Guest Post: Dodging Turnips for the "Spain Scoop"

Things have been so crazy around here that I forgot to tell everyone that I had a guest piece up a few weeks ago at the "Spain Scoop," which is one of my favorite English-language blogs here in Spain. (This is my second piece for them; long-time readers will remember that I wrote about a trip to Jaen last year, as well.) I'll post the beginning here; to see the rest, head over to their website!

True Manhood by Dodging Turnips--Move Over Viagra

Just when one thinks they have heard of every wild festival in Spain, another bizarre event is tossed to the forefront.  About two and one half hours, southwest of Madrid, is the mountain village of Piornal.  In snow laden streets, men are chased by turnip throwing demons.  Those who survive reasonably intact, are newly virile. Move over Viagra. Our guest expert, Alissa Greenberg, tells the truth on turnip tossing. - See more at: http://www.thespainscoop.com/festivals-spain-scoop/#sthash.NDzoB0fK.dpuf

True Manhood By Dodging Turnips – Move Over Viagra

- See more at: http://www.thespainscoop.com/festivals-spain-scoop/#sthash.NDzoB0fK.dpuf

By Alissa Greenberg

The morning of Jarramplas dawned clear and cold. It had snowed in the Sierra Gredos overnight, and a wintry paradise of delicately-frosted trees and families building snowmen greeted us as we approached Piornal, the highest village in Extremadura. Despite its population of just 1500, every year on January 19 and 20 Piornal hosts a festival that rivals the adrenaline of Pamplona's running of the bulls and the happy chaos of Tomatina in Valencia. We had come to investigate.

In the village, a festive atmosphere permeated, with every bar overflowing and swarms of teenagers in matching T-shirts running and shouting through the narrow alleyways. All along the main street, houses were covered in protective boards or netting. Turnips were piled in drifts along the sidewalk. Yes: turnips.

The short-version explanation is that each year five or six Piornalego men are tapped to act as “Jarramplas.” One by one, each dons an elaborate, multi-colored patchwork suit and horned helmet, then walks the streets of the village as the entire community pursues him, throwing turnips. (To prevent serious injuries, the suit and mask are reinforced with fiberglass.) The longer version is not that much longer: no one knows exactly where the tradition comes from, although prevailing wisdom suggests it started centuries ago when a cattle thief plaguing the village was punished with a bombardment of vegetables. These days, playing Jarramplas is considered a great honor and test of manhood. A waiting list stretches until 2030. 

We arrived in Piornal's main square just before 4 PM; people were streaming into the small, snowy plaza from all directions. The church bells began to sound, and there was a shout--“He’s coming! He’s coming!” A drumbeat sounded in the distance, and then: complete chaos.

To read more, click over to the Spain Scoop

Just when one thinks they have heard of every wild festival in Spain, another bizarre event is tossed to the forefront.  About two and one half hours, southwest of Madrid, is the mountain village of Piornal.  In snow laden streets, men are chased by turnip throwing demons.  Those who survive reasonably intact, are newly virile. Move over Viagra. Our guest expert, Alissa Greenberg, tells the truth on turnip tossing. - See more at: http://www.thespainscoop.com/festivals-spain-scoop/#sthash.NDzoB0fK.dpuf

Just when one thinks they have heard of every wild festival in Spain, another bizarre event is tossed to the forefront.  About two and one half hours, southwest of Madrid, is the mountain village of Piornal.  In snow laden streets, men are chased by turnip throwing demons.  Those who survive reasonably intact, are newly virile. Move over Viagra. Our guest expert, Alissa Greenberg, tells the truth on turnip tossing. - See more at: http://www.thespainscoop.com/festivals-spain-scoop/#sthash.NDzoB0fK.dpuf

True Manhood By Dodging Turnips – Move Over Viagra

Just when one thinks they have heard of every wild festival in Spain, another bizarre event is tossed to the forefront.  About two and one half hours, southwest of Madrid, is the mountain village of Piornal.  In snow laden streets, men are chased by turnip throwing demons.  Those who survive reasonably intact, are newly virile. Move over Viagra. Our guest expert, Alissa Greenberg, tells the truth on turnip tossing.
By Alissa Greenberg
The morning of Jarramplas dawned clear and cold. It had snowed in the Sierra Gredos overnight, and a wintry paradise of delicately-frosted trees and families building snowmen greeted us as we approached Piornal, the highest village in Extremadura.
Despite its population of just 1,500, every year on January 19 and 20, Piornal hosts a festival that rivals the adrenaline of Pamplona’s running of the bulls and the happy chaos of Tomatina in Valencia. We had come to investigate.

