The importance of Expat Thanksgiving

I'll admit that even by lax Andalucian standards (with the strange exception of the bus schedule, I've found the southern Spanish stereotype regarding tardiness to be fairly accurate), this entry comes a bit late. It's even later than it might have been, because once we passed the New Year I had serious misgivings about posting at all. But who knows where I might be or what I might be thinking about Thanksgiving next year? I'd like to take a "better late than never, better properly written than slapdash" philosophy to this blog. So: onward!

I've spent a few holidays abroad in my time-- July 4th in China (2007), Greece (2009), or Spain (2012). Christmas in Spain (2009, 2010), England (2011), and Ireland (2012.) My birthday in Italy (2009 and 2012) and Spain/Germany (2011.) Thanksgiving in France (2009) and Spain (2011)-- and again this year. Each celebration abroad mixes the familiar and the new in an exciting way, and I've deeply enjoyed sharing elements of my favorite traditions (whether they be Independence Day s'mores or latkes on Hannukah) with new friends that have already taught me a great deal.

French Thanksgiving in 2009 was a magical affair: it took place in a borrowed apartment in Normandy stocked full of couchsurfers from Cherbourg and stuffed to the gills with instant mashed potatoes, chicken from the village rotisserie, and homemade Norman apple pie (more like a tart by American standards.) Last year's Palentino Thanksgiving was equally full of newness and excitement, as well as a dear friend who came to visit. She brought with her canned cranberry sauce, stuffing mix, and more instant mashed potatoes-- as well as a contagious love for the holiday that added spark to the proceedings.

Then, in what seemed like a blink, November came around again, bringing with it my third Thanksgiving outside US borders. For 2012, I arranged an elaborate meal with Hannah, a new American friend in Linares. We invited several Spanish (and two Polish) friends, who in turn invited their friends, and in the end we had a total of 12 people sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner! It was a little bit of an overwhelming prospect, but with determination and a dollop of team work we were able to produce a menu that included: an apple pie, two pumpkin pies, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole, stuffing, graving, salad, and cranberry sauce (my pride and joy, concocted using reconstituted dried cranberries and--incredibly deliciously--an entire pomegranate.)

The results of a great deal of hard work! (Mostly Hannah's)

The day itself was full of happy, crowded chaos, exactly as a Thanksgiving should be. The invited throng trickled in starting around 3 PM--for once Spanish dining times coincided with American traditions-- just as Hannah and I were putting the finishing touches on the menu. The pies, which we had baked the previous night, were set to cool on the porch; the chickens were just coming out of the oven. We enlisted the cheerfully-complaining help of Maria and Jose to carve them and Polish Zeb to put some elbow grease into the mashed potatoes. Drinks were poured, places were set, the menu was translated among three languages, and we all sat down to a lip-smacking, multilingual, multicultural feast. (Of course, beforehand, Hannah and I insisted on following the time-honored tradition of saying something you're thankful for.)

The assembled Thanksgiving crew, before the meal

A complete Thanksgiving plate--even with cranberry sauce!

The meal was a total success. The conversation was peppered with compliments on the food (most of which our friends had never tried before) and a butchered/simplified version of the Thanksgiving story; the pumpkin pie, gravy, and cranberry sauce were particular hits. After a solid afternoon of eating and cleaning up, I even had a chance to take the customary post-Thanksgiving nap (here again Spanish and American traditions intersected.) I drowsed happily, thinking of people at home doing the same.

And here's the thing: it wasn't just people at home. In the coming days I saw pictures of expat friends all over the world celebrating. One in Beijing posted photos of a complicated Western-style spread; an acquaintance working for an NGO in Sudan took to his blog to describe in detail the effort of procuring a scrawny African chicken, getting it butchered, and preparing it for his feast. The next day, another NGO-worker, this one on the island of East Timor, posted pictures on Facebook of herself sharing a cooked, honeyed squash with a neighbor. There were no turkeys to be found, she said-- this was the closest she could approximate. Other friends throughout Spain sent anecdotes about the best way to make cranberry sauce (that's where I got the tip about using dried cranberries) or adventures adapting to Basque palates. It seemed like every expat I knew was going to extraordinary lengths to celebrate Thanksgiving, and it got me thinking--why are we so compelled to bring these American customs abroad, and what so is so specifically powerful about Thanksgiving?

