the cat is away

Tautuku Hut, the Catlins

2012-01-21T23:21:00.000-08:00

In early December my siblings and I drove down the Catlins (about 1.5 hours south of Dunedin) to take little brother Lukas on his first overnight tramp. We chose a very easy tramp - only two hours each way - to Tautuku hut; a basic, free DOC hut mostly used by hunters who leave notes in the guest book like "PITBULL GOT A DEER ON WAY IN" and the like. We felt badass, by association.

Click on the photo below and read the warning signs - one of these things is not like the other.

Lukas, being the rugged, outdoor kinda online-gamer he is, brought his own sleeping bag. Only problem: it was a Pipsqueak Std (note his feet in the second picture).

At dusk, the surrounding trees were full of native birds, especially Tui (my darlings).

Hardcore Hana and Lazy Lukas above, and the vista over the seemingly infinite forest below.

St Bathans: secret garden slash apocalypse

2012-01-05T01:57:00.000-08:00

Ever since my stay at the Vulcan Hotel, St Bathans, with two of my most charming friends (and, of course, I have the best friends in the world) my mind has been on a loop of "oh my gosh, I love St Bathans", "Isn't the Vulcan great?" and "Hey, remember St Bathans?"

Eleanor, Benjamin and I agreed that anyone present would find us extremely tedious with our constant stream of praise for the place, and that our trip away would not make a good travel story - as there was nothing to complain about. Even the tap water was delicious!

In any case, two of my favourite aesthetics are 'secret garden' and 'apocalypse moonscape.' Previously, I had never thought to combine the two - they seem paradoxical, and certainly not obviously complementary. Well, thanks for righting that wrong St Bathans.

Aaand here they are on the moon:

Other aesthetics I enjoy include: gold miners cottages, overgrown gardens, historic pubs, converted stables and a well-mixed gin and tonic. All of which were provided in droves by the good people of St Bathans (all four of them - seriously).

My First Tramp - Welcome Flat

2011-12-07T14:21:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I finally went on my first overnight tramp to Welcome Flat Hut on the West Coast, just south of Fox Glacier. For company I had Seth and Justin - two burly men with tonnes of outdoor experience, and Anh - pictured above - my gorgeous medical-student friend. I was pretty well-prepared in terms of the expertise of people with me, but I still felt nervous about how well my unfit body would cope with a 7-hour uphill slog carrying a pack.

Really well apparently! A few hours in, I asked Seth: "I wonder when the uphill bit starts?" and he looked at me like I was stupid, and said "Lei, we've been going uphill this whole time..." The walk up to Welcome Flat Hut is really gradual and easy-going most of the way - only the last few hours are steepish uphill, and involve a lot of scrambling over rocks.

But at the end ... the most stunning 'hut' ever* and ... natural hot pools! See my feet and Mt Gorgeous above (that is it's real name).

* From my mattress I could lie on my back and look out a huge window, up at the mountain ranges encircling us. Bliiiissss.

Hot pools in the rain and red wine!

Justin braving it out in the extra hot part.

And the cheerful stumble back down the mountain, followed by an 8 hour drive home with a space-saver tyre (ergh). At least central Otago is stupidly beautiful.

Election Mourning Party

2011-11-30T21:59:00.000-08:00

Almost a week ago now, my fine country held it's free and democratic election and the people spoke, as we anticipated they might, to re-elect neo-liberal maniac John Key. Ok. As a good friend of mine said at the time: "that's the price we pay for liberal ideals" - or something.

In any case, Logan, Gigi and I had decided to dress formally for this momentous occasion. Then, without discussing it previously, both Gigi and I had decided this would be a mourning party and we would dress in funeral appropriate garb.

Above: watching the horrendous results roll in, Gigi hiding her grief behind dark glasses and burying her sorrow in champagne. Below: group suicide (although what IS Logan doing? It looks more like murder if you ask me...)

Below: the since departed opposition, Phil Goff. Visibly shaken on the night, I thought. Poor guy. (I've always said I could never, never, never be a politician. Those poor bastards).

Armchair travel

2011-11-16T22:27:00.000-08:00

I'm well aware that the secret to greatness is the ability to edit oneself, but I mean "I'm well aware" so as to say - I'm "well aware" I should save money, for instance, but I'm yet to develop the skills to actually carry this action out. According to Aristotle, who did not believe one could 'have' ethics - only those you acted upon count - I certainly do not understand the value of editing. So, it is in this spirit I present you, dear reader, with fifteen photographs of these 1960s American Geographical Society 'Around the World' guides I bought at the Regent book sale positively ages ago. I got them for $1 each and they are taking turns being on display in my bedroom. At the moment: Bermuda.

What I love about these covers is the way the basic, stereotypical little drawings, making spots on the map - as if you could go to that place and indeed see a real life cart being pulled by oxen - show you the changing views people have of other places - of overseas.

Aside from that, I love the fantasy of a place, which only exists in our collective or individual imaginations - and which will never stand-up to the reality once you arrive. People always look at me questionably, as I talk-up a place I've never been, and ask if perhaps I'm worried I might be disappointed with the real place. I always feel wildly flattered by the idea that my pitiful imagination could possibly dream up an actual pulsating, spontaneous and utterly 'Other' place - not to mention that I could, within my controlled imagination, actually ever imagine another person. A real place, and real people, will always be infinitely more than a controlled, you-absorbed fantasy place.

But the fantasy has a lightness and silliness about it which I quite adore also. Which is why you'll find me sometimes, in a bar in Bangkok, reading an old novel set in Burma and day-dreaming about 'Burma.'

These ridiculous images and maps are precisely for people like me. Below: good old Austria.

And back to Bermuda ! Cricket and cucumber sandwiches, exotic fragrances, exploring hidden waterfalls, horse-drawn carts and early morning jets back to New York.

Below: a friendly traffic warden in safari get-up helps a couple of blissed-out, slightly drunk tourists on their way.

Steampunk Capital

2011-10-28T01:13:00.001-07:00

Oamaru is the the self-proclaimed steampunk headquarters of New Zealand, although I've previously mostly associated it with the famous white Oamaru stone, good cheeses and petrol station stops on the way elsewhere. This is really embarrassing, but I had actually never stopped in the historic Victorian part of town before last week - and as a direct result of my ignorance, never thought of Oamaru as a particularly beautiful or interesting place. Boy was I wrong.

An exceptionally well-dressed and amiable local.

Then we stopped at Annie's Victorian Tea Rooms - a place which would have featured in my fantasies had I ever heard of it before. Just look at that menu! (and those prices)

An elderly woman played equally old music on the piano, without music sheets, and when she got up to leave everyone clapped quietly and thanked her. She didn't work there.

Above: one of the waiters. Below: the best scones of my life. Paradise: Annie's is your name.

Crush on a Tory

2011-10-25T21:51:00.000-07:00

While Rory Stewart writes about his "uphill battle against the Afghanistan intervention", I thought I would write about my own frustrating and ethically admirable battle: my battle against having a crush on a tory. Until Rory Stewart came along, I have been like the Berlusconi of the feminist left - claiming that 'left-wing' men (I know, the 'wings' are stupid political terms) are way hotter than those gross conservatives with their spongey skin, soulless eyes and regularly tweeted private parts (I know, Anthony Weiner is a democrat - but your 'centre-left' is my 'centre-right' America).

But then, this:

Fuuuuuuuuccccckkkkkk.

Hats off to any feminist babes out there who look at that, watch his ted talk and read his horrifying curriculum vitae, and still feel unmoved by those beautiful, entirely soulful eyes. This may be one of the biggest celebrity crushes of my adult life and it is on someone who supports David Cameron - i.e. not even a smart conservative. The awful kind. The neo-liberal, slash and burn economics, champagne swilling kind.

p.s. his website actually does put me off slightly. SLIGHTLY (Also, only because I find pictures of grown men holding lambs disgusting, not because of the politics).

Anyway, for those of you who can't be bothered reading the ridiculous life story of my political crush or watching his frankly inspirational ted talk, I've prepared an example of what it would be like if Rory and I were dating:

The scene: winding down after a day motorbiking around Sumatra, a romantic dinner in an obscure little restaurant, where Rory orders in Bahasa (because he speaks it fluently).

Rory: (to me, in English) "Boy, I'm so glad Samoa has finally joined the WTO. Free trade is really the only way forward - I can't believe how protectionist some of these states can be, and for what?! Don't these people want development?"

Me: "Rory, we've talked about this so many times and it makes me really upset. I'm so angry I would throw my glass of red wine on you right now, if I wasn't so fond of that shirt you're wearing..."

Rory: "Oh honey, I love it when you're angry! It reminds me of that time I walked across Afghanistan."

Me: ...

Double Rainbows in Doubtful Sound

2011-10-25T01:34:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure I've gotten around to bragging about my job yet, but here it is: my job is looking after American exchange students, planning trips for them and taking them on said trips. It is awesome.

Recently we went on an overnight cruise in Doubtful Sound - an area of Fiordland inaccessible by road. Below you can see an excerpt from my reactions:

Above: 'Blanket Bay Hotel' - a popular place for fishermen to drop in. Below: the scene of many photographs and paintings, by many idiots hopelessly trying to depict the beauty of Fiordland in two dimensions.

Mt Cargill with a Smurfette

2011-09-27T02:07:00.001-07:00

Most people walk up Mt. Cargill for the spectacular views of Dunedin and the surrounding beaches and peninsula. To break with tradition, my beautiful friend Dr. Gi and I decided to bundle up there on an exceptionally misty day - so the surrounding landscape was nothing but bright white.

To celebrate, Dr. Gi turned up dressed entirely in blue. I loved it.

Ominous foggy scenes.

"This is the part where the Zombies come out..."

Below: the famous radio tower. Squint hard.

Our picnic, courtesy of Crusty Corner (orzo, feta and spinach salad!), Pierre (happy to finally be on a trip again, no matter how small) and below: when the sun came out on our stumble down the hill, during which the smurfette dished out copious gossip I cannot repeat here !

Regent book sale haul

2011-09-24T21:01:00.000-07:00

I went to the famous 24 Hour Regent Book Sale this year with the intention of not buying anything. What a joke. The books pictured above are not even all the books I purchased, but perhaps those I am most proud of (no one needs to know about my trashy penchant for collecting copious travel guides*).

* In fact, those thin, pastel-coloured books in the pile above, but not featured in this post, are all 1967 National Geographic Country Guides and I will be doing an entire post on them next. Because really, everyone needs to know about them.

Philip Roth is one of my all-time favourite authors, so I was very excited to find this hardcover for only $3. This was in the expensive part of the book sale, because, at the Regent, $3 is a pretty astronomical price for a book.

The first sentence is: "I hadn't been in New York in eleven years."

Some people consider Philip Roth a misogynist. Some people are wrong idiots who don't understand complexity. Well, too bad for them. Lucky for me, I'm the kind of raving feminist who likes a bit of Roth with my de Beauvoir (certain feminists would call me a 'Roth apologist'; there's a term, truly). Here's what the Guardian has to say about The Mandarins: "The characters, especially the women, are uninhibited and sometimes predatory. The dialogues are salty, frank and realistic. The characters' amorous adventures are set down with microscopic exactitude."

1. I want to have 'salty' conversations. 2. I love lurid sex scenes in books, for example right now I am reading "Fear of Flying" by Erica Jong - a famous feminist book where the (lady) protagonist goes in search of the mythical 'zipless fuck.' 3. I love writers who are brave enough to write predatory women, for example the geniuses behind Battlestar Galactica. Swoon.

