THE HAWKE'S BAY
4.23.09
The travel plans have come together beautifully. I mean without a hitch! I'm anticipating the hitch, there always is one. Wait, that's too negative...nevermind.
I was booking a bus ticket this morning & I got to chatting with some people behind me in queue. An American family from none other than...AUBURN. The husband/father was a Californian & I'm pretty certain he does his fair share of blow because, seriously, the guy talks faster than me. The wife/mother was a quiet Kiwi lass & their son, 13 I think, had this muddled fake accent that made me want to pull him aside & be like, "Dude. They may think you're cool now when you say things like 'cheers' to the lunchlady, but in high school they will hurt you." Placer High School's Zero-Tolerance Policy doesn't just stop with drugs & alcohol & firearms. It also covers gay kids, atheists, & yes, even fake accents. I also wanted to give him fair warning that should he get involved with any theatrical productions that he will be inevitably cast as the Character with the Accent, be it the Butler in Clue, Henry Higgins of My Fair Lady, etc. But who am I to dampen his spirits. For now he'll be voted "Cutest Accent" in the yearbook & he'll get chicks left & right. Accents, as we all know, offset ugliness a great deal. & the kid was ugly.
/////
4.26.09
At this very moment--while the high-toned vibratos of birds in tall trees stretch out & resonate in the air & wrap around my ears & the setting sun casts all things in gold light & the evening hangs heavy with Autumn--I am finished with Harvest.
/////
4.27.09
The Hawke's Bay & I had a good day together. It was sun-smooched & mild & I spent the day tethering up loose ends that needed tying. & I squeezed in another hike up Te Mata Peak. The Bay was calm & the hills looked massive & prehistoric. I chased my sheep-friends down a steep bank, took a few photos & left it at that.
/////
Last night was the Harvest Soiree, & truly one for the books. What started off as a formal, speak-with-an-indoor-voice type of dinner somehow transformed into all-out debauchery, full of embarrassing sweaty dance moves & "I Love You, Man's" & (??!!) marshmallow Peeps.
I was recruited as DJ (shocker) & I had about six Cd's to work with. Still, Bowie, James Brown, & Pat Benatar all made their forever-appropriate cameos. One of the winemakers bear-hugged me. My supervisor took his shirt off & shredded air-guitar to "Money For Nothing". A 9 yr old girl played drums (well). It was a fine event that stretched into the wee hours & without a doubt rendered any of the poor saps that had to show for work today utterly useless. My supervisor & I split a taxi back to town. He couldn't remember where he lived.
"No, no, it's just around the bend, mate...
...Wait, we passed it...
...No, keep going...
...Wait, no we definitely passed it...
...Ok, ok, turn around...
...See that milepost?...
...Yeah, that's it...
...Wait, no the next one...
...Wait, no..."
We ended up driving tortoise-speed on the shoulder examining each milepost for the better half of an hour. Finally we found it. He opened the door, held out his balled-up macho fist & looked me dead in the eyes:
"Mate. Go hard or go home."
Needless to say, these people know how to party.
/////
My things are packed, my quarters tidied, my travel itinerary sussed out. I even spent a part of the afternoon attempting to eat everything in the refrigerator, with unimpressive results. Took care of the eggs at least. & the yogurt. Can't stomach the Hokey Pokey. & tonight I took my final stroll through Hastings. It was in its true form: dead & hushed & unapologetic. Late night trains are rumbling through the still town centre & young street urchins are skateboarding in secretive alleyways.
I catch a bus to Wellington tomorrow morning at 8:30. I will have a few hours to anticipate the next week of sights & interactions, undoubtedly with a Flat Whit to-go betwixt my knees, Cat Stevens in my ears & a head full of good memories to chew on.
/////
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Be An Easy Rider
4.16.09
While I kill some time before work, cup of lukewarm Ricoffy & bran muffin at my side, I'm thinking about people I've met during this trip. People, in my humble opinion, are the best part about traveling, whether you like them or not...smiles, frowns, outfits, speech impediments...& so far I've met plenty of characters & I realized I need to be keeping a 'logue of of some memorable quotes lest I forget them, which would be a shame. A damn shame. So here goes;
"I hate Bruce Springsteen. He's like a really bad version of John Cougar Mellancamp."
