LIfe update

Hello friends,

The purpose of this entry is to tell you what we've actually been up to, rather than making snide commentary on the land of the Kiwi (which is terribly fun, I must admit).

David absolutely adores his job. He gets an obscene amount of vacation, the people he works with are awesome, he can't get sued, and the patients don't spit or swear at him. In addition, they are paying for his continuing medical education, which he has been doing in the form of wilderness medicine courses in all sorts of crazy places--the polar course in Norway, the desert course in Namibia, and the upcoming jungle course in Costa Rica.

For my part, I've recognized that while I still love the arts, I don't much enjoy administration. My former job here in Auckland only confirmed that, and I have left it in favor of starting classes again. In July I'll begin a year of preliminary coursework that will prepare me to apply for medical school here in Auckland. It is indeed quite a departure from what I have been doing, and I'm pretty much ecstatic. Now I just have to get accepted!

Meanwhile, I'm working part time for a youth choir, and by "youth" I mean 18-26 year olds. It's a bit strange, because the kids are pretty close in age to me (and some are my age), but I think the group mentality of a choir drags down the median age a bit, if you know what I mean. They are utterly charming, and when I attend rehearsals I feel a bit like I'm in "Hair."

My greatest recent accomplishment is preparing the choir's accounts for audit. I know that as someone with an MBA, I'm supposed to know something about accounting, but the courses I took were titled "managerial accounting." That is to say, I don't know how to do actual accounting, but I'm really good at bossing accountants around. So anyway, I taught myself basic accounting over the course of the past few months, and I'm quite proud of myself, and simaltaneously completely perplexed that anyone would make the decision to be an accountant.

David and I are also utilizing my time as a semi-unemployed person to do lots of camping. Last week we went camping in Abel Tasman, a gorgeous national park right on the Tasman Sea. We chose a camp site that is only accessible by kayak, and after setting up camp, we triumphantly exclaimed in our good fortune in being the only people at this amazing camp site right on the beach. Five minutes later, seven kayaks full of 17-year old girls pulled up. I'm sure that somewhere underneath the shrieking and squacking of teenage girls there must have been the sound of gently lapping waves, but we didn't get to find out.

More to come...

S

I can't marry my daughter's son's wife? But what if I really love her?

It's been an awful long time since I've written, in part because our lives have been busy, and mostly because everything has been changing so fast that I didn't know where to begin, but I'll update you on life events in a later post. Here and now, I decided I shouldn't hog all the amusement that goes along with applying for residency in New Zealand.

My favorite part of the application is entitled: Section K7, Minimum requirements for the recognition of partnerships. This is the part of the residency application where I prove that I didn't pay David $10K to get me into the country. Therefore, we have to submit documentation of our long-term, committed relationship. This doesn't mean you have to be married, but if you are, you have to provide a marriage certificate. In section K7, they note that New Zealand will not recognize your marriage if it is with any of the following: your grandmother, your grandfather's wife, your father's sister, your daughter, your son's son's wife, your step mom, your father, your daughter's husband, your husband's daughter's son, your husband's son, or your brother, among many others. I'm rather tempted to call the immigration hotline to ask obnoxious questions like, "I'm married to my son's son's wife, but my son's son died in a tragic curling accident last year, and when I met his wife at the funeral, we bonded over our mutual love of period banjo music. Is that okay?"

One of the things we have to do to prove our relationship is send Immigration NZ copies of correspondence between David and I. So I went through all the emails we've sent to each other in the past two years, and didn't even know where to begin. The first two or three messages we exchanged are written in English and would make sense to the outside world, but beyond that most of our emails are primarily pictures of platypuses and elephants (my two favorite animals), with an occasional NYT article thrown in. These emails would definitely not inspire confidence in our sanity to the level required for residency.

Besides proving that we are in a legit relationship, Immigration NZ also wants a detailed medical history, leading me to wonder why they need to know when my last menstrual cycle was. And do we really need to do a faeces culture? It seems to me that Immigration New Zealand wants to know a whole lot more about me than I want to know about myself.

Going camping...in our living room!

Finally, I have cracked the apartment hunting code and we have a place we really love. We were the very first people to see this place, and we adored it. I loved it for two reasons, and the first reason is simply that it's a great apartment. The second is that as we were walking out of the apartment, the realtor stopped dead in her tracks and starred, awe-struck and blushing, at the neighbor's window.  It appears that the neighbor guy has a window in his shower, but the window is without a curtain. And, as luck would have it, the neighbor is very, very well built. Anyway, we immediately called the landlord to tell him we were interested. Naively, I thought it would be a done deal, but no, he wanted to audition us.

"Yeah, well, I have several other people interested in looking at the apartment," he tells me over the phone. "Why don't you write me an email and tell me a little bit about yourselves, and I'll get back to you within 48 hours."

This surprised me, as you can well imagine. The real estate market in Cincinnati works much differently--that is, you say you want the apartment, but only if the landlord will drop the rent a bit, and then the landlord takes your money and thanks you. Not so here. But no need to fear, because I wrote the most sickeningly adorable email you have ever read, and the landlord called me back to offer me the place the following morning.