Speaking of predatory women, just look at that portrait of Ethel Mannin, taken in approx 1930. It's pretty much the whole reason I bought her autobiography, and was also my first acquaintance with Ethel. Actually, it wasn't the whole reason, because also this:

"I did not want to born, and like that unhappy heroine Susan Lennox, even when born had to be galvanised into some sign of life. My mother wanted me called "Stella," which I should have much preferred to their final choice, but my father objected to it because of Stella Maris - who was an incubator baby, I understand - and he found the association of ideas unpleasant."

Also, if you want some early 20th century gossip, read her wikipedia entry for goodness sake. It made my jaw drop.

"Death in Midsummer: and other stories" by Yukio Mishima already seemed fairly irresistible, largely due to it's cover (contrary to popular knowledge, you often can judge books by them).

Then I read the back: "Violence, homosexuality and the spiritual emptiness of post-war Japan: these were Mishima's key themes." It also says he has wry and ironic humour. And finally "Here is Mishima. Here is Japan."

Hey book, consider my expectations: raised ! ... (it'll be fine, it's a Penguin).

I love travel. I love reading. I hate most travel writing. Most of it is so, so shit. It's like reading about your aunty taking her bored (and boring) husband to southern France to buy a vineyard, at which point they will spend months complaining about how the French don't know how to make tea and talking about how 'rustic' everything is. Ok, it isn't like that. It is literally just that.

But then, like in any genre, there are some gems. I am cautiously optimistic about "The Fruit Palace" - it's recommended by respectable institutions, it's set in Colombia (so I'll probably love it even just for nostalgia's sake) and it grew from the author being given an assignment to write an 'exposé' of the cocaine trade, at which point he got way too involved in the lives of the urban poor of Colombia and the project instead turned into this massive book. Cool. Promising, anyway.

Oh Nancy, Nancy Nancy Nancy. I'm always in the mood for Nancy Mitford, even if I am slightly dubious about taking on this novel - the first of her non-fiction books I am attempting to read. I just love her fiction so much anything would seem a step down, especially a biography about some famous royal of the day ?!

In any case, here is a glorious quote from her fiction as a fittingly non sequitur end to this post:

“The worst of being a Communist is the parties you may go to are - well - awfully funny and touching but not very gay...I don't see the point of sad parties, do you? And Left-wing people are always sad because they mind dreadfully about their causes, and the causes are always going so badly.”

- The Pursuit of Love (I think).

xoxo

Cute Pictures juxtaposed with Disgusting Tale

2011-09-17T22:08:00.000-07:00

Now, I am decidedly not a dog person. As evidenced by the fact I spent a long morning with that brown-haired golden retriever in the pictures, and actually really liked her, but can't for the life of me remember her name. The small, white spoodle (apparently called a 'cockapoo' in the states, jesus h.) is called Skye and belongs to my beautiful red-haired Australian flatmate Claire, pictured above and belong being suffocated by dogs while trying to drive.

The little idiot Skye has been growing on me, like a tumour, to the point where I even let her sleep in my bed while Claire was away filming nature documentaries a la David Attenborough. The first night was great, Skye stayed at my feet (rule #1) and didn't wake me too early (rule #2). She even kept me warm and gave me the false sense of security that if there should be an intruder, she would do something (just what a 'cockapoo' would be capable of doing takes quite a wild stretch of the imagination). I was thinking, oh, I see where these 'dog-people' are coming from!

Well, then she woke me on a Friday morning, at the cheerful hour of just after six a.m., by unceremoniously puking on my bed. I felt like I had gone against all good judgement and taken a drunk first-year home, and was looking at the all-too-predictable results. One of my neighbours, on hearing the tale, responded "God, I can't even handle birds singing at six in the morning, you poor thing!" Indeed. I had to 'deal with' the grossness, while holding back violent gags, while half asleep, before I even had a coffee. POOR POOR ME.

So, I'm well back to being a cat person. I said this to my sister, triumphantly. My sister, who thinks all pets are disgusting, costly wastes of space replied: "cats puke too"

me: "yes, true, but they're smaller right? it isn't as bad?"

Hm.

Great story?

Epilogue: I still love Skye, but she is banned from my room until further notice. I know it wasn't her fault, but - in a way - that makes it worse.

Restlessness

2011-08-21T16:56:00.000-07:00

Whenever I'm living in one fantasy I'm dreaming of another. Take now, for example. I live in a bustling, giant house, built from recycled materials by my landlord - who now lives with his family down the street, in the second house he built. When I say he 'built' the house, I don't mean it in the upper-middle class sense of having had some say in designing it and bringing in the master builders. I mean, he built it himself. It's quite awesome. It took seven years.

My Mom said "wow, like a phd."

And I said "yeah, but way more useful. And almost definitely more fulfilling."

Apart from being a great landlord, he also came over the other day and fixed my car for me. I watched, his hands covered in grease and my car spluttering from the cold. And he said, "you know, it's probably a good move to know nothing about cars.."

And I said "what? I'd love to know about cars."

He looked at me, and said "really? well, it's unpleasant, cold work that you should really get someone else to do."

I apologised profusely and he laughed and said he didn't mind.

Aside from this idyllic life I find myself in, quite by mistake as always, I am spending increasing amounts of time day-dreaming of elsewhere. Of me, of my life, transplanted to somewhere where obviously I'd be so much happier.

So, it has been a good touch of perspective to be reading a French novel, where the characters are young and successful and living in Paris and just as miserable as me. I don't know if I should find those sorts of things 'uplifting', but it helps me place things more realistically.

For example, there's probably someone sitting in their little apartment in Paris right now thinking, oh God, I'd be so happy, if only I could live somewhere like New Zealand. Yeah, New Zealand. In a sprawling old semi-castle in a forest. Maybe near a beach. Yeah, on a hill, above a bay. And I want the house to be recycled.

"My dappled sanatorium"

2011-08-13T19:37:00.000-07:00

"During the nineties, Leib's parents lived in Maisons-Alfort, not far from the train station. It was nicer than anywhere they had ever lived, which wasn't saying much.

Leib talked about them constantly. And I mean nonstop.

Oh, but it's not as if he wasn't interested in mine - in my parents, I mean. He was always asking after my father. He just had an inordinate interest in parents, in general. It was one of the first things he wanted to know about people. Their parents. After all, wasn't that where they came from?"

- La meillure part des hommes, Tristan Garcia.

My mother, pictured above examining my brother's school shirt, lives in a kind-of-converted mental institute. She's always professed envy towards the kind of people who have clean, structured house holds and freedom furniture (although I think she imagines these people as neater than they actually are), but I've always loved our homes jovial clutter.

A few years ago, I was walking down the street and happened past my friend Luci's white Toyota - noticing a gorgeous black and white globe in the back seat. "Oh my god Luci, I saw this amazing globe in your car, lucky you!" I announced on our next meeting.

Poor Luci's face went sour, and she shrugged, "well, it was actually your birthday present."

It's been crumbling apart since the day I got it, and Mom and I have a mission to work out some way of making it work. At least as a piece of dysfunctional art. Ideas = welcome.

Mom's cluttered shelves:

Lukas' birthday display: (sweet 16. I think the number of candles is random?)

Wilting plants and a medieval guard:

Twin donkeys and a cactus:

Lukas and a new friend:

My spot by the fire: (contenders include the cats and Lukas)

p.s. Title of this post is a lyrics-quote from Joanna Newsom - Soft as Chalk.

Perilous Driving on Blueskin Bay

2011-07-23T14:36:00.000-07:00

Finally, an up-to-the-minute update. My last post was set in the tropical paradise island of Koh Yao Noi, where you need to nap during the afternoon to escape the oppressive heat, so I thought I'd change the pace right now and post about my morning escapade on ice.

I had to drive in to town, as I was supposed to be meeting my American students (I take them on trips as a job) to take them ice luging in a town 2 hours drive away. Ironically, the bus driver called me, 20 minutes into my drive to town, to say he couldn't get his bus on the road as there were two inches of ice and conditions worsening. Day-trip = post-poned.

So, because I was already out sliding around on the ridiculous roads, I used my point+shoot work camera and took a bunch of photos. I also discovered the "magic: key hole" function (probably aimed at the 'tween' market) and promptly over-used it. Forgive me, but it's just so fun.

Below: Carey's Bay, overshadowed with snow clouds.

Below: Port Chalmers wharf, and snow dusting Otago peninsula.

Below: looking toward Waitati and Waikouaiti, my childhood homes.

Finally: the 'township' (about ten houses) I currently call home. Time to turn on the heater and drink a hot cocoa.

A Little Place like Kokomo

2011-06-06T03:18:00.000-07:00

It's very exciting when someone cool gives me obscure travel advice and I can remember it years later, when time and finances allow, and follow it to the letter. Over two years ago a San Franciscan babe* told me that if I ever go down to the South of Thailand, that I absolutely must go to Koh Yao Noi (an island) and while there that I have to stay at 'Denny's' ("everyone knows him!").

Pictured above : our accommodation. 350 Baht a night. And it was heaven. (It's crazy when you have a vague idea of perfection in your mind, and then you go somewhere and it actually exists).

* The SF babe, who shall remain nameless, endeared herself to me with this amazing story:

She wanted to get a brazilian before hitting the beaches so looked into getting one in Bangkok - it was difficult. Most cheaper places don't offer it (it's not a Thai thing) and she didn't want to fork out for some Hilton-esque spa. She found a compromise, and went along to her booking, quite nervous as to what the results might be.

Now, getting a brazilian is always an (at least slightly) awkward/ hilarious affair, but this was made much worse by the fact she inexplicably had two beauticians in the room with her. They looked down at her Western girl bush in disbelief, talked Thai to each other and laughed fairly uncontrollably. She was awkward, but she'd already lived in China for a year and was tough. She got through it, while the two girls shared the job of ripping her hair out and sporadically bursting into fits of giggles.

At the end, after all the pain and humiliation, she is lying back exhausted when one of the beauticians leans in and asks, all business, "Miss, would you like a happy ending?"

No. Joke. Now, I can understand getting a happy ending to a massage, which is quite a sexy time, but to a brazilian wax?! I have never heard a story of someone being aroused by the experience (although, of course, I'm not ruling out the minority of people who undoubtedly are - it just isn't a mainstream sexual expectation).

Now, SF Babe is understandably shocked, but - quick as a bullet - she regains her composure and coolly asks "how much?"

The beautician gives her a quote of roughly 1000 Baht, or $40 nzd, and SF Babe tips her head to one side and declines, saying, "well, I can just do it myself."

NB: I tried to get a Brazilian in Bangkok, in the hopes of finding my own freaky story of weirdness and cultural misunderstanding, but I unfortunately found true weirdness on the way walking there, at which point the only Thai woman I've ever seen and not instantly loved pick-pocketed my dumb tourist self. I had to email the 'spa' in question and apologise for missing my appointment: "I'm very sorry, I met a thief on my way over!"

In truth, these photos don't do Koh Yao Noi justice and I don't even have any of the idyllic white-sand beach, limestone islands in the distance. Maybe you really should go.

Incidentally, what I do have a photo of is a GIANT bruise (acquired partying on Saturday night) ... on my ass. I didn't want to post it so, ahem, publicly (hi MOM!), but I have been emailing it left right and centre, because it really is quite impressive. The bruise.

(Some say it looks like Argentina, while others disagree and say it more closely resembles a lightning bolt).

Goin' Down South

2011-06-01T00:29:00.000-07:00

Even though I'd been to Thailand numerous times and spent several months roaming around the winding sois of Bangkok and Chiang Mai, I had never made it to the much-famed South. So, this trip, I decided to right this wrong, and headed to Ranong to meet my friend Top (see previous blog).

Pictured above, ever beautiful ZamZam on the long bus journey, which we both found surprisingly enjoyable. We are both quite lazy, so sitting still and looking out the window for nine hours is quite appealing.

