This place is fantastic! It has a peaceful, comfortable vibe, and you’re minutes away from several beaches. The Regent is a perfect host: considerate, helpful, and knowledgeable. The place is very clean, comfortable, and warm. Nice kitchen with everything you need. Do yourself a favor and stay here! It’s a home away from home.
The Regent’s AirBnB review for me, as a guest:
Warm friendly person, clear communication, clean and tidy. I recommend X and I would be pleased to host her again.
A hole carved into a hillside caught my attention as I was driving down route 6 for my usual morning adventure. This scrubby, sunny spot was far from human habitation, and I was joyously alone. The Regent doesn’t seem to have an occupation that might shift his focus from me.
Carmen bumbled to a halt on the side of the empty road, and I crossed over. The soil in this part of the West Coast reminds me of the dense red clays of the Appalachian lowlands. There, the flat clay particles stack together and form an impenetrable mass that might as well be rock. Nutrients are locked away to all but the most pernicious roots, so the land is both barren and overgrown with useless weeds. Here, the land belongs to itself, graciously excusing itself from usefulness.
It was probably a lot of fun for some fellow and his mattock to come out here and chip away at this remote bit of the South Island. The hillside crumbled easily, but it was hard enough to hold the vague shape of stairs leading up to a small tunnel. Hoisting myself up the sketchy stairs, I found myself in a vaguely symmetrical hole, about four feet tall and two feet wide. The floor was packed down quite well, but New Zealand couldn’t help but cover the damp walls with lashings of moss and a festive fern or two.
I stumped, huddled, through the tunnel, only to find that it was no more than thirty feet long. The opposite end was obscured by the desiccated skirt of a tree fern. Long layers of dry leaves shook like the roof of a tiki bar when I pushed them aside.
There was nowhere to go but straight down. I clung to the outer edge of the hole, finding a ledge that led to a knot of roots to the left. From there, I could see the tiny, steep-walled valley clearly. It was all dense brush and thick, dark leaves that could have been easily accessed from the road, had anyone wanted dangerous footing and lacerated shins. Nothing else, not even a hint of ancient castles or burial sites or even rare, exotic flora.
The tunnel has absolutely no purpose. It goes from nowhere to nowhere, like 18th century follies in English gardens. It tunneled solely for the sake of tunneling. Fucking adorable New Zealand.
It encouraged me to sit right there in the present moment. I shuffled around, settling myself and my backpack until the tunnel’s view was framed perfectly in its front doorway. Maybe this was the whole point: the view.
Yin and yang swirled around each other in the tunnel’s arched frame: ocean filling the shore, vegetation slipping down the hills, and land cupping the river-like road. It sorted itself out as I smoked a morning joint and meditated, the long winter shadows drawing the bright landscape straight like the teeth of a comb.
If only the future could keep its distance… if only it wasn’t so cold, I’d stay here in this mossy birth canal forever and refuse the right of re-entry into the harsh world from which I emerged.
The Regent bought an aluminum contraption at the grocery store that would serve as a disposable grill at our beach barbecue. We had an array of veggies to share and skewers of meat for him. While we were shopping, I found a kilo baggie of small, waxy tubers in dreamy sunset colors labeled ‘yams’ that woke my passion for culinary adventure.
“Nah, yeah, those are good.” the Regent was happy to introduce me to this edible member of the oxalis family. “Traditional Kiwi veges. Just like potatoes, you know? You roast them up and they’re sweet as.”
“We have yams, too, only they’re sweet potatoes; what you call kumaras. These are something new and fabulous! I must try them!” Squirreling them into our shopping basket, I was nearly giddy with the pleasure of sharing a grocery run with someone. I made sure to pay for the yams and the Regent insisted on purchasing the rest.
Before we left, I asked the Regent to walk me through the process of buying a lottery ticket. I’d only done that once or twice back home, and the whole idea was foreign to me. To me, playing the lottery is literally throwing money away on a scrap of paper, but my mother had gone to great lengths in her last email to tell me that the stars were aligned for me to have a huge financial windfall. I’d regret it if I didn’t listen to her and take this gift from heaven. I couldn’t tell if the Regent found my mother’s assertions intriguing or off-putting, but he ended up buying a lottery ticket for himself as well.
