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.