicken with broccoli and cauliflower and big spinach salad with apples and red peppers. Yum. The food regime goes well. We will treat ourselves a little on the weekend, but I am going to try and not over do it. Since Monday I have lost over seven pounds. I know its all water weight, so I will start with a new number this Monday and use that as the actual start weight.

I am loving the exercise though. Even if I can’t get up from this chair.

Love to all,

J.

Trains and Rockets and Bridges that bounce

2005-09-07T13:18:00.000-07:00

September 8, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

7:27am

Hud is sitting across from me eating a bowl of Rice Bubbles. Crisps are chips here and chips are fries. Just like Australia. Can you tell I am on a diet….or food regime?…it’s all I think about. Actually, that is not totally true. I think about beer as well, and diet coke, and coffee, and wild ass circus sex. And Andrew’s wedding this weekend. And Chicken Jimmy’s upcoming baby. Sigh.

I had a nice note from one of friends. She told me when all the gang gets together there is a definite gap because Steph and I are not around. It was nice to hear. You begin to convince yourself that you never mattered much to your friends. Or I begin to wonder that. Only because of my automatic sulk mechanism. I do miss them. My family goes without saying.

I am back to writing the novel. 2-3 pages a day for the remainder of the trip here. That is my goal. It should be attainable with the 3 hours a day I have allotted to me for writing. Writing is work. You have to sit in front of the blank screen and type. Type until your hands cramp. Then read. Then type again. It’s discipline. An attribute I have trouble with. Even before the chronic pot smoking days. The garage days. I used to sneak out during the week and come back at 4 in the morning when we lived on Glengarry. Someone’s parents were always away. What a privileged teenage life I squandered. But full of memories. I think.

So Andrew is getting married this weekend. One of the last of my friends to take the plunge. I am at the age where some have even taken the plunge twice. Andrew is marrying his girlfriend of 11 years. They are wacky. Everyone has a wacky couple in their social circle. I have known him since I was 12 years old. He was at my parent’s wedding. Well one of the weddings. I have been to four. Four weddings of at least one of my parents. What a great statistic. I wish I were going to Andrew’s wedding. I hope they take a lot of pictures. It will be naughty and dirty and wonderful.

Yesterday was more than just me wallowing in the house. We went to Waihi, a small gold mining town about 30 km south of us on the Eastern side of the Peninsula. With a little investigation we found out an old train runs just for passengers along a 6.5km track retained from the old gold mining days. They still mine gold and silver here, they just transport it differently. Well, we were the only ones scheduled to go on the train so we just took the engine car.

Meaning Hud got to sit in the front and blow the whistle as this relic of an engine chugga chugga woo wooed down the track.

The scenery along the track was more the rolling hills of green then the gaping maw of chasm I thought it was going to be, but this truly was a trip for Hudson. He stood silently, a little shy of the conductor, a wonderful retired architect living his dream, but Hud loved it, and cried when we had to leave.

Dennis, the instructor, was inspirational.

He just loved his job. He was 63. He worked two days a week and had really great teeth, which he showed non-stop. He knew all about the train, the route, the history of the region. When he first applied to work on this tiny railway, he thought he was going to work in the gift shop, or help clean up. Nope, they told him he would be driving, and he must have jumped up and down like a drunken kangaroo. I am sure there is not a week that goes by where Dennis does not leap out of bed on the days he is working and kiss his wife a little more passionately, wink at all the cuties on the way to the railway, and smile to every single one of the passengers who are lucky enough to ride his small train. I have never met someone who loved his job more. Inspiration appears so randomly.

After the railway we went to playground with a rocket ship with a slide in the middle of it. Hud played around and raced another small boy who was smaller but probably two years older. Hud lost the races but he didn’t care, he was running.

We ate our yoghurts and were off, down the highway to the Karanghake Gorge, right in the heart of all the old gold mines. We walked on suspension bridges with allowances for only 10 people and they bounce!

We plan to come back here, as there is some good walks here, one through an old mining tunnel 180 meters long. You have to bring your own flashlight. Scary shit man!

On our way home we dropped by a beach here recommended to us by the large man who works or owns the small grocery store in Whangamata who always gives Hud a free lollypop. It is 10km of white sandy beach with a really nice break. There was one guy surfing and he kept on skipping the big waves. He’s chicken, said my wife, resident surf Betty.