"I don't want it thrashing. I know it's rockin' for you guys, but that stereo's gotta last me all year."
"I've traveled all over the world & there is one major thing I've learned from it: Indigenous people are obnoxious ."
"If you think you're clear on something, be clear on it twice." (This brings to mind the infamous Karl Pilkington quote, in reference to the mirrored walls in his apartment: "If the flat's a mess, it's a mess twice.")
"The washroom is down the hall. You can use it, but be quiet about it...don't startle them!"
"They call Hawke's Bay the Fruit Bowl of New Zealand. We grow all sorts of fruit here."
"Oh? Like what?"
"All sorts."
"Stop your crying. You won't starve, you fat snake."
"Oh, that winery is a fucking." (French people shouldn't curse in English.)
"How's it going, [Golden Boy]?"
"Man, it's hard out here for a pimp."
"All we did last night was sorting & cleaning."
"Well, tonight we're doing something a bit different..."
"What are we doing tonight?"
"Sorting. & Cleaning."
"Go ahead & punch down that one first. & then this guy. & then this cat & then this fella...do him last. Wait, I'll draw you a picture." (& he proceeded to draw a detailed picture of tanks labeled, specifically, that one, this guy, this cat, & this fella last.)
"Oh, you a nasty girl."
"Y'know, normally I don't like this American toss, but this is actually quite good!" (they love Starflyer 59 here...make the check out to Adam, boys.)
So there are a few. Perhaps they're only entertaining to me, but peoples' words span time & attach themselves to images & together they become these tangled-up-ball-of-yarn memories.
/////
After spending a bit of time recording music yesterday I took a long stroll through town. I like to stroll. I can do it for hours. I noticed shops were slamming shut & decided I needed a jaunt to the supermarket. There's a place called Pak N' Save here that's not unlike Costco in its warehouse-y shit-strewn-everywhere motif. It's very cheap so I drove to the nearest location & stocked up on "the essentials". They charge extra for grocery sacks, I found out at the check stand...I passed on them in an effort to save a couple of dollars. Cut to scene of me walking to the car with my items bundled up in my sweatshirt against my chest like an infant. I must have dropped the same avocado three or four times & grew tired of the acrobatics involved in picking it back up so I just kicked it gently to the car like a soccer ball. It's times like these that make me wonder how I've made it this far in life. At the same time, kicking the avocado was pretty MacGuyver of me, so I also have to wonder how I haven't made it further in life.
I spent the evening on the stoop with a tummy full of supper & an eye full of stars, picking at my guitar-on-loan like I was having a conversation with an old friend.
I haven't been drinking much since I've been here. Booze, I mean. Just an occasional glass of wine with dinner (which gets swiftly manhandled out of my system directly after when we return to the drudgery of evening punchdowns). It's cleansing, like I'm clear-cutting an overgrown forest in my brain. I always put beer on my grocery list, but I never seem to come home with any. However, it has increased my insatiable desire for candy (or as they say here, "lollies"). They have these little blackberry wine gums that I'm ga-ga over. & this brings to mind my Grandfather. It's no mystery where my sweet tooth came from. The Man loves himself a piece of candy, & it's from his loins my affection for the sugary stuff was born. When I was a lad my sister & I would visit our Grandparents on their mini-orchard in Chico, Calif. Grandpa always had Hot Tamales on hand, in a glass bowl on the coffee table. & Sister & I spent many an hour devising schemes to extract the optimal amount of Hot Tamales in the shortest amount of time, without anyone noticing. Sure, there were ripe cherries out back begging to be plucked & consumed, but no cherry ever made my mouth burn with such exquisite delight as a Hot Tam. Anyway, he wouldn't have minded our thievery, so the sneaking around was mostly for sport, I suppose. He was a lovely, textbook Grandpa. Bearded & gray & soft-spoken & hilarious. He sent us into giggling fits to points of near-death breathlessness (Grandma, too. Quite the comedy troupe, indeed). He still is all of those things, but there aren't as many Hot Tamales involved. Although, even now when I see him I begin craving the fiery little bastards.
