Update

Hello,
If you have been following, you will know that last March I left New Zealand. I am now happily living and working in New York. Being a wimp when it comes to the weather, this winter I have been pouring my energies into more sedentary pursuits. You can read about them here.


Check back in the summer!

Ending a bike

As some of you are aware, I never intended to spend two years living in New Zealand. Yet a carefree ‘why not ?’ easily turned one month into six months. And by the time I realized why not I was in over my head and it only made sense to stay just a little longer, and then a little longer still.

I initially figured that I could temporarily make do with a clumsy, beater-bike that bore the optimistic label ‘Black Thunder’ on the crossbar. I named her Trisha and got used to her, but she was never any match for the bike I’d left at home. Since ‘I wasn’t going to be in Wellington that much longer’ it never made sense to upgrade. She did the job as I heffed her up and down Wellington for longer than I had planned.

As I was finally leaving New Zealand, I had to try and figure out what to do with her. It would be difficult to sell her.  She had some problems. The back wheel was a bit warped from the time I got caught in a sewer grate. The impractical front suspension was rusted. But she was still rideable. Or she was until my the last weekend. I left her locked up on Willis St. one night that I was too tired to ride up home and she had a particularly violent encounter with what I can only imagine to be a entire rugby team with cricket bats. The details of the incident will remain unknown however the altercation left her immobile.

So what could I do with her now that I was actually leaving town? My plan was to unlock her and leave her at the bike rack next to the abandoned pair of ice skates (see photo). I happily imagined her adopted by someone who needed a bike or an ambitious type wanting to try their hand at bike repair. My daydreams ground to a halt when my flatmates said they wanted her. I let them have her but was secretly disappointed knowing how the story ends.

Talking to Strangers

I talk to myself while I’m cycling. Judging by the way my aunts always laughed at grandma, talking to yourself is probably something that I should try and hide. But I don’t, and neither do a lot of other Wellingtonians. Cycle-soliloquists are especially visible in Wellington due to the landscape. The slow hike up the steep hills expose these monologues. The daunting topography, has another side effect too, I sometime just park the bike and walk. And why not? everyone is going to hear me muttering anyway.  Walking also presents the opportunity to talk to others in ways that cycling around in traffic doesn’t. Recently, I had this conversation that I wouldn’t have had on a bike. 

Me: Hey Emily! (I wave to my friend across the street)
Emily: Oh, Hi!
(as I cross the street to chat with Emily I realize it’s not her)
Emily look alike: I didn’t know you live around here? Good to see you!
Me: yeah, right up the road, how are you? (I make snap decision to continue the charade and not to tell her we’ve never met)
Woman I’ve never met before:  I’m good. Yeah, just over there.
Me: great to see you but I’ve got to run (I want to go before she realizes we are strangers and things get awkward)
Complete stranger: sure, good to see you too!
Me: take care.

It was almost like talking to myself.

Head case

 Lately, the title of this blog has been a bit of a tease. I know you click in anticipation of witty comments about flat tires and roadkill, investigative reporting on the latest gears and scandalous sitings of men in white bike shorts. At last, I will quench your thirst for cyclecommentary with an insight into the hottest trend in Australian helmet decorating, zipties.

That's right! Zipties, those snappy strips of plastic, the ones that are seem like they are going to be really useful when you buy the pack of 100. Then you use one once and the rest haunt you by finding their way into the bottom of every bag and drawer you own. Australian cyclists on the other hand, have found a way to put them to good (?) use.
I couldn’t manage to get a photo so here is an artistic rendering.

A wide range of Australian cyclists sport these ornamental helmets; young, old, men, women, racing bikes, mountain bikes and commuters. They attach them with the spare trimable bit sticking up like a spike (see sketch above). Some helmets have as few as five while others have at least twenty-five. Zipties may be a variety of colors. I saw black, grey, blue, and white.

In my 10 days of keen observation, I have concluded that these plastic antennae are attached for decorative purposes only. This conclusion is scientifically supported by the failure of other hypotheses. Here is a list of my other hypotheses and reasons why they failed:

1) lightning rods   -   zipties are made of plastic
2) radio    -    again, plastic lacks receptive properties
3) signal of gang affiliation  -   wide range of demographics sporting zipties -  zipties are not very intimidating
4) halloween -  not a popular holiday in Australia -  would be crap costume
5) deter birds from building nests- there is an abundance of superior nest
building sites  - birds generally like stationary nests.
6) helmet anti-theft device- how would a flexible strip of plastic deter greedy helmet burglars?