So, during a great dinner of steak, green beans, sliced tomatoes and a small amount of roasted potatoes we summarized that Hud had been on a train, a rocket ship and a suspension bridge all in one day.

Life is good when you’re three. Life is good when you’re almost 36

Love to all,

J.

Big in Germany....

2005-09-06T00:26:00.000-07:00

September 6, 2005

Kiev, Ukraine. (just kidding)

Onemana, New Zealand

6:59pm

We are going to Carol’s for dinner on Saturday night. For writing fodder alone it should be worth it. I can’t wait to pull her husband aside or just make one small inside joke about how much and how fast she talks. I did find out from the owner of our house that she suffered quite a serious accident in the Whangamata surf a couple of years ago that has left her fairly deaf. The odd part is both Steph and I never noticed. She either does a wonderful job of reading lips or she truly is not listening to a word we say and just keeps on talking to mask her mild defect. Anyway, she promised us a true Kiwi dining experience, whatever that is.

I am planning to get obscenely drunk and start hitting on her as she washes the dishes in the kitchen. I am talking blatant come-ons, like,

“Carol, your ass looks rocking in those stretch pants”….or

“wow Carol those oranges you gave us from your tree were so firm and juicy” I would then slide my hand under the suds and nudge her finger… “not as firm and juicy as you though huh momma?”

That would be so much fun. And mean. But admit it. Sometimes mean is fun.

The funk is eeking back a little. I am going to blame it on the food sacrifice. But there was a point during last night’s Scrabble game, and again today at the park with Hud, where I thought I was going to explode in fiery anger, or just curl into a fetal position and sob. I don’t know exactly why these feelings seem to come. I think the pressure to write is getting to me. I am feeling like another hack who will starve himself and his family before realizing he was never good enough to begin with. And really I am not good at anything else. I am a good father and husband but that does not pay that well. I always thought I could design really solid glassware, and I dream of owning a jazz/steak restaurant/bar, but other than that I am spinning the giant wheel in the game of life waiting to see how far I can move my car.

Steph bolted out of the gate here and now has landed activities for Hud and her every morning of the week. Leaving me a solid two hours to try and write. I did write something this morning, something other than my novel. My novel should be the screenplay it started out to be. The new thing is closer to me, writing what I know and all, but it just seems to be tripe and trite and crass and occasionally hilarious. Is that the type of writer I am going to be? Is that the type of person I am going to be? Who knows.

I am not drowning like I was in Byron. But I am looking over my shoulder making sure the zinc-nosed lifeguard is watching.

Needless to say the activity portion of the program has been non-existant. I did manage to do my uphill walk this morning and stayed very close to my food regime.

I just wish I was phat and not fat.

Love to all,

J.

As the stomach turns...

2005-09-04T14:32:00.000-07:00

September 5, 2005

Onemana (get used to it), New Zealand

8:20am

It will be difficult to fill these pages with tales of wonder and awe. I am living in a town of 200 people in a two-bedroom house that smells of new wood and old bug spray. My guess it will become a little bit like a boring soap opera. Me, Steph and Hud the main characters, the neighbours, the secondary characters and the random people we meet the tertiary motley crue.

Take Carol for instance, our greeter, our neighbour across the street, our supplier of a toy bear for Hud, and one of the fastest talkers I have ever met. She says the word yeah after every thought burst, although it sounds more like yeh, more like a bird call then a sentence break. And her hands, brown spotted, fingers full of rings, some real, some not, wave like T-rex arms, flailing, random air punches and slaps as she tells us what television show is on tonight that Hud might like. She was a librarian and Steph accurately suggested that maybe, after all the years of shushy silence, she is making up for it. Her husband, a man I have yet to meet, works outside constantly. When we arrived he was painting the fence surrounding their quite large house. My bet is that fence has changed colour about twenty times since they retired here to Onemana. Him just seeking solace in the gentle up and down strokes of a large brush. Instead of being driven to murder by the non stop chirping of his harmless, bespectacled wife.

We met another neighbour yesterday as well. Three doors down from Carol. John I think his name his. Retired here from Palmerston North 14 years ago. I think he was lit up and he admitted he was hard of hearing, so the conversation went accordingly. Gives you an idea of the age of the people that live around us. At least the people that live here year round. Most of the places are weekend or summer homes. In early evening, when blackness has taken over, I stand on our balcony off our bedroom and look at all the empty homes. One in five has the familiar flicker of fire, or reading lamp being switched off, and by 9:00pm all the houses are dark. Bedtime comes quick in this docile community.