/////
4.17.09
The nights get later & later it seems & it's officially cold here now. The days are gorgeous but once the light goes, so does any resemblance of heat. & lucky me, I spent most of the night on the forklift weighing in heaps of Pinot noir outside & reorganizing the giant cold storage room (which was, to put it kindly, a shit-show). & it didn't help that I'd managed to spray myself with a hose in the crotch (by accident!), so my Levis transformed into some sort of ice-chaps. Oh, ANNNND the forklift's propane connection sprung a leak & doused me heartily which was less like ice & more like cold fire. Point is, I can't feel my thumbs. I think writing is the only way to get some juices flowing in my phalanges again.
But I'm tired to the very core & I think it's time to switch on the ol' dream machine. Tomorrow I will rise to a warm smiling sun & my refrigerated state will be a thing of the past.
/////
4.20.09
With just one week left of work to go I sit in amazement at how swiftly this experience came & went. Today is my last Monday at Craggy Range. It's drizzly & cold out & it's gotten me in the mood for Thanksgiving. I'm going to feel all screwed up when I return to near-Summer conditions in the States. This week will be one long punchdown, I fear. Most of the Pinot is fermented in 5 ton oak open-tops & the caps on these MF's are not unlike cement. We're waiting on a bit of fruit from Central Otago & we'll be all in.
/////
On Saturday night we finished up a bit early. My American friend Patrick & I decided to go for a beer in Havelock North. In the center of this tiny village we were swarmed by teams of drunk youngins. The streets we littered with them. There were several pubs to choose from so we tried the one that seemed the most growed-up. We were greeted at the door by a 30-foot-tall bouncer.
"I can't let you in dressed like that."
"What? Why?"
"Work boots. You can't wear work boots in here."
Discriminated.
So we tried the next one.
"Sorry, no work boots allowed!"
"You gotta be kidding me!!"
"Nope, sorry."
Finally we were permitted into a busy Irish-y pub. One lager down & Patrick had managed to elbow two girls in the breast & sloshed the bottom half of his beer all over me. This night had AWESOME written all over it. It wasn't long before we were getting hassled by the local kids. It seemed everyone was looking for a fight. Fighter I am not. So we changed venues, or tried anyway. Back out to the cruel street where there was, in fact, a fight breaking out between two beefcakes & one slurred-speech girl with mascara all over her face.
"Where are we?" I said to P.
We tried another pub.
"Sorry, no work boo-"
We turned around before he could finish.
Shot down. Shut down.
Why work boots? WHY??? What's more dangerous than drunk asshole teenagers? A sleepy working man in steel-toes? Seriously? We went back to the place that let us in before.
"Hold it right there."
There were two security guards now. One of them, who we recognized, let us in the first time. But the new one wasn't having any of our blue collar debauchery.
"We were just in here!" we pleaded.
She shot the dirtiest of looks to her partner, who is apparently not the most observant of fellows. He saved his own hide, "It's too late, now. Just too late."
"To hell with this," I said to P "I'm going to bed." And that I did.
/////
Sunday morning I joined (aforementioned) Patrick & his parents (who are down visiting for the week) at the Farmers' Market. I wandered around with my staple beet juice & tasted all sorts of locally jarred jams & chutneys. Patrick's parents (charming people, really) had a huge bag of goodies & announced that we'd go back to the house & make a breakfast so delicious it would make us cry.
So we spent the remainder of the morning sitting on the porch enjoying the sun & some coffee & one brilliant feast. & then we were off to work, to struggle with rock-hard caps & pressloads of Riesling.
/////
That brings us to today (Monday), which was none other than dreary. The rain never let up & all of us sloshed around in it with our heads down. Fortune smiled upon us tonight though as we found ourselves working at an incredible speed. I suppose not wanting to be in the rain all night pushed us into a higher gear & we buttoned things up before midnight. A couple of extra hours of sleep never hurt anyone, especially me: a dude who's accustomed to a solid five or six hours in La-La Land & then wide awake, the neurotic idea-factory alive & churning. So with that I'm off to my dreams of, more than likely, working in the rain.