The only question that remains is, will this aussie fad catch on in other places? The answer is, probably. When it does, just remember that you heard about it here first, on the hippest blog that is almost about cycling.

The rest of the world

I am doing some work with one of my professors. We are looking at incorporating intercultural understanding into foreign language learning. As a result, I have been thinking about the cultural assumptions that I had of the rest of the world when I was growing up. When I was very young my parents had Greek friends. I was jealous of their frilly toilet seat covers and it made me feet special to know them and the fancy names for the casseroles they made. For me, culture was delicious food. But, things got more complicated in grade school. There was one hispanic girl in our class. She was nice and also a Jehova’s witness. This distinction between ethnicity and religion was lost on the 9 year old me. I thought all hispanics had to leave the classroom whenever someone brought cupcakes for their birthday. I middle school I quickly realized this was not the case.

However, I think my first real insight into foreign culture was the winter olympics in Albertville, France. It was 1992 and my parents had just ended our family's tv abstinence program and I stayed up late and watched the opening ceremonies on a 12 inch screen in the corner of our living room. I was in awe of the bizarre costumes, bungy acrobats and dichordant melodies. Anyone who dared be that unconventional would be ridiculed out of my midsized American city. Shortly thereafter I started wearing birkenstocks, because European equalled cool, and it was all downhill from there. Four years later, to the dismay of my teachers who warned that I was throwing away my future, I went to Spain as an exchange student. Over the past 14 years I have only managed to live in the US for whopping 3.5 years. I have often talked of moving back, and am ever curious about how that might go.

Writing up a storm

Academic writing is a calculated yet magical process. Yesterday one of my classmates asked me about my writing process and I couldn’t really articulate it. I do all the typical things; make notes, outline. Then I cut and paste the notes into the outline and try to shape paragraphs. And somewhere along the line a synthesis occurs. Ideas start to bloom and arguments wind through the string of references, ‘howevers’ and ‘moreovers’.

Lately, after the crafty cohesion of ideas occur, I like to deconstruct the whole thing into a word cloud. Its punishment really to see the carefully constructed style evaporate as the most frequent words are stacked against each other in the color scheme of my choice. I always wonder if someone could just guess what I was after just by looking at the word cloud? Can you? Here is the latest one.

Time to think

Brain space is in demand these days as the trimester comes to a close this month. I've been thinking about posting something, but haven't been able to think of what. The only news here is that winter has come and my feet are cold. Oh the laundry is done. I've got to hang it up before I run off to the library.

Restin'

Trimester 1 is half over and I have just finished another assignment. I'm often surprised at how much I actually get done considering the park nearby is a perfect procrastination destination. This sign (on a bench at the park) in particular inspires slack writing. I think the relaxed nature of the prose is perfectly appropriate for a park bench. I think McLuhan would approve too. I also think that if he read some of my assignments, he would recommend I take a walk in the park.

New Zealand is for the Birds

New Zealand is for the birds. It's true. I'm not talking about the crap weather or how the man who renewed my visa wore an 'I heart beer' t-shirt. I'm not talking about how no one wears shoes or the way everyone gives each other their bank account numbers. I'm talking about actual birds.

I've never really paid too much attention to birds. Years ago, Val and I made a list of dealbreakers (things we wouldn't tolerate in potential partners). Birdwatching was somewhere in the top ten. I vaguely remember the reasoning was that someone who would sit around waiting for a bird to fly by was not the kind of proactive go-getter we were looking for.

Birdwatching in New Zealand is different. There is no waiting. They are everywhere. Once upon a time they ran the place. Our new apartment is near a big park and a wildlife sanctuary. As a result, there are lots of really cool birds around.

This is a tui call.