Our destination, Omau Cliffs beach, was on the way to Cape Foulwind. It was nice to enjoy the roadside scenery as a passenger. We played tourist and tour guide again, talking about my favorite subject; New Zealand, as she casually angled the long blades of flax that flanked us to catch the piercing rays of the now resplendent sun. Winking like flashbulbs, the spiky plants led us to a pebbly cove where obstinate cliffs suffered the onslaught of the relentless sea. The wide beach was joyfully wild, with massive driftwood logs set in a pristine canvas of unblemished sand. Brackish tidemarks patterned the shore.
“Wow.” I was grateful for the salty crash of ocean and the appetizing winter breeze. “Thanks, Regent. This is a gorgeous spot for a picnic.”
“Yeah, nah, I thought you’d like it. One of the best beaches around here.”
“Absolutely. I want to get in the water so badly!”
“Yeah, go for it.”
“It’s cold. It’s winter. I’d be crazy.”
“Nah, it’s good. Up to you.”
“I don’t have a swimsuit.”
“Don’t need one here. It’s New Zealand.”
“I’ll do it,” I threatened. Half of my cells were already pulling towards the ocean. The other half were quite cozy under my winter coat and possum sweater. “Seriously. You won’t think I’m nuts?”
The Regent shrugged noncommittally, lifting his hands and eyebrows to relinquish my story back to its origin. After a few furtive glances around the empty beach, I shucked my layers. The West Coast air was cold, but it didn’t carry the bite of snow like winters back home. Nevertheless, the fine grains of sand felt like crushed ice beneath my bare feet. A long, sloppy shelf of sand kept the depths far from the comfortable length of driftwood where we’d set our bags.
It was all at once or not at all. I plowed steadily into the cold, frothy waves until they pounded at belly and breasts. The water had an inky quality, and as I dove under to wet my head (once, twice, thrice), I felt how darkness could be perfectly clear and clean and revitalizing.
Shuddering, I returned to our driftwood campsite and quickly dried my frigid skin. I dressed quickly as well, pretending that the Regent’s pretense of ignoring me was genuine. He was carefully setting up our tinfoil barbecue.
“How’s it going?” I asked him as he poked at the small supply of coals that came with the kit.
“Great. We’ll just get it lit, and then we wait for a wee bit to get the coals going.” His round face was shuttered against the sun’s rays. “How was your swim?”
“Fan-fucking-tastic!” I felt fresh and sparkly from my recent scouring in the sea. “I love it here! Well, can I help with lunch at all? Maybe cut up some veggies?”
“Nah, we’ll just throw some oil on these yams, and the meat already has spices. It’ll be a while, though. Maybe half an hour, 40 minutes, until everything’s cooked.”
“Cool! Ok, sounds like a perfect time for some yoga! Want to join me?”
“Yeah, nah, I’ll stay here and watch the barbecue.” The Regent waved me away. “Have fun with your yoga.”
I did enjoy a short yoga practice. The barbecued veggies made a delicious lunch, but the yams were slow to soften and crisp. After much poking, we decided to leave well enough alone and let the tinfoil fire pour out its remaining energy in a protected hollow in the sand, hoping that it would be sufficient to cook the waxy yams.
In that time, I learned about the Regent’s family in Hokitika. His family holds significant power in that region, and they own land on the thick river that serves the town. They’d fought hard to win the rights to their native land and the rich resources of the river. The Regent tried to stifle his tribal pride, and it was adorable. The story had a fairy-tale quality, rich with the treasure of Pounamu1 and rife with British colonialism. It had come down to legal battles: fighting on enemy turf. The Regent’s family had a splendidly long and prestigious Whakapapa.2 They were warriors that kept winning, generation after generation. They were the history-writers of Hokitika, and they conquered the courtroom with the same fierce determination that won them these islands seven hundred years ago.
Like the other potentially powerful Maori boys of his generation, the Regent had been sent to the best schools in New Zealand so that he could learn the enemy’s tactics. He’d attended a military school in Wellington and later moved to Sydney for several years in some sort of rite of passage.