- See more at: http://www.thespainscoop.com/festivals-spain-scoop/#sthash.NDzoB0fK.dpuf

True Manhood By Dodging Turnips – Move Over Viagra

Just when one thinks they have heard of every wild festival in Spain, another bizarre event is tossed to the forefront.  About two and one half hours, southwest of Madrid, is the mountain village of Piornal.  In snow laden streets, men are chased by turnip throwing demons.  Those who survive reasonably intact, are newly virile. Move over Viagra. Our guest expert, Alissa Greenberg, tells the truth on turnip tossing.
By Alissa Greenberg
The morning of Jarramplas dawned clear and cold. It had snowed in the Sierra Gredos overnight, and a wintry paradise of delicately-frosted trees and families building snowmen greeted us as we approached Piornal, the highest village in Extremadura.
Despite its population of just 1,500, every year on January 19 and 20, Piornal hosts a festival that rivals the adrenaline of Pamplona’s running of the bulls and the happy chaos of Tomatina in Valencia. We had come to investigate.

- See more at: http://www.thespainscoop.com/festivals-spain-scoop/#sthash.NDzoB0fK.dpuf

The Bad Times

The last you heard of me was mid-July, en route home for a much-needed vacation. Really, you hadn't heard much of me before that, either. The last true update came from the end of June, a lovely span of time for teaching, relaxation, exploration, and enjoyment of a Palencia summer just starting to show its most beautiful blossom.

Except that then it all went to hell.

There are very few travel blogs (or at least very few I've read) that address the darker side of travel. It makes sense, of course. Unpleasant travel experiences are negative enough the first time around for the people living through them-- why would a traveler want to subject him or herself, or his/her audience, to a review?

But bad experiences, and even bad streaks, are of course a very real part of traveling. Buses are delayed, plans fall through, weather changes for the worse, important items are stolen, sickness pounces. Hell, just off the top of my head, drawing from my own experiences I can think of, I've: dropped my camera in the English Channel off the coast of Cornwall, got dysentery in Nujiang (Yunnan) during my thesis research, accidentally offended the Muslim sensibilities of my Palestinian host in Jordan, showed up late at night in a tiny Normandy town in the pouring rain and no host in sight for more than an hour, and (most infamously) spent four hideously cramped, hot days shuttling around the hellish North Indian bus system, from one incorrect town to the next.

So: July 2012. I had been hired to work in a summer camp in Cantabria, in the Spanish northern interior, for the last two weeks of July. I decided to give up my Palencia apartment on the first of the month in order to use my rent money to travel. I planned a beach-and-culture vacation across Asturias, Cantabria, and Basque Country (Pais Vasco). I spent a desperate several days packing up my apartment and departed for Oviedo, where I had exactly one day to enjoy my new Asturian surroundings when the proverbial first shoe dropped: the director called me bright on Sunday morning, while I picked through antiques and cheap clothing at the market, and told me that the camp had been suddenly and unceremoniously cancelled. I found myself suddenly out 500 euros (more, really, given how much extra I'd paid for a flight home that coincided with the camp schedule) and homeless for the next month.

I spent the next day panicking, then decided to plow ahead with my couchsurfing adventure along the Cantabrian Sea/Bay of Biscay. Unfortunately, the sudden implosion of my summer plans was just a preview of the way things would go until my departure for the US. Just within the ensuing 2.5 weeks I suffered through bad weather (unseasonably cold and wet even for usually cold and wet Asturias), suddenly unavailable hotels or hosts, a brief bout with fleas or bedbugs in the hostels I shared with pilgrims on the northern Camino de Santiago, a sprained ankle, a stolen credit card, and general loneliness and increasing discouragement.