Ranong finds itself on the border with totalitarian maniac state Myanmar/ Burma and is therefore a reluctant haven to roughly 100,000 refugees. This number is a very sketchy estimate. Here was a conversation with a Thai girl:

ZamZam: What's the population of Ranong?

Girl: Oh, about 100,000.

Me: Oh, I thought it was much more.

Girl: Oh, there are the Burmese, and there's probably another 100,000 of them.

ZamZam pointed out how this off-hand statement showed the general distaste for and disinterest in the refugees living in their city. We spent some time searching for the Burmese market, as most Thai people either didn't know or care to tell us where it was. But we found it, covered by a massive corrugated shed, full of flowers, batik material and military clothing.

Songkran in Ranong

2011-05-24T15:21:00.000-07:00

The only downside to living in my new, rambling home in the country is that it makes going into 'the city' seem inappropriately daunting. This is especially ridiculous considering the 'city' is my small, college hometown of 100,000 closer to the Antarctic than to anywhere else.

Most days I fight the urge to laze on the balcony or spend the day strolling through native bush, and instead force myself into my car and to my office, where - in theory - I will do more work.

Today, I decided to let myself stay in, just me and the dog, and catch-up on my blog. Clearly, an urgent task.

Anyway, here are some snaps from over a month ago (feels like another lifetime) during Songkran in Ranong, in the south of Thailand on the border of Myanmar/ Burma. Songkran is Thai New Year and is celebrated primarily by having a giant water fight. The local teens are the main instigators, grouped into gangs - either on the back of trucks or stationary, and with various gimmicks; group costumes, iced water, paint, water with red food coloring in it, et cetera ad infinitum. ZamZam and I joined the gang outside our guesthouse, with giant hunks of ice keeping the water at a suitably squeal-worthy temperature. All the better for pouring down peoples' backs.

Our reason for coming to Ranong was to visit my friend Top, a monk, philosophy-buff and trainee teacher. I met him in November 2010 at my regular Bangkok hotel, the Atlanta, during one of his English lessons and promised to bring him back a kippah from Jerusalem. Songkran afternoon, Top drove us to the temple where he ordained as a monk and we got to cleanse Buddhist figures by pouring fragranced water over them. This is also a Songkran tradition, bringing luck and prosperity, but we didn't even know that at the time!

Later, during a walk in some local gardens, I awkwardly handed the little plastic bag to Top, with his kippah inside.

Toads are Truly Hideous (and Loud) (and Crass)

2011-05-08T20:57:00.000-07:00

Nothing is more exciting to me than going for a drunken solo stroll in a foreign, preferably tropical, place in the middle of the night with my camera. On Koh Si Chang, I had the mixed fortune of having these guys to follow around. Aren't they disgusting?!

[I know the photo below is way too dark, but I kind of like it because it gives an accurate representation of what it was like before I flashed them in the next picture]

Also, one could make a convincing case that the crass and disgusting being is in fact the one behind the camera, who spent such a long time watching toads' sexy time. It also worth noting that the toad I pictured right at the top, alone, was actually following the mating couple around and trying to get involved. To no avail and leading to much toad fighting, which I was too enraptured by to photograph.

After that - some eye balm in the form of the beautiful night streets of Koh Si Chang.

That letterbox and drive-way just kill me!

Karaoke in Koh Si Chang

2011-05-03T00:50:00.000-07:00

Koh Si Chang is a tiny, picturesque fishing island, only two hours from Bangkok, with one sandy beach and lots of windy roads through arid countryside, on which I finally learnt to ride a scooter. There is some tourism on Koh Si Chang, but most of it is Thai tourists getting out of Bangkok for the weekend - it doesn't have enough sandy beaches for the international circuit.

The obvious choice of heading into the 'deep south' was out due to flooding, so Cindy did the research and led the way, and ZamZam, Cindy and I spent an extremely relaxed five days in a 'bungalow' in the small township on Koh Si Chang. On our last night we found the best street food I have ever encountered, a massively charismatic Chef I still have a huge crush on and some fishermen who insisted on taking us out to karaoke.

The stage is pictured below, and was facing a dark, empty football field.

Dunedin: Dark as ever

2011-04-28T17:59:00.000-07:00

Sitting here in an old mental institute, in rural New Zealand, feels a long way from my previous post and further still from all the blog catching up I want to do. Today, the sun is shining brightly and my mother has taken it upon herself to rescue the local bee population from winter starvation and the house is alive with bees she's been feeding. Also, this morning I blearily wandered into the bathroom to be greeted by an adorable, panicked fantail crying and flying repeatedly into the mirror. If you read the link, or if you have any rudimentary knowledge of Maori mythology, you will know how creepy and ominous such a scene is to a New Zealander. (But also, extremely cute).

As for me, I started screaming "MOM MOM MOM"* and ran down the hall, "Mom I need your help right now." My mom stopped watching her bees for a moment, and ran back down the hall with me and we managed to usher the little bird outside, after it flew through half the house, thus dusting us with death.

*Yes, I am 26.

Serge Gainsbourg's House

2011-04-15T18:27:00.000-07:00

Serge's old house in Paris has become it's own kind of attraction, due to the love notes and thoughts scrawled all over it. I became interested in him last year while studying French - especially the songs he wrote for France Gall, like this one, which was covered in English by April March and called "Hang up your Chick Habit."

Sacre Coeur!

2011-04-09T21:45:00.001-07:00

After a glorious afternoon wandering along the Seine, my hosts Carmen and Nico told me: "you have two options, either we get the bus home from here, or you come on the train for a surprise ..." Obviously, I chose the surprise.

Walking down a bustling little street I was looking around to spot the 'surprise', but could only see tourist shops. The sun was setting, we reached the end of the alley, I looked up and saw this: the Sacre Coeur, one of the most beautiful churches in the world and my only goal for Paris.

I am a lazy traveller, and don't tend to do much 'sight seeing' in the traditional sense. I usually just go to a lot of food related shops and wander streets. In Paris though, I had promised myself I would go to see the Sacre Coeur. Only that one thing. Knowing myself well, cynicism had already set in; usually if I say "I will do this one thing" then that is precisely the one thing I won't do. I had already set myself up to disappoint myself, so it was truly glorious that Carmen and Nico took control and simply took me there. While the sun was setting on the first Spring day no less.

Pierre and I being sacrilegious. I often act the fool, giggle or behave otherwise inappropriately in Christian places of worship, and think nothing much of it. I come from a Catholic background, I feel just fine taking the mickey out of it. Interestingly, I would never dream of behaving in this way in a wat, mosque or synagogue. And I think that makes perfect ethical sense- ownership and context yadayada.

What also makes sense is that my Mom will frequently critique the Catholic church, especially their latest choice of Pope, but gets annoyed with me when I rip into it too harshly. I get to say my family are insane, but you don't.

My favourite example of this, which I may have already ranted about because it is the best thing ever, is when an Iranian newspaper had a Holocaust depiction cartoon competition and some artists in Tel Aviv countered with the "Israeli antisemitic cartoons competition" only open to Israelis, saying: "We'll show the world we can do the best, sharpest, most offensive Jew hating cartoons ever published! No Iranian will beat us on our home turf!"

Night streets near the Sacre Coeur:

p.s. I love how "Sacre Coeur!" sounds like a Captain Haddock curse word.

Paris Part Un

2011-04-09T07:49:00.000-07:00

After spending so much time running after Samuel's ancient relatives, Pierre was getting restless, bored and jealous. A horrifying combination of emotions, so we bought train tickets tout suite to Paris where Pierre could finally feel at home. All of this was made possible by the gracious hosting and guiding of Carmen and Nico - a delightful Colombian couple I befriended two years ago who now live in Paris. Pictured below.

I had the exceptional good fortune to arrive on the exact first days of spring, so Paris was alive and bright, and full of smiling, friendly people. Nothing like what the many nay-sayers had been trying to prepare me for.

Above - the park our hosts took us to on day one. Parc des Buttes Chaumont is one of the most beautiful parks I have ever been to and - hilariously - it was conceived of by none other than Napoleon. I never thought of him as one of the world's greatest landscape gardeners.

View from the 'hill' in the park - can you tell what that building in the far distance is?

Below: wandering around beautiful alleys.

Nothing like exotic smack for refreshment!

Bunch of Parisian hipsters I accosted on the banks of the Seine. I asked them to pose with Pierre, and they stared at me in mocking disbelief for a full minute, but then totally did it and were (as you can see) very into it.

They look remarkably like cool kids in my silly little home town in south New Zealand. I mean this with endearment towards both groups, in case there is confusion.

Samuel and Pierre on the train, on the way to a surprise location.

Pierre's ancestral home ! He didn't get too emotional at the time, being a pretty cool-headed 'Parisian' and all, but he was not quite himself for the rest of the evening, preferring to sit quietly, look at old photo albums and think. It was quite touching.

Winter missions in Munich

2011-03-28T23:36:00.000-07:00

Being over-educated humanities graduates with no real direction, Samuel and I often ask ourselves, and each other: "Just what am I doing with my life?!"

At a pinch, the answer to this question is: finding Samuel's historical relatives. Why I've taken so passionately to this pursuit is anyone's guess, but Samuel's reasons are more obvious (lineage, history, narcissism).

With this life goal in mind, we caught the train to Munich, first to meet and eat with his charming Uncle who speaks about a million languages, scoffed at my inability to speak Spanish after four months in Colombia and charmed us with his stories of a recent trip to Madagascar.

Having met one of his living relatives, Samuel decided it was time to find an old building (now a library) which once belonged to his great-grandfather. Back in 2009, we took a 26 hour bus to the Caribbean coast of Colombia to find his living biological grandfather, so walking down the street to see the home of his long deceased great- grandfather seemed like an entirely natural step.

Of course, we got distracted on the way. First, by that gorgeous Church pictured above and below: St Lukas. Inside, prayers for Japan following the awful earthquake and tsunami.

Then by a riverside park, showing the first signs of impending spring.

Pierre and Samuel sharing a look over something I said.

Below: My Dream House !

We arrive at the library/ his great- grandfather's house.

Samuel with his great-grandfather.

Life goals being ticked off by the minute, we dance out into the streets of Munich with the taste of success and me singing inane songs about Paris (coming up). Samuel rolls his eyes so hard they almost fall out and murmurs: "how is this my life?!"

Exhausted, we fall into a Wirtschaft where I introduce him to Kaiserschmarrn (literally: Emperor's Nonsense, a pancake mishmash with apple sauce) and drink a hot Glühwein.

NB: Just now, from reading the wikipedia entry, I found out to my horror that Kaiserschmarrn is, in fact, an Austrian invention. Those who know me will know I am heinously and intractably prejudice against the Austrian nation, so this is forcing me to seriously reflect and reassess.

Weisswurst & Wald

2011-03-28T02:41:00.000-07:00

Ok, I promise not all my blog posts will be about food & nature, and begin in my Oma's kitchen, but that picture of Samuel was just too much for me to casually toss aside. He wasn't even trying to be funny, if you can believe it. I barely can.

I may remember Samuel from: Colombia, England & Taiwan. Onto country four, Samuel bought a very cheap (40 euro) airfare from London to come and visit me at my Opa's house. This meant a great deal, as none of my friends have ever met my German family, who are too wonderful, charming and downright eccentric for me to really describe.

To celebrate Samuel's arrival into Bavaria, we made ourselves a uniquely Bavarian lunch. First up, the 'Weisswurst' (white sausages). Vegetarian friends please look away. Weisswurst is made of veal (eeek I know! ethics!) and is delicious. It is traditionally served before noon, but that's because people didn't use to have refrigerators. So we ate ours at 1p.m. and didn't even die. It is cooked for ten minutes in boiled water which has been taken off the heat, so they don't burst. If they burst, you totally ruined it. Below: 'cooking' (more like heating) our Weisswurst.