It is common for freshly-graduated Kiwis to try to find their fortunes in Australia. New Zealand is simply too small for big dreams. Not only is the cost of living cheaper across the Tasman Sea, but the wages are higher and the opportunities more abundant. Kiwis eagerly sow their wild oats in Australia’s expanse. Some stay, but most return when they realized that New Zealand’s lushness is far better at balancing out the harsh southern sun than volatile deserts, impersonal cities, and a pandering parliament. The Maori, especially, were inevitably drawn back to their tribes. The outside world is no place for a warrior.
The Regent failed to mention why he’d ended up alone in Westport, but he intimated that he was an emissary of his family in some capacity. It’s not my place to pry.
Yam-scented plumes of smoke eventually stopped floating towards our driftwood chairs. The coals were growing cold, and the warm golden yams were succulent and salty in our eager mouths.
This is almost impossible. Almost. But for the Divine, nothing is impossible and the improbable is hilarious.
I got to Pohara Beach yesterday, (just outside of Takaka) and I like it here. Being alone has given me the gift of slowly reconnecting to my faith. That sounds Christian. That is not at all what I mean.
Faith is essential in yoga, and if I follow any written rules, it’s those in the yoga sutras1. Clearly, brahmicharya2 (abstinence) has been a problem for me recently. Faith in a higher power, ishvara pranidhana3, is the last in the list of 5 niyamas4 (observances) that tell us how to take care of ourselves in order to enjoy yoga (union).
This is how we align our inner moral fibers so that they, as well as our muscles and nerves, can be an efficient conduit for God. Everything doesn’t have to be aligned perfectly for the spine to be a divine superhighway, but the more of your being that is set straight and smooth, the more inviting of a pathway it is. It’s just a matter of allowing enough linear space within you to let the river flow. It took me a decade.
That superhighway, once built, has always been there for me, but it can be difficult to access if you allow the weeds and brambles of the world to obfuscate the path. It’s best to keep it in good repair with daily maintenance: yoga, meditation, oil massage, time in nature, correct eating and sleeping habits… All these observances take up about half of my time, money, and attention. Just so that I can get high from feeling a strong current of God pulsing through me.
Is this wrong somehow? It feels so good to carry a live current in my spine. Feeling heaven must be wrong.
Ishvara pranidhana is when you surrender to being the wire and you let your life whip wildly across the cosmos as that live current sizzles home to itself.
Where did it start? When I made the decision to go north to Takaka last week? When I decided to extend Pup’s life by a year with evil surgeries? When the great human chessboard of the Covid-19 Lockdown was set into position in March? When I slept with Moshe in April? Is this because I made a wrong turn back in Nelson two days ago and ended up at a hippy crystal shop buying weirdo crystals like vanadinite and apophyllite?
This morning, I spent an hour searching the internet for my next safe haven. Following the path of least resistance (well, more accurately, of least investment), I found a very inexpensive room in Westport on AirBnB. There’s always a very good reason why a room is inexpensive, and at the peak of winter in the South Island of New Zealand, that reason was often a lack of heat. That wasn’t the case with this particular room – the host specifically mentioned a space heater. I scoured the listing. A kitchen, an indoor bathroom, a comfortable-looking bed, access to the washing machine… I kept scrolling down… where was the reason? Perfect reviews… a pleasant suburban location… the page ended with a profile of the host. His photo had been taken from a distance, so his round face occupied no more than 24 blurry, brown pixels.
Nevertheless, my heart lifted and I smiled at the certainty of our confluence. Yes. That One. And I knew that was the reason. There’s always a reason.
The room in Westport wasn’t going to be available until the following night, though, so I had to find shelter in Takaka one last time.
Did God take the reins today in the café at noon, when I read an ad for discounted accommodation at a local hostel? When I decided to have the half-price chocolate-hazelnut croissant that has given me no end of belly cramps? As I smoked a mostly medicinal joint in the alleys between route 60 and Motupipi Street? When I rolled into the parking lot of Takaka’s tourist information center5 around 2:34pm? Did I make even one single decision today? Ever?
Carmen’s wheels hadn’t even settled into the parking spot I’d chosen before a dented mustard-yellow caravan pulled into the lot. It parked near the pay showers, and I thought I saw a familiar face through the windshield. Impossible.
