Made it.

The flight was a bear. Just a note, the differential between LA and SFO from Dunedin is 15 air miles. Yes, brothers and sisters, I said 15 miles. So all the trouble involved in humping my junk to SFO United, then from the Domestic to the International terminal at LA (great design work, boys), was totally and utterly unnecessary. Plus it meant I had to go to LA. I ever mention how much I hate LA? No? Because it should be a given. All right-thinking people hate LA, and no one thinks more rightly than I.

That said, the actual flight to Auckland was okay. Lots of movies and other toys, nice kid to sit next to and mock the tourists in front of us with, and enough xanax and ambien to fell Magilla Gorilla meant that I actually slept a bit of the way. Air New Zealand is nice, the staff is cool and the food palatable, and the seats were livable. Perhaps that is due to my weight loss as well, either way, not too bad.

That’s good because by the time I left I was in bad shape. Two weeks of saying goodbye to friends all over the west brought me to an emotional state I rarely see. Not depression, per se, but definite burnout. Plus the Kenai guilt and sorrow continues to fester. Topping it all off is the unmistakable tang of self doubt which appears before every move of this kind. What seemed like such a great plan becomes a WTF moment as it materializes. School? New Zealand? Quit my job, leave my wife and dog and family, sell all my shit? As much as I would like to think of myself as someone free enough to jump on these opportunities to swim with the dolphins, the reality is that I am an average guy from a good solid upbringing with pretensions of alt-grandeur. In god’s name, what was I thinking? Why do I need so badly to talk with my wife about the decision to move away for years? Maybe Onstad could answer me.

To interject, just as my last move from Cali to Nome had a soundtrack by Guy Clark, this particular breakdown is brought to you courtesy of the one, incredibly great, album by Willis Alan Ramsey. Except track 2, Muskrat Love. Yes, THAT Muskrat Love. Having that thing on this disc is like talking to Jesus and noticing early on that he has something hanging from his nose. Still cool, just unsettling.

So enough of my self-generated emotional turmoil, I made it to New Zealand.

Auckland I have seen little of aside from, once again, humping my gear from one terminal to another. But Dunedin, ah Dunedin is sweet. Airport surrounded by fields of a green I haven’t seen since Ireland. Not even the Highlands were this verdant. The buildings are old, and everything from the buildings themselves to the plumbing fixtures and the complete lack of insulation or central heating puts one in mind of a 1963 Holiday Inn in Muncie, IN. You should see the fixtures in my room. I’m pretty sure I could pay for this month’s rent via Ebay using just the Phillips console AM/FM rig built into one of my nightstands.

I have spent two days walking Dunedin and as of yet it has a similar feel. Nothing, aside from businesses, that would be called Modern architecture stateside. Even the music…lots of 70’s Floyd and 80’s light new-wave. Some places in pretty evident disrepair. Yet downtown is vibrant, full of tourist draws and pubs, bounded by beautiful 19th century churches and public buildings. So the flats are colder inside than out, who the hell wants to be inside? If only this rain would break. This is a glorious place.

Except for the Orientation week celebrations.

My room is in a complex between Cumberland and Castle Streets, just north of the University. Castle and Leith Streets, to the east, are the Dunedin equivalents of Bourbon Street, sans the good music, good costumes, and beignets. So, sans everything but the alcohol and noise. For the next several weeks we have been warned to expect loud late nights, glass strewn streets, and burning couches. Do not adjust your dial, I said burning couches. Local tradition, which none can explain, and despite the pouring to drizzling skies for the last two days there have been several attempts to torch conservatory suites outside our gates.

Drunks are not funny. Burning furniture is, depending on the circumstances, somewhere between not to mildly funny. Rain, rain isn’t particularly funny, nor are Kiwis inherently. They are a reserved breed, with a weakness for bad TV. Hell, 18 year old drinking ages aren’t even notably funny. But 18 year old, rain-drenched drunks trying to light soggy couches in the middle of a New Zealand street somehow becomes Richard Pryor coke-fire funny. At least so far. Fortunately, I was not allowed to bring my guns.

So there is currently a very damp riot occurring outside my window with an admittedly charming accent. Several hundred drunk frosh-critters are promenading through what appears to be the debris of the First Furniture War, screaming jovial obscenities at one another between bouts of ruminant mimicry in the bushes. Trying to re-chew their cud, that is. As well as very ruminant-like breeding attempts. Moo, baby; moo.

So since I started this blog with the hope of relating my experiences of New Zealand, may I end with the parting words screeched under my window in a voice like Fran Drescher trying to sing Klaus Nomi: “Your car is ugly and your dick is tiny, you complete bastard!”