/////
4.22.09
There exists a phenomenon here that I'm only now tapping into & it's so wonderful I wish I had tried it earlier: the Flat White. Every cafe serves them. I always assumed they were simply lattes...nay, nay! They're so much more. More espresso, less froth. The milk is steamed to creamy perfection with a bit of fluff on top, then adorned with raw sugar which melts into the fluff & forms a caramel-y crust. It's something to get fat off of, for certain. But on my final day off I feel I deserve one. I polished off some bananas, too...the fruit here is unreal.
I will spend the day mapping out my itinerary for the South Island Adventure. It looks (loosely) like so:
While I kill some time before work, cup of lukewarm Ricoffy & bran muffin at my side, I'm thinking about people I've met during this trip. People, in my humble opinion, are the best part about traveling, whether you like them or not...smiles, frowns, outfits, speech impediments...& so far I've met plenty of characters & I realized I need to be keeping a 'logue of of some memorable quotes lest I forget them, which would be a shame. A damn shame. So here goes;
"I hate Bruce Springsteen. He's like a really bad version of John Cougar Mellancamp."
"I don't want it thrashing. I know it's rockin' for you guys, but that stereo's gotta last me all year."
"I've traveled all over the world & there is one major thing I've learned from it: Indigenous people are obnoxious ."
"If you think you're clear on something, be clear on it twice." (This brings to mind the infamous Karl Pilkington quote, in reference to the mirrored walls in his apartment: "If the flat's a mess, it's a mess twice.")
"The washroom is down the hall. You can use it, but be quiet about it...don't startle them!"
"They call Hawke's Bay the Fruit Bowl of New Zealand. We grow all sorts of fruit here."
"Oh? Like what?"
"All sorts."
"Stop your crying. You won't starve, you fat snake."
"Oh, that winery is a fucking." (French people shouldn't curse in English.)
"How's it going, [Golden Boy]?"
"Man, it's hard out here for a pimp."
"All we did last night was sorting & cleaning."
"Well, tonight we're doing something a bit different..."
"What are we doing tonight?"
"Sorting. & Cleaning."
"Go ahead & punch down that one first. & then this guy. & then this cat & then this fella...do him last. Wait, I'll draw you a picture." (& he proceeded to draw a detailed picture of tanks labeled, specifically, that one, this guy, this cat, & this fella last.)
"Oh, you a nasty girl."
"Y'know, normally I don't like this American toss, but this is actually quite good!" (they love Starflyer 59 here...make the check out to Adam, boys.)
So there are a few. Perhaps they're only entertaining to me, but peoples' words span time & attach themselves to images & together they become these tangled-up-ball-of-yarn memories.
/////
After spending a bit of time recording music yesterday I took a long stroll through town. I like to stroll. I can do it for hours. I noticed shops were slamming shut & decided I needed a jaunt to the supermarket. There's a place called Pak N' Save here that's not unlike Costco in its warehouse-y shit-strewn-everywhere motif. It's very cheap so I drove to the nearest location & stocked up on "the essentials". They charge extra for grocery sacks, I found out at the check stand...I passed on them in an effort to save a couple of dollars. Cut to scene of me walking to the car with my items bundled up in my sweatshirt against my chest like an infant. I must have dropped the same avocado three or four times & grew tired of the acrobatics involved in picking it back up so I just kicked it gently to the car like a soccer ball. It's times like these that make me wonder how I've made it this far in life. At the same time, kicking the avocado was pretty MacGuyver of me, so I also have to wonder how I haven't made it further in life.
I spent the evening on the stoop with a tummy full of supper & an eye full of stars, picking at my guitar-on-loan like I was having a conversation with an old friend.
