The Adventure

It is such a cliche the way that I always respond to friends' queries about how we are doing in Australia. "Really enjoying the adventure," I always say.

"Adventure" has become one of those words that I use so often that it has lost all power, and has only a vague meaning.

I suppose I've mostly thought of an adventure as some sort of vacation outcome - maybe climbing something, seeing dramatic sights, learning about a different culture, eating foods I've never tried, and possibly getting wet or sunburned.

I have certainly had those sorts of adventures since moving to Australia: surfing Bondi, eating kangaroo, hiking to the highest point in Australia, driving through a swarm of locusts in Victoria, snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef, drinking kava in Vanuatu ... those are all that sort of adventure.

But, lately I have been reflecting on the more significant adventure of moving here. Before we came, I think I had the idea that I would just create a Southern Hemisphere version of my American life - like looking at a word in the mirror - the same, just upside down.  My life in the States had a pretty well defined structure to it - steady full time job, all of my friends worked in my industry, and a lively, predictable social calendar. That was all I knew, so I didn't open my mind to imagine anything different. In hindsight, I think I was really selling myself short with that idea. I was lacking imagination in terms of putting any thought into how I would like to craft my life.

My newly found sense of adventure for my life has, admittedly, been by necessity. I couldn't find a full time job in my niche field or easily break into the theatre industry. Without that job, there were no ready-made friends, either. It has been a process of exploration, trial and error, persistence, and a lot of blind faith, but I could not possibly love how my life adventure is unfolding any more.

These days, I work a part-time job three days a week. It's not something I trained for or have a background in, but I love everything about it. I have never been happier in a job. And, I freelance in theatre in my off time. Sometimes I am flooded with work, and sometimes it is a drought, but it is becoming more reliable. Working for myself and getting to do one-off projects is so much more artistically fulfilling and productive than what I did in the States. And, on my off days, I also sometimes get to flirt with the life of a lady of leisure, which I rather aspire to, particularly in limited doses. Our friends here are a lovely diversity of interesting people that we have met along the way. I miss my friends at home everyday, but do also so enjoy the variety of interests, experiences and talents that our Sydney friends bring to our lives.

Forget getting on a plane or packing a suitcase for an adventure. These days, my adventure is at home. It is the adventure of what happens when all manner of possibility opened up before me, and I took the chance on seeing what happens when I follow my bliss.

As the brilliant Joseph Campbell said: "The adventure is its own reward."

New Zealand Part 6: Aukland, the End of the Road

If you happened to be keeping track, it may have seemed as if I'd forgotten to finish my long series of posts about our trip to New Zealand, but fear not, patient readers. I am here to supply you with the long awaited, if anti-climactic conclusion.

We stopped in Aukland on an overcast and windy day. Instead of a grown man dressed as a dolphin or a teenager in a hobbit wig to welcome us at port, we were greeted by immigration sniffer beagles who presumably were trained to make sure we were not going to smuggle marijuana or an apple into their fine city. Pot and fruit free, we passed inspection and headed into town.

A friend in Sydney had recently returned from a weekend in Aukland, and she'd recommended taking a ferry out to a volcanic island for a day hike. I was set on that plan, but Partner-in-Crime was less convinced that hiking in this weather was his idea of a good day out. We stopped at tourist information where he proceeded to give the nice clerk a hearty grilling about the logistics of such a plan, and came away more convinced than ever that this island hiking business was nothing he'd care to sign up for. In addition to the cold and wind, we'd arrived too late for all but the last ferry out, which would be followed by one one return ferry about 3 hours later. Missing that ferry meant spending the night on a deserted island and then somehow finding ones way back onto the cruise ship in the next port.

I was sure that it would be more than enough time, and since P-i-C had not devised a better plan for a day in Aukland, I declared that I was a grown ass woman, and would do the hike on my own.

We had a little time to kill before the ferry left, so we took a wander up a main street, lined with shops and cafes. We ended up at an outdoor market and in the company of the Auckland Occupy movement. An Occupationalist got P-i-C's attention and tried to pamphlet him in instructions on global financial policy or somesuch, whereupon I lost my husband for twenty minutes or so, as he turned it around and took it to the next level, giving the bearded do-gooder a long and welcome lesson in Jeffersonian democracy or something equally thrilling.

Having sufficiently occupied the occupiers, I declared my leave and found my ferry.

It was about a half hour ride to the island of Rangitoto, a mountainous emergence from a volcanic eruption only about 600 years ago. In fact, you are confronted with the newness and origins of the island with the fact that almost the entire landscape is black rocks and the vegetation is relatively sparse.

There were a number of hikes one could choose, but the main attraction is to walk to the apex in order to get a great view of Aukland.

It was a good hike, though a bit lacking in variety, as the scenery for almost the entire walk looked like this:

Still, it was enough of an incline that I felt a sense of satisfaction when I made it to the top after about 45 minutes. The first scenic highlight was standing on the rim of the enormous crater at the top of the mountain. You can't get any sense of perspective from this photo, so take my word that it was a really big hole.