I believe our expat Thanksgiving celebrations reflect our experiences living abroad as a whole. We spend most of the year immersed in otherness, a constant newness I personally find exciting and fresh,  exotic and educational. Over time, we adopt some of that newness as our own. Before my experience living in Spain, I couldn't imagine eating dinner outside of my family's customary 6:15-7:30 window. Now the thought of life without a mid-day siesta, eating dinner before 9 (or, God forbid, the senior citizen early bird special), forgoing tapas or tortilla (Spanish omelette) is horrifying; the idea of being able to go grocery shopping or do other normal errands on a Sunday seems absurd. I don't know how long it will take me to stop saying "hasta luego" at the end of every conversation or "perdona" when I bump into someone in the street. All of these very Spanish things have become an important part of me, Alissa-in-2013.

I think Thanksgiving maintains its power even over slowly-adapting expat lives because of its near universality within the US. American Indians apart, every family has a Thanksgiving ritual (even if, as in some cases, it's a lack of ritual). The holiday follows the powerful narrative of "becoming American"-- anyone can take part, regardless of religion, creed, or race; whether there's quinoa in the stuffing, curry on the turkey, or no turkey at all. Our memories of these days each year-whether they include elaborate cooking or family squabbles or beer and football or long drives or quiet time on the couch-- are something we can use as a marker, to remind us of who we were before we became our expat selves. And that makes Thanksgiving something that we can share back with the people who make our new lives abroad so rich. Thanksgiving means that we can say, if only for one day-- here, you've taught me so much about new music, new traditions, new tastes. Let me show you a little about where I'm from. Let me remind myself.


The glorious pies, against their very Spanish tiled "azulejo" background: maybe the epitome of what Expat Thanksgiving can mean





Evidence of a successful day

Lucky/Stupid

Well, hello there. Fancy meeting you here.

It's been awhile, and the time stamp on the last entry here is solid proof. I stuck in one place for quite a bit-- following my stint in Mexico I got a job at a small, cozy private ESL school and settled into an exceedingly lovely life for the next 16 months. I really hit this one out of the park, I must say: a fascinating gig as a reporter for the Chinese/English bilingual newspaper the Sampan; an incredibly fulfilling internship at NPR affiliate WBUR; a fun-filled routine packed with pub trivia, folk dancing, karaoke, and lectures; a fantastically-located apartment stocked with goofy roommates; and a group of friends who often felt more like family. It may have been "only" a few months, but I put down roots during that time. Or maybe I should say roots upon roots-- I bonded in an adult way with a city that I've known and loved (and that has known me) since childhood. I have been excited, stimulated, fulfilled, loved. Many everyday bumps (and a few not-so-everyday ones) aside, it has been one of the best periods of my life.

Which leads me to the next thought: why in the world would I leave!?

For leave I have: on Thursday, September 15 at 3:30 PM I boarded a plane that took me in a rather circuitous route to Berlin, Germany. Following a four-day layover, another plane took me to Madrid, after which a bus ferried me to Palencia (pop. 75, 000), the small Castilla y Leon city in Spain that will be home for the next 10 months.

In the run up to my departure I crammed as much wonder into my days as I could. I organized bowling trips and group dinners; took river cruises to cement the layout of my beloved city in my mind’s eye; and overloaded myself with Asian cuisine and diner fare, two varieties I did not expect to be offered regularly in my new home. And every night after tiring myself out dancing, listening to live music, or spending blissful time with friends, I would wonder to myself: what am I doing, leaving? Am I making a terrible mistake?