Another classic: potato salad. Yes, I bought it and even photographed my own laziness. Below: amazing Bier from a nearby monastery/ brewery. If we were being really Bavarian we would have had Weissbier, but I reckon Andechs Bier, since 1455 or whenever, is authentic enough.

You need to buy a special 'sweet' Munich mustard to eat Weisswurst with.

And of COURSE: Brezel!

Woohoo! Amazing success below: (note the Bavarian FLAG on one of the glasses, we don't do things by half in this household).

After all that high-calorie nonsense, we decided to take a walk in the woods. Squint and you can see the Alps in the background. Note my fabulous Bavarian coat, and Samuel's not very Bavarian socks. Heart !

Cobbler & Snowbells in Bavaria

2011-03-27T07:06:00.000-07:00

Staying at Opa's is always a wonderful opportunity to utilise Oma's (rest her soul) fabulous kitchen, pictured above with Opa in the doorway. After seeing me with the camera he demanded I photograph him, which I was all too pleased to do. Maybe I am blinded by love, but he still reminds me of Humphrey Bogart.

Just as I was serving up apple and blueberry cobbler with bourbon vanilla icecream, my business uncle Christoph happened to turn up. This is the second time he has randomly appeared while I was serving something surprisingly delicious that I baked, and I love it, because it gives the mistaken impression that this is the kind of thing I do all the time.

Little brother Christoph to the Left and Burkhard (see previous blog) to the Right.

After stuffing ourselves with sugar and caffeine, Burkhard suggested I join him and an eco-colleague of some variety for a walk in some woods nearby, notable at this time of year for the flowering snowbells. After asking if I would be bored (answer: no), I happily said yes.

Then I took some silly photos of the top half of my, Burkhard's and his colleague's heads, in that order.

My Own Attenborough

2011-03-19T07:48:00.000-07:00

Whenever I go back 'home' to south Bavaria, one of the best activities is going on walks with my uncle Burkhard, whose job, passion and interest lies in protecting the eco-systems around here, with a particular emphasis on the lives of birds around the lake. Above, Burkhard in his office. Below, in his real office.

Below: some locals who innocently asked a question and happily found themselves on an intensive tour.

One of them asked Burkhard how ecologically important a piece of shore is; about 30metres long, near his town and currently being discussed as a place for a 'beach'.

Burkhard replied: "Well, about as important as two screws in an aeroplane. The plane will still fly, but if you take too many out, well ... "

Below: late-afternoon in a farming area. Using up the rest of the day.

Retrospective: Pancake Day/ Farewell

2011-03-19T06:53:00.000-07:00

On my final evening in Jerusalem, my flatmate faced me with a look of horror when I told her I had never heard of 'Pancake Day'. Basically, it's how English people make religion awesome. So, on a suitably delightful send-off, they made us pancakes - first with mushrooms, and then with lemon juice and sugar for dessert.

Aside from saying good-bye to the fine city of Jerusalem and my charming flatmates, I also had to bid farewell to a material possession which has held a particularly dear place in my heart. Every city I live in for 3 months or so (I don't really have a strict rule), I make sure to buy myself one 'luxury purchase' to remember the city by. Preferably something I can wear or some other form of 'Useful Aesthetics.'

Almost two years ago, in Hanoi, my luxury purchase was the beautiful 100% pure silk velvet coat below. As you can see from this picture, I loved it entirely to death and it seemed imprudent to take it with me, given my extreme shortage of bag space and my belief in the importance of letting go. My flatmate Yael made this farewell slightly less painful by adopting the coat as a particularly fine dressing gown. Also, I'll hopefully be in Hanoi for a week in June - and will find myself some new soft, stunning thing to wrap myself in.

My downstairs neighbours joined us, we drank together (I tried to keep this in check due to the impending flight) and took some final photographs in my bedroom. Also, see picture below for my new coat - one of my Jerusalem luxury purchases - designed and made in Israel.

These people waited up with me almost until my shuttle to the airport came, in the middle of the night. My friend Barak waited on the side of the road with me and listened to me fret about whether I had been forgotten, and chided me softly for not staying longer. Hanevi'im street was almost empty, except a few particularly strange orthodox people walking around and us, and when the shuttle did pull up, I hugged Barak and got in, putting my ipod on LOUD and trying not to cry.

Mahane Yehuda

2011-03-13T11:59:00.000-07:00

In some minor respects my three months in Jerusalem were quite trying - it was very cold, I had no money most of the time and my work entailed reading in detail about some of the worst news the region has to offer. However, if I was ever feeling particularly dour, there was one place sure to cheer me up and remind me there was nowhere I'd have rather been - the sprawling, chaotic Jewish market, known as the Mahane Yehuda or simply the Shuk.

With everything from tourist wares, to pita breads, olives and hummus, to a whole street of cleaning products, the Mahane Yehuda could provide endless hours of entertainment and people watching. And, even if I only had a few dollars, I could find something to make me feel a bit spoilt.

Above: where I bought a kippah for my friend Top. Below: a kippah store actually not in the market, but I wanted to give an idea of the range and amount around.

Yes, yes, all very nice things, but below we find what I primarily lived off for during my poor weeks - those pita breads which you buy in those plastic bags for 5 shekel (about $1.50nz). I would buy a bag and put it in the freezer to take a pita out, at whim, snap it in half and toast it. Delicious with tahini, boiled egg and salad.

Ticking off Life Dreams

2011-03-13T11:11:00.000-07:00

This might sound awfully presumptuous, but one of my romantic notions before coming to the Holy Land (TM) was to get to know the leftist/ peace movement to the extent that I could visit one of these beautiful people in their homes for dinner. This wasn't a concrete goal so much as a day-dream, and, like 95% of my Israel-related day-dreams, it came fantastically true.

My lovely supervisor was leaving Israel, hilariously on the same day as me, and this was her going away dinner. A big deal, given she had spent four years living there. This event was held at Jeff Halper's house - founding member of the Israeli Committee Against House Demolitions, and Nobel Peace Prize Nominee. I felt pretty spesh indeed. I asked Jeff if it was okay if I photograph his house, he laughed and said yes, and I warned "you'll have to forgive me, because I'm really going to go paparazzi crazy here."

Sitting around drinking (far too much) wine and listening to the conversation was quite wonderful. It was switching between Hebrew and English, but (contrary to popular misconception) I found people were very accommodating to the English speakers present.

Jeff's home was truly welcoming, the food was delicious and the atmosphere was entirely relaxed. I will really miss the people involved in the Israeli peace movement; they might be a minority, but they are a particularly charming, engaging and persistent bunch.

HaCassetta has a Birthday

2011-03-10T07:23:00.000-08:00

As I've mentioned before, Jerusalem is not a city known for it's nightlife - nearby Tel Aviv well and truly takes that prize. In saying that, perhaps coming from such a small town my bar is quite low, but I found the nightlife that did exist particularly charming and warm. It isn't hard to feel like everyone knows your name here.

One block in particular has the uber-trendy Uganda, named after the alternative state option for Israel and sister bars HaTaklit (the record) and HaCassetta (the cassette). There are rumours that HaIpod is on the way! This block was conveniently a 5 minute drunken stumble from my apartment and my flatmates would joke that HaTaklit is essentially "the lounge", as we didn't have one. This was particularly true one wonderful evening when they were put in charge of the music; they called the night "Wednesday I'm in Love" and played everything from 80s hits to Dolly Parton to Dizzie Rascal. Swoon!

While Hataklit is a large-ish, sports bar-ish area with photographs of famous visitors on the wall, including one of Rufus Wainwright which I regularly swoon at, HaCassetta is more like a little underground cave, as you can try to see above in my terrible photograph. All of these photos will be terrible, as I was rawther intoxicated. To see the famous doors covered in cassettes taken by someone who knew how to focus a camera, click here.

In any case, it's a wonderful place; everyone always talks to each other, the bar staff will happily play an entire Modern Lovers album on the stereo and the beer is cheap. And it was turning two!

Pictures of people I harassed below: Ishai (bar tender/ music chooser), Max (German student who hooked me up with contacts in Munich who will apparently feed me!), lovely art student (didn't catch his name) and the last photo is of long-suffering Inon (bartender/ music chooser) trying to do his job while I drunkenly pester him. Shame face.

Kadosh with Miri and Kristin

2011-03-10T06:59:00.000-08:00

My number one favourite activity to do with friends is to wile away hours in cafes, ordering all kinds of trivial luxuries and gossiping, usually about romance. In Jerusalem, the perfect place for such a pursuit is Kadosh, a 41 year old cafe which serves everything from meals to the best cakes in Jerusalem.

Beautiful Kristin and Miri. Choosing time!

I win at ordering (I don't mean this in a competitive fashion, I just mean I order fantastic things habitually). This time: delightful cheesecake with cream and strawberries, and "apple cider" which in Jerusalem doesn't mean the alcoholic drink, but rather a hot spiced apple juice - at Kadosh they serve it with tiny bits of apple and a whole cinnamon stick. Swoon !

Having Money in Jerusalem

2011-03-04T07:58:00.000-08:00

After well over a month of being broke in Jerusalem, it sure was a glorious day when I woke up to a bank account full of money. For weeks I had been surviving off pita bread, flatmates' generosity and the generosity of my family and of some particularly adorable friends. So, the first thing I wanted to do was pay one of these darlings back.

I strolled out into a sunny spring-like day only to stumble across these cuties blowing giant bubbles in Zion square, the site of a pro-Israel rally of some variety a few days earlier. I watched for ages and stuffed some of my new-found cash in their hat.

First priority: meet with beautiful Miri and give her a handful of owed cash. Not that Miri is the kind of person to care, but I sure did. Miri is from Germany but speaks English with a decidedly Southern American accent, after living in Texas for some time. She is a performance artist on exchange in Israel and tells the most detailed and surreal stories. True ones. Her company is absolutely never anything short of charmed.

We met in the cafe/ bookstore Tmol Shilshom. My lovely friend Bart had given me the 'mission' of going there and talking to a stranger. Instead, I forgot and spent the whole time talking to Miri. I did talk to a stranger at the next cafe though.

Almost overwhelmed with excitement, I ordered Shakshouka with goats cheese and eggplant, with bread and dips, and a coconut coffee. Am I over the top? Definitely yes.

I absolutely loved it all. The bread tasted just baked, the pesto was fresh and strong and the Shakshouka was perfect; full of cheese and giant. Thanks for the advice cute Bart.

After this we strolled to the Mahane Yehuda (market) where we sat in our favourite cafe and I drank mint tea. We started chatting to a charming older man, who turned out to be the owner and who gave us amazing coffee tequila shots, for free, at three in the afternoon. Then my friend, or rather - a local bartender, turned up and turned out to be the old man's son. Jerusalem really is that small.

On a different day, today actually, I strolled down to Damascus gate with my neighbour Matan who studies classical music and plays Bach on his piano so loudly I can hear it from my kitchen. He speaks beautiful German and says everything with such a straight face it's impossible to gauge how serious he is, or not. In any case, he is fantastic company and took me to this amazing - and cheap - diner where we got everything you see here for less than 60 shekelim ($20nz).

Vegetarians, look away.

Everyone else, just look at that chicken! Delicious!

Now: lying in bed trying to rest-up for HaCassetta's (one of my favourite bars) birthday party tonight, listening to piano sounds from downstairs and waiting for a Mad Men episode to load.

Gogol Bordello in Tel Aviv

2011-03-01T08:44:00.000-08:00

Before coming to Israel, without knowing that one of the members of Gogol Bordello is Israeli, I sat in my kitchen in Dunedin, New Zealand and had a vivid day-dream about going to see Gogol Bordello play live in Tel Aviv.