I tried and tried for a better look as I walked up to the tourist information center, but all I could see was a pair of eyes watching me over the caravan. I couldn’t be sure because it was almost impossible. I mean, the odds are so slim. In this exact town, at this exact time? Highly improbable.
As I spoke to the woman at the front desk about my options for accommodation tonight, I found it hard to remain the dutiful tourist. The woman (Yvette, if her name tag is to be trusted) had a bright, earnest presence, like a high school girl friend that could keep any secret. Nervous with the impossibility of this moment, and excited by this rare chance to converse with an intelligent, friendly woman, I kept peering out the window to confirm the impossible. I think the isolation of the Covid lockdown was my excuse for telling kind Yvette every detail of my amorous adventures in Otago. Everyone was hungry for interaction. It was so exciting to tell my story and to be able to point out one of its characters in this very parking lot! He hid behind the caravan for a thousand years, rooting around for showering supplies until I gave up. Then I saw his face for a moment when he came around to the back of his caravan – yes!
It was him! It was Moshe from the Lodge! I’d travelled almost 800 kilometers and almost 11 hours to get away from my lovers in Lake Hawea. The one Israeli that I slept with during the lockdown was somehow a few dozen steps away. And he seemed to be avoiding me.
Clearly, the universe wants me to have sex. I can’t escape my dharma. Neither should he.
Doubt and that old fear of having a twisted and untrue perspective came up to my surface. Do I accept this dance from the universe? Or is this another cosmic joke?
“The bay has a way of bringing people together,” Yvette said, as serious as a witch. She was lovely and young, and she had this job because she has experience in this town.
I want to understand how it works. How do certain places hold and direct energy? Does it have something to do with astrology or geology or our own flawed search for meaning? I struggled with my determinism as well as Moshe’s, and asked Yvette whether or not I should approach him.
Yvette told me that I’d only seem creepy if I came from a creepy place, so I squared my shoulders, opened my heart, and went outside to talk to him. It appeared as though Moshe was in the shower. There were two outdoor stalls along the back edge of the visitor center parking lot, just to emphasize New Zealand’s thoughtfulness. They cost more than the showers we’d had at the Lodge during Lockdown, so I imagine that Moshe was taking every advantage of this luxury, as it appeared that he’d been living in his van. If he ever did emerge from the shower, he’d probably feel a little vulnerable. Waiting for him would be creepy, so I dared to leave a cheerful note under the windshield wipers and drove off.
And fuck if he didn’t call 3 minutes later. I almost didn’t answer, but I did. We chatted vaguely about our adventures over the past month. Moshe had explored the eastern edge of the South Island and was heading west, like me. Because I told him that I was staying in Takaka that evening, he assumed that I’d be there indefinitely. It wasn’t necessary to correct him. Moshe was on the move, and I felt a sense of relief that our relationship was so tenuous.
We’d had almost 2 months to form a bond during lockdown, but our age difference had made it easy to escape into our own respective languages and cultures, so that bond was slender and weak. I wanted a nice Jewish boy! But Moshe is really still a boy. He’s almost half my age, and frankly, he’s boring. Although I knew that it would make him infinitely more delectable, it would be unkind to show him the darkness and decay of maturity. There was really nothing else to say. I imagined him shrugging his wide, young shoulders as he closed with the hope that I might see him in a few days when he drives back through Takaka.
I won’t. That ten-minute conversation resurrected an ancient distrust of God and His Plan. As far as I can tell, the Plan involves continual mistakes and misinterpretations on my part in order to entertain the jaded Divine. This cosmic game, this lila6, has no object… How can I have faith in such devilry? It seems like allowing God to direct my life has run me headfirst into a brick wall.
Yvette seemed to think that there was unfinished business between us, but I think Moshe’s instinctive response to this afternoon’s chess board configuration was actually the wisest: duck and cover.
The golden hour in the rural hills around Golden Bay.
There’s nowhere for me to go in this heater-forsaken country but north, where rolling mountainsides of ferns and palms promise sun-drenched mornings and shelter from the bitter Antarctic winds. I’m content to float meaninglessly towards warmth. It’s God’s chance to prove that my life is worthwhile, and I just want to step back and see what happens. If I’m going to stay in New Zealand, I’ll have to replenish my plundered stash of weed by driving to Motueka, and that appears to be my only plan. Covid had given me license to be myself intensely, and I certainly don’t want to be sober for that.