I haven't been drinking much since I've been here. Booze, I mean. Just an occasional glass of wine with dinner (which gets swiftly manhandled out of my system directly after when we return to the drudgery of evening punchdowns). It's cleansing, like I'm clear-cutting an overgrown forest in my brain. I always put beer on my grocery list, but I never seem to come home with any. However, it has increased my insatiable desire for candy (or as they say here, "lollies"). They have these little blackberry wine gums that I'm ga-ga over. & this brings to mind my Grandfather. It's no mystery where my sweet tooth came from. The Man loves himself a piece of candy, & it's from his loins my affection for the sugary stuff was born. When I was a lad my sister & I would visit our Grandparents on their mini-orchard in Chico, Calif. Grandpa always had Hot Tamales on hand, in a glass bowl on the coffee table. & Sister & I spent many an hour devising schemes to extract the optimal amount of Hot Tamales in the shortest amount of time, without anyone noticing. Sure, there were ripe cherries out back begging to be plucked & consumed, but no cherry ever made my mouth burn with such exquisite delight as a Hot Tam. Anyway, he wouldn't have minded our thievery, so the sneaking around was mostly for sport, I suppose. He was a lovely, textbook Grandpa. Bearded & gray & soft-spoken & hilarious. He sent us into giggling fits to points of near-death breathlessness (Grandma, too. Quite the comedy troupe, indeed). He still is all of those things, but there aren't as many Hot Tamales involved. Although, even now when I see him I begin craving the fiery little bastards.
/////
4.17.09
The nights get later & later it seems & it's officially cold here now. The days are gorgeous but once the light goes, so does any resemblance of heat. & lucky me, I spent most of the night on the forklift weighing in heaps of Pinot noir outside & reorganizing the giant cold storage room (which was, to put it kindly, a shit-show). & it didn't help that I'd managed to spray myself with a hose in the crotch (by accident!), so my Levis transformed into some sort of ice-chaps. Oh, ANNNND the forklift's propane connection sprung a leak & doused me heartily which was less like ice & more like cold fire. Point is, I can't feel my thumbs. I think writing is the only way to get some juices flowing in my phalanges again.
But I'm tired to the very core & I think it's time to switch on the ol' dream machine. Tomorrow I will rise to a warm smiling sun & my refrigerated state will be a thing of the past.
/////
4.20.09
With just one week left of work to go I sit in amazement at how swiftly this experience came & went. Today is my last Monday at Craggy Range. It's drizzly & cold out & it's gotten me in the mood for Thanksgiving. I'm going to feel all screwed up when I return to near-Summer conditions in the States. This week will be one long punchdown, I fear. Most of the Pinot is fermented in 5 ton oak open-tops & the caps on these MF's are not unlike cement. We're waiting on a bit of fruit from Central Otago & we'll be all in.
/////
On Saturday night we finished up a bit early. My American friend Patrick & I decided to go for a beer in Havelock North. In the center of this tiny village we were swarmed by teams of drunk youngins. The streets we littered with them. There were several pubs to choose from so we tried the one that seemed the most growed-up. We were greeted at the door by a 30-foot-tall bouncer.
"I can't let you in dressed like that."
"What? Why?"
"Work boots. You can't wear work boots in here."
Discriminated.
So we tried the next one.
"Sorry, no work boots allowed!"
"You gotta be kidding me!!"
"Nope, sorry."
Finally we were permitted into a busy Irish-y pub. One lager down & Patrick had managed to elbow two girls in the breast & sloshed the bottom half of his beer all over me. This night had AWESOME written all over it. It wasn't long before we were getting hassled by the local kids. It seemed everyone was looking for a fight. Fighter I am not. So we changed venues, or tried anyway. Back out to the cruel street where there was, in fact, a fight breaking out between two beefcakes & one slurred-speech girl with mascara all over her face.
"Where are we?" I said to P.
We tried another pub.
"Sorry, no work boo-"
We turned around before he could finish.
Shot down. Shut down.
Why work boots? WHY??? What's more dangerous than drunk asshole teenagers? A sleepy working man in steel-toes? Seriously? We went back to the place that let us in before.
"Hold it right there."
There were two security guards now. One of them, who we recognized, let us in the first time. But the new one wasn't having any of our blue collar debauchery.
"We were just in here!" we pleaded.
She shot the dirtiest of looks to her partner, who is apparently not the most observant of fellows. He saved his own hide, "It's too late, now. Just too late."
"To hell with this," I said to P "I'm going to bed." And that I did.
/////
Sunday morning I joined (aforementioned) Patrick & his parents (who are down visiting for the week) at the Farmers' Market. I wandered around with my staple beet juice & tasted all sorts of locally jarred jams & chutneys. Patrick's parents (charming people, really) had a huge bag of goodies & announced that we'd go back to the house & make a breakfast so delicious it would make us cry.