One thing I’ve realized as I’ve adjusted to the beginnings of adulthood is that the singular dream is a myth. Sure, some of us have one thing we wish for that hangs on tenaciously as we mature, but dreams transform as we do, molded to fit the new selves we’re growing into. I always dreamed of being a writer, but that dream has been refined and altered from author and illustrator to travel writer to journalist, and back. And in just the same way, when I returned home from my trip around the world, I had a new dream to join the old ones. I had adored my nomadic existence, but I wanted to know a foreign life from the other side. I wanted a home away, cozy bakeries that I frequented for bread, a coffee shop whose barmen knew my name, a Sunday morning market routine. The pull of understanding life so thoroughly in another place was remarkably strong.

And so I applied to the Spanish Language Assistant program, run by the Spanish Ministry of Education, which brings Canadian and American citizens to Spain to help teach English in public schools. I wrote and re-wrote an essay, put all my documents together, got a recommendation from my boss, sent everything into the embassy, and waited.

But of course part of the point here is that life doesn't stand still, and by the time I was accepted to the program in March my dreams had changed. I was deeply ensconced in my new life, busy drinking cheap beer in little bars in my neighborhood, trying new foods in the countless ethnic restaurants surrounding my apartment, writing a series of articles on Chinese life in Boston's Charlestown neighborhood, and pitching stories about Sudanese politics or dolphin communication at my radio internship. As far as I was concerned, I was living my dream. Spain seemed very far away, in all senses of the phrase.

But, I thought, what do I know about what comes next? I feared that this supremely fulfilling life might be just a brief phase, a period of pretend that would be followed by the confusion, general unsteadiness, and angst most of my friends were experiencing. And hadn’t I always wanted to learn Spanish, to live in Europe? Hadn’t my 2009 self dreamed of siestas, salsa, and sweet, hot espresso in tiny silver cups? I accepted the position, although with trepidation.

The summer wore on, bringing with it details of the year to come (and increased anxieties which may well be discussed later in this blog.) I finally found rhythm and confidence at my internship, I spent more and more time with a close-knit circle of friends, I joined a Zumba class and went dancing, I attended barbecues and went on dates. And I thought: what’s better than this? What person in his or her right mind would voluntarily give this up?

In the weeks before my departure a lot of people I love and respect took time to tell me how brave they thought I was being to leave and try all this newness. They told me that they admired me greatly; some even admitted to feeling jealous. I thanked them and felt the warmth of mutual affection spread through my chest, but some part of me was also thinking: “Am I being brave, or am I being stupid?” And also: “I don’t want to be brave. I want to stay here.”

I wish I could tell you the exact moment when I realized I was half-blind, but I think it was more of a gradual realization. Nevertheless, here it is: really, for me “lucky” and “stupid” are two sides of the same coin. I’m lucky to have enjoyed that life which, for a few short months, was so perfect for who I was and what I needed. And I’m incredibly lucky to have a chance to leave that life and try out a dream I once had, even if it’s not the dream that most recently spoke to me the strongest--many people who cherish this dream will never realize it, and it's easy to forget that. But even with those opportunities, I think perhaps you need to be stupid about risk taking and going out of your comfort zone in order to accept the lucky circumstances offered to you.

Ultimately, I don’t deny the fear that comes with “stupid”—fear that things will never be the same (they won’t); fear that I might lose people I love (I might.) But I can also see the incredible luck I have in tasting this life for a year. I can make room for both sides of the coin at once; I can stand it on its edge. With that perspective comes a new question I have to ponder: if I follow a dream that once belonged to a person that was once me, what does that mean? Should you trust your dreams to know you better than you know yourself? I am either stupid enough or lucky enough to have a chance to find out. Maybe both.

Mother Tongue

I'm sitting in a small cafe/bar in a little town in Normandy, and evening is falling fast outside. The clank of the boats moored across the road at the harbor is just audible over the wind. It's been stormy all today.

