A few days ago I took my first spin in the new car and my first spin driving on the other side of the road. I was delighted to find that although the sensation of sitting on the right side of the vehicle and driving on the left side of the road are, ahem, foreign, the experience wasn't extraordinarily unsettling. It simply called for a little additional concentration and advance planning. OK, self, at that light up ahead, you're going to turn right. That means you need to turn across a couple lanes of traffic into the lane to the left of the median. It also helps that there are generally other cars on the road from which to take your cues.
Strangely, the most difficult thing so far about driving here was a complete surprise to me. It's the turn signal indicator. In the cars here, the turn signal indicator remains on the right side of the steering wheel. But for whatever reason, my brain expects the turn signal indicator to be on the left side of the steering wheel. Never have I driven a car with a turn signal indicator on the left side of the steering wheel, so this makes absolutely no sense to me. But the upshot of this idiosyncracy is that whenever I go to change lanes or make a turn, I automatically switch on (or off) the windshield wipers.
Now, I've never been a particularly glamourous driver. And neither did I ever have any delusions that I looked especially cool while driving. The only cars I've ever owned have been modest and sensible. I kept the interiors clean, but I seldom washed the outside. I wasn't self-conscious when I knocked my side-view mirror off and drove around for a few months with a plastic baggie over the stub to prevent rain from getting into the door panel. Nor did I mind when my Honda rebelled after my first winter in New England and, come spring, started spraying windshield wiper fluid out the side of the hood onto adjacent cars. My cars got me where I needed to go and got me there safely and reliably, and that was all that I really cared about.
However, living in a foreign country, I feel a little vanity start to creep in. Maybe it's my desire to put on a good show for the sake of all Americans. I want the kiwis to think well of us as a nation; therefore, I go out of my way to be friendly, generous, helpful, and above all, imminently likeable. It's actually a little nauseating, but I can't seem to help myself. So imagine me, trying to look cool. Trying to acclimate and show that Americans, too, can adapt to other cultures. Inching down the road like a grandma, with the windshield wipers and turn signals alternating erratically. Yeah, I blend.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
The Electric Cowbanue
Today we purchased our first foreign car, literally. During the test drive, the car kept warning me in Japanese (via its GPS) that I was driving the wrong direction to Hokkaido.
After being sticker shocked by Hondas in New Zealand (a new Honda Accord runs about $60,000, and a 5 year old, used Honda minivan is a whopping $27,000), we went back to our first automotive love, the Subaru.
Our first Subaru was a 2005 Outback, which we named Wallula (after the Wallula Gap in Washington).
Ever since growing up in the age of Knight Rider and The Dukes of Hazard, my family has always named our cars: Goldie, The Rabbit, Rocky (a bitchin' TransAm Firebird that my mom raced truckers with in Texas...that's another story), etc.
However, Wordy and her family really never named their cars. This was shocking to me. Truly shocking. Even when naming things, I was surprised by some of the names Wordy and her family came up with...Brown Baby, Orange Baby, D, M, J, Bad Bear, you get the idea.
Over the last 13 years that Wordy and I have been together, I can say without a doubt that one of the things I have brought to our relationship are names that do not suck.
I can't claim many things, but this is my flag and I am waving it.
-Rocky and Wordy Flashback -
Along time ago in a United States far, far away, this song came on the radio. (Be sure to click the link.)
You can imagine my surprise when Wordy started belting out...
"We're gonna rock down to Electric Cowbanue and then we drink papaya."
That's right Electric Cowbanue...
Yes, I admit I have sung songs not using the right or even accepted words, but Electric Cowbanue and drinking papaya...was pure genius. I loved it!
So with that long winded introduction, let me introduce our new (but used) Japanese-speaking 2005 Subaru Forester, The Electric Cowbanue.
After being sticker shocked by Hondas in New Zealand (a new Honda Accord runs about $60,000, and a 5 year old, used Honda minivan is a whopping $27,000), we went back to our first automotive love, the Subaru.
Our first Subaru was a 2005 Outback, which we named Wallula (after the Wallula Gap in Washington).
Ever since growing up in the age of Knight Rider and The Dukes of Hazard, my family has always named our cars: Goldie, The Rabbit, Rocky (a bitchin' TransAm Firebird that my mom raced truckers with in Texas...that's another story), etc.
However, Wordy and her family really never named their cars. This was shocking to me. Truly shocking. Even when naming things, I was surprised by some of the names Wordy and her family came up with...Brown Baby, Orange Baby, D, M, J, Bad Bear, you get the idea.