It was an incredibly stressful period that sometimes felt unending-- just when I was recovering from one physical or emotional setback, another seemed to be on the way. But despite all that the bright spots were intensely bright. I slipped in a peaceful beach weekend in tiny Luanco (just before I slipped again, this time on rain-slicked cobbles and suffered the aforementioned ankle injury.) I marveled at the stunning Llanes cliff-and-ocean vistas (before fog descended and obscured them completely.) On July 4, I purchased digestive cookies, chocolate, and a bag of the weirdly-chewy-pink-and-white creation that pass for a Spanish marshmallows and taught my couchsurfing host to make s'mores using tea light candles. I used some of my extra time in Basque Country to eat my weight in delicious Basque pintxos (incredibly intricate mini-meals) and hike an unbelievably scenic seaside monastery, balanced precariously on top of dramatic sea cliffs. I was determined to surmount my itching legs, lost money, illness, and anxiety. It got a lot easier to do that after one evening in particular, which changed my perspective on "the bad times" of travel.

I didn't mean to spend as long in Ribadesella as long as I eventually stayed. I'd traveled through with my parents during their Easter visit-- we'd wanted to visit the 25, 000 year old cave paintings there but, due to bad weather and timing miscalculations, missed our appointment. I had resolved to return, and return I did. But, as sometimes happens with nomadic travel, I seemed to be caught in some strange magnetic storm around the town, and I couldn't seem to leave. I saw the paintings (which were breathtaking, especially one particular 10, 000 year old horse's head that looked like it had been scrawled the day before), then went to the previously discussed July 4th celebration in a nearby town.  I came back, then left again to go to a cider festival (where it rained all day, I missed the major festivities due to train schedules, and my host had to suddenly cancel on me). Another return-- this time to attempt a canoe trip which was unpleasantly rained out. An ill-fated hostel misadventure later, I decided it was worth it to stay around for the town's Patron Saint celebrations.

I was feeling decidedly fed up, I'll admit it. The rain was unremitting, and I was disappointed about my cancelled canoeing trip and stressed about finding somewhere to stay in my next stop and how to stretch the money I had left to fill the time until my flight home. Tempted to pout in my hostel, I instead walked across the narrow bridge over the mouth of the river and joined in the festivities. The rain slowed to a trickle, and the statue of the Saint, Maria Magdalena, was carried out of its shrine on the shoulders of priests, follow by a line of solemn musicians playing an Asturian instrument heavily reminiscent of bagpipes.

Most patron saint festivals include a parade through town, but Ribadesella is a fishing port, and the citizens choose to honor their saint in their own way. I watched in the watery twilight as Maria Magdalena was placed carefully in a fishing boat, festooned with flags and flowers and filled with adoring locals. A second boat held the bagpipers, and the two led a solemn parade of at least 60 boats (pleasurecraft, fishing rigs, and local police/navy alike) out into the open ocean, where a bouquet of flowers was tossed into the water in honor of fishermen lost over the year.

Santa Maria Magdalena starts her voyage into the Cantabrian Sea outside Ribadesella

The maritime parade ended with a brief terrestrial procession to the saint's shrine, where the crowd paused to sing a hymn to her. The shrine was at the edge of the carnival portion of the festival, so the harmonies of voices raised in song mingled with the beeps and booms of the spinning tea cups and bumper cars, while the saint's halo was set aglow by the oranges and greens of neon lights from the Ferris wheel. I wiped the fog from my glasses and took a moment to appreciate this beautiful intermingling of old and new traditions, writ small in the few moments the Saint spent raised against the sky. A string of bad luck and a bad attitude couldn't take that away from me, and that knowledge carried me through the bad times to come, all the way back to the US.

You might ask why I've waited until now to tell you about this. It's mid-October now, and Maria Magdalena has been resting in her shrine for almost 3 months. In between, I spent almost seven weeks recharging my batteries and reconnecting with my family, friends, and beloved city, then returned to Spain for my second year on the Iberian peninsula.

Well, the Bad Times come in many forms-- that's the short answer to "Why now?" Of course I remember having a difficult time getting used to Palencia last year, but I'm willing to entertain the possibility that 8 months of subsequent happiness have colored those initial times a bit rosier than than they really were.

I'm living in Andalucia this year, in a small town called Linares--more on that soon--and I'll be honest with you: my first few weeks here have been pretty difficult. The language is spoken differently here, and everything is even newer and more overwhelming than I anticipated. New friends are hard to come by, the apartment hunting process was much more difficult than I had hoped, my new apartment is presenting several stubborn issues, and I am struggling with my expectations and hopes for this year and the D word (disappointment. More on that later, too.)