Winter in southern Canterbury, NZ
Half of a smooth, laterally-striped bivalve shell soothed my restless fingers as I waited for my new rental car to arrive in Christchurch this afternoon. Davina gave the shell to me yesterday, at a small beach in Timaru that was sandwiched between clusters of cargo ships and discarded boulders. The rather industrial city had made an honest attempt to preserve what natural beauty the beach had by leaving the surrounding ankle-high dunes to sprout whatever wayward grasses they fancied, and the resulting sandscape had a disheleved atmosphere that seemed to encourage spent seashells and other flotsam.
We’d met there with less than an hour to spare before the premature winter sunset. It was hard for her to get time off work; at least while the sun was up. Davina and her boyfriend, Nathan, had found jobs at a potato farm after our post-lockdown diaspora from the Lodge. They’d been desperate to find a way to pay for the extensive repairs that their caravan needed, and if they could make it through three months of dirt and discomfort, they could even fund an adventurous summer in that caravan.
From what Davina told me on Timaru’s wind-whipped beach, the conditions that she had to endure were barely worth the pay. Her days were spent kneeling outside, planting potatoes in freezing mud from dawn to dusk. She and her boyfriend shared an unheated, roach-infested flat with two other potato farmers. Nathan was succumbing to a deep depression, and she had little energy with which to support him after a hard day’s work in the potato fields. Davina was lonely. Davina needed a friend. I love her, and I wish I was the sort of person that could be a friend.
My efforts at friendship were a superficial success in that we were both happy that we’d spent time together. I said some kind and thoughtful things, Davina nodded in agreement, but we somehow both knew that I would remain distant after our lovely beach rendezvous. I don’t want to be like that. I want friends. I just don’t know how it’s done with girls.
One sympathizes, right? One listens without judgement and with unswerving loyalty. I did that! I listened well and awkwardly reciprocated. Neither of us enjoyed my reluctance to talk about my own exploits over the last couple of months. I told her about the Mormon and our breakup, carefully obscuring the details of our somewhat illegal lockdown dalliance so that it would seem as though I’d met him after the social distancing restrictions were lifted.
My problems were nothing compared to Davina’s. She and Nathan were impoverished migrant workers who were being taken advantage of by Kiwi farmers who’d never treat their own that way. I’d experienced a little of that while planting garlic on the Mormon’s farm, but my role in New Zealand is that of a tourist. I’m here to use New Zealand, not to allow her to use me. I’ve done my time, and this vacation is my reward for surviving death and divorce. We’re on opposite sides of some vast mountain range of life; Davina and I, as much as we understand and love each other’s personalities. She’s building her life, and I’m walking away from the rubble of mine.
Davina is young and strong. Her kindness is as rich and beautiful as her long, honey-blonde hair. I’ve been there; full of feminine power and promise, attached to some weak man; and if someone had told me then to cut my losses and run, I’d never have forgiven them. Not until well after the divorce, anyway. I could see that Nathan is a good person – it’s obvious in his art: his detailed wildlife photography and his unique, lovingly carved wooden spoons that he’s understandably reluctant to sell. This sort of situation is foreign to me: none of my previous partners have been good enough to fight for. I really had no idea how to advise Davina on her struggle to improve her relationship and her living conditions.
As the darkness grew, the ends of the grey wharf disappeared into the heavy twilight that was swallowing the ocean. We slowly walked back towards our cars in the blue-tinted light, the imprints of our bare toes leaving a series of tiny seawater puddles in the soft, saturated sand. A sprawling glob of seaweed encouraged a slight change of direction, and Davina paused to take a few long, satisfied breaths of ocean air.
“I’m so glad to be out here on the beach. You know they have Little Blue Penguins here sometimes – the Korora,” Davina glowed peacefully, naming the native bird as she would name a friend. “It’s hard to catch sight of them, but we’ve seen them in a few places along this coast. Nathan is amazing at photographing birds. I’m lucky that he loves being quiet in nature as much as I do.”
“No doubt. Well, that’s a great way to get him out of a funk – go hiking for a few hours and let him soak up the good vibes.”
“Work is so consuming.” Davina’s gaze stretched long over the ocean. “We’re both so tired, all the time.”