I went for a walk in the gale, and when I came back I treated myself to a cafe au lait. For awhile I was the only customer, and the genial owner brought me my coffee and went back to his newspaper at the bar. The radio babbled in the background in French, and I surfed the free wifi (here's it's "wee-fee") from the cafe next door. A few customers came in, locals who knew the barman, and they chatted among themselves. Everything was entirely normal and alien, in that strange way it can only be when you're staying in a country not your own, and I was feeling a little melancholy with the weather and no one to talk to... until the opening chords of Wham!'s "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" came over the radio. Suddenly, everything seemed better. Maybe it was the caffeine kicking in, but just hearing that familiar song made everything brighter.

About a month ago, when I first arrived in the UK, I intended to write an entry about arriving somewhere where everyone spoke English after so long away. As I said in my last post, I spent a lot of time in England dithering about what to write about first, and so I ended up writing everything at once and posting nothing at all. Here is part of a draft I wrote up during that time:

Despite the fact that I am a writer, a reader, and a self-proclaimed English nerd, I didn't realize how much I missed being surrounded by English until I arrived in the United Kingdom a few days ago. Suddenly, a whole world of auditory delight has been reintroduced to me. I had forgotten about overheard snippets of conversation in cafes, talk radio, political TV shows, news, soap operas, road signs, town names, menus, small talk with waiters in restaurants, chit-chat in the supermarket.

I'll be in the UK for a total of 2.5 weeks, a reprieve from a milieu of foreignness that makes everything harder. I had forgotten that life could be anything except that way-- the last English speaking country I visited (besides Hong Kong and India, whose denizens speak English if necessary but not among themselves) was New Zealand.

In the weeks I spent in the UK I delighted in my linguistic surroundings. I spent time in pubs doing some harmless eavesdropping and was amused by road signs for towns with names like "Thornfalcon" and "Fivehead." I ordered food with ease, asked for directions on the street, and followed with some interest the appearance of British politician Nick Griffin on the important BBC political TV show “Question Time." Griffin, who fronts a xenophobic political party with a platform that some say is redolent of neo-Nazism, created a stir with this appearance, and I was gleefully able to watch the video with my British friends, read the newspaper stories that followed, and talk to people I met about their opinions on the subject. It was entirely refreshing. I felt that I was really participating in current events, in the vital present-day life of the country.

When, on the way from a friend's house to the train station one Sunday morning, I was treated to an episode of "The Archers," a British radio institution that has been on the air since WWII, I felt similarly. As the hedgerows, fallow fields, and orchards of Somerset flashed by, I listened to the dramas of the families this program has tracked for decades. Following the sounds of their lives, I learned the lessons tucked into the narrative, about everything from family planning to how to plant a vegetable garden, along with the rest of the British public.

Sitting in this cafe after the last chords of Wham! died away, all of this has been on my mind. I've felt especially keenly the importance of linguistic immersion during the past few weeks, which were spent in France and, briefly, Belgium. Although I speak slightly more French now than when I arrived--that is to say of the latter none at all, and the former the basics like "one coffee please" and "could I have the bill, please"-- I have missed the feeling of deep comprehension and ease that comes with knowing the language.

And while I recognize this loss, I'm not sure that one experience is somehow "less" than the other. There is nothing like sitting down in a crowded Parisian (or Norman) cafe with a glass of wine or a coffee and losing yourself in the chatter and cigarette smoke, the foot traffic passing by, or the boats clacking together in the wind. It's easier to remind yourself of the otherness of your circumstances, to feel the exotic close up around you, when you are surrounded by a language you cannot understand.

It's certainly something to consider, these factors, as small as a passing mood or the weather or as large as a linguistic barrier, that affect a traveler's experiences and perceptions of a place. Would Paris have seemed as enchanting and magical if I could have understood the man next to me complaining about his lazy wife or those dirty immigrants? Would I have felt so at ease in England if I hadn't been able to ask new acquaintances their impressions of Nick Griffin or the bartender which local Somerset cider he recommended? Probably not.