From there it was a short walk to the top with the promised amazing views of the city. The bad news, of course, was that I'd picked a terrible day for sightseeing, so my hard-won views were really just so-so, in the cloudy haze. I did try to snap a few shots before making my way back down. They ended more like - I don't know - mood pieces, maybe? On another day, I can see how they would be stunning.

I decided to get clever and take an alternate route down. Map in hand, I felt confident in my grown-ass-womandom and excellent decision making skills. 

Hubris is such a funny thing.

I somehow made a wrong turn, which to this day I would be hard pressed to identify on a map. And so it was that I walked. And walked. And walked. Though there had been plenty of people trekking up hill with me, I did not see another soul on this forlorn path down. Nor could I definitively identify my spot on the map. Nor was there any hope of cell phone reception. I tried to be game and at least find some photo ops, but it was a repetitive view of this on both sides the entire way...

Panic started setting in after an hour, when I was still just seeing what is pictured above, and I began to think that P-i-C's paranoia about missing the ferry had not been for naught. That thought drove me forward, as stubbornly I pushed logic to the fore for the next half hour, reminding myself that the island is a circle, and all paths must eventually lead home. Finally, and before tears set in, the scenery changed, and the ferry dock emerged in more than plenty of time to catch the boat and avoid being stranded. Honestly, there truly had been nothing to panic about, at any point. My imagination had gotten the better of me, as invited by an abyss of volcanic nothingness on the ground and an endless sea of blue-grey above.

I captured a few more photos before finding  my way onto the ferry back into town, and returning to my waiting cruise ship chariot and my prince who was lounging poolside.

We didn't know it then, but Aukland would be our last stop on the cruise (good thing I made it back!). The port at Bay of Islands was closed due to the weather the next day, and so we set course for home, enjoying an extra day of over-imbibing on food and drink and doing our best to avoid the tragically whimsical goings on of the cruise entertainment staff by settling ourselves semi-permanently in the spa. 

Our trek around New Zealand was certainly just a sampler of what we'd like to return to see more of. I feel so lucky to be within easy travel distance of such a beautiful, friendly and fascinating country. Next time, I'd like to conjure up a bit of better weather, but aside from that, mostly I'd like more of what we've just scratched the surface of. 

A Theatre Recommendation For the Sydneysiders

I try not to talk about the theatre too much in these pages because it's an awfully specific part of my life. And because I don't talk about it often, I hope you'll know that I mean it when I say that if you are in Sydney, you should really go see this play ... Version 1.0's The Table of Knowledge.

Photo credit: Carriageworks, who I hope doesn't mind me stealing their photo...

It opened in Wollongong last year and, because I was anxious to see this company's work, I took the train out to see it. All the dialogue is taken from real transcripts surrounding an insane political scandal in Wollongong that one can hardly believe is true, and dramatized in a fascinating and kooky way. This company knows how to make interesting theatre.

Plus, it's at Carriageworks, which I have previous gone on record as saying is the coolest performance venue in Sydney.

I don't have any affiliation with Version 1.0 (the sum total of my dealings with them can be summed up here). I just think that it is a wild ride and a crazy fun show that I'm pretty sure you'll like if you are as rad as I think you are.

Half a Size Too Big, But Still An Amazing Find

I bought some groovy boots.

I'd been looking for a pair of boots like these for ages, and one day, making my usual rounds at the op shops, there were my boots. Brand new, nice quality leather, knee high, small heeled black boots. They were of the quality you don't normally find in an op shop, and I quickly tried them on and snapped them up. What a dream.

The first time I wore them, though, I found that they were slightly too big. I hadn't noticed in my initial excitement, but I could have gone with a half size smaller, if that had been an option. And, the more I wore them, the more I noticed that they were kind of hard on the bottom. I had to put insoles in to wear them around town for long.

I still think they're great shoes. I expect I'll wear them a fair number of times this upcoming Autumn and Winter. But, they're not the best shoes I've ever had. I don't think anyone else who has these same shoes has made a mistake by purchasing them. And, they're undoubtedly the perfect shoes for someone with a slightly larger foot than mine. It could be partially my fault because I don't wear thick socks in them, but that's just not my style. 

The boots, of course, are a metaphor. I mean, I do actually own these boots, but they are also a metaphor for expat blogging, of all things.

There is a certain pressure for expat bloggers to share only positives, and to present their new home in a glowing light. I write this because I know and read bloggers who have been taken to task for writing the most trivial complaints/non-glowing reviews of their home away from home in the midst of a sea of other compliments. They are told, "get over it," "try harder," "you can't expect it to be like where you are from," and my favorite, "if you don't like it, leave."

I wonder why we get defensive about the place we are from? A place is not us, nor did we do much to create the landscape and customs. Yet, I for one hate hearing outsiders say negative things about where I am from, so I understand the impulse to feel a bit red in the face and angry and the deliverer - especially if I sense a grain of truth in the message. It's a pretty curious phenomenon, if you think about it.

Just like my cool boots, I like my home. In reality, I still sometimes feel that it is half a size off for, but a surely a tailored fit for others. That doesn't mean that I hate my boots, blame my boots, think other owners of the same boots are wrong, or want to give up my boots. They give me moments of discomfort. Most things about them are great. I'm breaking them in. I'm glad I have them. 

