Welly

Yesterday I dug myself out of the overgrown grasses of the blueberry farm and made it back to the city life. Mandi's bike (which she kindly is loaning to me for my 2-week vaca) was covered in rust and chicken poop, so she dropped me at the railway so I could take it into the city (Wellington, aka Welly) to get fixed up before christening her with a cruise. The train tracks of course were being repaired, so I had to get off in Waterloo, some lil suburb between farmland and big ("big") city. The shuttle bus didn't take bikes. Walked in the rain to the bike shop (shared space with a toy store, and the mechanic looked pre-pubescent -- not ideal) and they couldn't do an overhaul that day, but they kindly put some air in my tires, gave me a map for the hour's ride ahead and wished me luck. They also gave me keys for an extended stay in their bathroom -- my stomach had just become very unhappy with me, not sure why.. perhaps from eating a crapload of eggs from the chooks on the farm (we don't mark the date on them, and after Lina left we switched from vegan to eat-a-whole-lil-chicken-family-each-morn style right quick). And so I rode my rusty, dusty, slightly poo'd bike to Wellington, heading towards a vague outline of the city through the haze (funny that I hightailed it out of grey Seattle just to land in the windiest, greyist, foggiest city in NZ). Was proud of myself for arriving in one piece (in some places there was a great bike trail along the ocean, but in others you had to cycle along the motorway), and pedaling through the gut-punching pain and the puddles.

Found a fantastic bike shop (they gave me all the tips I need to pedal around the South Island from Picton, as well a pair of highly-unfashionable biking shorts with extra butt padding that I once thought I'd rather die than start wearing), left my new best friend there for a few hours while I took to bed at the backpackers, hoping to sleep off the tummy buggers. Didn't work, but there was no way I wasn't going out for a night on the town. Met up with Honor's friend David who showed me true kiwi hospitality. I learned you need to drink to earn a kiwi's trust, so I did, and it wasn't an arm-pulling -- the wine here is fantastic. We went to a Brittney Spears cd release party at a great gay bar, and David gave me dating tips (apparently staring lustfully at someone across the bar but not talking to them straight away is considered rude here... time to work on oversizing my already sizable - or so I thought - balls).

Thought my night was over around 2am, and decided to stop in to Burger Fuel on my way back -- heard they have good grass-fed beef, and apparently I'm suddenly a burger fiend (it's better than the other standard option here, meat pies). Sat down next to a friendly kiwi guy in a bright blue blazer with shards of blank CDs glued on (looked like little mirror triangles, a neat effect). We ended up talking for hours, and decided to be friends (hey-now!) Woke up in Brooklyn, funny name for one of the parts of Welly (just up the hill). My new (and still nameless) friend walked me home through "Central Park" (a theme emerges), which reminded me of Interlaken in Seattle, and nothing I can think of in Boston -- deep beautiful forest right in the midst of the city.

On my way out of the backpackers, I ran into a group of rowdy kiwis who were on a "piss vacation" (this means pubcrawl) from Christchurch and were a bit hammered at 10am. If that wasn't impressive enough, one of them - James, a rugby player with his arm in a sling from an injury (sexy) - somehow had me making out with him on the street within 3 minutes. Not bad for a Sunday morning. Got some digits and a reason to travel to Christchurch.

Feeling pretty happy with myself and ready for my ferry over to the South Island. All the backpackers in Picton (the landing town) advertise having outdoor hot tubs ("spas"). I'm going to try to get a spot at one called The Jugglers - they do poi shows and the like each night. Of course they do, right? What don't they do here.