But last night one of my first Linares friends, a gym teacher at the elementary school where I am working, took me to a local "feria" (what patron saint festivals are called here in the south.) In a small, out-of-the-way plaza crowned by palm trees, an enthusiastic rock band pumped out covers by the likes of KISS and The Cranberries, while under a white tent neighbors drank beer and ate tapas together. The lead singer launched into an impressive version of "Zombie," and I watched grandmothers and grandfathers nod along in rhythm with a group of faux-bored teenagers perched on the fence off to the side. The tang of roasting meat and fresh beer floated on the breeze, and a motley crew of parents and children and twenty-somethings swayed with their hands in the air, caught up in the music.

For a minute I forgot my anxieties and remembered, instead, that night in Ribadesella and the potential for the bad times to be... not so bad after all.

Dia de la Matanza--Preview

Last Thursday was a magical day for me-- a double holiday in Palencia, the Dia de la Matanza (Day of the Sacrifice) and Dia de la Virgin de la Calle (Day of the Virgin of the Street.) The former is an elaborate feast of all kinds of pork products (in past years they killed the pigs right there in Plaza Mayor, while this year the dead specimens were merely displayed.) The latter is a festival celebrating the patron saint of the city, complete with processions through the old town, Castellano costume, and traditional dancing by tiny adorable children (as well as much more adept older adults.)

Overly romantic as it may be, when I stopped to think about what life could be like in Spain last year, this is one of the ideals I imagined: an untouristed town celebrating local festivals, eating traditional food, wearing beautiful clothes-- and myself, camera in hand, happy to see familiar landmarks decorated with time-honored ceremony. And so as I made my way through the crowded cathedral, amidst an eerie susurrus of the Lord's prayer on 300 pairs of lips; and as the dancing girls at the head of the procession stopped to twirl and click their castanets to welcome the Saint back to its home in the church on Calle Cestilla-- I admit to getting misty-eyed. I was here. I saw this. I made it.

REWIND: Japan

Continuing my recent blogging vein with a tantalizing taste of my Japan adventures.... Some highlights:

Osaka
*I was lucky enough to have a university friend, JJ, to stay with during my time in Japan. JJ even trekked out from Tottori (a small city where he was teaching English) to Osaka to meet me at the airport and spend the weekend in Osaka. That meant that instead of affording a sense of deep, overwhelming anxiety, jumping head first into Japanese society was exciting, fascinating, and generally great.

The Osaka skyline
*To start with, we had a fantastic night out, trying all sorts of delicious Osakan foods, wandering the streets of the city's ultra-trendy neighborhoods, stopping in a British-themed bar where I had my first umeshu (totally delicious plum wine), admiring the crazy out-there Japanese fashions at a particularly notorious intersection, and capping the evening with--what else--karaoke

*JJ convinced me that I had to experience a "capsule hotel," a unique Japanese experience where in a hotel-goer stays in what is essentially an enclosed train berth (but much more high-tech and futuristic feeling) in a huge hall full of said berths. The hotel had an extraordinary otherworldly feel to it (more on this in my later post on Osaka), replete with super-high tech gadgets (don't get me started on Japanese toilets...). In the women's bath I met Violetta, a Romanian mathematician with a Japanese husband who invited me to come see her in Matsue, a small city near Tottori

An awkward photo of my capsule* JJ and I splashed out on tickets for the semi-annual sumo wrestling tournament (which is held only once a year in southern Japan.) It was spectacular, a complete cultural immersion, an event which in many ways felt like it could have been taking place centuries in the past. Completely worth the money.

At the sumo tournament
Nara

*JJ and I took a day trip to Nara, where there are some temples and lots of tame deer walking around. The temples include both the oldest and largest standing wooden structures in the world. They are soberly gorgeous examples of Buddhist architecture (and, thanks to a course on the topic, JJ was able to regale me with the wonders of that architecture)

The largest wooden structure in the world (the dots are people)

JJ feeding a deer
The one on the left is the oldest standing wooden structure in the world

Tottori

*Tottori is a little city about 2.5 hours northwest of Osaka. To say it doesn't get much in the way of tourism is an understatement. In fact, I met a Tottori-ite in Australia and told him I was planning to visit in March. He looked at me and said, "Why?!" Nevertheless, I spent more than a week with JJ just soaking in everyday Japanese life. I met his fellow teachers, tried lots of delicious Japanese food (including sushi, for the first time!), went to a local onsen (Japanese bath), explored the fabulous local toy museum, and relished the feeling of being in one place for awhile.