 

The only problem is that the moving company messed up and now all of our stuff is arriving a month late, so we will be camping in our apartment for a while. the pictures you see above are from the listing on the New Zealand equivalent of Craigslist, so the furnishings are no longer here. We are doing pretty well, though. I'm becoming a much more creative cook given our very limited selection of cookware, and the "table" we've been eating on is, in fact, a sturdy cardboard box I pulled out of recycling and covered with an attractive dishtowel (and a candle--it makes it classy). Only four to six weeks more of camping, and then we'll have our stuff, or at least in theory we will. I sent the moving company some pretty belligerent emails (being unemployed gives you lots of time to do stuff like that), so hopefully they won't send our stuff to Fiji and sell it to the locals.

Biscuse you? Step away from my apartment!

As I am unemployed, I've been obsessively apartment hunting when I'm not job hunting, and up until recently, I had not cracked the code and things were looking tough. I have learned several lessons over the past few weeks, and in case you are ever apartment hunting in Auckland, I will share them with you.

1. While looking at apartment listings online, assume that anything that they don't show a picture of is a problem. That is, if they don't show a picture of the bedroom, it is either because the carpeting is orange shag or because David and I would need bunk beds to both fit in the bedroom at the same time. If they don't show a picture of the bathroom, it is because an unidentified mold is growing in the shower and cat urine has stained the tiling. You get the idea.

2. No more Mr. Nice Girl. I have had to get rid of my midwestern passive-aggressive nice-girl way of doing business, because when a good apartment is listed in Auckland, there are 20 other people who show up to look at it. So unless all 20 of those other people have a horrible credit history, you have to play hardball. That means showing up 30 minutes before the showing so you beat the crowd, then pretending that you mixed up the time when you knock on the door a half-hour before you were supposed to.

3. Apartment hunting is not about making friends with other apartment hunters. If another person shows up to look at an apartment at the same time as you do, do not get chatty. You don't want to know that she rescues dolphins for a living, or about her adorable baby or puppy, or that she volunteers at the children's hospital on the weekends. Because if the place turns out to be great and she wants it, and you want it too, then you'll feel bad about telling the landlord that you saw her smoking crack on the porch while you were waiting. 

On a more serious note, if you are wondering if we have found an apartment yet, the answer is "maybe." We found a lovely place that we really want (see pics above), but we are still waiting to hear back from the owners if they chose us over the many, many other people that showed up to look at the apartment. One of the reasons I am writing this blog is to prevent myself from staring at my phone for the next five hours to see if they call back--it's sort of like being in a disfunctional relationship...with an apartment.

Are we there yet? No, really.

I thought it would be a good idea to join a running club in Auckland. You know--a good way to meet people, stay in shape, etc. I went online and discovered a YMCA about a mile on the other side of downtown that has a marathon prep club, and they run every Sunday morning at 8 a.m. According to the web site, they run for no more than 1 1/2 hours, so even though I've hardly run at all in the past two months, I figured it would be fine.

I showed up, was assigned to a group in about a 10-minute mile pace, and just as we were starting out, I asked my pack leader where we were heading. I was then informed that this was the beginning of their marathon buildup, and the plan for the day was to run a 22 km route up the four biggest hills in Auckland. I was still optimistic, for three reasons:

1. I didn't know exactly what my pack leader meant by "hills," so I was thinking positively.

(It turns out that by "hills," he actually meant "small mountains" (see picture of the view from Mount Eden above)

2. I still can't remember the difference in the conversions for pounds/kilos vs km/miles, so I actually had no idea how far 22 km is. (Those of you who remember your conversions know that 22 km is actually 14 miles. 14 long, long, painful miles.)

3. I am an idiot. 

We started running, and by the time I got to the top of Mount Eden, I realized that this could really suck. By the time we got to the top of One Tree Hill, I was pretty sure I was going to die. I started contemplating my escape, which was foiled for the following reasons:

1. I had no clue where I was and how to get home

2. There was a 75 year-old hunched-over man in my group named Alister, and I'd be damned if I was going to let someone named Alister finish if I didn't finish too. 

3. I am an idiot.

Anyway, since I had no idea where I was, I had to keep running or I might have died at the top of One Tree Hill and been eaten by the sheep. That's right, there really are sheep grazing all over One Tree Hill (see pictures above).

Next stop, St. John's Hill, which is populated not by sheep, but by cows. This particular bit of terrain is reminiscent of an Irish hillside, and it would have been really beautiful if I hadn't been so very disgruntled. About a hundred yards from the top of the hill, I approached a narrow point in the dirt path. There were giant mud pits on either side of it, and blocking the path was a placid and corpulent cow. He just stood there in my way, looking willfully out from under his long cow eyelashes. I pondered momentarily what one does in this situation, and then, realizing that by pondering I was putting of running, I pondered some more. I tried poking him and he mooed, but didn't move. I tried poking him again, which lead to more mooing, but still no moving. Then I jumped up and down and yelled "move you stupid cow!" At that point he moved his hind hoofs onto the path too, and then he mooed. I ran through the mud pit.