A blog is a chronicle of an experience and, with a small handful of whingey exceptions, most of the expat bloggers I read are pleased as punch with their homes, make every effort to adapt, and do sometimes feel a little out of place. We should feel free to express that not everything is a cakewalk, that sometimes we get a little blister on our big toes. That we once had a pair of boots that fit us better. 

I know that the people who read this blog come from across a spectrum - my friends and family, other expats, people considering a move to Australia, and Australians. I write this blog because expat blogs were so important to me when I moved, and if everything was not bathed in pink ruffles, I wanted to know. That did not dissuade me from wanting to come, suggest to me that a place was bad, or hinder my experience, but was just a warning that some days may be better than others. I actually have been lucky in receiving almost exclusively positive comments on here (though the Australian culture police have swung by on the rare occasion to curtly tell me when I've said something wrong), but I have witnessed this elsewhere, and I don't care for the culture it breeds.

To the readers who might get a little put off, I say, accept the criticism for what it is - part of someone's journey, not a personal affront on you or your country. To the bloggers, I say, keep keeping it real. You are helping others understand their own journeys, wherever they may be.

I have been writing about our lovely travels lately, but want to soon get back into talking more about daily life in these pages, and I hope to have the freedom to be mostly positive, but fair and honest.

Until then, I'm the one wandering around town in the awesome boots. 

New Zealand Part 5: The Steamy, Sulfuric, Strange Land of Rotorua

Only two more posts about New Zealand, and then we'll return to Australia. You're not missing much by my not writing about life in Sydney. At the moment, I'm in a bit of a lull - a happy lull, but a dramatically uninteresting one (as lulls tend to be). Also, lately it rains almost everyday, and no one wants to hear me complain about that.

So, back to a more exciting time, our New Zealand cruise. Heading towards the northern end of the North Island, our stop after Napier was Tauranga. We dashed right off the ship and picked up a rental car to take a day trip to Rotorua, an area of New Zealand described by the tour dude on the ship as "a little Yellowstone." Apparently, the locals call it "Rot-orua" due to the week-old egg smell of sulfur. Both descriptions are apt due to all the fascinating and rather smelly geothermal activity - geysers, mudpots, steamers, and the like.

Though it was raining, we really enjoyed the lovely 90 minute drive out. I particularly got a kick out of the roadside signs suggesting drivers be careful in various situations. First, the warnings were delivered by kiwi fruit...

...and then by kiwi birds...

Also, adding to my giant roadside attraction collection - a giant kiwi.

Once in Rotorua, we did not have a clear plan as to where we were going. In the parking lot of a holiday park whose yard was steaming, Partner-in-Crime and had a long debate about the merits/dismerits of our options. Did we spend the day communing with nature, or did we shell out for the exy cultural center? Finally, deciding that we have previously spent considerable time in the real Yellowstone, we decided that we should take the opportunity to learn a bit about Maori culture, rather than focus on geysers. Te Puia cultural center did have plenty of geothermal wonder, but also featured Maori culture, so we dug out our wallets, and gave it a go.

There were hourly tours, and we had some time to kill before the next one started, so we took a walk to Te Whakarewarewa Thermal Valley (I totally copied and pasted that from Google). It was raining, which our guide later suggested was better for seeing the geysers because more water means that they generate more steam. I tried to get all artsy with my camera.

We also stopped off to see the resident kiwi birds. Because they are nocturnal, they keep them in a darkened house at night, and presumably give them light during the day. A couple of those poor flightless, weirdly-shapen birds were out scratching around and being oddly adorable. We couldn't snap any photos, but if we had, it would have looked like this.

We then joined the tour, led by a stern-faced and very knowledgeable Maori tour guide. We began in a museum, and he talked to us about theories on where the Maori people had originally migrated from ... Polynesia? South America? Asia? He didn't seem to have a strong opinion, and declared that whatever we chose to believe had some truth in it, as the original migration was probably not a straight line.

My favorite part of the tour was the visit to Te Puia's resident weaving and carving schools, where they keep the traditional arts alive by passing them down to the next generation. We were welcomed to take a look at the work they were doing.

The whole tour lasted about an hour, and our guide was so well versed. At the end, I felt it was well worth the admission. 

With a few hour left, we drove further out to take full advantage of all that steaming hot water. We spent the rest of our day at the Waikite Thermal Valley pools. We felt like we were in the middle of nowhere, as they were quite deep into the countryside, and there were hardly any other visitors present. There were about six different pools of varying degrees of hot/hotter/hottest, and we sunk into deep relaxation, as we moved from one to another.

On the property, they also have a nature walk, which winds up for about 10 minutes to the source of the boiling water. It was stunning scenery, a perfectly steamy, pore-opening, almost alien way to end our day. It's a very spiritual place, and I do think that when we next have the chance to return to New Zealand, we'll be in a hurry to spend more time in Rotorua.

The next and final installment in the New Zealand saga - an Auckland adventure.