“Ai.” I couldn’t look at her because I was afraid of sounding like her mother. “The sicker you get, the harder it is to take the medicine.”
“I don’t want to go back to planting potatoes tomorrow.”
“Is it worth your time?” I asked her.
“It’s what I have to do if I want to keep my visa and enjoy at least a little bit of this country.” Davina’s sad smile encompassed every unhappy accident that she’d endured since she left Israel with Nathan. “My ankle is finally strong again, lockdown is finally over, and the caravan is working again. I want to see the little Rurus, the native wood-owls.”
I smiled back in the dark, joyous at the thought of Davina meeting an adorable little Ruru in the woods. In truth, that moment would indeed be worth months of digging around in cold mud. I wanted to squeeze her shoulders in a half-hug, but I’m not worthy of the friendship of such a sweet soul. Instead, I crammed my hands deeper into my jacket pockets and we walked on.
“He’s worth it,” Davina said quietly.
“He is,” I agreed, with whole-hearted honesty. And she is, too.
We continued in silence, so I tried to redeem myself with more words. “It’s rare to find good men like Nathan. If you love him, you’re the best one to do the hardest job of helping him through his depression. An artist that’s loved is a blessing to this unfriendly world, but one that battles alone cannot win against the shadows that art reveals.”
I stopped, uncertain of the truth in my words. I always say stupid things. Davina paused with me, and scooped up a perfect little bivalve shell that had washed up with the latest wave. It was a Pipi, an abundant native mollusc that gumboot-shod Kiwis sometimes collected for chowders or fry-ups. The creature inside had vacated recently, so the two halves of his shell were wide open and glossy with vitality. Soft grey growth lines pulsed out from his little core like waves in a pool. Taking the shell in both hands, Davina cracked the halves asunder, and I hushed my instinctive gasp.
Davina handed me one half of the Pipi, as if she was performing a familiar sacred ritual.
“Here,” she said. “For you. To remember this beautiful beach.”
Pipi in hand, I was shocked and silent. Is this friendship? It was too beautiful to be real. I was included, on purpose and without hesitation. Davina must be mistaken, or quite lonely. Was I good enough to be one half of a whole? Sure, I’d once given her and Nathan a ride to the auto mechanic’s shop, but didn’t she know that I was terrible at returning texts? I don’t deserve gifts. I don’t get included. I’m like a rescued wild animal… although I want to show gratitude and kindness, you can’t expect me to ever understand how to be tame. It’s just not worth your time. It’s an insufficient return on your investment.
Night concealed my stupid teary eyes, and I smiled wide so that my white teeth caught orange glow of the wharf’s walkway above us. Davina laced her arm through mine, and we amiably slipped back through the unkempt lamplit blue dunes. My thanks stumbled out as we hugged and parted ways in the parking lot. I’m far too embarassed at my social awkwardness to consider meeting up with her again. I can’t pinpoint what I did wrong, but I know that I’ve somehow ruined yet another potential friendship. Grasping the little shell close, I wondered what it might be like to have these precious, kind moments at the beginning of a relationship rather than at the end. Would it be as unsettling as tasting unsalted food?
I’ll never know. My life is hard in a different way. It’s not hard because I’m soft. It’s hard because I’m hard, and softness can’t survive the sharp edges that are proof of my passing.
3:57pm – Hi! Yeah, all good, thanks. I had the chance to visit with one of my lockdown friends! It was so good to see her again! But she says there are no jobs around here. Think I might head north tomorrow. How are you?
Texts between Drew the Drug Dealer and I
On July 13, at 7:04pm, I wrote:
Hi Drew! We met maybe a month ago and the Mormon gave me your number. I’m traveling up your way again, and I was wondering if you could hook me up? If not, no worries – I know this is kinda out of nowhere.
7:06 – Give me a holla when you’re in town and I’ll see what I can do
7:06 – Sweet! thanks
Sunset near Lake Tekapo
Emails between Sister and I
On July 1, 2020, at 7:35am, Sister wrote:
Hi Sister? Did you feel the earthquake in NZ? Are you still there? The European Union banned travelers coming from USA. Travelers from New Zealand are allowed.
