New blog

Hi there,

With the big decision to move to Southeast Asia, I've set up a new blog where you can follow my travels and experiences overseas.

You can check it out here: http://morenavietnam.wordpress.com.

Ta ta for now!

The Big Decision

Here's a question for you: how do you know when you're making the right decision? This is one I've been puzzling over for the past week because Tom and I have made a big one.

On February 4^th 2013 we are heading off to Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam to try our luck at being English teachers. The teaching gig is really a means to an end, allowing us to explore South East Asia for the next year or so. In saying that though, I'm pretty excited about dusting off the cobwebs in my brain and learning some completely new skills….all while on a one way ticket.

We've been told to expect a huge workload for the course we're doing. It's called the CELTA and is essentially four weeks of classes, lesson planning and soaking up as much information as humanly possible about how to teach English as a second language.

The schools are fully English speaking, so students aren't allowed to speak in their native tongue. This means that our complete and utter lack of knowledge about the Vietnamese language won't be too much of an issue (inside the classroom at least!).

The course runs Monday to Friday from around eight in the morning till five or six. On top of this, each night you're expected to do three to four hours of homework and around six hours on the weekend. Combine this with a completely foreign environment, add in a generous splash of humidity, dash of insane scooter driving traffic and stir together with rich history until you have a nice wee brew of culture shock.

Yes it's scary but also incredibly exciting. My heart is thumping just writing about it and I'm so grateful to know that Tom will be there as support. One thing is for sure, this is going to test our relationship. In fact I think we can bank on quite a bit of testing over there, educational and otherwise.

I'm trying to mentally gear myself up for the move but I know that nothing can really prepare me for how I'm going to feel. Lately I can't stop thinking about everything we'll be missing out on back home. Watching all the gorgeous engaged couples we know share their first kiss as husband and wife. Hanging out with our beautiful nieces and nephews as they learn to walk, have birthdays and grow ridiculously fast. Spending precious time with Grandparents..the list goes on. Makes a solid case for doing your OE straight out of school!

In saying that though, it finally feels like the time is right for us to take the plunge. Turns out that travel isn't something you just get out of your system. Ever since I got back from backpacking around Europe I've felt this kind of unrest. Traveling really puts the world into perspective and makes you realise just how much there is to see and experience out there.

So there are the two sides of the coin- what's out there to experience and what we'll miss out on back in NZ. Brings me back to my initial question, the one about knowing whether making such a big life decision like this is the right one...

After a lot of thought, I've decided that there is no right path. Life is kind of like one of those 'pick a path' books we all rushed to get first from the library in primary school. The point is that you just don't know if you've made the right decision. Which is a good thing really, because finding out is an adventure in itself.   

Stuff...and sometimes things

As much fun as reminiscing about my adventures in Europe was, I reckon it's time to move on and get back to what this blog used to be about- nothing in particular. Lets be honest, deep down most of us would rather read about someone's life that is a bit average. It makes us feel better about ourselves. This is the exact reason why I love Home and Away. No matter how shit I have it, at least my lover hasn't accidentally shot his own father and is facing a lifetime in prison while I'm left hiding a pregnancy to my step sister's husband...

So here I am, back again. Miss twenty something here to share with you my thoughts, fears and above all banal first world problems like how much it sucks when you go to make a coffee at work and someone's used the last of the boiling water in the jug. Fill after use people. Fill, after, use.

Of late I've been forced to realise that I'm on a fast way track to getting old. How do I know this? Well, for one I've started having the occasional singular drink after work, at home, watching the news. I also took a shine to the popular home reno show The Block. The nail in the coffin was when a new boy band performed at work this week. After ogling the cute guys, I was informed that when I was their age, they were 10. Instantly felt the need to wrap a scarf around one of them and check whether they'd eaten their lunch that day.

What does this mean for my twenty something syndrome? Am I finally accepting the fact that I can't put off growing up for much longer? Judging by the number of Simpsons episodes saved on our hard drive I would beg to differ but still, it's happening.

Funny to think that at my age, my parents were hitched and owned their own home. I on the other hand am living the de facto dream and haemorrhaging rent money for a shoebox apartment.

Times have changed though and to be honest, I'm pretty darn happy with how things are at the moment. I cherish walking to work knowing three quarters of the rest of this city are sitting in traffic, silently cursing their suburban existence. I also like the freedom of knowing that I can go out any night for as long as I want...even if I do choose bad reality telly and a cuppa 80% of the time.

Guess even at the (not so much tender but closer to medium-rare) age of 26 I can still stake a claim on suffering twenty something syndrome then. Right, best be off now- X Factor's on and being a twenty something chick I still have a soft spot for Britney....aaaaand before you judge, I KNOW you still know all the words.

A Nice time

I'm skipping a bit of the trip here for the sake of my buddy David who asked for some recommendations of what to do in Nice. So here goes.

We arrived in Nice after a loooong hot and sticky train ride from Barcelona. The thirteen or so hours were uneventful until we stopped off briefly in Marseilles and a met a kiwi couple who joined for the last leg of the journey. These guys seemed nice enough, obviously list tickers who had 'enjoyed' around 24 hours at each of their destinations before hurtling to their next point on the checklist. After more time spent with them however, it appeared this kind of travelling had begun to take it's toll. The guy was super friendly and just excited to hear another New Zealand accent, the girl on the other hand looked like all she wanted to do was eat her darling boyfriend's face off if he so much as touched her.