For years, whenever people asked "which band would you most like to see live?" my answer has been Gogol Bordello. Not only was it obvious that their stage presence would blow all my previous experiences out of the water, but I've also got a massive heart entanglement with the music and with my solo travelling life. Sometimes, when I'm alone in a foreign place, I will fall prey to piercing loneliness or anxiety about my life direction. At times like that, a sure fix is to put on one of my life philosophy songs (like 'Ultimate') and stroll around my new city.

So, you can imagine my reaction when, within weeks of arriving in Jerusalem, Noa runs out of her bedroom screaming, I ask WHAT?, and she says "GOGOL BORDELLO are COMING to TEL AVIV!"

I bought a ticket immediately and patiently waited eight weeks. On top of four years, it wasn't much.

The venue was Barbi in Tel Aviv. Above, the queue outside and then inside the bar. Beautiful bellydancer below.

The opening band were some Israeli ska band. Needless to say, I didn't love them, as I really don't get into ska. They were also kind of 'jazzy' in a Sunday morning cafe way, which I truly don't get into. However, this being Israel, they were good looking - so all wasn't lost.

The gap between opening band and Gogol Bordello coming on stage was painfully long and I whined almost the whole time. I paused while this beautiful girl above was doing burlesque acrobatics.

Below: FINALLY. I nearly passed out upon seeing Eugene Hutz in real life; I find him unbearably beautiful. I put my camera away for the vast majority of the gig, as it involved a lot of extremely raucous jumping around, and besides, I didn't want to be one of those kids (pictured below) who live behind their cameras, or worse - phones. So, the pictured moments are the quieter moments in the gig, like when Eugene came back onto the stage part-way through a fantastically long encore and played an acoustic, tragic version of 'Alcohol.' Needless to say, I was swooning.

What really makes Gogol Bordello for me is the diverse and equally involved band members. The guitarist below is actually from Tel Aviv, so he got a beautiful home town welcome. Other members come from Ecuador, Hong Kong, Ethiopia, Russia and Ukraine and at one point every member sang the opening line of the Beatles 'Girl' in their mother tongue; a song which Eugene saw as being heavily influenced by gypsy lament songs.

Another potent moment for me was when they burst into an extremely energetic version of 'Immigraniada (We Comin' Rougher)' and the crowd went absolutely insane. I like to hope it was in reaction to the despicable anti-immigration rallys in Tel Aviv recently.

Going to see GB in this particularly place, at this time, was more fascinating, joyful and faith-restoring than anything I could have conceived of in my mansion kitchen all those months ago. I've been floating ever since.

ex-oh-ex-oh

Dream date: flatmates, nature & cheese

2011-02-21T07:40:00.000-08:00

Oh hi outside!

I'm sure many people around the world like to wax lyrical about their flatmates, "I have the best flat mates ever" lalala et cetera, because it's so shit when you have bad flatmates that it's really exciting when your flatmates are awesome. The thing is, those people are lying. Not to you per se, but to themselves. Because I truly have the best flatmates.

Cut to Saturday morning: I'm sitting around drinking coffee, when my flatmate offers me a Bacon Butty. Just casually, as if such an offer isn't the best news I've heard all week. Then, while I'm eating said butty with Dave and Yael, they ask if I would like to come on a walk with them and Izzi, you know, outside. I give my laptop a parting glance and say yes.

We drive for a while (which is, honestly, almost my favourite part because I LOVE sitting in cars) and arrive at the American Independence Park, near Jerusalem, where we begin our stroll. Within ten minutes we accidentally stumble across a goat farm, where they make fresh cheese so good it 'almost' made me cry.

'Stumbling across cheese shops' in the middle of nowhere is the kind of thing I thought only occurred in Conde Nast travel magazine articles about upper-middle class writers tripping around rural France.

Women wearing headscarves like that while cutting us fresh cheese ?! What kind of fantasy land have I stumbled into.

We packed up the cheese and 'stumbled' on, more literally, along narrow paths through pretty thick scrub and trees.

Roughly an hour on, we reach this clearing and scoff the cheese, preparing for the hike up the hill and the drive home - where I fell into bed and had a well deserved (for once) sleep.

Industry and Frugality

2011-02-14T09:51:00.001-08:00

My life recently hasn't contained a great deal worth blogging about, largely due to my horrendous financial situation. For those who don't know, Jerusalem is really expensive - even a student from Paris complained to me about the cost of living here. Add to that the fact I am having bureaucracy issues with organising my student allowance and you have my dismal situation, where I have literally been looking for spare shekels under my bed, inviting myself to friends' houses for meals and eating delicious scraps my flatmates feed me.

(Pictured above in our kitchen, Leeor (Israeli) and Yael (British/ Israeli) - two of my lovely flatmates. Last night Yael and Izzi cooked us all a delicious roast chicken. Bless their hearts).

The positive offshoot of my situation is that I am learning about frugality. For a Libran, this is not a particularly natural or enjoyable state of affairs, but I can certainly see the use-value. For example, I wanted to contribute to the roast (like everyone else did), so I found a delightful apple cobbler recipe and made that - most of the ingredients are things you already have, you just need to buy a bag of apples.

Tonight, I was hungry with only 9 shekel of spare change (approx $3nz) and barely anything in my cupboard. I do have a bag of brown lentils, so I googled 'lentil salad' and found a wonderful recipe for Mediterranean lentil salad. With my 9 shekel jangling in my pocket I strolled down to my local arabic green grocer and bought the pictured items: (I had to leave out numerous things in the actual recipe, but I did add in fresh rosemary, ginger and tomato)

This salad is cooked in a pot of water and makes the whole kitchen smell like heaven.

Tada! Ok, I'm never going to win any food presentation awards for this (it would certainly look more beautiful with the celery component added), but it did taste delicious and made me feel really sated. The dressing is olive oil/ lemon/ salt/ pepper which sounds basic, but when mixed with the bay leaves/ ginger/ rosemary and made using our fantastic Palestinian olive oil, well!

I will be making this again (and again!).

xoxo

In Which I have a Quiet Night

2011-02-05T09:07:00.001-08:00

Last Thursday I was rather broke and also not much in the mood for going out, when this lovely Israeli couple from couchsurfing called me and asked me to meet them. I never say no to offers like this, because to do so would be shutting the universe and luck out of my life. Since I didn't want to drink much or go crazy, I took my camera for the walk. Above is my favourite street on the way from my house to my local bars (ten minutes walk max! amazing).

The event was a big Jerusalem grassroots festival thing, where they had all kinds of performances all over town. Below two hilarious Israeli performers imitate Nazis. Very well I might add. There were mixed reactions in the crowd. I can't say what my opinion is, as a lot of the dialogue was in Hebrew and for all I know I would have hated it. I did love the physical aspect of the comedy and also the parts where they spoke 'German' - it all reminded me of Charlie Chaplin's amazing rendition of Hitler in The Great Dictator.

A local band taking a moment between jumping around.

And, after one quiet drink and a nice conversation, my very early walk home. Below is my beautiful street, Hanevi'im - Hebrew for Prophet.

The gate to my home! Tea, internet and sleep time.

Xmas in Bethlehem

2011-01-22T00:45:00.000-08:00

For Christmas last year I decided to make the 15 km journey from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, across that line, to see what the thousands of pilgrims do there every year. To be clear, I am resolutely not religious. However, I have been known to shed tears in churches, temples and sometimes when I hear the Islamic call to prayer. I chalk this up to being an affected aesthete.

My accommodation for my two nights in Bethlehem was through an alternative travel agency who placed me with a Palestinian family. Not just any Palestinian family, but the family of one of the tour guides/ politically connected big deal in his community. My host was one of the most gracious gentlemen I have ever met and taught me a great deal about the conflict, from a very sympathetic and moderate perspective. His family were completely welcoming, his wife cooked me the most fantastic Palestinian food and his children entertained Pierre. Or the other way round. It was a truly lovely two days.

Side story: My host had not been to Jerusalem in 18 years - since 1992 - due to his being Palestinian and not having a Jerusalem ID card (these are very difficult to obtain, you need to live in Jerusalem). On the day I was returning to Jerusalem, him and his family were also making the very short journey across the checkpoint, as he and his wife had finally been granted permission slips to visit. To be able to go with them was a real honour.

I started my evening of the 24th at Shepherd's Field, which was - extremely surprisingly - full of busloads of Indonesian tourists all wearing Santa hats. The two lovely girls above let me photograph them.

Security: tight. As always. The main Church is closed to the general public while the VIPs attend midnight mass.

Martin and I sit down for a glass of "HOLY LAND" wine, which I'm now concerned may have been settler wine - but probably not, given we were in Palestine.

Check out that couple above.

In the church once the VIP mass is over. There is an incredibly eclectic mix of people, including a Priest from Argentina who gives me his prayer beads (which he bought in Rome and used to pray during the VIP Midnight Mass). Below, these young, clearly wealthy British kids arrive amongst much pomp and are treated as special. I would love to know why. Everywhere around this church there were secret doors and out-of-bounds areas with Euro money entering and leaving ... the Church really knows how to do elitism and hierarchy.

The next day (the 25th): I visit the Church built around the spot where Jesus was supposedly born. I am saying 'supposedly' not as a snide atheist, but because there is a lot of contention as to where precisely he was born - and many naysayers regarding this particular choice.

Going down into the little underground room with that star on the ground. The woman in front of me was writhing on the floor having a rather mystical time, when the Monk asked her brusquely to 'please, move along' and looked at me, asked me to remain standing, to which I replied "of course I will". He looked back at writhing lady and rolled his eyes with me.

Uncovering the original floor (above) and Bethlehem at night (below).

Silly Hat Party

2011-01-10T06:24:00.001-08:00

Jerusalem is known as a quiet and religious city, and this is true, but because I am who I am I managed to have an exceptionally raucous weekend anyway. Can take the girl out of New Zealand, but ... (lalala).

I had been looking forward to this Silly Hat Party for some time, as it was at the flat of lovely Noa and Shlomi - my darling Israeli hosts who let me stay in their apartment for a rawther long time. However, instead of preparing for this fest in a sensible fashion, I spent all afternoon at my 'local' watching the FA cup (Arsenal VS Leeds) and being introduced to Hot Toddys, which will henceforth bear the name "my favourite drink ever." Well, first equal with Gin.

Unfortunately, as I am out of drinking practice (due to restrictive finances, not a change in ethics), this resulted in me being rather sozzled by quite early evening. Here is evidence, in the form of a PhotoBooth picture I took of myself before heading out the door:

In New Zealand, turning up at a party already drunk is, if not quite acceptable, not really a big deal. In Israel, where people are generally much more measured and demure, it is quite strange. I roll in to a room full of softly spoken sweethearts wearing actually rather nice hats and promptly start bouncing off the walls like a little tigger.

Luckily for me, my host Noa (pictured below) is a rather rambunctious character herself and she took control of the situation by putting on loud music and clearing a dance floor. Hence forth, I could jump around all I wanted. A few words about Noa: she is a badass waitress/ design student whose work I'd love to photograph but it's pretty protected and will be at a Toy Exhibition soon. Noa loves Hebrew, good food and comic books, so we understand each other very well. Note her amazing heart dress.

Pictured above is Shlomi the other host and also a design student. He comes from a town up north whose name I constantly forget and is very tolerant of me stealing his olives. When I was staying on their couch, Shlomi would wake me in the morning with a cup of tea. This is the kind of thing I like, very much.

It might seem cheesy to say, but my weekend in Jerusalem meant a lot more to me than simple hedonistic fun (although I'm not complaining about that part). On all three evenings (Thurs, Fri, Sat) I had things to do and people to see, and the people I got to see were so kind, hilarious and, well, 'my kind of people'. To have a weekend in a relatively new city where I feel so welcomed and such a part of a really exciting community is A Big Deal Indeed. I've never felt so at home so quickly.