Anyway I hope you are ok
On July 9, 2020, at 4:09pm, I wrote:
Hi Sister! I hope the kids have a wonderful vacation, even though things are still upside down. They look happy!
I still don’t have a good plan. I would love to visit – thank you so much for that joyous possibility! But I checked out the travel restrictions, and they say only EU citizens are allowed to travel to France right now. I saw that they would accept more people (just health workers and students though?) after July 10, including New Zealand citizens – would I count? I wrote an email to French Foreign Affairs, and we shall see what they say! I would probably need to do 2 weeks of quarantine anyway.
The Mormon is gone, finally. He was lazy and a nudnik, and I’m pretty sure that all the good guys are taken. There’s no good reason to be here. Sorry, I wish I had some news. I didn’t even feel the earthquake! Mama is pushing me to stay here. I’ve been able to delay my taxes and yearly eye exam, so I might as well stay for another few weeks. But I truly have no idea what I’m doing here. I’ll be headed out of the Otago area (where the Mormon lives) towards Christchurch again this weekend. The Mormon was right – this place will suck you in. I think some locations are like that – our hometown, too. It’s often seemed like a black hole to me. We both escaped!!
Anyway, this hotel is nice, and i’ve been able to heal a lot in the past week or so. My back and right hip and ankle are bothering me from driving or from the cold – I am so old! Mama was right – arthritis is no good! But they have a good bed and hot showers here. I’m enjoying healthy food and a good sleep schedule and I feel better than I’ve felt in weeks. Can I blame the Mormon? Probably not.
How does the summer feel? Are people relaxing finally? I guess if hotels are closed, there are still no tourists? I finally got a haircut last week and it feels so good! I got rid of 4 or 5 inches of dead stuff. And a few days later, one Mormon.
I miss him a little. But this short and ungraceful relationship is giving me a lot to write about, so I’m so grateful for all of my experiences here. So, my days are writing and yoga and cooking now, hopefully to be repeated in several choice locations around this sweet island for a little longer!
I’ll let you know when I get a response from the French Foreign Affairs office. I’ll be going to the American Embassy in Christchurch on Monday to try and figure out a plan of sorts. I hope all is well. Sometimes I imagine that, by the time I leave NZ, the whole world will have already gotten the coronavirus, and I’ll have to contract it anyway just to be a part of society once I’m off this island. Maybe it’s best just to catch it and survive it?
I love you and thank you and wish you and the family a happy Bastille Day!
On July 10, 2020, at 10:30am, Sister wrote:
X? you are alive! It so nice to hear from you! I did not realize my last email was so cold and rigid. Sorry about that!
What guy exists that is NOT lazy and a nudnik? All the ones I’ve ever met are! Did you have to develop arthritis in those freezing conditions in the van? That is too much!
We are getting old, eh? What was that you said?
Here are some news updates that accumulated while you were cloistered up as a hermit (but not too crabby… gosh, my sense of humor is getting progressively stale as the years go by).
They voted green in my city! Our mayor is an ecologist. She is going to develop the parks and maybe make tram free for all children under 18 and other people too. That will make it easier for me – i won’t have to do all that extra multiplication in my head every time the children ask to go to Orangerie! We actually just walked there the last 2 times. It was a disaster. The eldest stepped on a bee the last time… we had to walk all the way home. Luckily a handy banana peel soothed her foot temporarily… until it kept slipping out of her sandal. Poor girl.
On Monday, the synogogue gave the children gifts, as usual at the end of the year. Hebrew books mostly… but the eldest got a surprise gift, some kind of blue-tooth earphones. The children were so excited with it; it worked with my phone. But the fourth child did not go to Hebrew school, so she had no gift. She cried in the secretary’s office – but a cute, quiet crying, she had tears in her eyes, “why don’t I have a gift, too?” so the secretary found some sticker book and gave it to her. Then she was happy.
The eldest with her new headphones forced me to figure out what the heck is bluetooth. I felt like some primitive caveman with all my lack of knowledge. She’s already better than me with my own phone! (she’s giving me lessons on it) How embarrassing!