So one thing I've learned from this linguistic adventure is that you have to embrace your travel experiences as lovely and perfectly flawed in their subjectivity. Like everyone else, I am a bundle of strengths and weakness (linguistics among them), and for me England represents the familiar and comfortable, while France is more mysterious and secretive. For another traveler the opposite could easily be true. But that's part of the miracle of travel-- that and Wham! on the radio in a little bar in an unexpected place.

Keeping pace

I may be only 22, but I think I'm getting an idea of what it is to age.

A month ago I wrote here about hitting the 2/3 mark in my one-year trip. I hadn't felt burnt out then, and I don't feel it now. But I've been traveling solo in Europe for 1.5 months at this point, and I've started to notice a change in pace. I don't do as much in a day anymore; I need more moments to rest and unwind, more time to start my engines; I take more hours"off," not sightseeing or exploring, just sitting in cafes or watching TV or reading. I am still loving every day, but I'm tired. I'm getting travel-old.

At the beginning of this trip I spent a few days in each city, moving as often as I liked or could manage. A few months in I figured out, through calculation and observation, that I needed a complete day off, with no obligation to see or do anything except lie around, about every 7 to 10 days. This was sometimes difficult to do because there was always a little voice in my head jabbering about wasting valuable time in a place I might never see again.

But the longer I traveled the quieter that voice got. I still experienced an awful lot, and I realized that the necessity for downtime made me human. One day, while I sat in an anonymous room in an anonymous country surfing the net mindlessly, I realized that in some way this break was like creating a home for me to go to. Whatever strange place I found myself in, I could recreate the same setting-- a nondescript room, a comfortable bed, a long stretch of free time, a book, a computer, some junk food--that would be like a return to home base. It wasn't just dealing with exhaustion, it was a way to make a safe haven, something familiar in all the strangeness that was the same whether I was in Taiwan or Turkey.

When I got to Europe my pace changed. These past months I've spent more time in each place-- averaging about a week per city, with some shorter stints and day trips thrown in-- and done less each day. In part this was a conscious choice. I decided at the beginning of September, as I set out on my 4-month European adventure, that because I had the time to settle in and let a city get under my skin, I should take advantage of that opportunity. So I've slept in more often, seen one museum in a day instead of two, read my book in cafes and parks, and given myself permission to do less seeing and more living.

And it's lucky I did, because what started out as a lifestyle decision has become more and more of a necessity as the time ticks by. Even a traveler so in love with this lifestyle (Today I walked down the streets of Leiden in the Netherlands and thought,r "I was born for this") gets worn out. So I relax, I adjust, I rest. And then I move on.

Food for thought

Here in Manali, in the north of Himachal Pradesh state, India, I have been taking a few days off to enjoy the mountain views and ready myself for a trip into Kashmir-- I leave for a 20-hour jeep ride tonight at 2:30 am. One thing I have been doing to relax is watching episodes of "Long Way Down" on YouTube. It's a series about Ewan MacGregor (the movie star) and his best friend riding their motorcycles from north Scotland to the tip of South Africa. The series is a sequel to "Long Way Around," in which they rode their motorcycles from London to New York City going east through all of north central Asia, a series I watched as part of my mental preparation for this trip.

Anyway, in the episode I am currently enjoying, Ewan is mentally preparing to cross into Africa the next day for the next leg of his trip, and he said something useful to those of us engaged in long-term travel:
"
"I embarked on this journey in complete excitement about Africa and then was scared by several people who we met or encountered through our prep who scared the bejeezus out of us. And then I've realized: if that's the case you shouldn't go. Either you do it, or you don't go. You know? And then you have to give yourself into it, take it as it comes. And if there's scary things that happen, there are scary things that happen. And that's why you're out there in a sense. You're out there for adventure, and it becomes a question of how you deal with the situation you're in. You can't control what's going to happen. And the whole point is that you're out to let what happens happen, that's why youre here. If you knew it was going to be a safe and smooth passage, would there be any point doing it?"