'Til next time. Ex Oh Ex Oh.

Addis Ababa: My First Africa

2011-01-07T08:49:00.000-08:00

Sitting on my newly 'built' bed, in my bedroom in Jerusalem on Prophet Street, it seems like a long way from the silly five days I had in Addis Ababa. Officially though, I'm actually on Ethiopian land right now - I live in the former Ethiopian embassy and pay my monthly rent to the Ethiopian government. My life always operates in a weird cyclical fashion.

A few weeks ago, I had a five day stopover in the capital of Ethiopia, the sprawling, dusty and surprisingly cold city of Addis Ababa. My photos from this mini-trip are sporadic, random and often taken from the window of a taxi (the lovely blue Ladas featured above). This is because walking around taking photos is always weird, but especially so in Addis; a near limbless beggar asking for a few Birr while I stroll past with my $900 camera is a bit much, even for me, with my iron-clad stomach for the awkwardness of my comparative wealth. I know there are ways around this awkwardness, but they tend to require knowing people and staying in a place more than five days.

One day, with a list of heinous bureaucratic chores, Björn, Maryanne and I headed to the Hilton to achieve them and for some colonial times. These two delightful and warm people held my hand while I adjusted to the beat of the city. Björn is a Swiss gentleman who has had such experiences as peace keeping post-conflict in Kosovo and obtaining South African citizenship. Maryanne is living in Montpellier, studying to be a speech therapist and having what sounds like a very fabulous existence. Both were in Ethiopia for a few months to travel, and I was fiercely envious of their travel plans and later, of the photos they posted of their hijinks.

I contacted a young German guy studying sociology in Addis Ababa, and ended up having the most wonderful evening in his apartment (below). Till travelled through the African continent a few years ago, fell headlong in love with Ethiopia and was offered a scholarship to scope out Addis as a possible exchange option for people doing African studies. He is only 23, and makes me wince at how little I've done comparatively. He described his flatmate Kume as being 'like a brother' to him and when I met him I could see why. Kume is a multilingual genius, warm and full of interesting stories, which I got to hear over an evening of Khat chewing, sheesha and Lauryn Hill in their apartment and with their friends.

Most of my time in Addis I simply walked the streets, got lost and talked to people, but I decided that since I was there, it was also important to do a few of the more 'cultural' things. For example, I went to the Museum to see 'Lucy' - unfortunately she was away in the States: "on vacation, 'cos you know all Ethiopians want to go to the U.S.A." my tour guide quipped.

After my tour guide refused payment, on the grounds that I'm a student, and then took me out for coffee, I went for a stroll around the University grounds:

Above: the Law library. Below: a student cafe surrounded by purple flowers.

While I was out having my adventures, Pierre stayed right here; in my room, eating oranges (see pictures below). While I love Pierre very much and would never speak badly of him, he can be a tad conservative, or maybe a little scaredy-cat, so he was not so keen on the idea of 'traipsing around the rues of Africa' ...

... However, every night, when I was trying to sleep, he would keep me awake for hours asking me to tell him again about the fruit stands, the amharic dancing, the Italian architecture, the historic struggle (and success) against colonialism, why Haile Selassie is a messianic figure in the Rastafari faith, what the children said to me today on the street, what the biggest open-air market in Africa is like, the lurching busses, the mountains in the distance, sometimes obscured by the dusty smog, and, mostly, about the most stunning people on Earth.

I Do Something Practical: the Inaugural Edition

2011-01-04T11:45:00.000-08:00

JERUSALEM:

Two days ago I moved into my new place, in the former Ethiopian embassy, and promptly got a ghastly cold, was bed-ridden, didn't unpack and slept for more hours than is decent - on my mattress on the floor. Terrible first impression sealed, I got well and decided that I really don't want to be living on a mattress on the floor. I've done it before, and it was fine, but also kind of cold, dusty and disgusting.

I was walking home from the Mahane Yehuda Market, also known as: the best place on earth, when I noticed those wooden crate things outside a hardware store. I went in and conversed with two girls who could barely speak English, and described the crates in the question, and they, realising what I wanted, laughed and said "just take them!" Beaming, I strode outside.

Not so beaming, I walked them, first one, then two at once (this was almost impossible), then one again, the ten minute walk to my house. Ten minutes isn't long, but it is much longer with a giant wooden thing, excruciatingly pained hands and weird looks from every passer-by. On my final mission, a cute Jewish boy, who was unfortunately also sleazy, offered me a ride in his van. Usually, I would say no to such an 'offer', but I wasn't in the mood to care and said yes, and regaled him with tales of my non-existant live-in boyfriend, while he literally made kissy faces at me. The fact he actually believed my boyfriend story is quite remarkable - what kind of a shit boyfriend would send his girlfriend out to get some wooden crates and not help? Certainly not anyone I'd date.

Make-shift bed base, make-shift wardrobe.

Ok, now I'm home <3 xox

Overcoming Neurosis: Final Taipei Retrospective

2011-01-04T11:13:00.000-08:00

In Taipei there is a famous, concept Restaurant which is toilet themed; the food is served in toilet-shaped receptacles, you sit on toilet seats (with lids thankfully!) and you eat off a glass surface on a bathtub, full of comments from previous patrons. One of the comments said: "just a gimmick!". I certainly see where the writer was coming from, and agree, but in my particular case there was a bit more weight behind it, or potential to be life changing in some (extremely inane) way.

Those who know me (all my readers) will know I absolutely loathe toilet humour. Worse, I loathe mentions of bodily fluids, unless (very rare event) the mention is either extremely medically serious, in which case I put aside my revulsion, or extremely funny. Only my dearest friends, and those who are usually very proper, know how to make anything toilet related funny. Anything along the Austin Powers vein: certainly not. It's become so bad that one of my darling friends has taken to introducing me as "this is Lei. She was with a guy for over two years and she wouldn't even pee in the same room as him! Crazy, right?!" Frankly, I don't know why anyone would want to.

Long story short, it was with considerable trepidation I went up the stairs of this toilet themed establishment, and I muttered to Samuel: "you know, this is like, kind of a big deal for me" and he rolled his eyes, and said, as he says to everything, "IIII knooooww".

As you can see, any awkwardness quickly degenerated into a "matzav kapit"; a Hebrew expression which literally translated means 'teaspoon situation' and means those times when you're in such hysterics even a teaspoon seems unbearably funny. Or in this case, a prawn. First it was talking French, a la Pierre, but then it's nationality and gender changed and we named her Margaret Thatcher.

Next: dessert!

And Samuel realises what he's done...

Finally, as this is my last rant about how weird and wonderful Taipei is, I thought I'd include this photo of this old lady, in the middle of a shopping square, with a pram (but no baby), singing really badly and loudly, with a giant shoe in the background. Not a particularly unusual sight in Taiwan.

Taipei = Good Eating

2010-12-22T10:35:00.000-08:00

If I'm going to talk about food in Taipei, and why would anyone talk about anything else, then I have to begin with dumplings. Above are the best dumplings in the world. No kidding fools. I die a little inside knowing I can't get them anywhere else but bloody Taipei, hogging all the dumpling action. You know how in the 'west' when you order dumplings you get either "steamed" or "fried", and if you choose "fried" they are deep fried completely, within an inch of their tender lives ?! Well, here's the news: in Taipei, they are steamed and then just fried on two sides. Maybe if you enlarge the picture and look closely you can tell - you probably don't want to do that though, or you might pass out from envy, and hanger.

At a Japanese place in the student area I had - a fried mix thing which ruled my life: lots of cabbage, gravy-ish sauce, cheese and an egg in the hot pot, served with rice. Weird fact: both Koreans and Germans are geniuses with cabbage (and apparently the Japanese). Maybe they had a secret meeting centuries ago...

Umm, this photo above is sub-standard ('cos I'm usually so Magnum), but I had to include it because that meal was my personal favourite. What I love about the Taiwanese (apart from their hot bods) is their total inclusion of vegetables and they devotion to making them really sing. In my country (New Zealand) many housewives spend their lives boiling vegetables into a soggy mess and wondering why their kids don't like it. In Taiwan, people cover their vegetables with delicious spices, throw in some chopped and roasted peanuts, and try to fight their kids off. Literally, this was happening at the table beside us.

Ooh and then I had a whitey breakfast of salmon eggs benedict at the most fabulous western-style cafe in Taipei - Grandma Nitti's. I was actually at the place across the road, but it's run by the same people, has more space and you don't have to wait forever to be seated. Bonus.

Below, Samuel's face when I had my eggs benedict and he didn't.

Pharmacy Products in Taiwan

2010-12-22T10:16:00.001-08:00

A paradox indeed.

Below, a special inside joke for Joss and anyone who knows him, or any other Manc.

Atlanta Bangkok

2010-12-20T09:35:00.000-08:00

Every time I go to BKK I have an internal argument about which area to stay in, and thus, which hotel to stay in. A few things have happened recently which has put this argument to rest, namely:

I stayed in Khaosan Road again (main backpacker ghetto) and realised that while it is convenient (kind of), it's also way too much like Castle Street in Dunedin - full of drunk kids in their early 20s. Fine. That's amusing, and if I really want to see it, I can still visit. But do I want to be wallowing in the middle of it anymore? No. Fun while it lasted Khaosan, I do still have a place for you in my heart - and especially for the adorable Thai teenagers who hang around looking superior. There are more of them every time!
The beautiful sky-train system in Bangkok now goes to the airport! I'm sorry, what?! Yes, the TRAIN goes to the AIRPORT. i.e. omg. i.e. now it's only like 60 cents to get into town. i.e. I don't have to fluffle around with taxi drivers anymore. i.e. BEST NEWS EVER. This train goes into the centre of BKK and not the tourist ghetto (Khaosan).
I returned to my old faithful hotel the Atlanta, beautifully situated on the fringe of the Sukhumvit area, right smack on the train system. I am obsessed with the Atlanta, see why here.

The pictures in this post just show the view from my room, above after I cleaned my lens and below, before - when the heat was allowed free reign. I love the Atlanta.

Sitting in the diner, I heard two old British/ Australian men and a gorgeous young Thai man discussing whether it is acceptable to read Shakespeare. I just HAD to butt in.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry to interrupt, but my friend told me yesterday that reading Shakespeare should be illegal !"

The three men turned to me with amused/ perplexed expressions and begged me to defend this extreme viewpoint.

"Well, back in the day, hundreds of years ago, the actors were not even allowed to read the plays in their entireties. They were only given their own lines and the line directly before it, so that when they practiced they'd really have to respond and listen to the others."

Thank you Samuel for this extreme view and information, because it turns out they found my tidbit totally fascinating and it turns out they happen to be dear friends and long-term livers-in/ employees of the Atlanta hotel. Bless~!

Also, I went swimming alone in the pool after midnight, in the tropical heat, under these giant green palm like monstrosities and vines (Anthony, if you're reading: the plants have almost engulfed the pool since we were there!). Swimming under a star filled sky, fat moon and leaves as big as me, I realised, for once, that the exact moment in my life I wanted to be in was the one which was happening right then. For someone who lives perpetually in plans and the future, such a feeling is rare and treasured.

ex - oh - ex.

Mountains and Tea

2010-12-07T18:47:00.000-08:00

Samuel always says he's actually not much of a traveler. People find this hard to believe, as he has lived in a few countries and speaks multiple languages. However, I know Sammy well, and I know it's true. Like me, he enjoys new cities and living in them, but once he's there - once his belongings are unpacked and all over his floor - he is loathe to leave and explore the rest of whatever country he is in. For example, in his 9 months in Colombia he only really left Bogota once, with me and John, on a trip to the Caribbean coast to find his biological grandfather. Even this required some prodding.