So we spent the remainder of the morning sitting on the porch enjoying the sun & some coffee & one brilliant feast. & then we were off to work, to struggle with rock-hard caps & pressloads of Riesling.
/////
That brings us to today (Monday), which was none other than dreary. The rain never let up & all of us sloshed around in it with our heads down. Fortune smiled upon us tonight though as we found ourselves working at an incredible speed. I suppose not wanting to be in the rain all night pushed us into a higher gear & we buttoned things up before midnight. A couple of extra hours of sleep never hurt anyone, especially me: a dude who's accustomed to a solid five or six hours in La-La Land & then wide awake, the neurotic idea-factory alive & churning. So with that I'm off to my dreams of, more than likely, working in the rain.
/////
4.22.09
There exists a phenomenon here that I'm only now tapping into & it's so wonderful I wish I had tried it earlier: the Flat White. Every cafe serves them. I always assumed they were simply lattes...nay, nay! They're so much more. More espresso, less froth. The milk is steamed to creamy perfection with a bit of fluff on top, then adorned with raw sugar which melts into the fluff & forms a caramel-y crust. It's something to get fat off of, for certain. But on my final day off I feel I deserve one. I polished off some bananas, too...the fruit here is unreal.
I will spend the day mapping out my itinerary for the South Island Adventure. It looks (loosely) like so:
a.) a couple of days in Wellington (I've been told this is one of the bitchinest cities ever)
b.) a hop, skip & jump across Cook Strait to Picton
c.) a meandering bus ride to Christchurch where I will visit with an old pal
d.) a long (but certainly picturesque & soul-inflating) drive across the Island to Punakaiki where I will have myself a merry little campout
e.) a Southbound drive to & thru the Fjordlands
f.) a long weekend in Queenstown with more friends
g.) a palette-pleasing winery-crawl through Central Otago
h.) then it's back to Christchurch to catch a flight home, where I will kiss the ground & sing "Hail, Obama!" & keel over dead with jetlag.
b.) a hop, skip & jump across Cook Strait to Picton
c.) a meandering bus ride to Christchurch where I will visit with an old pal
d.) a long (but certainly picturesque & soul-inflating) drive across the Island to Punakaiki where I will have myself a merry little campout
e.) a Southbound drive to & thru the Fjordlands
f.) a long weekend in Queenstown with more friends
g.) a palette-pleasing winery-crawl through Central Otago
h.) then it's back to Christchurch to catch a flight home, where I will kiss the ground & sing "Hail, Obama!" & keel over dead with jetlag.
Man, this Flat White is good.
I have only three days left of work. This makes me giddy. My body is sore & my work-ethic diminishing. It's just that I'm in this amazing country & I finally am going to be able to see it, to take it in.
Some co-workers have organized a Goodbye Breakfast on Sunday morning, & later that evening is the Harvest Party. Sounds like I'll be going out in style. All of us cellar rats have become quite close over the last few weeks & I will miss them all when we part ways.
I don't really know how to describe this experience. I can only jot down the details & put the memories on drip-feed & let them drool out of me over time. It's not even a story, it's simply a page in my novel, a verse in my song, a scar on my hand. It's an accumulation of feelings & observations & interactions, & it is fleeting.
I can say that I'm fortunate to have been here. I can say that.
/////
I have only three days left of work. This makes me giddy. My body is sore & my work-ethic diminishing. It's just that I'm in this amazing country & I finally am going to be able to see it, to take it in.
Some co-workers have organized a Goodbye Breakfast on Sunday morning, & later that evening is the Harvest Party. Sounds like I'll be going out in style. All of us cellar rats have become quite close over the last few weeks & I will miss them all when we part ways.
I don't really know how to describe this experience. I can only jot down the details & put the memories on drip-feed & let them drool out of me over time. It's not even a story, it's simply a page in my novel, a verse in my song, a scar on my hand. It's an accumulation of feelings & observations & interactions, & it is fleeting.
I can say that I'm fortunate to have been here. I can say that.