Going to "kaiten sushi" ("conveyor belt" sushi)
Octopus at a fish market in Tottori
At the fantastic toy museum in Tottori
*When JJ wasn't working, we went sightseeing together. He showed me his favorite tea house/garden, and we went together to the 'famous' Tottori dunes and on a lovely boat ride on the coast. I also got to see his taiko (traditional Japanese drumming) troupe preparing for a big performance.

The coast near Tottori
JJ practices with his taiko troupe
Matsue

*JJ had long-standing plans to go to South Korea for a long weekend, so I made good on Violetta's invitation and took the train to Matsue, a city a few hours from Tottori. I stayed in a ryokan, or old-fashioned Japanese inn, and during the days Violetta showed me around her favorite Matsue sights. We took a walk around the lake, visited the castle (one of the largest in Japan), went to a beautiful temple complex/tea garden, ate at an incredibly charming 9-seat restaurant and splurged on a pre-set menu with all the delicacies from the lake, and went for a drive with her husband to the stunning Sakaiminato coast.

The most adorable restaurant
Mother and daughter who work at the restaurant
Sunset on the Sakaiminato coast
Matsue castle by night, complete with cherry blossoms and people having celebratory drinking parties (called "hanami") underneath them
Mochigase
*I was lucky enough to have a few chances to visit Mochigase, a picture-perfect where JJ taught part of the time. The first time I visited the school to watch JJ teach, the second time for the Mochigase doll festival, and the third time to give back to the school and help JJ make a giant English-language poster including several of my travel photos from the trip thus far.

*Visiting JJ's school was great fun. In each class he introduced me and had me tell the students a little bit about my trip. Then I helped them play a game of English grammar battle ship. During free periods we chatted with the other teachers and sat in on a music lesson.

Walking back from school through the adorable streets of Mochigase
*Happily, the annual Mochigase doll festival, a spring fertility festival which celebrates women's strength, took place about half way through my time in Japan. During the festival, all the houses in town put out beautiful displays of traditional dolls, people float similar dolls down the river to pray for their daughters' growth, and those daughters dress up in their best kimono for the same purpose. The day itself was beautiful and warm, and I was maybe the only Westerner in all of the proceedings. I wandered through the scene taking pictures, ate some delicious homemade mochi (pounded potato-flour candy), and set my own doll off down the river to pray for strength for me and any daughters to come.

A beautiful example of the traditional doll displays


Everywhere I looked there were little Japanese girls wearing kimono and having a cute-off contest. (They all won.)

Floating the dolls down the river
Kyoto

*I spent my last long weekend in Japan exploring the wonders of Kyoto. First I met up with a fellow Boston couchsurfer, Mike, and we explored the fantastic Shinto shrine-filled mountain of Fushimi Inari and walking the geisha district in awe of the beautiful tea houses.

Shinto gates at Fushimi Inari
The stunning beauty of Gion geisha district tea houses in cherry blossom season
*For a couple of days after that I stayed with Mami, the Japanese girlfriend of one of JJ's co-teachers, and we spent an exhausting and amazing 11-hour day walking all over the city exploring temples, a Zen garden, and the Temple; celebrating the sakura (cherry blossom festival) with harp music and traditional food; and capping the evening off with a mountain temple complex, the Kyoto castle, and an exquisite (if expensive) meal in the Pontocho bar district.

The golden temple

A shinto shrine complex with its sakura in full bloom and its festival booths up to celebrate
The mountain-top temple by night
*Finally, JJ arrived in Kyoto, and we spent a couple of days exploring his former home (he had studied in the city for a year during University), going to a traditional fan dance performance, having our own hanami with some other Wesleyan students on the same program, and splurging on tickets for the miyako odori, the semi-annual dance performance put on by competing geisha houses in the city to showcase the talent of their new students.

The fan dance performance

Our very own hanami
A scene from the miyako odori
A geisha spotted on the street near Gion

FLASHBACK-- Napier, NZ: What decade is it, anyway?

