An Eggplant by Any Other Name

Aubergene. Courgette. Capsicum. Sultana.

No, I’m not speaking in foreign tongue, unless you consider New Zealand’s spin on English to be one. The aforementioned words are simply other names for foods, which led to substantial confusion during grocery trips especially during my time in New Zealand. 

Let me translate for those of you still scratching your heads (if you are still scratching them after my explanation, you may need to invest in some Head & Shoulders). Aubergene is another word for eggplant, courgette is the same as zucchini, capsicum is a pepper, and a sultana is a raisin (technically, a raisin that started as a sultana grape, because apparently you need to differentiate between raisin varieties). 

Capsicum? Pepper? WHO ARE YOU?

It took me awhile to adjust to this. When I went to Subway in New Zealand (yes, I went to a Subway in New Zealand, don't judge), I had to adjust to saying "capsicum" when they asked me "what salads I would like" (in this instance, "salads" means veggies). I also had to adjust to saying "beetroot" instead of just "beet," because New Zealanders have decided that they don't want to abbreviate the name of the vegetable. 

The one that frustrated me the most made a trip to the grocery store feel more like a wild goose chase, as the saying goes. I needed cilantro for a Mexican cooking endeavor planned for that evening. Simple, right? I began to scour the shelves in the produce section, but it was all for naught. So, I decided after my fruitless searching and a mere shrug from a grocery store employee that I'd settle, though not without some complaining, for dried cilantro. Once again, no luck. I would not be defeated! I refused to leave the store cilantro-less. 

Therefore, I headed back to the produce aisle. I stared at every ounce of the fresh herb section, and I noticed that the "fresh coriander" looked surprisingly similar to cilantro. I squinted and read the tiny description beneath the name, where it informed me that "coriander is also known as cilantro." 

Maybe that is common knowledge, and I just made myself look like an idiot, or maybe it isn't obvious to anyone not from New Zealand, and I just taught you all something. 

Anyways, the trip was successful and I had some delicious cilantro (I mean, coriander) for my fish tacos.

The Pelorus Bridge, Part Two

Yes, I've been going out of chronological order as far as what's happened during my time in New Zealand. So sue me. Actually don't, because doing so would be an extreme overreaction to the order of blog posts.

So, remember how I mentioned that there would be a sequel to the post about the Pelorus Bridge? Well, here is the aforementioned sequel, finally.

En route to Blenheim back from the Pelorus Bridge, we decided to stop at a wee bar (there I go, injecting New Zealand jargon into my own). It was the kind of lone establishment frequented by the few locals of the area. The locals I mention were somewhat rough characters; likely making their living by sheep farming or other similar trades of the region. As we walked into the place, a smell slammed into my olfactory glands so forcefully that it almost knocked me over.

The body odor emanating from the glands of one of the men inside the bar was jarring to say the least. It was a scent that I had not smelled in many months due to the general lack of perspiring of the Japanese, around whom I’d spent all my time. Perhaps this was why the odor was so extremely shocking to me at the time. The smell wafted around us like low-lying, dense fog, the kind that early cartoon characters could cut through with a saw. The offensive odor made breathing through the nose a daunting task, but breathing through the mouth led to the feeling that you could actually taste the man’s bodily excretions.

During our time in proximity to the Body Odor Man, a Seinfeld episode chronicling a similar situation came to mind. In the episode, Jerry gets his car back from a restaurant valet only to realize that the valet’s body odor has completely taken over the car. Despite his best efforts to rid the vehicle of the horrendous smell, nothing works. To add insult to injury, anyone who sits inside of Jerry’s car exits the vehicle with the smell implanted in his or her hair. It’s a hilarious episode, I recommend it to any Seinfeld fan.

 

Barreling Down the Hobbit River

How many people can say they went swimming where the dwarves and Bilbo took their wild barrel ride in The Hobbit film? Well, actually, a lot of people if they live in or visit New Zealand. I imagine, however, that many of them do not know that they have been swimming where Peter Jackson chose to film the famous scene.

One of the most bizarre things I encountered upon arriving in New Zealand was that Kiwis (the people, not the birds) do not go absolutely mental for Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit like we Americans do. It has gotten ridiculous to points, like the struggle it took to figure out how to get to the Weta Cave, where many of the miniatures and costumes were made for the movies. I mean... the Weta Cave is MORE famous on a completely different continent than on its own! That's not normal.

So I had gotten used to this aspect of a lack of interest in Lord of the Rings and Hobbit stuff when I arrived at the Pelorus Bridge. I wasn't surprised at all that there wasn't even a wee blurb informing visitors that the famous barrel scene from The Hobbit was filmed there. However, we asked the attendant at the camp ground about it, saying "which part of the river is the bit from Lord of the Rings?" A look of disappoval overcame her face. "Um, NONE of the Lord of the Rings films were filmed here" (long, dramatic pause) "The Hobbit was." I wasn't about to let her Negative Nancy attitude get to me. We hiked down to the bridge and took some photos, and later even went swimming in the gloriously clear and refreshing water. It turns out that the Pelorus Bridge features lovely rocks perfect for jumping off of into the river for a swim.