The eldest actually says she remembers Grandma (our mother) and trying to repeat some Russian words after her… and you! She remembers stuff I already forgot, like when Auntie slammed the door after she was playing with your bra?? There were other instances… it all seems funny now (at least to me…) when you were angry because of a pipi the second child did on the floor? The eldest actually dreamed about you a week or two ago. She said we were all in a haunted house (dirty, no light at all) and then you prayed in her dream (yes! Auntie X in the eldest’s dream was praying), and the whole house was filled with light. I hope things are OK over there! You’re so far away from everyone!
I better go! Sorry for babbling away as we Geminis sometimes tend to do! Love, Sister
Grafitti on a water tank in Geraldine
Emails between Mother and I:
On July 8, 2020, at 2:35pm, Mother wrote:
Today, as never before, please, stay put where are you! Read the news from the Babel, the USA. I do not see any improvement, not in the COVID-19 numbers, not in the political shifts.
The head of the country – is stupid. His policies are harmful to the country, for our lives, health, business, promised happiness. Money for the people and unemployment lost in Kushner’s and Trump’s many companies’ deep pockets. The unemployment rate is growing, as is homelessness, the random crime and racism. I do not believe I am living in this kind of time, I thought they were finished and past away in my Grandparents’ lives.
Please, my Darling X! Do everything which is in your power and what is LEGAL to stay in New Zealand, appeal to the right instances, people, offices. I know how much you hate bureaucracy and meaningless running from one to another but no one could do it for you today, just you. Please, be kind to yourself and stay there now. Wait for the changes in this country. Hopefully for good. You know. You know the rest. Love my precious daughter with all of my heart, Mother.
On July 12, 2020, at 7:36am, Mother wrote:
Hello, X! Shabbat Shalom to you! I hope you are alright.
I saw your pictures on Instagram. Such beautiful places. Please, be safe, keep yourself healthy, write to me if you need help. Help me help you. But stay there as long as you may do so!
I saw another article today: they want to free 8,000 criminals in in California because of the corona. You are so much safer there, so much more! Ain li milim! I am speechless! I miss you. I wish I could hug you and hide you. But it is so much better for you to be in NEW ZEALAND today than in the USA. People are crazy, dying like flys and still do not wear the masks! Some Karma is boomeranging the USA for all the racism and hypocracy they did to me, to you, to blacks and to native Americans. I do not know other interpretation for all this. Love, Mother.
Looking at the Southern Alps from the Canterbury Plains
On July 13, 2020, at 6:19am, Mother wrote:
How right you were!
On July 13, 2020, at 6:31pm, I wrote:
Hi Mama,
Of course I’m right – I’m YOUR daughter!
Ha! I knew a nonviolent revolution could succeed! Tell me, how did they pull it off? Did the rebels band together and march on the White House? Was it an internet coup?
I hope you are doing well? I guess I will stay here for 3 more weeks, at least. I seem to say that every 3 weeks! I’m back in the north part of the south island for the warmer weather. I still don’t know what to do or where to go. I hoped there would be more clarity after Mercury went out of retrograde, but there isn’t, and I’ve had delays in my travels. I think I can put off my life in the US a little longer. I am not sure that I can afford a life here, but so far I am ok, I think. I need to figure out how to check my savings account, and then I can tell you whether or not I have a money problem.
Thanks so much for offering to help! But I do feel guilty – the money is yours and I am wasting time here. I need to find a solution where I don’t have to take from you.
I heard that some states are closing again. Are you ok? I hope that you are enjoying the summer a little? It must be so nice and warm there!
I know it’s been a while since I wrote, but there’s not much news. I’m still floating around the country… You’ve seen the pictures! I’m in a town called Geraldine, for another night anyway, and then maybe I will go find a warm beach further north. Not that warm, though! It really is winter here.
I bought a space heater at a thrift store, and I’ve been taking it into all my hostel rooms because they are stingy with heat here. This room doesn’t even have a heater! And it’s a nice place, too – you would like the chandelier in the bathroom. Thank you for your letters! I love to read them, even if I am lazy on responding. It is good to know what’s going on over there, and I’m glad you think I’m in the right place for now. The tourist visa that I got when I arrived is good for 2 years, actually. I’m just not supposed to earn money. Well, these poor Kiwis are trying to restart the tourism business here with no tourists, so I guess I am helping their economy as much as I can with my American dollars. At least I’m doing one productive thing here!
Unlock with Patreon