Turns out that they had been booking accommodation as they went rather than in advance which to an extent works but not everywhere, particularly in Nice. I think a lot of backpackers have this romantic notion of arriving in a place and finding a quaint place to stay once you get there. Doesn't happen. It won't be quaint, it will be shit. Remember this guys or beware the wrath of an unshowered, overtired girlfriend. 

Back to Nice though. We arrived at the wrong hostel (there are two of the same name just to mess with you) so ended up at the right one at around 11pm. It was a lovely suprise then that our room door was buggered and somehow trapped us in when we closed it behind us. Several panicked phone calls and a packet of Mister Corn (amazing European snack- find it in Spain) later we were finally rescued by the confused girl at reception. This was the last room left so our first night in Nice was spent with the door a crack open, in full earshot of a drunk American girl laugh-crying on the shoulder of some guy that was not her boyfriend.

That reminds me- watch out for young Americans who say they are “studying abroad”. They aren't allowed to drink until they're 21 back home so con their parents into paying for them to study in Europe where they can order over the bar like grown ups. The result is frightening and so, so loud.

Okay so I'm rambling now. Time for a list- that you may tick or not tick as you see fit if you are ever in the Nice neighbourhood.

Promenade des Anglais: This is the stretch of footpath that runs right along the waterfront. Great for people watching and feels a bit like a time warp where ladies rollerblade by in lycra and overtanned portly old men sport medallions and white linen shirts.

Cours Selaya Flower Market: Despite the name this is more about the food. Beautiful produce that is almost too good to eat and fantastic French atmosphere. So much colour!

Fennochio Icecream Parlour: All gelato shops in Nice are open ridiculously late and this is no exception. The real reason to go is for the variety of flavours though- I had black olive (amazing) and basil & tomato (bit weird) but there are 80 or so other flavours to choose from.

La Voix De Son Maitre: The most amazing creperie. We stumbled on this wee gem and never wanted to eat anywhere else in Nice. Get one of the Galettes (massive wafer thin savoury crepes) for dinner- we had smoked salmon on ours and they were glorious. The hardest part is choosing your topping- such a selection! They also serve delicious cider in tea cups. Note: you must linger at least 45 mins after your meal or they get offended. The French like you to savour your meals.

Le Chateau: Climb up the steps of Le Chateau for breathtaking views of the city. The colour of the ocean in Nice is something to behold and it is truly magnificent from a height. There's even a waterfall tucked into the walk and the elaborate graves in the cemetery are worth a look too.

Vieux Nice (Old town): Stumbling through the bustling cobbled streets that make up the 'old town' district, you really feel like you're in Nice- the heart of the city. Get a 'pan bagnet' in you (massive tuna sandwich that is so much better than it sounds) and pretend you're a local.

A couple things to flag...

Monaco: It's a novelty that this tiny place is a country in its own right and just forty minutes from Nice. Seeing as it's only a couple euro bus ride away we were easily tempted to have a wee look. Seriously though, a novelty is all it is. Yawn. The Monte Carlo casino is worth a gander but dress the part if you want to get past the reception area.

Wayne's Bar: If you're one of those people that go overeseas to hang out with other kiwis and the odd Aussie then by all means. If you want good music, atmosphere and personal space then steer clear.  

Happy Nice time!

Mmmmmm le tasty...behold the glory of the galette

Paree

Paris, the city of lights, love and fashion right?

Um yeah, my experience was quite different.

First up there's the smell. Nobody tells you about the smell. The place actually reeks of urine. I'm not sure where it comes from but it's one of those odours that sneaks up on you...just when you think you're safe you turn a bend and it slaps you in the face. Heartbreaking when this happens mid-crepe.

But ahh the food! Parisian cuisine is a redeeming factor- that is if you can find someone who'll serve you. After a train ride from Amsterdam and an hour or so of traipsing through the rain, Julia and I stumbled into a cosy looking restaurant. What wasn't so cosy was the reception. Not only were we English speakers but we dared to arrive too early for dinner service; “We derr nat seurve dinnow oontil sevoon!” barked the owner. First lesson learnt; the French don't do early bird specials.

Eventually we ended up settling for a baguette and some €5 Bordeaux which as you will find in France, was equally as amazing as any slap up dinner in a fancy restaurant.

I felt a bit strange in Paris as it took a while for me to fall for the city's charms. I actually feel a bit sorry for the place as it is quite possibly the most over hyped city in the world. The way that it is sold to tourists is so romanticised that you can't help but arrive with a bunch of pre-conceived notions in your suitcase. I suggest dumping these at the station.

Don't be a list ticker in Paris. Go and see the Eiffel tower but don't bother spending hours in a line to go up it. Our walking tour guide made the very good point that if you are up the tower, you can't actually see it in the city scape. A much better view is up the top of the Arc de Triomphe. Plus you get to watch the mental uncontrolled Parisian mess that is the intersection down below. Guaranteed prang every five minutes.

Another reality check is the Louvre. It's big, real big. So big that you couldn't possibly see everything in there unless you spent six years in the damn thing (seriously). A much better option is the Musee d'Orsay, described to us by a local as a selection of the best paintings in Paris. The Louvre by comparison is the 'mall' of paintings- they'll take anything. Yes, it has Mona but almost everyone I've spoken to says that she is a bit of a Sopranos finale- aka total let down.