Yes. Pelorus is a lovely place for a swim and a jump, and you feel cool swimming in the same water down which a bunch of famous (and not-so-famous) actors barreled. There couldn't possibly be anything wrong with such a glorious place, right?

Wrong. Cue story about sandflies, New Zealand's best kept secret. For a reason.
I would almost argue that these nasty little insects and the bites they cause are worse than mosquitoes. They are these teeny little black flying bugs that land on you and bite you ALL over, mercilessly. Then the bites leas to itchy bumps, much like those of mosquitoes. The "interesting" thing was that they seemed to stay away from the New Zealanders and only attacked us foreigners. I guess they have a palate for foreign food.

More about the Pelorus adventure later! I'm off to go scratch my sandfly bites.

THE ENEMY!

The Saga of the Toyota Starlight

I get excited about some very strange things, something made very apparent to me by the expressions of others around me when I share said excitement. Okay, I suppose I understand when others don't share in my exuberance over things like kale, going to bed at 9, reading the newspaper, and anything involving Ed Sheeran. Just like those things, I thought my enthusiasm about my new found ability to drive on the left side of the road in a car with a manual transmission was something I could share with others. I was wrong.

First, some background information. I was pretty anxious about the idea of driving a stick-shift, since I hadn't in about a year, and even more so about driving one on the left side of the road in New Zealand. However, my desire to have personal transportation trumped my anxieties, so I mercilessly obliterated them, repeated the Nike motto, "just do it," and got in the driver's seat of my friend's 1986 Toyota Starlet. It is truly a marvel to behold; tiny and blue, dents and dings throughout including a gash in the door that looks like it hit the iceberg from Titanic. Yet, in all honesty, I'd never want it looking any different. Every scratch or mark gives the metal box that much more character. I certainly respect it- it is quite a bit older than I am, after all.

The same model as the car I've been using here

I was nervous for my first lesson. The only time I have ever driven on the left side of the road was in a fancy, automatic vehicle many years the Toyota Starlet's junior. So, when Jim (my friend in New Zealand lending me the car) told me it was time, I began to clam up. I imagined we would just be driving in circles around the block. At least, I figured we would have a couple of gos at me starting and stopping since it was my first time in a long time using a manual transmission. However, driving stick came back to me much like riding a bike, as the saying goes. Shifting gears, even with my left hand, felt completely natural- the only thing it took a bit to adjust to was the lack of a 5th gear. I also had to learn about a mysterious new addition to the car- the choke. I still am not completely sure what it is, but I do know how to use it now. Pull it out to start the car, push it in once the car has been running for a bit.

Anyways, after just one lesson, I felt relatively comfortable driving the New Zealand roads in the wee car (as they would say here). Of course, I did make some mistakes- I often hit the windshield wipers instead of the turn signal, and I often drove too close to the left side of the road. The next day, I was still a bit nervous about taking roundabouts in a different direction and taking right turns, but I decided there was no better way than to just practice. So, I ventured out on my own and drove to the gym.

When I made it there without incident, I was beaming with pride, just like the mother of an honors student as she slaps a bumper sticker letting the whole world know of her child's academic achievements onto her car. I felt the need to share this excitement with someone, ANYONE. Yet as I went there alone, I decided to tell a stranger- the receptionist at the gym. As I told her how proud I was of my left-hand driving success, her eyes glazed over with complete disinterest, as if my voice were the same as the PA system lady from Charlie Brown.

Gym Lady: Huh. You don't say. Do you want to visit the sauna or thy gym?
Me (feeling slightly crushed): oh... both, I guess...
Gym Lady (without an ounce of expression whatsoever): Yeah, treat yourself...

Ugh! I was so frustrated! How dare she not share in the enthusiasm of a complete stranger who just mastered her country's bizarre driving differences to which the aforementioned stranger is not accustomed!

Whatever, I sweated out my anger which she instilled in me while "treating myself" in the sauna.

I hope you all have enough stamina to read this next story about the Starlet. I was going to make it a separate post, but then I decided to just go ahead and include it.

One of the most exciting aspects of driving such an old and well-loved car is that I never really know if it is going to start, or just rumble a bit and totally crap out. This morning as we were about to head into town, it was the latter. As I heard the devastating sound that goes with a dead battery as the car tried, tried and failed, I felt crushed. Well, it looked like I'd be spending the day at home.

However, Jim's son, Nic, was thankfully home and came outside right as we were going to give up. "Has it gone flat?" he asked. I assumed that was an expression for "has the battery died" (a post to come later about strange New Zealand terminology,) and nodded, looking defeated. "Let's try a push start!" he offered. Well, I was basically up for anything. Whatever that was, I was willing to give it a shot. He gave us instructions- he and Alex would push the car, and as I was rolling down the hill, I would quickly take my foot off the clutch and simultaneously push on the accelerator which would, theoretically, start the car and enable me to put it in gear and head on my merry way.