Over the last 13 years that Wordy and I have been together, I can say without a doubt that one of the things I have brought to our relationship are names that do not suck.
I can't claim many things, but this is my flag and I am waving it.
-Rocky and Wordy Flashback -
Along time ago in a United States far, far away, this song came on the radio. (Be sure to click the link.)
You can imagine my surprise when Wordy started belting out...
"We're gonna rock down to Electric Cowbanue and then we drink papaya."
That's right Electric Cowbanue...
Yes, I admit I have sung songs not using the right or even accepted words, but Electric Cowbanue and drinking papaya...was pure genius. I loved it!
So with that long winded introduction, let me introduce our new (but used) Japanese-speaking 2005 Subaru Forester, The Electric Cowbanue.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Frickin' Freezing, Mr. Bigglesworth
Here's the thing. Though it is a small island nation, my initial impression is that New Zealand is more progressive than the U.S. in many ways. You can pay for your parking at any metered parking spot with your cell phone. You can recycle practically anything. And it seems based on our interaction with locals (our new landlord, our car salesman, etc.) that long-term, stable partnerships--even same-sex ones--are quite common and just as esteemed as those endorsed by the bond of marriage. These are seductive observances, and they make me that much more desirous to learn more about my new home.
But here's the big but. The Thing I Will Never Understand is how such a seemingly 21st-century place pays such little regard to the ever so modern development called home insulation. Bad enough that the majority of homes have single-paned windows and drafty doors and windows. Bad enough that walls and floors remain cold no matter how warm the internal house air might be. On top of the lack-of-insulation issue is the weird home heating issue. Central heat and thermostats are rare, and many houses (and our current abode specifically) rely heavily on space heaters to keep the inhabitants warm. Yes, the weird plug-in kind that look sort of like mini radiators, are painted that almond-y off-white color, and that can be semi-rolled and semi-dragged from room to room on crappy plastic castors. So in winter, not only is the house cold, there's no good way to warm it up. And in fact, it's often warmer outside than in.
So tonight, it's 1 degree C outside. Pretty close to freezing. Granted, we planned poorly and didn't get enough pellets for the wood pellet stove in the living room (called lounge here), but even if we had, the rest of the house outside the living room would still feel like the bathroom at a national park in the middle of winter. Cold. Clammy. Smelling slightly of mildew.
Poor little Squidd has both space heaters in his room (oh yes, we have two for the entirety of this 3-bedroom house) so he won't freeze his pert little butt off during the night. That means Rocky and I will be pinned beneath mountains of comforters, Princess and the pea style, to keep warm. The door to the bathroom will remain firmly closed in hopes of counteracting the cold air blowing through the half-inch gap (no lie) at the bottom of the bathroom window.
And the door to the third bedroom will also remain firmly shut, though that is thanks only to a bath towel wedged beneath it to prevent it from blowing in due to its own sourceless drafts. It's insane. I may as well be camping, which I would frankly love. At least then I'd have my cozy down sleeping bag.
Maybe we're just wimps. Soft Americans. Because, impossibly, the kiwis don't seem to notice the cold. Everywhere I turn, there are kiwis in shorts. School kids in their blazers and knee socks and shorts. Cyclists in blaze orange or neon yellow with gaiters and shorts. Runners, baristas, shopkeeps, you name it. Shorts all around.
Needless to say, Rocky and I can't wait to move into the townhouse we rented. It has a heat pump, which means a wall-mounted heater that actually blows warm air, and double-paned windows. Now if only we could figure out how to get electricity for our new place.
On a happier note, we managed to get mobile phones today, and we finally sealed the deal on a car. We'll be happy Subaru owners once more.
But here's the big but. The Thing I Will Never Understand is how such a seemingly 21st-century place pays such little regard to the ever so modern development called home insulation. Bad enough that the majority of homes have single-paned windows and drafty doors and windows. Bad enough that walls and floors remain cold no matter how warm the internal house air might be. On top of the lack-of-insulation issue is the weird home heating issue. Central heat and thermostats are rare, and many houses (and our current abode specifically) rely heavily on space heaters to keep the inhabitants warm. Yes, the weird plug-in kind that look sort of like mini radiators, are painted that almond-y off-white color, and that can be semi-rolled and semi-dragged from room to room on crappy plastic castors. So in winter, not only is the house cold, there's no good way to warm it up. And in fact, it's often warmer outside than in.