/////
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
the Diamond Sea
4.5.09
I realize in this very moment that when at home I take my free time for granted. It's late morning & the Autumn breeze is sweet with ripe fruit & sizzling steaks & made-to-order Beligian waffles. The Farmers' Market is busy, a shaken antfarm of serious produce-junkies. Children are scurrying around with little treats, rewards for decent public behavior...gelato, chocolate, crepes, pear juice...
There is a man playing music in the center of the market. He keeps forgetting the words to his songs & looks as if he needs a good scrubbing.
I came here with lofty plans to buy "one of everything" & go home to make the ultimate stir-fry. But now that I'm here I'm satisfied with a crisp apple & a cup of beet juice. My French companions, Piere-Henri & Laurene are out wandering aimlessly building giant mental salads.
/////
I decided this afternoon to pay a visit to the restaurant owned by the Craggy Range estate for a specially prepared feast. The place is something close to perfect. Its outdoor granite patio is nuzzled up against mindblowing steep & jagged peaks & is mostly surrounded by meticulously trained vineyards & poplars that seem to be growing birds rather than leaves. As I sit and patiently digest my lunch (which was stellar: salt & pepper squid w/ smoked truffles, pickled ginger & beet root, garden fresh beans, a bit of cilantro & red pepper, a heap of greens topped with capers, a seemingly endless supply of straight-out-of-the-oven breads, each small loaf different from the next, each delivered with a halved head of roasted garlic & butter so creamy it left me bewildered. Lunch.). So as I digest (and digress) I'm looking out on a large pond dotted with black-ish ducks who quickly poke their heads underwater to gather--whatever it is they gather--& then pop back up, pleased, splashing around maniacally for a moment. I don't understand what ducks are ever doing, but I find them to be relentlessly "cute".
I am surrounded by people cloaked in fur & Ralph Lauren sweaters hanging preciesly over shrugged, disengaged shoulders. There's doctor-talk left & right, & people going to the opera, & people who prefer to spend their Autumn here, in the beach house--one of several--while the weather is mild.
I do feel like an ousider here, but I'm entertaining myself with a game of "What Are They Thinking About Me?" I've worn my best pair of denim cut-off shorts & my sandy mop seems to be behaving itself, but still, I'm a young hooligan with purple hands, eating alone, with a small library of books & journals scattered around my table.
Ah, hell with 'em!
/////
4.8.09
It's midnight and I think I just ate too much ice cream. It's a flavor called "Hokey Pokey" & I'm madly in love with it. I'm not sure what its ingredients are but I'm certain it mostly consists of no-no's, which would explain why I could freeze the stuff to sub-zero temperatures & it would still be as fluffy as a cloud.
The night sky is illuminated by a staggeringly lovely moon. There's a strong and wind shushing up the neighborhood, nearly drowning out the gentle chirping of crickets. & here am I, belly full of Hokey Pokey, dead tired from the day. I had to take a brief moment to stop, though, & engage myself in the quiet magic hanging loosely in the late evening air. Tonight has a melody to it that I can't quite sing, but rather notice it, make a point of how it grabbed me somewhere in my core.
I will sleep with the window open.
/////
4.10.09
This week has been both a brief one & a vast improvement on the prior. I've been working every night (except tonight) & it's been good to be able to just dive into everything, keep my head under the water (like the ducks) & work for a bit--my hypothesis was, & seems to hold true, if I do so my world would be different when I pop back up to the surface. & a week has gone by...
I've been doing interesting things at the winery, all of which are a great distance into Nerdville so I'll spare you. I spend half my time building yeast cultures, the other half inside the press in water-resitant coveralls looking like a drowned NYC subway rat.
/////
4.11.09
(I actually fell asleep mid-thought there). I have greeted the morning with a strong press full of coffee & enough fruit to feed a family of twelve. I stepped outside to feel the sun and was nearly knocked flat by the Autumnal bliss all around me. It's cool and the air smells damp, but clean. A freshness, I guess I'd call it. The sun is soothing but I am bundled up in it.