We had one more hill left, and by the time I finished it, I felt rather comatose. There were only 6 km more to the YMCA, and though Alister beat me, I did make it back, having learned the following lessons:

1. I need to learn my conversions.

2. Cows are willful, difficult beasts and I resolve to eat more beef.

3. I am an idiot.

Stay left, look right...or is it stay right, look left?

For those of you who have driven with me in the US, it might seem strange to you that the foolish government of New Zealand would give me a driver's license. But lest you doubt their discerning taste, you should know that they didn't give me a driver's license. I'm not exactly sure why this works, but with an American driver's license, a person can go to Triple A, pay $15, and be granted an "international driving permit," and it's valid for a year. That's right, Triple A sold the peace of mind of all New Zealand motorists for a mere $15.

David and I picked up our rental car two days ago, and you can see it pictured above. I call it the gerbil. For David, getting into this vehicle is something of a gymnastic feat. As we departed A&B Car Rentals, the gentleman who had been helping us shouted out "stay left, look right!" Very sage advice. David was the first to attempt driving on the left, and I must say, he did very well. We stuck to the quietest roads we could find at first, but the next day we needed to go down to Middlemore Hospital, where David will be working, and that means taking the freeway (called the motorway in NZ). Quite a harrowing experience, but we made it there in one piece. The hardest part turned out to be figuring out where the hospital was. It turns out that New Zealanders don't believe in labeling streets, so you might look at a map and see the street you want to turn onto, and find out that there is no such sign within 10 km of you. Question: If a street doesn't have a sign, does it have a name? Answer: It has several, and they are probably all in Maori and really hard to remember.

Next came my turn to drive. I started my lesson in a well-to-do suburb where David needed to do his NZ Medical Council Interview. We got there a half-hour early, so the quiet subdivision seemed like a good place for me to practice. As David is fond of saying, "What goeth before a fall? Pride!" That is to say, I started out doing really well, then I got all proud of myself, then I sideswiped a car. A parked car. Impressive, I know, but don't worry, the side mirrors on the gerbil flip in if they hit something, so neither vehicle was damaged. Needless to say, I haven't tried the freeway yet.

Middle School, Korean Style

David and I arrived in Korea five days ago to visit Nick before heading to Auckland, and right now we are sitting in the airport getting ready to depart for our new home. We had an amazing time in Korea, and we feel really fortunate to have had the chance to see what Nick has been up to for the past year. We even had the opportunity to go with him to Deokjeong Middle School, where he has been teaching English. When surrounded by so much that is different, it was really pleasant to find that middle schools don't change much from one country to the next. The boys still beat each other in the hallways prior to class (and sometimes in class) and the girls still comb their hair obsessively while their teacher is talking.

In any case, being in a Korean middle school is probably the closest David and I will ever be to celebrities. The children followed us in the hallways, pointed, giggled, and were clearly making bets to see who should be the first to make an introduction. One girl ran into Nick's classroom, stared at us, giggled, turned around, and ran into the door in all her excitement. I can't say we've ever had that particular effect on people before, so I guess it's safe to say that Korea is good for a foreigner's ego. 

During each of Nick's five classes for the day, David and I introduced ourselves to the students and then they had the opportunity to ask questions or make comments. Common questions included:

1. How tall are you?
The answer is 196 cm for David and 180 cm for me. The kids gasped when we answered, then clapped.
2. Who is your favorite Korean singer?
Nick informed me that the appropriate answer to this question is "Wondergirls," so that's what we both answered--that's right, David is a big Wondergirls fan too.
3. How much money do you make?
We pled the fifth
4. Are you going to get married?
Also pled the fifth
5. When are you going to get married?
Fifth
6. You like Kim-Chi?

Kim-chi is pickled cabbage. They bury the cabbage in a jar in the ground for an extended period of time and then eat it with EVERY meal. They are exceedingly proud of kim-chi, and you have to pretend to like it, so we lied and said it was delicious.

Nick's students were not the only ones who learned from our visit to Korea. The trip was quite a learning experience for us as well. Among other things, we learned:

1. Children in Deokjeong see few enough Americans that they perceive the few they do see all look like movie stars. Nick's students told us that Nick looks like Mr. Bean (or David Beckham--they couldn't decide), David looks like Hellboy, and I look like Audrey Heburn (I think I lucked out being the girl in this particular instance).

2. Korean toilet paper is really, really strong. Seriously, you could tie it around your ankles and swing from the rafters. Very impressive.

3. Korean relationships are perplexing. One of many examples is that couples wear matching clothes. And it's not like they wear shirts that are the same color and that's where it ends. No, they actually wear whole matching outfits, right down to the identical t-shirts with teddy bears and kittens on them (being cute is a big deal in Korea). 

4. In Korea it is cool to have t-shirts with English phrases. The catch is that the phrases usually make no sense at all, or they have much more meaning packed into them than the wearer probably realizes. Some highlights were:

-"Grapefruit Juice and Praziquantel"

   (Praziquantel is a de-worming medication.) 

-Browned Smores Backyard

-I think Herod is unique

-Morningwood Lumber Company

Thanks to Nick for being such a wonderful host and for making this fantastic learning experience possible for us!