If Paris were a person it would be a washed up actress that can't quite shake the delusions of grandeur she clung to so ardently in her youth. Funnily enough, this is what makes her charming. No other place emits this kind of character more than the district of Montmartre. You may know it from such films as Amelie. I now know it as the place where you truly feel like you are in Paris.

Montmartre is a treasure trove of history and art. There's the restaurant where Picasso used to paint the waitresses portraits to score a free dinner, Van Gogh's flat (and the brothel where he mailed his ear to the prostitute he wanted to marry!) and the beautiful Sacre Coeur. Add a sprinkle of street art, dash of Satanists (yup), a few handfuls of delicious eateries, a windmill or two and you get the real Paris, not the post card version.

If I'm lucky enough to go back there I will head straight to Montmartre, eat a bowl of cheese laden French onion soup and pose for a portrait with one of the insanely talented painters that line the streets. That is my impression of the true romance of Paris. I suggest you go there immediately and find your own. 

-Montmartre at dusk

Iamsterdam

It's Sunday morning and I could've slept until midday but for some ungodly reason I woke up at 7.40am. So ripped off. I figure if I can't be dreaming then I may as well be day dreaming about my trip so lets go to the Netherlands.

Getting from London to Amsterdam was quite the trek and amongst several train rides, we spent a night on a ferry which proved a memorable experience. We had no expectations of the boat...actually that's not accurate, we had low expectations of the boat.

On arrival at the terminal we decided to get some food from the dodgy little cafe in there incase there weren't any options on board. I had the tomato soup which was literally the sauce that comes with baked beans, minus the baked beans. After lugging our backpacks around to kill time for an hour or so we decided to get on board and were greeted with a selection of bars, restaurants, shops and even a casino. Epic fail. Lucky we still had room for a G&T which was potentially the strongest drink I've ever been poured from behind a bar. Two lessons learnt from that experience; don't make assumptions and don't ask for a double in Europe.

Expectations are a funny thing when you're travelling. You always have them but they're almost never proved right. I didn't expect a lot from Amsterdam other than the obvious but I can now say that my mind was blown by the place (and not in the way you're thinking). Amsterdam is a city with so much personality that you can't help but fall in love with it. Wandering the streets you experience a range of different emotions - with or without the help of a coffee shop. 

One minute you're being charmed by the canal lined streets littered with house boats sporting gaudy lawn ornaments, the next you're shocked by the barely clothed women posing in windows, then suddenly you're fearing for your life as a mad cyclist hurtles toward you shouting something rude in Dutch.

There is one place that I would totally recommend you go to even though you will most likely come out feeling utterly disillusioned with mankind- Anne Frank's house. The loft where her family hid while the Nazis invaded the city is so well preserved that it's eerie. What got me was how real the family becomes once you're there. You see the marks on the wall measuring Anne and her sister's height, the pictures Anne stuck on the walls to make up for the lack of windows and the handwritten pages of her diary, the second most translated book in the world after the bible.

The people of Amsterdam put up one of the biggest fights against the Nazi regime and tried desperately to save their Jewish friends. Unfortunately their efforts were largely in vain but this kind of fighting spirit is still evident in the city today.

In Amsterdam you can grow drugs freely, be one of the most popular prostitutes in town at age 85 (seriously her waiting list is three months apparently) and basically be whoever you want to be without needing to worry about what anyone else thinks. It is this tolerance that makes Amsterdam such a vibrant and exciting place. Also, you can buy burgers and other deep fried goodies from vending machines there (google FEBO).

I recommend going to Amsterdam with no expectations other than that you will be surprised. You won't be disappointed.

Yet another example of how cool Amdam is- street art designed as a celebration of the city's prostitution industry.    

London

Had a bit of a twenty something moment today. I was in a meeting with several of my coworkers and somehow it came up that I was 26. You'd have thought I'd just confessed to murder by the expressions of shock and confusion that followed. Apparently I'm immature for my age. Thanks team. It did remind me why I started this blog though- to bask in the age where you can put off all that settling down business. The only issue is that now I'm on the downwards slope out of my twenties and into a life of responsibility. Clearly my attitude is still back in the vicinity of 23 so hopefully this acts as proof that you're only as old as you feel you are...

26 does sound awfully grown up though. In Europe when you turn 26 you stop getting discounts at art galleries, museums and other tourist attractions. I wonder who decided that 26 was the age where you earn enough to pay full price? Clearly someone who doesn't work in radio.

When I landed in London, the first stop of my wee OE, I was still 25. I'd like to say that I took full advantage of cheap admission prices and saw everything there was to see but I'd be lying. Truthfully, we did very little in London. It was just so exciting to be there that we didn't need to.

One of the first things that Julia and I discovered on our trip is that travelers fall into one of two groups; those who list tick and those who don't . We fall into the latter. List tickers are those people who spend hours getting to a tourist destination only to spend five minutes actually there (four of which are spent hiding behind a camera lens). I just can't be one of those people.

Sure, taking photos is important and getting the cliché shots is fun but you also need to just be in a place. It sounds corny but London is one of those places that you can just wander around and be amazed by everything that locals don't even notice. Classic example of this was me rushing to get a look at a squirrel just outside of Buckingham palace. Apparently this is comparable to someone fascinated by the sight of a sheep in rural New Zealand.