So, knowing Samuel wouldn't know anything, I did some lonely planet Taiwan research in the friendly Dunedin public library before I left and decided that my one demand was that we visit Jiufen & Jinguashi, two little villages (3km apart) in the North of Taiwan. These are only about 40 minutes train away from Taipei and their main boasts are mountain walks and tea houses - I knew I could sell all this to Sam.

Below: Jinguashi street, near the "Gold Ecological Park" (further below).

This year the 'Gold Ecological Park' motto is: "2010: Year of the Silver Grass."

After several hours schlepping our unfit selves around Taiwanese mountains, we caught the bus to Jiufen, famous for it's traditional tea houses. Once there, we ordered the "mountain dragon" tea, known for it's energy and strength enhancing qualities, and were taught how to pour tea the 'proper' way. Note how serious we are about this.

The tea gave us just enough energy and dragon-like strength to get the train home, have a disagreement about Lars von Trier, and watch another episode of "The Walking Dead" (uh-mazing), before passing out - exhausted, contented and disproportionately proud of ourselves.

Retrospective: Sydney + Surrounds

2010-12-05T18:55:00.001-08:00

The central reason I even came to Sydney = above. Karen - my darling friend you may remember from Colombia. Karen is wearing a puppy umbrella, a penny-farthing t-shirt and a real Greek fisherman's hat she just found in a vintage store. AMAZING.

After an all-night train journey and a morning at the most amazing market (more below), Karen bundled me into a car with lovely Lydia (below) and we drove to coastal NSW on an ill-planned, mis-informed and riotous road trip.

On the first night we stayed at Karen's mother and grandmother's house in Ulladulla and, despite us turning up with about 40 minutes notice, they were some of the kindest and most hospitable hosts I've ever had the pleasure of being hosted by. It was also fascinating to see where Karen gets many of her traits from, both physical and psychological. See the three generations below.

Karen's mum Judith is going to NYC for Christmas this year, and plans to wear her vintage fur coat (passed on through generations) - "Well when else am I going to wear it?! In Ulladulla?! I don't think so."

After a much-needed sleep, we drove to a beach famous for it's wild Eastern grey kangaroos - here is one of the cutest ones. They were everywhere and quite used to humans gawking at them. I amused the Australians by being constantly blown away by the whole event = "oh my GOD. oh my. I can't believe there is a kangaroo just literally standing right there. I mean, I knew they had kangaroos in Australia, but not just everywhere like this, not just like hanging out."

While in Melbourne and prancing around the gardens, Telford made this statement: "This is just like, so nice, I mean, where are the homeless people?! If I was homeless, I would come to the park to hang out." I've never been to a city as consistently rich and secure seeming as Melbourne - this is not to say there is no poverty (I am not an idiot), but that the poverty is not visible to a casual observer, in the main areas of the city.

In Sydney, this is not the case. Sydney has a much more visible and arresting 'under-belly', and the wealth there, maybe by consequence, doesn't feel quite as cushy and definite.

Above are the old carriage works - a fantastic red-brick industrial space now used as a huge open air farmers market - i.e. a farmers market which can still function comfortably in the rain; genius. I had a savoury crepe there with spinach, mushroom and cheese and it ruled my morning. Across the street, there are the old workers' homes which are now, of course, highly desired and trendy places to live.

I really liked Sydney, quite a lot more than people had led me to believe I would. It has more of a harsh edge than Melbourne and is certainly busier, more competitive and more corporate, and I can see why that puts people off, but it is also an exceptionally pretty city with really interesting history and wildly varied neighbhourhoods. I think I'd have to be feeling very secure (and wealthy) to want to live there though.

Up to the Minute News: Breakfast

2010-12-03T16:17:00.001-08:00

Breakfast in Taipei this morning: three manic passionfruit, a sleepy dragonfruit and a HUGE and excited pomelo. Not Pierre, he's just joining us.

"Oh Leila, nous n'avons pas les fruits comme ca en France!"

post script: thx Gigi for inspiring me to put faces on my previously faceless fruit.

Retrospective: Melbourne

2010-12-02T20:32:00.001-08:00

Although I am now sitting in the bedroom of my dear friend Samuel in Taipei, many miles and days away from Melbourne, I thought I would finally get around to posting about it. I spent much longer than anticipated in that fine city, as I 1) missed my first deadline to leave due to ineptitude, 2) missed the roadtrip which was going to take me to Sydney due to exhaustion and 3) missed my flight, two days later, due to a heinous lack of planning. So, after very numerous days living in the beautiful home of Chloe, Hamish, Telford & Louise, I finally got the only kind of transportation I can handle (a train) and chugged to Sydney in a daze of disbelief.

Also, I feel like a loser posting these pictures as they already exist on facebook, but MOM doesn't have facebook so at least they'll be new to someone. <3>

What I love about Melbourne (a brief sampling):

My friends. The circle of people living in Melbourne, and granting me access to their floor, fridge and liquor cabinet, are some of the greatest and warmest people around. Not to mention caustically offensive. Oh heart.
The architecture. (See first picture!). That terraced housing, swoon. North Fitzroy was just named 'whitest' suburb in Melbourne by the Stuff White People Like author, partly due to its incredible aesthetic.
Umm, everything. I kinda want to live there ok? Bright sun, strangers who smile and talk to me, people not staring at each other if they wear something slightly unusual, FOOD FOOD FOOD, the fact each neighbourhood could almost be a seperate city in terms of it's feel... lalala shut up.
Oh, those trams.

(Hamish 'incognito' and Chloe).

The photos above (taken by the jolie Cindy from very rural French Canada) and below were taken in the middle of a very long period of partying. Just after these photos we went to the spa, where Cindy pranced around in her lingerie (much to the chagrin of the pool supervisor, who was wearing crocs to match his vest, much to my chagrin) and then, after changing into more respectable clothes, to a Russian orthodox Church service. First, we tried to go to an Italian Catholic service, but they had a notice on the door in very fine print, covering an entire page, about how abortion laughs in the face of human rights or some junk. Could Not Deal. Anyway, the Russian service was seriously moving. I recommend.

Suburbs

2010-11-22T14:31:00.001-08:00

Hello beautiful friends, just a little retrospective on my few days in Auckland. The garden belongs to Stuart and Jenna and it is so glorious. It has: a grapefruit tree, a lemon tree, a (probably) plum tree and a very well-loved vegetable garden. I spent an entire day lazing under a tree reading and listening to music, and in doing so checked off one thing on my long list of life fantasies (I have always wanted to lie in somewhat unkempt grass under a stone fruit tree).

On a slightly more productive day, I drove ZamZam and Liz to Mt Eden and got them to snuggle me for this photo: (HEART).

Pilot Whales

2010-11-17T14:17:00.001-08:00

Here are some pictures of some of the twenty-plus pilot whales we saw on the Tutukaka coast, near Poor Knights. The photos were taken and kindly emailed to me by Martin Wallis.

Poor Knights

2010-11-16T23:29:00.000-08:00

The Poor Knights islands are part of a marine reserve near Whangarei, pictured above in the far off distance. Jacques Cousteau named them one of the top ten dive sites in the world and they were recently listed as one of the top ten places to see nature. I've wanted to go for ages, so I thought I should make it a priority before leaving New Zealand.

I stayed with lovely Bob and Cyn, two Californians who have lived just outside Whangarei for a few years, after sailing from San Francisco to Auckland. They now make their own sail boats and partake in cycling races in the North Island, although both activities are currently impossible given to Cyn's knee operation and Bob's broken femur (from a cycling accident).

They live in a beautiful semi-rural 19th century home down a gorgeous drive and I was their first couch surfer.

I asked them if they didn't find it testing to share such a small space (a boat) for so long, and they both laughed.

Bob said: "Well, Cyn is pretty great company actually"

And Cyn looked over from the kitchen and said "My idea of heaven is to be with Bob all the time. So ... "

As to the dive trip, OH MY GAWD. As we were taking the boat out we found ourselves in the middle of a huge pod of pilot whales - seriously at least twenty of them - who were often only metres away, surfacing regularly and traveling with their new babies. I was quite delirious and asked the skipper:

"How often does something like this happen?"

"Oh, maybe two, three times a year. This is the kind of thing you have to work on a boat for a year to see."

Me: "Or just come once, on the right day!" (Brat...)

Cyn and Bob below.

My room:

p.s. If you're ever going to Whangarei I really recommend seeing if Cyn and Bob are around. They told me to come back with friends. Heart !

Wellington

2010-11-14T13:45:00.001-08:00

Wellington was a total lovefest, as always. We danced, we danced, we danced. Well, and we drank and posed for iPod photos - Alex, post them please !

Little Pierre really loves Gianna and Alex, it's quite rare he connects with people so easily and quickly.

Donedin

2010-11-14T13:15:00.000-08:00

So, I just had my last week in Dunedin where I got tearfull and embarrassing on numerous occasions, most noticeably crying into Lucinda's hair in Re:Fuel. Oh, the shame. I am supposed to a stoic German.

Anyway, another thing which made me feel slightly sick was leaving my beautiful, if messy, tower room in the Manor. Here are some leaving shots of my mayhem.

I don't do good-byes and usually prefer to slink out in anxiety-ridden weirdness, but instead, my beautiful friends threw me a farewell surprise. Check out the phallic straw below.

I also went diving out on the mole one last time and got to hang out with this local.

I finally got a photo of my favourite graffiti in Dunedin. I love it because, in Dunedin, I think it's kind of true. I was describing Dunedin to my American friend John and he said "God, your town sounds like a high school in the 1950s." Beautiful !

But despite all my tears and nostalgia, it's worth remembering where I truly live: right here, on the internet. And that is coming with me. xo !

p.s. Sorry for the lame quality of these photos, I am learning to use my budgo point+shoot marketed as 'suitable for tweens'.

Hotere's Ex-Home

2010-11-04T20:27:00.001-07:00

On this beautiful, rainy Friday (my last in Dunedin), I borrowed my sisters car and drove out to Carey's Bay - listening to "Hits of the 70s", driving too fast and remembering why I really need a car in my life. Alexis Belton, who now lives in Hotere's grand old home with several others, graciously allowed me to come out and be snap happy in their 1880s sanctuary.

Above you see the entrance to the lift which was necessary after Hotere had a stroke in 2002.

The 'famous' kitchen, Alexis and - below - Bronwyn. Alexis was one of my most precocious students a few years ago in POLS101, and as this is Dunedin, turned out to be the cousin of one of my dearest friends. For those who don't know, the Beltons are the most wonderful, eccentric and gifted family I have ever had a good fortune to be allowed to loiter around. Alexis himself is no exception, having his feet in two camps (New Zealand and France) and with an inexplicable (to me) interest in medical history.

Bronwyn, the cat, turned out to be (biologically speaking) a tomcat actually, but 'she' had been called a girl for so long that she has remained so for all intents and purposes.

Alexis pulled out this giant tray for us to take tea with, in order to create a complete fantasy of what his life in this house is. Turns out, pragmatism had other plans.

Alexis: Umm, can you help me this tray? It wont fit.

"The best study. Ever"

The lift. Alexis confessed to finding it rather frightening. "Well, you know when you're using a lift in a public place, it's serviced, but if this stopped? ..."

I can't recall the name of the above cat, but Alexis clearly favours it and told me about it before I met it, "Oh, if you think Bronwyn is cute, wait til you meet ... (Zeeke?)"

Also - elder flowers are the best thing ever.

The inhabitants!

Bogan Weekend

2010-10-24T14:06:00.000-07:00

Me: "I don't know if bogans drink wine though ..."