I was nervous, but ready. The guys gave me a push, and I was off. The car sped up, and then came the moment of truth- I needed to time it perfectly. I took a deep breath, dropped the clutch, and pushed the accelerator and lo and behold, she started! Woo!

It's only been a week since I began driving that lovely car, and I've already learned more about vehicles than I probably ever have in my life. I can only imagine how this next week will go!

Visiting Bilbo

As a self-proclaimed crazed, lunatic-level Lord of the Rings fan, I am in Heaven spending time in New Zealand, Middle Earth in the figurative flesh. Of course, a large part of my "to-do" list while here includes seeing sights from the films. Doing so has not been easy, as Peter Jackson chose to film all over both the North and South Islands. So, Lord of the Rings and Hobbit fans must prioritize when visiting the country or be willing to empty their bank accounts. Want to visit The Shire as well as Fangorn Forest? Sorry, you're going to have to choose. The Shire is on the North Island near a small town called Matamata, and Fangorn Forest is at the bottom of the South Island in Fiordland.

The lover of Hobbits that I am, I personally fancied a visit to their wee homes and went to possibly crazy lengths to get there. We flew into Christchurch, on the South Island, and then quickly flew up to Auckland to spend a day, and what a day it was, venturing into Hobbiton.

We arose just brimming with excitement to begin our long journey to Matamata, where we would begin our tour of Hobbiton. The flights, the long bus rides, and the sheer effort put into getting there all became worth it the second we laid our eyes on the green, rolling hills of the Shire featured in Peter Jackson's films.

It even made me forget about a charming man with whom we had shared a large portion of the bus ride and spent that time telling everyone about his alcoholism problem that he is trying to overcome. It even made me forget about the snooty woman on the tour who pronounced to her friend that she had only seen "one of those Hobbit movies and found it QUITE boring." Nope, never would I let it get me down!

Hobbiton is nestled in a still-working family farm about a 15 minute drive from Matamata. It was as green as it was in the films and is all year-round. Gotta keep it nice and green for the tourists after all. Hobbiton is kept just as it looks in the films; beautifully green, vegetables in the garden, and trees growing all around. It was nothing short of magical standing by the party tree and being in the place where so much wonder was created that influenced my life so greatly.

We learned a lot of fun facts, like that one of the trees in the scenes is completely fake.

We got to take a walk around the set, and even saw Bilbo's house. Unfortunately, he was off on another adventure. We concluded the tour with drinks at The Green Dragon.

Duck Whisperers

Our first day in New Zealand was a bit too “Wild Kingdom” for me. My brain spent most of the day in a behind-closed-doors, super clandestine meeting in which it and the rest of my body parts, internal and external organs mainly, deliberated (rather heatedly at times) just which time zone they were in. They never really came to a decision; my eyes were dead set on having adjusted to the time in New Zealand and claimed the rest of my body should follow suit, since it was light out and the best indicator of the time of day. My stomach, after having been fed bizarre plane food at bizarre times for three days-worth of flights and long layovers, simply threw up its metaphorical arms in a gesture of surrender and stormed out of the meeting. My frustrated brain, who called the meeting in the first place, finally decided that doing so gave him the power to determine what my body should do. So, it ordered that Marisa sleep for a freakish amount of time, an almost comatose-level sleep, in order to make up for so many hours of snoozing lost.

After waking up, I felt much better rested, and we walked down to get the feel for the neighborhood in which we were staying. We lacked the energy to do much exploring, so we walked down to the water and had a seat on a bench. After a few moments of unmolested relaxation, we noticed that we had a feathery little visitor: one of the strangest ducks I had ever seen. In the States, we have a variety of duck breeds, of which I am most accustomed to the mallard. In New Zealand, they have the Paradise duck, which is what our visitor turned out to be.

This little duck bumbled about, not making much noise but getting incredibly close to us, presumably asking for food. We had none, which the duck realized, but somehow he still felt like sticking around. A duck that craved human company, how sweet.

Eventually we got a little wigged out by the proximity of the duck as well as struck by the urge to walk around a bit more, so we stood up, said goodbye to our feathery friend, and continued on our way. It turned out, however, that the duck was not ready to part ways. The moment we began walking, he waddled right up to our side. He followed us like a faithful dog well versed in the command “heel.” When we stopped, he stopped as well and patiently waited. When we rushed to cross a street, he flew across to join us. There were many couples walking past whom the duck could have joined in hopes that they had food like we didn't, but he stayed by our side.

Curious passersby made a number of comments, like “wow, that’s quite the pet!” and asked us how we got the duck to follow. We simply shrugged. The duck only made sounds as we ran to try and ditch it on the way home (we couldn't just bring a duck back to a home where we were guests, could we?) and he began squawking and running after us. Eventually we decided to name him Dennis the Duck, though Donald was also up for an option.

So, we learned that ducks can have a deep, beautiful loyalty for humans and can, indeed, crave our companionship. Or Dennis had some kind of mental disorder.