The Girl with the Bicycle

It's a Sunday morning in Wellington, a girl wipes the morning dew off her bike seat. She rides through a tunnel and down a hill into town. The girl has a blue backpack and stops at the market to fill it with the last of the summer's peaches, a cucumber and a carrot. The girl knows that putting off the uphill ride home by stopping for a coffee won't make the trek any easier but she ducks into a cafe anyway. The man at the hissing coffee machine empties the old grinds with a thunk and clinks the cups as the girl sits down. The man with striped sweater at the next table gets up to leave. He leaves his newspaper on the round wooden seat. The girl with the bicycle and the backpack full of peaches picks it up and reads while she drinks her coffee. A page from the arts section is mixed in with the world news. The girl notices the bestseller lists. Three of the top five have very similar titles. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl who Kicked the Hornets Nest, and The Girl who something else that she girl with the coffee has never heard of. Couldn't they think of a better title? she wonders.

Eyeing Chocolate

Sometimes you can't help it, and you just laugh out loud. Later, you wonder if you should've somehow restrained yourself. It happened today in line at the Four Square. A man with a seeing eye dog at was buying milk and orange juice. While he was counting out the change, his dog grabbed a chocolate bar off the display and started tearing into the wrapper. I couldn't help but laugh. Not at the man, at the dog. It was like watching a clever child sneak one past her mom.

Then I remembered how distraught my mother had been recently when her dog got into some chocolate! Suddenly, I felt the urge to cover up my insensitive laughing with a little civic responsibility. I told the oblivious blind man that his dog had nicked a chocolate bar. He was very embarrassed. It was slightly uncomfortable.

Unfortunately the seeing eye dog etiquette web pages don't give any advice for situations involving a sneaky dog with sweet tooth. A friend of mine suggested that it might have been an act to get a free chocolate bars. What do you think?

Hold on to your hats!

That's right! I got a new computer. The switch to a mac continues to be a bit of a learning process. But hopefully good things are to come. The real question is, are you ready?

Happy Holidays!

I've doing a lot of bread baking lately. A lot. I got this book from the library, The Bread Bible. My breads are a bit hit and miss. Mostly I blame our house. The dough has a hard time rising because it has yet to reach room temperature here this 'summer.' Undeterred by the vehement kiwi opposition to insulation, I've even cultivated my own sourdough starter. Its quite entertaining. Every couple of days it bubbles up and has that deliciously repugnant smell that is slightly unpleasant and addictively sniffable. Mmmm.

When you think about it, yeast is very relevant this time of year. What else is all around us, turns water into wine, and reproduces asexually in virgins' wombs?

Happy Holidays!

Crazy Girl

There was this girl in the first yoga class I ever took. Jen and I admiringly called her 'Crazy Girl.' She wore sparkly jeans to class, had wild hair that she never pulled back and was bubbly in a way that made her perfect for a job in retail. That spring at a yoga retreat we were silently walking around the Ottawa valley enjoying the calming bliss of too much yoga when we were interrupted by Crazy Girl running down the hill screaming "I'm Alive! I'm Alive!

The thing is, once you hit puberty there are only select activities where individual joyous yelling is generally appropriate. Roller coasters, sporting events and protests come to mind. But these are noisy places anyway. It takes a little stepping outside yourself to break through the normal everyday noise level with a little whoohoo.

As you may have already heard, I am living in hilly windy Wellington and have rejoined the ranks as a cyclecommuter. (wow- that word was acceptable to spellcheck) Anyway, there are couple of thrilling descents on my commute into town. They often remind me of Crazy Girl, because I'm sure as I 'Whee' and 'Whoohoo' my way downtown, I'm earning a similar nickname.

Something in the Air

The weather is very changeable in the mountains around Rabinal, Guatemala. Sunny afternoons could hide thunderstorms like a magician hides rabbits. Then pull them out of unusual places to surprise and stun the unsuspecting public. I spent four months in Rabinal and inevitably, from time to time, my gringo body protested against the foreign conditions. Whenever this happened, the locals had an explanation. I had caught too much air. Too much air could produce any mulititude of symptoms. Too tired? Too much air. Can't sleep? Too much air. Sick to your stomach? Too much air. Not hungry? Too much air. We used to roll our eyes and joke that hangovers were also the result of too much 'air.'

But they knew something I didn't, something I wouldn't understand until I started golfing in Wellington. Too much air can make you sick. Today I came in from the 18th hole feeling awful. My ears felt like they had been boxed by a monkey on crack, waves of pain were crashing against the left side of my skull and I was queasy. I had caught too much air.

