And Another Thing...

Did you know New Zealand is nuclear-free? I didn't. They also have legalized prostitution. Correlation?

The thing about being so isolated -- now that I've realized how far away SE Asia is and just how friggin South I am -- is that kiwis are super DIY. They get creative when it's not even necessary. My veggie burger in Turangi -- my first stop after leaving the Blueberry Farm, a small town known for its trout fishing -- was visited by an unsolicited pineapple. A pineapple! Living in sin, right next to mayonnaise.

Like raw white fish? How about coconut cream? Wanna put them together? NO YOU DO NOT.

Last weekend, when I first swung through Auckland, I met up with Angie's cousin Benji and his wife Kate, from New Hampsha. They've been living here for a few years, and Benji was dying without pizza and bagels, both of which finally arrived in his neighborhood in 2009. (I wish I could say the same of my beloved kombucha, but after a very thorough search I'm told the one store that carries it -- get this, Central Square, it's called "Harvest Whole Foods" -- will not receive a shipment for MONTHS. I can't write about it because it hurts.)

I visited the bagel guy at the Saturday farmers' market and told him he was famous among the American ex-pats of Auckland, which made him really happy (like, uncomfortably happy). He pressed me to try his special cheese and cranberry bagel. I pretended it wasn't disgusting and faked a smile as he described his next creation, a bagel with kiwi and another ingredient to be determined. "It's great," he explained, "because kiwis can be sweet or sour. There's so many possibilities." I've got one and it's called Puke.

Kiwis don't want to master bagels in their purest form (indeed, I had one this afternoon that was a "light bagel," which was about 25% as doughy as a bagel should be -- basically a poached roll with a fake, fingertip-pressed bellybutton). It's the opposite of Japan, perhaps. Why conform when you can be an engineer? I think they need to get back to basics first - like, the napkin doesn't belong UNDER the food on your plate, but rather beside it. Seriously, every time. It would happen even if you ordered a bowl of melted cheese, please believe.

Speaking of paper products, much of the toilet paper is heavily scented, which I find disturbing -- are the douche companies involved in this? We're in NZ to get back to nature, thanks.... SO back to nature that it's totally normal to go barefoot. In Auckland, a city of a million (a 1/4 of the nation's population), I keep seeing barefoot people downtown, in a restaurant, grocery store, whatever. None of them have been gushing blood or growing weird shit from between their toes. (Perhaps they duck off every few minutes to secretly attend to their feet with that damn scented TP.)

In other miscellany, I have been known to, upon ocassion, wear a fanny pack. It's a long story but trust me, it is for a good reason. Unless your name is Taylor Too-Cool-for-School Cuffaro, you will know this and still be my friend. The reason I'm baring this shame is that I was wearing my FP while back in Wellington with my special friend, and he was like, "What's with the bum box?" Excuse me, bum box? I told him it's properly called a fanny pack, which made him laugh a little too hard, and I think we both saw a fight coming, which really isn't necessary with someone you're never going to see again, so it got dropped. Weeks later, when I was hanging at the B&B near Abel Tas, I was informed that "fanny" refers not to the back but to the front here. Quite amusing, and let's say my FP has been sitting untouched in my suitcase since.

While I'm laying it all down, let me tell you that I am a fan of Twilight. The girls at the Blueberry Farm told me there was a major heartthrob involved, and damn if they weren't correct. I had no idea how sexy vampirism could be. On the serious tip, it's a movie about love that is stronger than sex. That's some deep shit that, along with He's Just Not That Into You and Tommy Lee's autobiography, is transforming my ideas about dating/dallying and respect, please believe. (If Tommy Lee can add "please believe" onto the end of every 5th sentence to make it better, then so can I.)

The point is that in order to see New Moon, Leah and I took the truck into town to The Mooooovies. Holy shit civilization! Our only other contact with pop culture for some time had been Mandi's stash of My Name Is Earl DVDs (brilliant!!!), and going to the movies in NZ blew us the F away. The experience included:

- Booze! You do not have to sneak it in. There's even a lil lounge where you can pre-game with your mates.

- Assigned seats. You may wonder if you've mistakenly wandered into the airport, as these seats are also comfy and huge (business class). It's kinda awkward when you're sitting in a full back row all pressed together with 8 rows in front of you empty, but it's an interesting system and speaks to a sense of order and civility I suppose? Honestly it seemed kinda commie to me, but whatever. I'll take commie if it means the seats stay down when you put them down (acting like a convenient table instead of a change purse that snaps closed on your finger).

- It's warm in there! You will look like a fool for bringing leggings, a hoodie, a blanket and your own beers.

- You can get your candy and your ticket *at the same time.* You don't need to get into a new line to get snackage. And you aren't rushing to get snackage anyway because your seat is saved for you. Reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelax. Even the ticket-taker appeared to be tripping; he was in no hurry and his movements were not encumbered by a starchy uniform.

Here in Auckland I also met up with Alexandra (thanks Brynmore!), an American who's lived in NZ on and off for a while, this time here to do a documentary on roller derby. She's been a super guide and has given me that special feeling I vaguely recall, I think it's called "having a friend." We went to see Whip It (Drew Barrymore's movie about roller derby, which is just what you'd expect) with the RD girls of Auckland, all dressed up and skating around the movie theater. I felt very cool and of course appropriately intimidated. The next night she took me to a serious kiwi house party. There was an incredible live band (again, thanks to the DIY ethic - and perhaps the lack of cult of celebrity - everyone seems to be in a band) and all in attendance dressed according to the cape theme. And that meant everyone, not just the women. The men - very manly men - went fucking fabric shopping, and they did not sleep on that shit; they rocked black capes with gold skulls and all sorts of bling. And everyone danced. Everyone.

I'm going to say the unofficial kiwi motto is "Yes! to Everything." Yes! I will dress up for your theme party; Yes! I will hike that volcanic mountain for 8 hours in my jandals (their funny word for sandals) 'cause it's NBD; Yes! I would love to hurl myself out of that airplane/off that cliff/get into that giant ball full of water and roll down a hill even though that doesn't even make any sense.

I met a bloke at that party (in fact I met everyone at that party, because everyone talks to each other, even strangers - amazing!) who wanted me to explain why Americans say bad things about being American. He was truly baffled that someone could not love their own home. It was as though I were trying to tell him that sometimes puppies just aren't cute.

As a sociologist I tend to avoid speaking as though expert on topics that non-potheads choose as college majors, such as politics. Of course I've talked politics with the good folks here, and the thing that boggles their minds most really is sociological -- how would a people not take care of each other? Why would we possibly be debating whether to have health care for everyone? How is it possible that lobbyists are allowed to exist? I answer these questions as best I can (generally I mumble something-something-capitalism), and think back to my last 4 years in the street paper world. Be in Boston or Seattle, people in the homeless community take care of each other - and took care of me - like nothing I'd experienced. When Michael Garcia (a staff member at Real Change, and an ex-vendor) died, Merlyn took his hat off, and all the vendors dropped in money they already didn't have to help Michael's partner. Not a question. Being alive feels real different when people recognize that we're all humans in this together.

And now I find myself making a bizarre parallel between the homeless in the States and the kiwi population at large (who, of course, don't understand homelessness either, since it doesn't *visibly* exist here). This is a nation of people who want you to make the bus, find your destination, have a good time, and oh, have I asked you in the last 5 minutes if you are enjoying New Zealand? They really seem nervous, like you could answer anything other than Yes! (to Everything.)