As I mentioned in a previous entry, the format of this blog is changing. From now on I will be simultaneously writing about what I'm doing in the present (and where I'm doing it), as well as occasionally presenting forays into the missing 3+ months of travel this blog has yet to cover. This is the first of the FLASHBACK entries I promised.

Late February (approximately February 20)--

When we left off in New Zealand, I had just decided to take the riskier option for my travels through the North Island toward Auckland. The relatively remote region of East Cape had caught my attention when the G family, with whom I'd stayed in Nelson, recommended it to me. When I did more research, the appeal only grew: the region boasted rich Maori culture unspoiled by the crass tourism ventures that pop up in larger North Island communities such as Rotorua; it also was one of the most stunning areas on the island, and in New Zealand that's saying something. The cape was large, however, and not well-serviced by tourist busses. I wasn't sure I could make the trip alone.

Enter couchsurfing, my longtime savior. Heikki, a Finnish Kiwi expat who went by the name Henry, posted on a New Zealand message board looking for someone to accompany him on a campervan trip around East Cape. I hemmed and hawed-- although Henry had all positive recommendations on his couchsurfing profile, he was still a strange, older man, and the situation had obvious inherent risks. But after several telephone conversations with Henry, as well as consultations with my parents and friends, I decided to take the plunge. He was waiting in Napier, a city about 6 hours north of Wellington by bus. Leaving the comfort of Moira's home behind, I rode north into a multi-day adventure.

As it turned out, I had very little to worry about. Henry was completely non-threatening, a recovering paraplegic whose enormous inner strength had brought him back to walking with canes when doctors said it was impossible. Really, he only posed a threat when it came to my peace of mind--he was mildly anti-Semitic, mildly homophobic, and generally a little bit of a jerk. But as traveling companions we got on reasonably well, and in the end the places his campervan took me were well worth the effort it took to steer clear of the necessary topics...

I knew little to nothing about Napier when I arrived. I didn't know, for example, that the entire town was leveled in an earthquake in the early 1930s and had therefore been rebuilt completely in that era's current style, art deco. Napier is therefore, among some circles, known as the art deco capital of the world. It might have been useful for me to know this beforehand, but my ignorance made arriving to find the annual Napier Art Deco festival about to begin even more delightful.

For one weekend every year, people from all over New Zealand and beyond--possibly everyone in the southern hemisphere who owns an antique car-- converge on Napier for four days of old-fashioned (in every sense of the phrase) fun. There are big band concerts, barbershop quartet performances, antique car parades, and costume contests. For yes, celebrants get into the spirit by getting out their best flapper dresses and bowler hats, completing the transformation of the town into its last-century self.

I arrived in Napier from rainy Wellington to find the weather clear and a jazz band playing in the old-timey band shell. I spent the night in Henry's camper van (the rest of the nights on our trip he slept outside in his camping hammock) with no incident and the next morning was taken up wandering the town admiring the lovely architecture, coming across such fun surprises as corner girls' choruses, morris dancers, and a restored steam engine, and doing some fantastic people watching.

I think some photos would give you a better idea of the atmosphere than anything else. So without further ado:

An outdoor jazz brunch

These pictures really beg the question: what decade is it, anyway? Switch them to black and white and I don't think you could be sure

Art Deco at its best

Barbershop stylings on the sidewalk

The antique car parade

Waiting to be judged at the costume contest
I think this one might be my favorite

The sun was shining intensely on Hawke's Bay as I finished my morning wander and caught up with Henry in the parking lot where we'd camped for the night. He was ready with maps, and we set out on the first leg of our tour around East Cape, heading for what many consider to be the easternmost city in the world-- Gisborne.

Newest Zealand: First stop, Christchurch

New Zealand: new country, new start, new adventures. The flight across the Tasman Sea was quick and painless, and after I struggled through customs I met my first SERVAS host, Leith, at the airport (SERVAS is like a UN-sponsored version of couch surfing, dating back to the 1970s). She lived a bit outside of Christchurch, and it took most of the afternoon to convert her computer room into a guest room. By the time we finished, we had just time for "tea" (Kiwi language for "dinner") before attending a performance of "Waiting for Godot." This, as it turned out, was a mistake. I know many people consider him to be a genius, but I hate most plays by Samuel Beckett with a vengeance. I had thought that maybe the novel and easy-on-the-ear Kiwi accents would help me appreciate the play more, but they did not. Worn out from the long day of traveling, I struggled to stay awake through two hours of mediocre acting and plotless conversation. Not the highpoint of my travels.