So will I become bored? Hopefully. I want boredom to drive my writing. I want there to be nothing else to do but write. Steph is fervently seeking clubs and groups to join to occupy her and Hud’s time and before you know it, she will be rooted here like new tree. I appreciate and am terrified of the time she is offering me to write. It is up to me now.

The question remains: What am I going to write? I love the story of my novel; I can see it from start to finish. But the voice is hard to come by. I have another idea that may suit me more. Food and friends and the drama and reality of everyday life. That may be more my thing. I have taken advice from a treasured ex-coworker about finding my voice and to stop writing so linear. This is day one, and no matter what, I will still write this journal. Perhaps as something to fall back on when all else is stymied.

This is also day one of our diet. Yesterday we proved that by going out for lunch and dinner to celebrate the end of rich food. Before lunch we drove into a park and did a short circuit walk to a lookout point hovering over Whangamata.

We watched two kayakers walk their vessels out past the waves and Stephanie counted twenty surfers riding the small swells in. It is a true coastal town, population 4,500 in the winter, and 45,000 in the summer. Being a local here must be maddening. So quiet and lovely for ten months and so chaotic and annoying for two. I guess the money that pours in during the holidays is worth the Aucklanders strolling the main street guffawing at all the small town fare.

Lunch was basic, in Whangamata at a café, where a number of other families were stuffing their kids’ faces with fries and crud. Back to the grocery store after to ensure I have all my food for a rigid diet I wrote out in the morning. Five days of low fat, low carbs and then the weekend to indulge a little. Not gorge, indulge. I hope I know the difference.

For dinner we went to the restaurant here in Onemana. There is one restaurant and one convenience store in this town. And a real estate agent. That is Onemana. Sunday is roast night at the restaurant so lots of families were out. We walked through the door and everyone said hi to us. I of course probably scowled, completely taken aback by this kind of familiarity. I may have salvaged my rep by being loud and funny with the waitress. She thought I ordered a Pina Colada instead of the beer I was requesting. The whole exchange was funny as I feigned doing a salsa. The waitress laughed, and Steph, well, she just shook her head.

Dinner was pleasant even with Hud’s wild eyed, I need sleep, hysteria. We were all stuffed after so we walked almost to the beach and then back to the car to burn off some of the sugar and fat we just shoved down our throats. It was repulsive, feeling that stuffed. I am going to take this diet one meal at a time, and I need to look at food a different way. Not as a comfort, but as a simple, basic requirement, like oxygen, or orgasms.

This morning I also began the exercise portion of my routine. I walked down the hill to the beach, along the beach to a red container housing a lifesaving ring, back along the grass to the sidewalk, and then up the massive hill, the last part being a steep walkway through the bush that ends right at our house. It took 35 minutes and I was sufficiently sweaty and out of breath for a good five minutes. This leads me to believe that it is a good start to the diet and my day.

My breakfast was one egg, one tomato and a grapefruit. And a litre of water.

Let the soap opera begin.

Love to all,

J.

my new band name...

2005-09-02T23:44:00.000-07:00

September 3, 2005

Onemana, New Zealand

6:17pm

So I am starting a diet in two days. Actually we both are but we are doing it separately so if one fails or succeeds, there is no pressure on the other. It’s stupid I know. Not the diet, but the method. The diet is a great idea. A hated, abhorred idea, but a needed break from the culinary extravaganza we have been on up until this point.

If I can lose weight in the next six months, before the trip towards home, then I will feel really good about the second half of my life. And of course we will be rounding into swimsuit season and I need to reign in the thunder thighs and second person that my stomach has become. Oh and a good Brazilian wax to top it all off. I will be shiny and skinny and new.

Can you imagine the look at the wax ladies face if I sauntered in the small room as her next Brazilian wax client? I would whip off the towel and get in the old spread eagle chair, pull my ankles over my head and say “Be gentle darlin, I had mixed bean salad and lots of draught beer for lunch” She would scream and quit. And then of course turn gay.