So tonight, it's 1 degree C outside. Pretty close to freezing. Granted, we planned poorly and didn't get enough pellets for the wood pellet stove in the living room (called lounge here), but even if we had, the rest of the house outside the living room would still feel like the bathroom at a national park in the middle of winter. Cold. Clammy. Smelling slightly of mildew.
Poor little Squidd has both space heaters in his room (oh yes, we have two for the entirety of this 3-bedroom house) so he won't freeze his pert little butt off during the night. That means Rocky and I will be pinned beneath mountains of comforters, Princess and the pea style, to keep warm. The door to the bathroom will remain firmly closed in hopes of counteracting the cold air blowing through the half-inch gap (no lie) at the bottom of the bathroom window.
And the door to the third bedroom will also remain firmly shut, though that is thanks only to a bath towel wedged beneath it to prevent it from blowing in due to its own sourceless drafts. It's insane. I may as well be camping, which I would frankly love. At least then I'd have my cozy down sleeping bag.
Maybe we're just wimps. Soft Americans. Because, impossibly, the kiwis don't seem to notice the cold. Everywhere I turn, there are kiwis in shorts. School kids in their blazers and knee socks and shorts. Cyclists in blaze orange or neon yellow with gaiters and shorts. Runners, baristas, shopkeeps, you name it. Shorts all around.
Needless to say, Rocky and I can't wait to move into the townhouse we rented. It has a heat pump, which means a wall-mounted heater that actually blows warm air, and double-paned windows. Now if only we could figure out how to get electricity for our new place.
On a happier note, we managed to get mobile phones today, and we finally sealed the deal on a car. We'll be happy Subaru owners once more.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
No Cents
One of the hardest things of adjusting to New Zealand is that they have no cents (literally).
Everything is rounded up to the neartest $0.10 based on the Swedish rounding system. What makes this even more difficult is that each business gets to decide whether to round up or round down when the price ends in $0.05. Seriously.
In other news, we saw our first sheep the other day. Strangely, in a trailer behind a truck. Seriously.
Everything is rounded up to the neartest $0.10 based on the Swedish rounding system. What makes this even more difficult is that each business gets to decide whether to round up or round down when the price ends in $0.05. Seriously.
In other news, we saw our first sheep the other day. Strangely, in a trailer behind a truck. Seriously.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Chateau Insulation and Pizza
After searching for several grueling days, we have found a well insulated townhouse in the not-so-dodgy community of Beckenham just south of downtown.
It's close to the beach, close to the hills, and close to Hell Pizza.
Yes, Hell Pizza with pizzas including The Mordor and The Grimm.
Of interest at Hell Pizza:
The Damned is vegetarian.
Hell has eco-friendly bags available.
Apparently, terrormisu [sic] from Hell cannot be beat.
It's close to the beach, close to the hills, and close to Hell Pizza.
Yes, Hell Pizza with pizzas including The Mordor and The Grimm.
Of interest at Hell Pizza:
The Damned is vegetarian.
Hell has eco-friendly bags available.
Apparently, terrormisu [sic] from Hell cannot be beat.
Monday, May 24, 2010
First True Love
Turns out The Squidd loves sand and surf. Here's a few pix of his first romp at the beach (New Brighton) with his dad.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Better Than a Train Station Door . . .
Four years ago, when Rocky and I were first considering the move to Philly, we made a brief trip out there to check out the surroundings and assess the general liveability of the area. As part of that trip, we rode the train from the suburb of Bryn Mawr into downtown Philadelphia. While waiting on the train platform in Philly to head back into Bryn Mawr, we noticed a little kid (maybe 3 or 4 years old) vigorously licking--yes, licking--the glass door leading from the station onto the platform. Oh gross. Oh gross. The germ-o-phobe (sp?) and anal-retentive Virgo in me was horrified. Nothing, nothing could possibly be more germ-infested than a door for public transportation in one of America's biggest cities.
Leap ahead in time to now. Rocky and I now have The Squidd (a bub as they call babies here in NZ). Since his birth, my knee-jerk reaction as said germ-o-phobe is to keep The Squidd protected from all germs and yuckies out there. That said, I also realize the futility of this and also the potential harm. Of course I don't want him to be sick, but I also know that being sick will help him to build a strong immune system that is capable of fending off the innumerable nasties he encounters every day. The result: I try to let go a little. I pretend I'm the cool, laid-back mom that takes everything in stride. And every day I make a conscious choice to let The Squidd just do what babies do. Crawl. Lick. Chew on everything he can lay his hands on.
