Keep On Keepin' On

I've moved! And here's my new address just in case you would like to be my pen pal (or send me a flat warming gift):

Flat 1, 25 Collingwood Street
Freeman's Bay, Auckland
New Zealand


Following my trip to Melbourne, I packed up my life in suitcases and boxes, filled up my red Nissan hatchback, left my trusty bike with my friend Emily, and said goodbye to my flatmates, Basil the cat, my friends, and Christchurch. Tiring of the soggy chill of the South Island winter, I was anticipating a fresh start in Auckland, and looking more forward to the days ahead of driving along the beautiful roads winding their way north.



As I left my old flat early on a Friday morning, the skies were perfectly clear and the spring sun rose and chased away the last wet chills of August. My first day on the road I was headed for Picton at the top of the South Island where I caught the ferry for Wellington. For four hours, I drove along the coast ducking in and out of rolling paddocks where sheep dotted the hillsides like pills on a sweater. One of the joys of my drive was spotting the smaller fluffs of wool nestling against each other in the early morning sun--the babies of the new lambing season. aw! I squealed to myself in the car.



Halfway up the coast, I passed through Kaikoura, where I caught sea perch and the enormous shark back in March. There, the highway slinks along the coastal cliffs hovering over seal colonies and favorite cray diving spots. I took a moment for a rest at a look out point that hung over a large colony of seals sleeping on the rocks in the water below. I took a few pictures, breathed in the sea air, and munched on some yummy crackers that Emily made for me the night before (so good and crunchy! thanks em!).



The rest of the drive was more of the same: gorgeous rolling farmland (yawn). I arrived in Picton a little early to grab some coffee and lunch in a cafe and wander about this quaint town nestled in the Marlborough sounds. After having my fill, I drove to the ferry, parked my car in line, and waited until we could drive into the belly of the boat for our 3 hour ride across Cook Strait to Wellington on the North Island. On the boat, I attempted to do some work, but got sea sick as we left the sheltered waters of the sounds and bobbed along the open sea.

After landing in Wellington, I met with a fellow Fulbrighter who was putting me up for the night and, although I was exhausted, I joined him for a movie and dinner. Afterwards, I followed him up the narrow steep roads to his house perched atop one of Wellington's hills to recharge for my next day of driving.



I woke up in Wellington already feeling the northern warmth; again, I had sun and crystal skies. That day, I had to be in Tongariro National Park (in the middle of the North Island) as a place to meet a friend and pause for a few days on my journey. I took my time driving north of Wellington, stopping for coffee, and making a detour to a small coastal village, where I ate my lunch on some driftwood on the beach. As I walked back to my car, a couple drove onto the sand with their horses in tow, getting ready for a ride by the shore...oh! I sighed with envy.




As I traveled more inland, the landscape quickly changed from lush rolling greens to the muddy reds, copper browns, and dirty blonds of a desert. But I wasn't in a desert, I was in Tongariro, where the flora surprised and captivated me. We got more of a taste of this wildly different landscape the next day as a friend and I did some short walks and went skiing on Mt. Ruapehu, a volcano which erupted without warning just a few days ago. (One man was injured in the resulting avalanches). The snowcapped Mountains of Tongariro look eerily out of place, rising like silver mohawk from the evergreen North Island. The occasion was special: it was my first time on skis in years, and instead of skiing among pines, we navigated the black volcanic crags that blotted the fields. Less than perfect snow aside, it was a unique experience to be skiing above the clouds, on a volcano, in August.



My friend joined me for the last leg of the drive up through the Waikato to Auckland, where we stayed for about 2 hours to pick up a friend, and then head off for a last minute, 24-hour jaunt on the Coromandel Peninsula. I had come here with my parents in June and was glad to be returning to one of our favorite parts of the North Island. With my friends, however, we stayed in a charming backpackers in the Coromandel town, woke up and played along the shore of hot water beach in the hopes of digging ourselves a hot pool, and climbed to the top of the Pinnacles, one of the tallest points in the peninsula, all in time to return to Auckland that evening.





The following days, I returned to reality and began the search for a new flat, where I could unload my car, do some laundry, and get to work. So here I've been for a month, living in the trendy and vibrant Freeman's Bay neighborhood, trying to work, play, listen to the birds, smell the spring flowers, and not think about the fact that I have to leave this place in two months.



Cheers,

D

Melbourne, AU

We've almost reached the end of September, and I've yet to report on August! (Apparently, I do need my mother nagging me every other day.)

So much has happened since I last wrote: the seasons have changed, I've moved to the North Island, I have a new flat, I've traveled across the ditch, said good-bye to some American friends returning home, and begun a new (and somewhat final) phase of my research.


Before I departed Christchurch, I scheduled a handful of meetings and interviews in Melbourne and I allowed myself a 5 day weekend to explore this hip Australian metropolis with my friend Jenny, who came down from Sydney to hang out. Staying at the Nunnery, we positioned ourselves well to see, hear, shop, and taste the charms of Melbourne. This convent-turned-backpackers skirts the trendy, yet edgy neighborhood of Fitzroy (Melbourne's smarter answer to Williamsburg), faces Carlton Gardens and the Italian flavored uni district, and is just elbow-nudging distance from the CBD (um, that's Australian for 'downtown').

On my first day there, I found my way to the Royal Children's Hospital, and met with the social worker and adolescent gynecologist for interviews. While I was going on very little sleep (I had to be at the airport at 5am that morning), I managed to conduct relatively coherent conversations and learn some interesting things about their "centre of excellency." As I walked home, my impressions of the meetings sublimed into vaporous memories and recollections that I hoped would somehow deposit themselves in my field notes and transcripts. But I didn't care that at each moment these impressions fell further away--I wanted to take my time going back to my room to meander through the shop-lined streets of this foreign city. Weaving through Friday's pedestrian traffic, I ducked into a bustling bookshop to peruse the shelves of international and local literature. When I had visited Sydney, I made an effort to purchase a book by an Australian author, but this time, I felt like an ex-pat drawn to a nostalgic (and romanticized) vision of home so I bought "The Yiddish Policeman's Union" by Michael Chabon. (you may know him from his Pulitzer Prize-winning novel "Kavalier and Clay"). His latest is a noir detective novel, about a murder, a messiah, and a bunch of jews in the Yiddish-speaking Alaskan district of Sitka--oy, need I say more!? Anyway, bookworming aside, I returned to the convent and had a shluf, until my friend Jenny arrived.

The remainder of the weekend was filled with a trip to the Victoria Market, a gallery hop, fancy cocktails, coffees, a bike ride to the seaside suburb of St. Kilda, yummy food, giggles, a mosey through the Botanic Gardens, shopping, and last but not least, a Ryan Adams concert! It was my first time seeing him live, and it was as welcome as a warm slice of Americana pie. As Jenny and I waited inside St. Kilda's Palais Theatre, the Art Nouveau auditorium teemed with flannel, plaid and cowboy boots. The show was wonderfully teasingly mysteriously fulfilling. Not once did he allow the lights to light up his face or the rest of his band; his sometimes syrupy, sometimes gravelly voice emanated from the darkness. Ryan Adams is known for being a temperamental performer, and that evening he lived up to his reputation. He had the audience groveling on a string and at every break we braced ourselves for the worst: that--in that good ol' fashioned country music way--he might love us, leave us, and take the dog.








cheers for now,

D