Logan: "Sure they do! It's cheaper than beer. For getting drunk."

Nostalgia for the Present

2010-10-20T12:22:00.001-07:00

In these final weeks in my little Antarctic hometown of Dunedin, I've been trying to take in as much of the glorious architecture as possible. This isn't just something I do when I'm leaving, like a lover who is only attentive when there's been a fight, but something I always do. When I was a child, my favourite activity was Sunday 'drives' with Mom, with the hope of coming across open homes. Usually we would mock the homes, and the inhabitants (after leaving of course!), but occasionally we found real gems and would construct elabourate fantasies about what our lives might be like if we lived there.

Now, people will tell you that a home will not change your life. I've lived in all kinds of homes, and I'm here to tell you that's not simply not true. A home has an indelible effect on your character, and vice versa. But more vice. This home belongs to a rather private man, whose name I will not mention for that reason, but I will say that I once bought a fantastic brown station wagon off him and more importantly, I've many times purchased his home hot-smoked salmon. It is the best salmon in the world. I say this without reservation, as it would be completely impossible for there to be a better food than this salmon. It only goes for sale when he happens to have some, and I am known to throw previous financial plans (ha!) to the wind in order to purchase a kilo of it. As a result of this, once while living in a fridge on Warden Street, Anthony and I had (in the way of food stuffs) a grand total of:

3 casks of red wine (kindly given to Anthony for his birthday from 3 friends who know him all too well).
1 Kilo of hot-smoked salmon.

I called my Mom in a starved, drunk panic "Mom, can we come to dinner? And can you pay for the petrol? All we have to eat is wine and salmon."

The strange wooden room above used to be a bathroom - and apparently someone was once murdered in it.

Where the magic happens - the hot smoking salmon room (above).

Kilos of the pink gold! At this point I am almost tearing open those packages with my bare hands.

Mr. White. I think I can safely say that "Mr. White" is the owner's favourite creature of any description to ever live. And I can see why!

Ever-adorable Katherine.

A neat little stack of art works on the veranda. The owner tells me: "all the art is in this house is by my friends."

And below, the scene of a raging party the night previous.

A Monkeys Wedding on Dunedin Peninsula

2010-10-17T03:51:00.001-07:00

"A monkeys wedding" is a common South African expression for a 'sunshower' - the 'phenomenon' in which rain falls while the sun is shining.

I recommend reading the wikipedia article about them, because not only will you be graced with a photograph of "a sunshower over a parking lot" (location unknown...) but you'll also find out all kinds of facts and tidbits about different folkloric names for sunshowers. Often they involve animals marrying.

Example: In Bulgaria it is the bears getting married, and in Korea it is a male tiger marrying a fox.

After a walk in the 'bracing' wind, we settled down beside a fire, with cups of tea, a burger, venison bangers 'n' mash and a lamb shank. Lucky little brats.

Holy Jeez!

A Sad Week for NZ

2010-10-10T13:22:00.000-07:00

This previous week the small island nation of New Zealand finally achieved it's lifelong dream of making it onto BBC World Service ... for being a nation harboring the boring, racist dullard Paul Henry and for his remarks about whether our next Governor General would "look" and "sound" more like a real New Zealander (you know, not a darkie!).

Unfortunately, and unsurprisingly, a horrifying percentage of New Zealanders support Henry and his 'calling a spade a spade' approach and are now heralding him as a martyr to the PC brigade. He's resigned, but I'm fairly sure (and terrified) he'll be doing something else, and perhaps worse, soon. Maybe a Paul Henry travel show.

My mom, a German-born dual citizen, made this interesting remark about the whole debacle: "You know, within a few years of arriving in New Zealand, when I was filling out the census forms, I could tick the "NZ European" box. It's crazy, there is "NZ European" and "Maori", but even if you're a fifth generation Chinese New Zealander, you just have to tick "Chinese". There's no "NZ Chinese", or even "NZ Samoan" for that matter." Wow mom, like usual, you're awesome and pointing out once again how institutions perpetuate Henry's way of thinking about what constitutes a New Zealander.

I haven't seen a census form in a few years, but I'd be really amazed if it had changed. And if there was an effort to change it, it would have to be done undemocratically.

p.s. People who think Paul Henry is a comedian, need to get out more, get funnier friends and watch better comedy (I recommend: Stephen Fry, John Safran and Margaret Cho).

Oh look! It's my boyfriend

2010-10-04T01:25:00.000-07:00

By "my boyfriend" I am referring to that beautiful white magnolia tree, not the car, although I would probably date him too, if I wasn't so hopelessly devoted to this tree here.

I've been watching this tree with baited breath over the last few weeks waiting for the little green buds (pictured below) to open into magnificent flowers, so you can imagine my ridiculous joy when I strolled out of the outside bathrooms, broom in hand, to see the whole tree exploding it's beauty all over the place, bukake style.

I screamed "Oh my God! Hi!" and then looked around to make sure no one was there to observe me speaking to a tree. Once the coast was clear, I whispered sweet nothings I won't repeat here.

I've been fanatical about magnolias for some time, and last night my adorable teacher friend Kate came over bearing beautiful paintings of red pandas (of her own doing) and a block of green & blacks chocolate. Kate really knows what's good. Anyway, she told me an amazing story about people in China finding these ancient little ceramic pots with rice grains in them, and in amongst the rice was a seed - and the seed was for an ancient magnolia tree, like 1000 years old. This just happened recently. I couldn't find anything on it, but I did find this wikipedia page (ok, not very impressive), which confirms that my tree really is the fairest of them all (except two hotties I saw in Albert Park Auckland, which come first equal).

Also, this is the oldest Magnolia tree in Massachusetts.

Most impressively, there are magnolia trees in the precincts of Chinese temples (in China) estimated to be over 800 years old. (I can't really wrap my head around this fact, and would probably swoon and hyperventilate if I got to see one of these beauties IRL).

Here's my baby again:

Here he is just hangin' beside the conservatory. So pretty. xo

Liz and I = kinda dix

2010-09-28T13:43:00.000-07:00

Sorry to pull you into this Lizliz, but you kind of deserve it.

"I think we need to have a talk"

Liz is such an intellectual. (NB: Liz I think you should wear your doghat while writing your masters, or maybe to a really serious meeting about climate change. It would make my day, if no one else's).

In Elizabeth's office. We realised we have the identical pair of glasses, except in slightly lighter/ darker shades of pink. Both from Cotton On. We are so horrendous. *puke*

Anyway, we had to take advantage of such a situation. Below, I think I look like a fly.

Bzzzzz ....

Opa Gets a New Battery

2010-09-19T16:18:00.000-07:00

My darling 91 year old Opa Gebhard just got out of hospital, after having the battery in his pace-maker replaced, as it was going to run out of energy.

Opa said to the Doctor: "You didn't mention that this would be necessary when you installed the thing (ten years ago)..."

The Doctor laughed, shook his head, and said "Well Herr Quinger! We didn't think you would live so long!"

Here's to another ten years!

It's So Hard Being Rich, Young + Pretentious

2010-09-12T15:00:00.000-07:00

"What do you mean the money is gone?!"

"That's just fascinating, Mandy, what an exotic time you had"

"When I say I don't believe in the 'State', what I mean is ... "

"Mummy always makes this look so easy!"

"No one understands, but I love her. Even if she is a bit LMC."

Found: approx 2003 in Los Angeles

2010-06-14T21:18:00.000-07:00

Text: "YOUR MARTINIS ARE SERVED."

Found: Ripped out of a spiral notebook, in Los Angeles, in 2003.

<3

p.s. Ladies + Men, I am going through boxes of old things at my Mother's so will be posting many such things, including many rawther self-involved things I wrote/ did myself. Excitement?

In Which Leilana Always Has Excuses

2010-04-22T02:53:00.001-07:00

So, it has been roughly a million years since I last updated so I thought I'd give you some excuses I prepared earlier.

My computer + Internet is SO slow it actually takes some time to upload photos.
I live in Dunedin.

This is not a complaint - I am actually really enjoying my life here - but not really a lot happens. Look here, a beautiful sky. Ok, that was actually quite cool. Above is the school Columba, I think and below is my roof and a Logan.

This is not to say that Dunedin has no intrigue at all. Tune in, now, for a tale with a beginning, middle and end. On one fortuitous Monday evening, Miss J, Mr V and I decided to try to finish off the liquor supples from the Arthur's Pass trip. This was a lofty goal and we took to it with vigour. With so much vigour in fact, that we had already succeeded by about 11pm (no one remembers exactly when) and made the informed decision to up the ante.

This led us into a walk, taking several hours, past such Dunedin landmarks as the one shown below, the North Cemetary, PAST the Gardens (could not go in, they were shooting bunnies - this has happened to me before) and down North East Valley up into that gorge thing. All in all, it was an exciting, terrifying time, involving such highlights as standing in the pitch-black in a forest, in the cemetary and ALL hearing the distinct sound of human foot steps. We all ran like the wind or like wild bandicoots.

We had, however, messed with the universe. In the course of the evening, we had:

Become convinced a building on the North Cemetary was being used for strange purposes, as it had tacky NEW curtains and the lights on in the middle of the night.
Made a giant mess of Miss J's kitchen.
Accidentally adopted a cat. AND:
Lost Logan's keys.

Unfortunately, I don't have a picture of the 'Strange Building' but we returned the following day, after basically no sleep, and found it to be an information centre. Especially detailing the horrendous life and end of the Larnach family. I'm glad I don't live in that mansion.

Below is a shot from that day, walking around North Cemetary. The cat and the kitchen had to wait, but we wanted to sort out the situation with Logan's keys. He had a vivid memory of rolling down the Rhododendron dell by the SPCA on Warden Street, so it is to this location we trudged, whispering about the universe and the magic that could happen if we find the keys.

It is at this point in the tale I must interject to confess something slightly heinous; namely, I wasn't only hoping that 'we' would find the keys, I was hoping - rather more specifically ' than I would find the keys. Like a western philosopher building the British empire, I was thinking in individual terms, and I really wanted to be the one to find the keys and have that moment of glory of seeing them glinting in the grass. Not for honour, but just because I never find things and I imagined it would feel great to spot them.

*Glint glint glint* ! Yay !

Giggling and overly pleased with ourselves we returned to the home of Miss J where her gorgeous flatmate had already cleaned the destroyed kitchen. We thanked him profusely and went back to see about the cat. It was no longer crying in my garden, and I was concerned - I hope little idiot isn't lost. "Ding ding ding" I called out, to no avail.

Note: Later I return to my house with the ever-amazing Lucy McConnon and hear a quiet cat sobbing from the vegetable patch. We run over and Ding ding ding, little maniac is there and runs into Lucy's arms. Could this be his new Mom?

Side note: A beautiful house and car on Warden Street. Noticed directly after the euphoria of finding the keys.

FILF

2010-02-15T22:45:00.000-08:00

So, I do really love Bill Bailey and probably would F him, given the chance (at least, I would after he did this), but what I especially love is feminists. I love old feminists, young feminists, men feminists and women feminists, HOT feminists and feminists whose other views I don't really agree with.

But what I like most of all is feminists from Islamic countries, mostly because they are so hot, but also because they are brave, cutting and complex. And because I am so lucky to be able to do my dissertation on something so interesting, and so full of eye candy.

Below is a picture of Queen Soraya Tarzi of Afghanistan who reigned for a very short time from 1926 - 1929 at which time she and her husband were overthrown and forced into exile due to their feminist (and otherwise liberal) beliefs. Most notably, encouraging the education of girls and tearing off her veil in public. After being exiled, she lived out her days in Rome.

Interesting fact for your day:

1964: Women in Afghanistan are granted the right to vote.

1970: Women in Switzerland are.

xox