The first full day we had in London wasn't planned and for that reason it was fantastic. There is nothing like the feeling of being on the other side of the world with nothing to do but explore. It is truly liberating. Where list tickers would be frantically trying to navigate the underground or paying some tour company too much, Julia and I were wandering about aimlessly, getting schoolgirl excited as we caught our first glimpse of Big Ben and stumbled upon Trafalgar square.

Even the grim weather was an attraction for me because it felt like London should. Bundling up in a coat and trudging around with hands shoved in my pockets, I didn't feel like a tourist, I felt like a Londoner....right up until I had to pay for anything that required change (cue me holding each coin up within an inch of my face so I could see how much it was worth).

We were lucky and had our own personal guides for the rest of our time there (you can't really be a kiwi without at least one expat mate living in London can you?). They were also kind enough to let us crash so we didn't have to haemorrhage cash for a poorly rated backpackers. This was especially great for us who were still thinking in Kiwi dollars (tip: convert your thinking to the currency immediately after you arrive or buying a coffee will bring a tear to your eye).

My London experience wasn't completely unplanned mind you. My now Londoner friend Kylie is very organised and had us buy tickets to the West End version of The Lion King months in advance. This was a very good thing. The tickets were really reasonable and the show was a-mazing. If like me, you're a nineties child then you are 90% guaranteed to be a Disney fan and this production will not disappoint. Had to refrain pretty hard from singing along to “I just can't wait to be King”.

If you're looking for a list of other 'must dos' in London though, this is not the blog for you. In fact, I can sum up all you really need to do there in just two words: look up.

This picture of St Paul's Cathedral is just one of the many reasons why:  

Come away with me...

Kiaora!

The last time I heard that word I was being shouted at by a Greek woman trying to sell me various smoking and coffee drinking appliances in Athens. I was so impressed that a) she wasn't shouting “Australia!” and b) she knew a word from an indigenous, almost extinct language that I ended up buying some of her 'authentic' wares.

Funnily enough I haven't heard it once since being back in the land of the long white cloud.

It's been over a week since I touched down in Auckland after seven weeks backpacking around Europe and I'm already well and truly back to reality. The unused phone books and issues of Ponsonby news are still piling up outside our apartment elevator, the hand towel dispenser at work is still broken and the gym still sucks. Oh wait, KFC make pies now. That's different.

I don't know what I expected, that I'd come back with a whole new outlook on life or something. Am I eager to detox and change my life for the better somehow? Nup. Think I might just hang in nostalgia land for a bit. Enter le Blog; aka my excuse to say “Well, when I was in (insert exotic location here)” to my heart's content, without having to see people giving each other a look that asks “When will she stop banging on about it?”.

So if you're tired of the impending doom of Winter or the prospect of several months before a holiday, come away with me as I relive my trip via this blog. It could even be educational. You see often I found myself in situations that were less than ideal at the time but actually quite amusing in retrospect. Many of these issues could have been avoided if I'd known what I know now. Essentially, you get to laugh at my misfortune and maybe learn a thing or two about travelling through Europe on a budget, without a plan and little to no sense of direction.

Here's the very first thing I learnt: no matter how prepared you think you are, you WILL forget something. I discovered this at Auckland airport, precisely 15 minutes before I was due to board my plane to London.

Trying to do the right thing, I decided I should drink some water to hydrate myself for the flight. So there I was, waiting in line to pay too much for my teency bottle of water when it dawned on me that I had no idea what my credit card pin number was. With a sinking feeling I realised I'd only used it for online purchases and recently had to renew it (and the pin).

The line had disappeared by this point so I took a stab in the dark and failed. Not having any other cash on me I mumbled something and bolted, leaving the water at the counter. This was not good. Realising I should try to remember the pin before I left the country for seven weeks, I tried my luck at an ATM. Just for reference, do not try your luck at an ATM. It will get hungry and on the third try will eat your card and “retain it for security purposes”. Seeing those little words on the screen was not fun, not fun at all.

Thankfully this was my spare card so I didn't have to plot a way to fund my trip once in London (cause it's easy to get a job over there right?). The incident did make every other cash withdrawal on the trip an uncomfortable experience though. Every time the card was sucked into the machine I saw my sole source of funds disappearing into the mouth of another evil ATM.

I 'forgot' that you should steer clear of alcohol on long haul flights after that.

So what can you take from this? All I can say is don't sweat the list thing because there will always be something you leave off. That, and memorise the shit out of every pin, phone and policy number you have.

Here's one more tip. Don't go on an overseas trip when your hair is in the awkward 'growing out' phase. You'll be overwhelmed with the number of photos that remind you of the fact and it's not pleasant. Take this otherwise lovely shot of Primrose Hill, London....yup, I'm the one on the left.

London Calling

This morning is Good Friday and while the rest of town was enjoying a sleep in I was tossing about like a kid anxiously awaiting the Easter Bunny. Mind you, the glaring sun shining into our shoebox apartment at 7am didn't help either (daylight saving ending plus white blinds does not a good combination make). The real reason I was having trouble sleeping though is because I am just three (restless) sleeps away from my overseas adventure.

 Today is the day I had set aside to pack my bag and attempt to carry that bag on my back. This wouldn't require as much forward planning if I wasn't a hopeless over packer or for that matter, five foot four with little to no back strength. So here I am...not packing but procrastinating with a blog. I figure that this blog is pretty important though as it will be my last one written in New Zealand for at least seven weeks. Bit bloody exciting really.