Another travel philosophy to tuck away beside the "killer octopus" theory. Quite useful to those of us who tend toward travel anxieties.

The Wonder of Wellington

Following my "breather" in Nelson, I hopped a bus-and-ferry combo across the choppy but stunning channel separating New Zealand's north and south islands, landing in Wellington. As an Anthropology major and avid traveler, I had several reasons to be excited by this next step in my time in NZ. I had visited once before with my parents, but at that point we had focused largely on seeing the gorgeous sights of the south island. We had spent only a few days on the north island, had seen very little of the Maori culture that permeates it or anything outside the typical Auckland-Rotorua tourist trail. I was excited to take a longer chunk of time to experience north island life and learn more about Maori culture in the bargain. On the ferry I took photos and read some travel notes, struggling to decide between two equally exciting routes through the island. One would take me around the remote East Cape region; the other would involve crossing the famous Tongariro national park (also known as Mount Doom from the Lord of the Rings movies), possibly by horseback.

All aboard the Inter-island ferry in Picton

The northernmost point of the south island, as seen from the ferry

As my first north island stop, I stayed with Moira, my mother's friend and colleague; her husband, Dave; and her adult son, Rob. They made me a temporary part of their family for the next week: I had my own little room in their house, which was located in heavily Polynesian suburb of Wellington called Naenae. Dave was what I would call a sort of "old school" Kiwi, constantly saying jocular and mildly offensive things, chain smoking, ribbing his wife (or "taking the piss," as he would say.) It seemed a comfortable marriage-- it was Moira's third-- and there was a constant march of their many, many grandkids through the ramshackle house.

I had "tea" (dinner), complete with "pudding" (dessert, usually not actually pudding) with the family most nights; I watched how they related to each other as a Kiwi family; I participated in the genial "piss taking." In the morning I listened to the national talk radio call-in show with Dave, discussing topics of the day. In the evening I caught up on TV, especially appreciating the Maori language/Maori-centric programming-- my favorite was Mr. Ed dubbed into Maori. And during the day I would walk through Naenae, filled with unfamiliar Rarotongan/Samoan signs, and take the commuter train into Wellington to explore.

A free clinic in Naenae
I spent a couple afternoons wandering around the quay area of Wellington harbor to Te Papa ("the Nation") which is arguably New Zealand's foremost museum, although there are certainly some Aucklanders would have something to say about that. (Wellington and Auckland have a long running and mildly silly rivalry-- a Wellington newspaper article I read claimed that "Wellington has streets full of arts and theater, Auckland has the cast of Shortland Street [a Kiwi soap opera]")

Te Papa was like every kind of museum rolled into one. One floor had an engrossing, informative exhibit about volcanoes/earthquakes, including an earthquake simulation. The building also housed a natural history museum, featuring stuffed versions of most of NZ native animals including a giant squid (!); a cultural museum with fully reconstructed Maori marae and interesting exhibits about other Pacific Islanders; and an art museum with modern displays and a really well-curated show of Maori and Pakeha art, showing how the two interacted as the groups did as well, from 1800s up through today. And the best part: it was free! Which meant I did not have to feel obligated to take it all in in one day--and, indeed, I spent parts of three days exploring the monstrous fantasticness of it all.

I took some time after my first visit to Te Papa to wander Cuba Street, and alternative heart of Wellington. Unfortunately, due to an ill-timed but totally worthwhile visit to the Cubita coffee house, a Cuba-themed cafe with fantastic coffee and an Iraqi owner, the stores on Cuba St had just closed when I arrived. But still I wandered, seeing a street filled with things I love-- old clothing and record shops, antiques, coffee houses, cafes. The best part was the random street art everywhere, something I came to love about Wellington. I ate crepes at a little stand and got lost on the winding streets that head up hill to the ancient volcano's peak, but didn't mind. The late afternoon sun felt wonderful and there was so much to see.