But after a nap, a hot shower and a burger all I remember is my hat poetically blowing off, that satisfying drive off the 14th tee and those lucky putts.

(The picture is a dust storm in Mongolia. It was pretty windy there too!)

A Year Late(r)

There is no excuse. This post is a year late. Sorry about that. Here we are again at the start of another holiday season. To get you in a festive mood, I have adapted a holiday favorite to bring you all up to date:

The Twelve Months I Didn't Blog (sing along! everyone!)

On the first month I didn't blog (December)
my computer got a virus.*
But its all good now, hooray, yipee!

On the second month I didn't blog (January)
I moved to Illinois**
And its all good now, hooray, yipee!

On the third month I didn't blog (February)
I O.D.ed on Lawerence Welk,
Moved to Illinois,
And its all good now, hooray, yipee!

On the forth month I didn't blog (March)
I came to New Zealand,
O.D.ed on Lawerence Welk,
Moved to Illinois,
And its all good now, hooray, yipee!

On the fifth month I didn't blog (April)
Ro-o-oad trip!***
Came to New Zealand,
O.D.ed on Lawerence Welk,
Moved to Illinois,
And its all good now, hooray, yipee!

On the sixth month I didnt blog (May)
I moved to Wellington...
And its all good now, hooray, yipee!

On the seventh month I didn't blog (June)
I got another bicycle...
And its all good now, hooray, yipee!

On the eighth month I didn't blog (July)
I started my masters degree...****
and its all good now, hooray, yipee!

On the ninth month I didn't blog (August)
Not much happened...
And its all good now, hooray yipee!

On the tenth month I didnt blog (September)
I learned to play golf...
And its all good now, hooray, yipee!

On the eleventh month I didnt blog (October)
I survived Wellington winter...
And its all good now, hooray, yipee!

On the twelfth month I didn't blog (November)
I made plans to come home again...
And is all good now, Hooray, YipEE!

Happy Holidays!


* Ubuntu (and Elmo) you are awesome.
** I was lucky to have the time to spend with my fantastic Aunt Jan and Grammy.
***By car unfortunately, b ut NZ is still a beautiful place.
**** In Applied Linguistics (ESL) at Victoria University. It's going really well.

Homecoming

Last Wednesday I lied. The box on the US immigration form was too small to 'list all countries visited on this trip'. I stopped to count. 17 countries. Instead, I simply wrote Spain and Turkey. When I handed the stiff form and my dog-eared trail-battered passport to the officer he said 'Wow, Spain AND Turkey!' Yep. Wow.

I am settling into my sisters apartment in New York. I've spent the past week wandering around Brooklyn and sampling all the foods that I couldn't wait to have once I got back to the states, root beer floats and bagels with lox and cream cheese...

Thankfully the park is nearby to counteract these caloric reunions. Today I went for my first bike ride since I hurt my shoulder. It went well until we hit some cobblestones. Then I had to walk home. But it felt good to be back in motion.

True to form I am still behind in blogging and am just now posting some photos from Turkey. Check back soon for more posts to keep you busy over the Thanksgiving holiday.

My Students

Unable to cycle, I found myself with a lot of time on my hands. So I volunteered to teach English at the local high school in Ishkashim.
It was easy. They were the most eager to learn and well behaved teenagers Ive ever seen. Every hand in the class shot up in the air whenever I asked a question or needed a volunteer. They almost convinced me to stay. Instead I promised to send them a box with English books.

Afgan Market

Ishkashim is right on the boarder with Afganistan. Every Saturday police line the bridge and let Tajiks and tourists cross the river to the Afgan market. They sell all sorts of things, fabric, clothes, blankets, spices, dyes, medicines, cookies, fruit, and toys.
I hesitated to post this photo but we were all laughing when I took it. This man was selling toy guns. I pointed to the guns and said ´Afganinstan´in a voice full of false fear. He laughed and pointed one at me. Its red lights lit up and made a whirring sound. We laughed even harder.

Gulmama

Gulmama is the man who put my shoulder back together. He thinks I am a big baby. Everytime he sees me with my arm in a sling hequestiones his eyebrows together, tsks his tongue and waives his had dismissively. I dont understand what he says but I imagine it translates something along the lines of ´What the hell is this for?´or ´Get back on your bicycle already!´