I'll admit, this has been an especially hard thing for me over the last 6 weeks. Since leaving Philly, we've been through airports in 8 cities and 2 continents. The Squidd has touched seats, tray tables, windows, and changing tables in airplanes and airports across the country. He's crawled on airport floors and inched along rows of seats in boarding areas. He's sucked on toys that have fallen on the floor of public places. Did I hate it? Of course. But was The Squidd happier and a better traveler because of the freedom he had? Of course. And the best part of it is he came through it all beautifully. Not a sniffle or a cough or anything. Yes!
But tomorrow I face the ultimate test of the control-freak, germ phobic mom: daycare. The Temple of Doom. Tomorrow is The Squidd's first day of daycare ever. I know he'll love it. I know he'll make friends and thrive in his new learning environment. And I know with a deep and abiding certainty that he and I and Rocky will never be sicker than we will be these next few years thanks to the petri dishes he'll call his classmates.
So when Rocky and I drop The Squidd off tomorrow morning, I'll take a couple deep breaths, give him a kiss, and repeat this mantra in my head: "Better than a train station door."
Leap ahead in time to now. Rocky and I now have The Squidd (a bub as they call babies here in NZ). Since his birth, my knee-jerk reaction as said germ-o-phobe is to keep The Squidd protected from all germs and yuckies out there. That said, I also realize the futility of this and also the potential harm. Of course I don't want him to be sick, but I also know that being sick will help him to build a strong immune system that is capable of fending off the innumerable nasties he encounters every day. The result: I try to let go a little. I pretend I'm the cool, laid-back mom that takes everything in stride. And every day I make a conscious choice to let The Squidd just do what babies do. Crawl. Lick. Chew on everything he can lay his hands on.
I'll admit, this has been an especially hard thing for me over the last 6 weeks. Since leaving Philly, we've been through airports in 8 cities and 2 continents. The Squidd has touched seats, tray tables, windows, and changing tables in airplanes and airports across the country. He's crawled on airport floors and inched along rows of seats in boarding areas. He's sucked on toys that have fallen on the floor of public places. Did I hate it? Of course. But was The Squidd happier and a better traveler because of the freedom he had? Of course. And the best part of it is he came through it all beautifully. Not a sniffle or a cough or anything. Yes!
But tomorrow I face the ultimate test of the control-freak, germ phobic mom: daycare. The Temple of Doom. Tomorrow is The Squidd's first day of daycare ever. I know he'll love it. I know he'll make friends and thrive in his new learning environment. And I know with a deep and abiding certainty that he and I and Rocky will never be sicker than we will be these next few years thanks to the petri dishes he'll call his classmates.
So when Rocky and I drop The Squidd off tomorrow morning, I'll take a couple deep breaths, give him a kiss, and repeat this mantra in my head: "Better than a train station door."
The House Hunt
Everything is falling into place.
Invade the country: Check
Start a bank account and get credit with no identification: Check
Equate old words with new words (e.g. diapers=nappies): Check
House hold container avoiding capture by pirates: Check (but it would have been cool!)
Find a house/townhouse/Hobbit Hole: Big phat X
We are off to look at one more house for the day. Cross your fingers.
Apparently, the word insulation and its use in housing just began in this country.
Invade the country: Check
Start a bank account and get credit with no identification: Check
Equate old words with new words (e.g. diapers=nappies): Check
House hold container avoiding capture by pirates: Check (but it would have been cool!)
Find a house/townhouse/Hobbit Hole: Big phat X
We are off to look at one more house for the day. Cross your fingers.
Apparently, the word insulation and its use in housing just began in this country.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Recap: Part 1
Our travels to New Zealand began with a 2 hour delay leaving Los Angeles due to Icelandic ash…fitting really for a geologist. The Squidd was awake for 7 hours making him extremely tired and a grump. He fell asleep quickly on the flight for roughly one hour before he woke up, and he was NOT a happy camper about being in his car seat. Let’s just summarize by saying it was a long flight and The Squidd by far was the most well rested and well fed out of the bunch. Customs in Auckland was easy, and we had a person help us (by wheeling our luggage and The Squidd) until we checked into our flight for Christchurch.
We arrived in Christchurch to beautiful fall weather; however, we could barely keep our eyes open.
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