Today actually felt like a real Saturday. Only because our new fangled routine starts on Monday along with the diet. I woke up early and had another great chat with half of my family. The other half should step up to the plate technology wise. Steph and Hud slept past eight so I made them poached eggs on toast, with grapefruit, apple, plums and two chunks of sharp cheese. I watched as I had eggs yesterday. I then proceeded to finish off what Hudson left, including the retrieved piece of yolk that fell on the floor. It was my Alice impression. Oh Alice. I miss the smell of your breath.

Hud played while Steph and I lollygagged, reading our books, opening all the curtains and windows to let the ocean air fill our neat little house. Immediately Hud is sleeping better, as if he somehow knows there is a break from all the traveling and his bed is now his own. The only problem with rooting ourselves for this two-month period is Hud will once again get very comfortable in his surroundings. I hope pulling him away again will not be too devastating. Especially if he makes friends at the daycare.

Yes, as ironic and strange as it sounds, we are thinking about putting Hud in a daycare for two mornings a week. Or at least one morning a week. He is painfully shy around other kids and the only reason is because he has very little interaction with other kids. He needs a friend, or friends, other than us. We hope we are doing the right thing. Both of us are torn about the scenario of leaving him somewhere. Whangamata seems to be a really solid community and the daycare facility Steph visited was nice and recommended by others we had met in town.

At around 11 we realized we should do at least something today. I was all for just chilling at home, but Steph gets anxious and feels guilty if we are not doing anything. I told her to just chill out, we have been on the road for a month, there is nothing wrong with just hanging around the house and reading, and organizing, and letting Hud play with his new toys. We came to an agreement to pack a lunch and at least go to the playground and the beach for a little picnic. I cried, because I hate picnics and playgrounds and beaches on sunny days with the ocean lapping at our feet and the giggles of small Kiwi children dancing in my ears. I mean, sure this is paradise, but where are the skanky chicks?

After a lovely picnic and drifting off on the large blanket we brought from home, we went into town for more vegetables and a major ATM withdrawal in case we are declined at the teller again. We had our first problem drawing a large sum off our credit card (which we then pay, settle down adults). The donut at the bank just stared blankly at us and said declined. We of course spent 12 bucks on the phone getting a hold of our bank that told us all our accounts (all our accounts, like Warren Buffet we are!) were in order. I think the teller was just lazy and did not call MasterCard to get the authorization number like we have done previously. Sometimes small towns just don’t work the way you want them to. But they do have good produce, so we got that going for us.

Steph made Tikki Masala for dinner and now they are upstairs, Hud in the bath playing with his creatures, a $2 pack of sea animals he loves.

Tonight we will begin what I hope will be a long spirited battle of Scrabble.

Tomorrow is Sunday. I think we will try to relax a little.

Love to all,

J.

Weightless and care less

2005-09-02T02:47:00.000-07:00

September 2, 2005

Onemana (oh knee mon uh), New Zealand.

9:17pm

I am not 300 lbs.

We are home. Home for now as the title of my last entry suggests. We are nicely settled in our two bedroom, two level cape cod style cottage with a wraparound deck and constant views of the placid ocean. Onemana is on the Eastern side of the Coromandel Peninsula, about 150kms east of Auckland. We will be living here for two months. We have been here for 30 hours and already it feels like home. Well, home for now.

The last day on Waiheke was spent picking our jaws off the grass due to the magnificence.

I swam for the first time in New Zealand. It is cold. But not the coldest I have ever been in. Hud also joined me in the water. In his tighty whiteys.

We also managed to eat a paper satchel full of the best French fries either Steph or I had ever tasted. That alone is saying something, seeing we have only known each other for eight years and I can guarantee I was eating fries before meeting her. I think as my ass was being slapped I was crying “can I get fries with that”. Of course by my ass being slapped I mean as in moments after birth, not last Saturday night. Ba dum dum. Thank you. I am here all week. Try the veal.

I think that is the second time I have used that joke. In this journal I mean. Not my life.

The last night on Waiheke was spent near the bbq chatting with big Brian, the male half of our host couple. His gut could house sheep so while he drank bourbon and I drank beer he went on about various attractions we could stop in at on the way to Coromandel. Hud weaved in and out my legs almost to the point of annoyance, but he at least he was being active and looking at Brian when he spoke, instead of hiding behind my thigh.

The next morning, the 1st, we arranged our luggage in our blue Subaru and waved goodbye to our hosts. Carol, the other half, gave Hud a little plush Kiwi bird whose head spun 360 degrees like an owl. I think it was broken. Hud thought it was neat.