Actually, my stay with Leith was in general not a highpoint. Not every host in a trip like this can be your favorite, and I found Leith to be exacting and cold. She chastised me for turning on a light in my room during the day, for leaving a door closed and then that same door ajar. Not all the tension between us was personality based: during that first dinner Leith revealed to me that she had Asberger's syndrome. She was quite high functioning, but I think my presence in the house and my ignorance of tiny cultural differences that neither of us anticipated unbalanced her usual routines. After two days at her house I transferred to a new couchsurfing host, Theresa, in the city. It was a much better fit.

Christchurch is very walkable city, and I spent my few days there wandering.

Christchurch architecture


The first day my wanderings were rewarded by the last day of the World Busker's Festival, an annual celebration that brings street performers from all over the world to New Zealand. I met Theresa there and we spent the afternoon immersed in the carnival atmosphere, taking in a three-meter unicyclist juggling fiery batons, two acrobats performing a love story in a bubble, a contortionist going by the name Bendy M, and a guy balancing himself on a pole (and occasionally vice versa.)

Images from the Busker's Festival:

Bendy M in a box:

The acrobats in a ball

Living statues
Guy on a pole

Pole on a Guy

The next morning after a grumpy, tense breakfast with Leith I moved officially to Theresa's, trying to glean what lessons I could about cultural differences from the experience while still reminding myself that most of the problems were not something I could control. The day was filled mostly with the super bowl: I met some couch surfers at the Holy Grail, the biggest (only?) sports bar in Christchurch. Every American male in a 20 mile radius was there, or at least it seemed that way. I enjoyed yelling at the screen and soaking up the testosterone, and since I cared nothing about who won I was able to enjoy the game on screen all the more.

After a jaunt through an interesting art gallery showing some Maori (the indigenous people of New Zealand) art, I joined Theresa and her friends for their weekly Pub Quiz. As the token American, I was mostly lost among trivia about Parliament and rugby miscellany. I spectacularly failed to identify Holly Marie Combs ("that chick from 'Charmed'") and Denver, Colorado but did add Jason Mraz to the mix.

My last day in Christchurch wasn't really spent in Christchurch at all, but exploring its environs. Instead, I went with Enric, a couch surfer from Spain, to Lyttleton, which is a very cute town on the coast that was also the deepest and most important port in New Zealand for a long time and served as the base of some of the first expeditions to Antarctica.

Funky Lyttleton

Enric and I wandered the charming streets, lined with coffee shops and art galleries, and greatly enjoyed a local maritime museum replete with bizarrely dressed mannequins and the random bits and pieces that make a local museum fantastic.

I love little local museums


Creepy/awesome (crawesome?) mannequins, all kitted up to go to the Antarctic
We also hiked up to the highest point in town, where one of the last functioning time balls in the world had its home. A worldwide network of time balls, we learned from the caretaker, once helped seafarers set their courses. For a long time one relied on the time and position of the stars to figure out one's location, and a tiny error could lead to, say, crashing into an island that was supposed to be a couple miles away by your calculations. Time balls, which could be seen from far out on the water, were dropped at a certain time every day, allowing captains to see if their sea clocks (chronometers) were off and by how much, and saving them from island-crashing situations. There are very few time balls left (although the caretaker cleverly pointed out that the most famous time ball of all, at Time Square on New Years). The station also presented a great view of all of Lyttleton Harbor.


Our day wrapped up in Hagley Park, a lovely and lush botanical garden, where Enric and I snagged a great spot near the stage for an outdoor performance of "The Complete History of Cinema, Abridged," a sketch comedy performance by three local comedians. Most of it was entertaining, with a great skit involving a man dressed as the Titanic rapping "Ice Ice Baby" warranting specific mention.

Said sketch

My final act in Christchurch, at least for the moment: an epic game of Scrabble with Theresa, who was a worthy opponent. We played late into the night, and when my alarm went off the next morning I was tired but excited to get on a bus for Akaroa and Banks Peninsula.