Wellington Waterfront
Cuba St, Wellington
Some choice street art





In my opinion, one of the peak experiences available to a traveler is the chance to meet a familiar face in a far-flung location (and it's even better when that face belongs to a dear friend!) A few days later I had just that pleasure, meeting my good friend Rania, who was in NZ with her boyfriend WWOOFing for several months, in downtown Wellington. The day was sunny and busy, everything tinged with the mild miracle of the two of us meeting so far from home. In the morning, we took a cable car up to one of highest points in the city, to see all over Wellington. We walked back down through a beautiful botanical garden to the NZ legislative building (which locals call "The Hive") and had a lovely outdoor lunch before going to see a "question session," in which MPs (representatives in the parliamentary system) field political questions from their peers and constituents.

"The Hive"

Rania and I thought it would be very interesting to see how parliament functions, but we had an ulterior motive: these sessions were famous for becoming, shall we say... "spirited."

And we were not disappointed! Often after an answer half of the gallery could be heard grumbling, clapping, or yelling "hear hear!", like some sort of deranged Greek chorus. And sometimes they descended into insults. My favorite of these involved one MP accusing another of becoming "the Marie Antoinette of education." Another time, in regards to a contentious bill to repeal a law requiring schools to promote healthy food, one representative fired off this gem: "So what you're saying is, our kids can smoke as much dope as they like but they can't eat a cake once in awhile." Rania and I loved it.

To cap off the day, we took a cheap ferry across Wellington's sheltered harbor to to Days Bay. Or at least that's what we tried to do, but we accidentally got off one stop too early at Seatoun, a sleepy and adorable but not particularly happening town. Moira's husband had told me that Eastborne, the settlement at Days Bay, would have cafes and arts/crafts-- but Seatoun had a dairy, a book shop, a closed cafe, and two hours until the next ferry. So we walked and chatted, eventually making our way to the next village over, where we found a bakery to stop in and pass the time. Back at the ferry, we convinced the ticket man to let us stop in Days Bay after all. It was also beautiful, although we didn't get to spend much time there.

At the end of a long, great day, aww

A few days late, knowing my interest in Maori culture, Moira took me to a Maori immersion school, where students learn Maori language and culture before they learn to read English-- a contraversial but very successful model. As a sweet, very shy young Maori girl led us from classroom to classroom I felt suddenly nervous, suddenly very aware of my white skin and my privilege in being allowed to just barge into the day to day workings of the school. Nonetheless, they were very welcoming as I toured around an art class where they painted traditional symbols, a kindergarten where little Maori kids learned about traffic lights-- what they do, what you call them, the name of the colors. We didn't stay very long, and I felt fascinated, intrigued, let down by the surface nature of the experience. It would not be the last time I experienced such frustration.

At the school- a Maori language poster about nutrition
In the last few days of my week in Wellington, after a long period of agonizing decision making, I decided to take the risky path and join a complete stranger (well, almost-- I'll explain later) for a tour around the North Island's remote East Cape region. I spent the last days planning, relaxing, and going up to the blueberry farm where Rania and Colin were working to see them. That day was warm and sunny, and we picked blueberries to eat with ice cream and explored the charming farm, complete with a huge rooster named Dumbledore and an enormous, gorgeous old German Shepherd called Bilbo Barkins (awesome.)

On the Blueberry Farm

At the end of the day at the farm I sat on the benches (pictured above) and talked with Rania and Colin while they worked on a painting project. We were discussing travel decision making, the necessity of taking risks, and Colin said something that would inform both the next week I spent in New Zealand and the next several months of my travel.

"No good stories come from things that go as planned," he remarked. "'I went to the Caribbean on vacation and came back.' is not a good story. 'I went to the Caribbean on vacation and got eaten by an ENORMOUS KILLER OCTOPUS' is totally a good story."

I thought about that-- I thought about it a lot, and the more I thought the more I knew he was right. So the next day I jumped into the mouth of the octopus, as it were, and got on a bus to meet Heikki, a Finnish ex-pat who goes by the name Henry, for a four-day camper van tour around the East Cape. It was a decision I would not regret.