We were first in line for the car ferry due to our, or my need to be early. We were on the discount ferry so I had to back down the ramp. Now I am not a pretty, fancy boy fairy type who squeals when pinched or cries when slapped, but I am also not the hawk spitter or the press one nostril snot clearer, big badass blue collar man either. But suddenly, when presented something as inane and easy as backing down a ramp, in front of the rough and tumble ferry workers with their cool orange vests and their woolen caps, I get all cocky. I gun down the ferry ramp and then realize what I am doing and overcompensate my turning. I get all flustered and forget to look in all my mirrors and keep getting confused about which way to turn the wheel. All the while, I watch the old crusty worker guide me backwards behind a truck and instruct me to stop where I was.

I asked him if I was ok and he said yeah, but I would have preferred you closer to the side. Prefer this you salty Kiwi fuck I thought and then cringed thinking he could read my mind.

How did I do? I asked my wife. You were fine, she answered, a bit tentative, but fine. Sometimes it is all in your mind.

The ferry ride was nice, except for the gas fumes that made me a little nauseous. Hud was not as impressed this time and I think he is getting a little spoiled from all the neat things that have become normal. Ahh let him get spoiled. Have another candy Hud. Can I get you a beer?

The drive to Onemana took about two and half hours with one stop. Not bad. The drive itself started by carving through green fields full of jersey cows and tired sheep. Then it was up and down the side of a mountain, where we all had to swallow to clear our ears. The trees are coniferous with the occasional palm and giant fern mixed in to make us double take.

Onemana itself is a tiny community with about 800 meteres of absolute beach. There is forest on either side of the sand so the contrast in colour is quite dramatic. There is a small break, unlike the dead calm of Waiheke. Our house is less than one km from the beach, which is not bad, except it is up a pretty steep hill. It is exactly the type of morning hike I should do everyday. It is also exactly the type of morning exercise I could ignore. So we shall see.

Whangamata (Fang a mata, (wh is pronounced with a F sound)) is about 6km south of Onemana and has all the conveniences of a small town. We bought $270 worth of groceries at New World, the ominously named supermarket in town. We spent the first night milling about the house, putting our clothes away, claiming sides of beds, Hud going out of his mind with the box of toys the owner sent up for him. We all slept well last night. Well I woke up for about 90 minutes and chatted with my family. But that is par for the course for me on the first night.

Today we woke up slow and let the morning rub our shoulders. Carol, our neighbour from across the road, came to drop off a paper. She greeted us yesterday and boy can she talk. She has short black hair and a lean body except for the typical middle aged widening of the hips. She waves her hands like a town gossip and when she told us our neighbours to the left are a little weird; I knew she was the mouthpiece. In my head I thought, bring on the weird, weird is closer to us than you. She is pleasant enough and Steph is thinking about joining her quilting group. No I did not just make that up.

Later we went to the local playground, which is so new, it’s like they had a town meeting to discuss upgrades before we arrived. It’s in the shape of a giant ship with ropes and tunnels and planks and steering wheels. It is steps from the beach, so even just watching Hud go nuts is blessed by wicked sights and smells. Steph disappeared down the beach for a little walk while I stayed with Hud and pushed him on the swing. I kept trying to smell his head as he came back to me.

We went home for lunch to avoid paying for lunch in town.

We had pasta with broccoli, tomatoes, garlic and basil. I drank a beer and Steph had a glass of wine. It was just after one o clock. Sigh.

After lunch we went into town and:

• Tried to withdraw our accommodation money but were told by slow teller we could not.
• Spent too much time on phone finding out our accounts were fine and could be bank’s issue
• Went to info centre to get info on potential playgroups for Hudson
• Bought Hud some cheap toys and crafty stuff for rainy days
• Checked with library about potential story times
• Joined video store and rented three DVD’s
• Bought a scale and contact solution
• Took out large sum of money from ATM in case other options do not work
• Bought sunglasses for me that look cooler and feel better.
• Had ice cream
• Bought almonds and diet coke
• Checked out one of the suggested daycares. Hud and Steph to go on Monday
• Drove home.

I made garlic onion burgers for dinner and we ate at the kitchen counter, all of us sitting on barstools.

I cleaned up while Steph and Hud watched the Incredibles. And here I am now. Almonds and diet coke making me feel fat.

I am not 300lbs.

Love to all,

J.