I'm not just here to brag though (I have Facebook for that). I did want to share some inner turmoil I've been experiencing. Well maybe turmoil is too strong a word.- I just happen to be hosting some over active butterflies in my stomach. I am a worrier and this is my first long haul flight so naturally I'm thinking of all the ways that I could get lost in airports, miss connections and so on. Mainly though, I'm pretty miffed that I have to leave my man behind.

Despite being in a long distance relationship once upon a time, this will still be longest I've gone without seeing Tom and that's a bit of scary thought. Without him I have a decreased sense of logic, no sense of direction and a bit of a hole in my heart. Stop making puke noises please. I'm serious, I will miss him more than anything back in NZ- even pineapple lumps.

When you live with someone, especially if they are the only other person you live with, it just seems unnatural when they're not there. This is why I'm so thankful for the amazing technology we have around these days to help keep us in touch with loved ones on the other side of the world.

In the dark ages when my Mum went on her OE she left my Dad for six months. Today this wouldn't be such an issue, what with the likes of Skype, email and global roaming but back then it they had none of that and a communication breakdown ensued. Mum recently told me the story of how she wrote to Dad from almost every place they visited and in turn waited patiently for a reply. Imagine how devastated she was when she didn't receive a single word from Dad for the whole trip.

Turns out that Dad had replied to every letter but alas, they never reached Mum. Luckily they got over it and have stayed together for thirty odd years but nowadays, who knows what that lack of communication would do to a relationship.

Lucky for me, I can take comfort in the fact that Tom and I will easily be able to keep in touch and knowing that one day I'm going to take him to all the new favourite places I discover is going to get me through missing him.

No time for butterflies now, London's calling.

Adios, Au Revoir, Yia Sou, Ciao, Ta ta for now...

First World (trip) Problems

I need my head read. I have a seven week holiday on the horizon which will see me catching up with one of my favourite people in London, partying in Amsterdam, drinking wine in France, Greek Island hopping...you get the drift. Yes, this homebody is finally jumping on the OE band wagon, unfortunately she is freaking and I don't mean freaking excited WOOH! I mean freaking OUT man!

Can't believe I actually just admitted that. Reading this, I would kinda hate me right now if I wasn't...well, me.

Only got myself to blame really. If I was early twenties or late teens like most OE participants I would be footloose and fancy free. Not teetering dangerously close to the late twenties perimeter and full of rational thoughts. Damn you rational thoughts.

Who knew that the prospect of living out of a bag that weighs less than one of my thighs for seven weeks would play on my mind so heavily? I am a notorious over packer so knowing I have to limit beauty products, shoes, clothing, underwear- particularly underwear- is most unsettling. I like being prepared. The whole packing issue has also forced me into buying sensible shoes which lets face it, is heart breaking for any female. Takes the joy out of shopping this being practical business.

That's just the beginning though. There's a whole bunch of crazy little voices hanging around in this worry wart's head. The first is Mr Cynical; “What if something goes wrong?” is pretty much the extent of his repertoire. He came about after the countless people who (bless them) are just looking out for me by warning me of the health risks associated with long haul flights, lurking pick pockets, bed bug infested hostels, dodgy meat kebabs...the list goes on.

Then there's Mr Gym. I was exaggerating for effect when I alluded to the size of my thighs earlier but by the time I've had my way with Italy and her countless pizza and gelato joints, this might become a reality.

Mustn't forget Mr Career either. Somehow I've convinced my boss to give me seven weeks off which sounds great in theory but what happens if the person covering me is more efficient or worse, spends less time on Facebook...

Lastly there's Mr Right. This guy doesn't actually live in my head. He's real and I happen to be in a relationship with him. I think the saying is partly true that women choose partners that remind them of their Fathers. Tom is perhaps in no other way like my Dad aside from the fact that they are both adamant when they are right. The annoying bit is that more often than not, they actually are right.

This does have its benefits though. Over the past couple of years I've been able to shut off the part of my brain that makes well researched logical decisions and replace it with five simple words; “What do you reckon Tom?” Unfortunately I have to leave my beloved sense of reason at home. I'm going with a girlfriend and she too has a partner who is very organised- so much so that he has been known to make spreadsheets for when they go camping. It's awesome.

So far our male-free planning has consisted of booking the wrong dates for our hostel in Amsterdam and establishing the fact that we need to get from said hostel to Greece in five weeks whilst gaining cultural enlightenment along the way...somehow.

Looking back over that wee summary of my trip thus far all I can think is- never has the saying two left feet been more apt and strangely enough (despite all the worrying) never have I felt so free.

Thank Heaven for Little Girls

I'm back! After a three month hiatus I've realised that my absence has gone beyond the casual avoiding eye contact kind of snub. We are right in the thick of a cross the street once you see the other person approaching type of blank now. I'm very sorry and hope that once I start updating more regularly that we will be on a mutual smile and head nod basis.

Thinking back over the happenings of the past three months there is one life event (excuse the Facebook timeline lingo) that stands out above all else, even my $50 Lotto win. That is, my bourbon drinking, student flat dwelling, 21 year old baby brother had a baby. Not just any baby either, this child is gorgeous. You're probably thinking I'm a tad biased about now but I kid you not- this wee bundle came out looking ready for her closeup in a Huggie's shoot.

I was lucky enough to meet Sadie when she was fresh out of the oven and have to admit that holding her in my arms as she made the simplest things like blinking and sneezing cuter than any YouTube clip featuring Pandas, I finally got it. Babies are a bit nice aren't they?

My mother often regales the story of how the nurses told her I was the cutest newborn they'd ever seen. I always found it amusing that she actually believed them. The fact is, nobody's going to tell you that your baby is a bit funny looking really, much less if their livelihood depends on your comfort. Now though I see how you could be so bewitched by a new bubba that even if they came out covered in slime..oh wait they are...um even if they were covered in scales...hmm kind of true also. What I'm trying to say is that no matter what, when a new person is born into your family it's a beautiful thing.

Being in that hospital room made me realise something mildly terrifying too. The experience was quite overwhelming – it truly is an incredible thing to love someone you've just met. I guess what I'm saying is that I felt a wee bit clucky.

Cue a shiver down Tom's spine.

This shouldn't be such a big deal for a 25 year old female but I have just never really been that fussed by little babies. Don't get me wrong, kids are great but babies are a different bag of chips. A completely dependant being that rewards your constant love and attention with piles of poo and the odd regurgitation? Forgive me for being a little hesitant about the whole thing.

I now have wee Sadie to thank for helping me become a little less of a self centered twenty something and waking up to the fact that caring for a child could actually be a rewarding experience. One step closer to becoming a grown up. Maybe next time I babysit my three year old nephew Zach he'll realise that I'm the one that puts him to bed, not the other way around.

In saying all this, I wont be rushing into the prospect of parenthood just yet. Even if I am the last one out of my siblings to reproduce (tick, tick, tick). Nope, there are a few more adventures to be had, namely one that kicks off in just over a month's time but that's a yarn for another time. This is Sadie's story. And what a story at that- never before have I been so moved by an introduction. 

Excuses Excuses

I liken my passion for writing with the exuberant style in which I tackle housework. I'll admit that ultimately writing gives me more joy than the latter but there is also something very satisfying about an empty laundry basket.

The trouble with this is that I only have room in my life for one at a time. This can lead to some serious inner tension and often I feel as if the two are fighting for my attention. If I were a dishonest man then writing would be my loving wife and cleaning would be my mistress, always in my ear about how I should forget my beloved and spend more time with her.

Unfortunately as soon as I even smell a hint of writers block coming on then the mistress' voice becomes louder and more threatening until eventually I drop to my knees and surrender...to scrubbing the floor. It's like she knows when I am weak and pounces. I'll be tap, tap, tapping away at the computer until the gaps between taps start to lengthen and I find myself staring at the dust on the window ledges. Then BAM! The dirt is gone; my window ledges outshone only by the glaring white of the empty document open on the computer screen.

Don't think I haven't tried being honest with them. I just can't face having them both at once- not to say I haven't thought about it. It would never work though. Once my mind is set on either writing or housework then I am fully devoted to the task at hand. Keeping the balance however, has been proving rather tricky of late.

As keeping a mistress is easier than pleasing a wife, housework is easier for me to get around to than writing. All a mistress needs is a nice pair of earrings and a word of praise from time to time. Much like the kitchen needs a good Spray'nWipe every few days. The wife on the other hand, has far more complex needs. You can never be sure that she is actually fine when she says she is. Similar to a piece of writing that at first glance seems okay but on the second read through reveals more grammatical errors than a Bebo wall.

Favouring the easy route has ensured that I have a very clean apartment- aside that is, from the dust gathered on top of my closed computer. Never is the saying, ‘out of sight, out of mind’ more true than when one is trying to procrastinate. Luckily for my mistress, it's a lot harder to hide a pile of dirty dishes than it is to slip a laptop under the bed.

Perhaps this is why so many famed writers favour the disheveled look. Unlike me, yet to make a living from writing, these characters have ignored the voices telling them to put the washing on, mop the floors, shower. If I did the same then perhaps I too would have a couple of Pulitzer Prize winning novels under my belt.

Don't get me wrong, I do love to write- just as a cheating husband often still loves his wife. The real issue plaguing the relationship always comes down to the 'O' word: Obligation. As soon as I feel obligated to put pen to paper my mind wanders. I start to think dirty thoughts like 'My, the shower is dirty, better get cleaning' or 'Is that a dirty sock on the floor? Must be time to put a wash on' and so on.

I can probably put this affliction back on my upbringing somehow. Isn't that what so many men do? Reason that their failure to maintain a monogamous relationship is purely because their father set a bad example for them as a child? Going by this rule then the blame for my inner turmoil can sit squarely on my mother's shoulders.

The woman doesn't stop. No sooner has a glass left my lips before she has whipped it away, into the dishwasher before I can set it down and create a watermark on the table. I never thought anything of her two-loads-of-laundry-a-day policy. That is until I moved out into the real world. Clearly I still carry these scars from childhood. If only I found a half written article as distressing as a pile of unfolded shirts...

At least I got that off my chest. Nothing like a confessional monologue to get the creative juices flowing. And finally on that note, I probably should admit that this was written only after two loads of dishes, one batch of home cooked muesli, one trip to the supermarket and a thorough dust busting session.

I need help.

The Comedown

Oh this is awkward. The last time I had a yarn on here was six weeks ago. No one likes awkward silences, they're almost as bad as awkward handshakes...but not quite. Blame the Rugby World Cup. I've been drowning in a sea of car flags, face paint, patriotism and well, wine to be frank.

So we won. That's nice, bloody nice. But now what? You could almost hear a collective sigh as the excitement of the win wore off and we all trudged back to the office on Tuesday. It's like the entire city of Auckland is coming down off an epic high.

Take Friday afternoon at my workplace. As we happen to have a bar on our floor (which never gets old if you were wondering), usually the final working hours of the week are dominated by the sound of bottles clinking and chat, everyone pretending we don't have that much to do and putting real work off until Monday.

This Friday was a different story. The clacking of fingers on keyboards filled the air well into the afternoon and the jukebox pouted from lack of attention. Doesn't bear thinking about what it would have been like if we had lost!

The words 'detox' and 'diet' have all been bandied around the office this week as people start to listen to their livers screaming for a cuppa tea and a lie down. Bank balances have also taken a beating which is why the only spending I'm doing this weekend is time on the couch.

The world cup gave us all an excuse to get loose and now we're left nursing our wounds and pointing the finger. I've heard a lot of “I would have done [insert work assignment, health goal and/or general life obligation] but you know with the world cup and all....” This is generally followed by a nod of acknowledgment as the listener recalls what they haven't got around to for the past six weeks.

Unfortunately for around 15,000 crazy people (including my man) the Auckland marathon took place this morning. Judging by the amount of people in Auckland city last weekend (EVERYONE) I can imagine that there will be some sorry people on that track today. Putting off cleaning the BBQ is one thing but putting off training for a blimmin marathon...let's just say I'd rather eat the mouldy sausages.

What I'm struggling with is this overwhelming feeling of what's next. What else can I possibly use to justify putting off real life for a bit? Maybe we should just call it the Silly Season already. If anyone questions it, blame Countdown for selling advent calendars in October.

I guess there's always an excuse for getting rowdy but I sure will miss using the Rugby World Cup as mine. Here's to a great six weeks and ofcourse, the boys in black.

The Fever

I've got it. No not the glandular, dengue or boogie varieties but rather Rugby World Cup fever. I feel a bit naughty writing those words, like I should have some trademark licensing jazz in a disclaimer somewhere. Then again, I'm getting enough of that at work so this is my chance to break the rules. Watch out, I might start referring to it as RWC “two thousand and eleven” (apparently the world will implode or something if you don't stick to “twenty eleven”).

Pedantic advertising rules aside, I reckon the World Cup has been the best thing to happen to this country all year. Never before have I felt such a buzz around Auckland. It feels like everyone is in a better mood and all about having a good time. I'm living in the moment because I'm too worried at the prospect of living in a city where the entire population is grieving a loss.

I suppose right now it's literally all fun and games. The little guys are 'having a go' and we're all showing up (or at least drinking up) to support them. This afternoon I'm off to Wales vs Samoa...at the pub. Pretty much blew all my funds on tickets to the Opening Match- yeah I feel it deserves caps because it was a-may-zing.

Very few times in a New Zealander's life do you feel patriotic. We have some sort of inbuilt modesty from being the wee fellas down under or something. That night though, watching that little boy in his Canterbury colours running around with the giant glowing rugby ball...I had tears in my eyes.

The whole night was such an experience. Catching the train with half of the city, sitting next to a complete stranger because Tom and I couldn't afford seats together (my neighbour was about 90 and eventually warmed to my wine induced screaming and flag waving) and the walking procession home. Oh yeah and this...

I was officially hooked on the Cup.

I almost had an epic fail at the game though. I may have been a little hungover the day before and stumbling into a $2 dollar shop to collect face paint and other such supplies, I was told that the flag I was clutching was actually Australian. Doh. Clearly my patriotism is a new thing....along with being a rugby fan.

I'm the black sheep of my family when it comes to watching the ruggers. I grew up amazed by what the big fuss was whenever there was a game on. Usually I'd be in another room but could never quite drown out the sound of my mother yelling “HERE'S A GO” like a mad woman every time we approached the try line.

Now I'm happy to say I finally get it. I don't struggle to sit through a game and actually enjoy the action. Last night watching Ireland take the Wallabies to the cleaners (never really got that expression but it seems apt) I was this close to screaming “here's a go” myself.

I think I owe my new found obsession to the electric atmosphere around town. Sure there have been some fails like Auckland's public transport and those paper flags that lined the streets and now clutter the gutter. Oh and don't even get me started on Sean Fitzpatrick driving that 'fist' car. Really though, this is so not a time to dwell on lame things like that. This is a time to get amongst! So go out and get yourself one of those tacky car flags- you know you want to.

Nineties Child

As I was perusing Facebook on Sunday checking out the usual carnage from Saturday night, I noticed some photos from a 25^th birthday party where the theme was the Nineties. It suddenly occurred to me that us twenty somethings are finally at the point where we can get nostalgic about our childhood decade. It also made me excited at the prospect of Eighties parties getting phased out, 'cause as fun as pretending we all like shoulder pads and Cyndi Lauper is...well yeah, it ain't so much after the zillionth time.

 

When I think about certain decades my mind instantly jumps to the music that came out of them. It was an interesting time for my taste personally. I suppose being a tween is the time where you discover what you actually like as opposed to what the charts tell you to like. I remember going from perfecting Spice Girls and Britney dance moves to falling in love with Kurt Cobain and black T-shirts all in the same year. This is why I was inspired to crank my Nineties playlist at the gym today. The playlist was actually born out of my inner Nineties child love for mix tapes...

 

When I first started falling for Tom, for some reason I thought it appropriate to make him these mix tapes. Although, seeing as he didn't actually have cassette player access (and let's face it, 'drag and drop' beats 'rewinding and fast forwarding' in the efficiency stakes) I decided a CD was preferable. Anyway, I'd made a few of these compilations and decided he might appreciate a serving of Nirvana, sprinkled with Blur and seasoned with the Smashing Pumpkins...as you do.

 

Man I enjoyed listening to that today. I really want to host a Nineties party now just so I can bombard people with my favourite tunes from that time. There are plenty.

 

It's not just about the music though, fashion of course plays a huge part in defining a decade. Like me, you may have noticed some Nineties trends creeping back into people's wardrobes in recent times. Fluoro, scrunchies and dare I say it...denim on denim (guilty) all seem to be making a bit of a come back. I just hope that the line is drawn at side ponytails though- let's not get too carried away.

 

Hell, even Nineties toys are making a comeback. Although my idea of a My Little Pony is vastly different from those that are in the shops now. Is it just me or are the new ones creepy as fuck? Why must their eyes be so big? They look like they'd eat Elmo's face off if he looked at them funny.

 

Not even the film industry is safe from this Nineties invasion. I'm quite excited about seeing The Smurfs on the big screen (and secretly hoping it paves the way for a Snorks comeback!) Oh and who would've guessed that one of the highest grossing films for the year 2011 would have been based on that old cartoon about giant robots that transform into trucks and stuff. So disappointed they don't use the 'More than meets the eye' theme in the flicks.

 

Speaking of awesome theme songs- who could forget that green haired spunk Captain Planet?! Do gooders have never been so cool. I'm pretty sure that every Nineties kid has stolen a ring from their Mum and pretended to be a Planeteer...any of them but the gay dude with the 'heart' power that is. Lahaaame.

 

I could go on....this reminiscing stuff is quite fun really. It's amusing that you generally have to wait twenty or so years before it's acceptable to get nostalgic about a decade. I'm just glad that it's finally the Nineties' time to shine. Let's all toast it with a nice cool can of Mirinda.

 

Oh and here's my playlist, just incase you were wondering. Judge me as you see fit...

• Devils Haircut (Beck)
• Cannonball (The Breeders)
• Along comes Mary (Bloodhound gang)
• Beetlebum (Blur)
• When I grow up (Garbage)
• Jump around (House of Pain)
• What's the story morning glory (Oasis)
• Brick (Ben Folds Five)
• Novocaine for the soul (Eels)
• Scooby Snacks (Fun Lovin Criminals)
• Black hole sun (Soundgarden)
• Sunday morning (No Doubt)
• My Friends (Red hot chili peppers)
• Peaches (Presidents of the USA)
• Siva (Smashing Pumpkins)
• My iron lung (Radiohead)
• Moving (Supergrass)
• Heart Shaped box (Nirvana)

The Joys of Pottering

Once again, blogging has taken a back seat to that attention seeking pal of mine- procrastination. This time, I do have an excuse up my sleeve though. The Move. I feel that it deserves capitalisation after the amount of effort I and poor Tom (who is charged with the heavy lifting) have poured into the project.

I'm proud to say that after a week or so of playing tetris with our furniture in the treehut that is our apartment, we are finally settled. Well....almost kindof sortof settled. You see, now that we have our own place it always feels like there's something that could be done around the place. Nothing major really but just little things. The only word for it is pottering.

This past weekend has been spent doing just that. Chucking out stuff, buying new stuff, tidying and so on. Yesterday Tom and I had to refrain from high fiving each other when we scored an 'extreme' dustbuster for nearly half price at Briscoes. Jesus we're only renting, what am I going to be like when we own our own house? Actually I can answer that. I will be my mother.

I'm the daughter of an almost compulsive potterer. Preferable to the compulsive gambler or alcoholic mother ofcourse - pottering is very much a middle class affliction. It never bothered me but I never quite understood it. Sunday afternoons spent vacuuming and putting stuff (mostly mine and my brother's stuff) back in it's rightful place. It seemed mad that she wouldn't also want to veg on the couch with an assortment of snacks. To be fair I suppose she hadn't mixed Baileys, red wine and whatever other alcohol we could get our hands on as teens the night before. Though even if she did have a big night, Mum would be up without fail bright and early the following morning, putting everything back where it should go.

It's strangely satisfying rattling around your own place. So much so that I chose Murder Burger (amazing Ponsonby burger joint) and the couch over having a life on Saturday night. I woke up at 8am this morning with an urge to put on a load of towels and wash the new purchases from Briscoes before putting them away.

Most Sunday mornings I wake up with an urge of another kind and it's not pleasant. It was quite a welcome change.

This pottering business is proof that we are selfish beings. I never had this kind of compulsion when flatting with others. My attitude was much more along the lines of 'why should I clean the bathroom when so and so hasn't done it for weeks?' I suppose you're a lot more tolerant of the person you share a bed with so when it's only the two of you then there's none of that. Also I have one of those very rare beings...a clean and tidy (most of the time) male.

So now that we've unpacked and the place is looking relatively presentable, my mind is set on entertaining. I guess you could call it the fruits of our labour, having mates over to “ooh” and “aah” over our pottering efforts. And let's be honest, we NEED some sort of social interaction if we're getting excited about dustbusters.

Till next time then, just off to organise the linen cupboard...