I spent yesterday with Christian the Chilean Giant & the two Frenchmen Piere-Henri & Gil. We hiked around on the beach, along the sedimentary cliffs of Cape Kidnappers. The tide was high & this was all the more excuse to tear off my shoes & roll the trousers up & let the numbness of the Pacific cure my weary work-boot-ridden feet. We sat together quietly for a long while at the foot of a tremendous cliff--it was smooth and severe & looked like it was carved into the landscape with some enormous cosmic cookie-cutter. When the sun started its descent a fierce wind picked up & brought yawning waves closer to our bodies & we noticed small stones began falling from above. I looked up, "Christian, did you see that?!"
I realize in this very moment that when at home I take my free time for granted. It's late morning & the Autumn breeze is sweet with ripe fruit & sizzling steaks & made-to-order Beligian waffles. The Farmers' Market is busy, a shaken antfarm of serious produce-junkies. Children are scurrying around with little treats, rewards for decent public behavior...gelato, chocolate, crepes, pear juice...
There is a man playing music in the center of the market. He keeps forgetting the words to his songs & looks as if he needs a good scrubbing.
I came here with lofty plans to buy "one of everything" & go home to make the ultimate stir-fry. But now that I'm here I'm satisfied with a crisp apple & a cup of beet juice. My French companions, Piere-Henri & Laurene are out wandering aimlessly building giant mental salads.
/////
I decided this afternoon to pay a visit to the restaurant owned by the Craggy Range estate for a specially prepared feast. The place is something close to perfect. Its outdoor granite patio is nuzzled up against mindblowing steep & jagged peaks & is mostly surrounded by meticulously trained vineyards & poplars that seem to be growing birds rather than leaves. As I sit and patiently digest my lunch (which was stellar: salt & pepper squid w/ smoked truffles, pickled ginger & beet root, garden fresh beans, a bit of cilantro & red pepper, a heap of greens topped with capers, a seemingly endless supply of straight-out-of-the-oven breads, each small loaf different from the next, each delivered with a halved head of roasted garlic & butter so creamy it left me bewildered. Lunch.). So as I digest (and digress) I'm looking out on a large pond dotted with black-ish ducks who quickly poke their heads underwater to gather--whatever it is they gather--& then pop back up, pleased, splashing around maniacally for a moment. I don't understand what ducks are ever doing, but I find them to be relentlessly "cute".
I am surrounded by people cloaked in fur & Ralph Lauren sweaters hanging preciesly over shrugged, disengaged shoulders. There's doctor-talk left & right, & people going to the opera, & people who prefer to spend their Autumn here, in the beach house--one of several--while the weather is mild.
I do feel like an ousider here, but I'm entertaining myself with a game of "What Are They Thinking About Me?" I've worn my best pair of denim cut-off shorts & my sandy mop seems to be behaving itself, but still, I'm a young hooligan with purple hands, eating alone, with a small library of books & journals scattered around my table.
Ah, hell with 'em!
/////
4.8.09
It's midnight and I think I just ate too much ice cream. It's a flavor called "Hokey Pokey" & I'm madly in love with it. I'm not sure what its ingredients are but I'm certain it mostly consists of no-no's, which would explain why I could freeze the stuff to sub-zero temperatures & it would still be as fluffy as a cloud.
The night sky is illuminated by a staggeringly lovely moon. There's a strong and wind shushing up the neighborhood, nearly drowning out the gentle chirping of crickets. & here am I, belly full of Hokey Pokey, dead tired from the day. I had to take a brief moment to stop, though, & engage myself in the quiet magic hanging loosely in the late evening air. Tonight has a melody to it that I can't quite sing, but rather notice it, make a point of how it grabbed me somewhere in my core.
I will sleep with the window open.
/////
4.10.09
This week has been both a brief one & a vast improvement on the prior. I've been working every night (except tonight) & it's been good to be able to just dive into everything, keep my head under the water (like the ducks) & work for a bit--my hypothesis was, & seems to hold true, if I do so my world would be different when I pop back up to the surface. & a week has gone by...
I've been doing interesting things at the winery, all of which are a great distance into Nerdville so I'll spare you. I spend half my time building yeast cultures, the other half inside the press in water-resitant coveralls looking like a drowned NYC subway rat.
/////
4.11.09
(I actually fell asleep mid-thought there). I have greeted the morning with a strong press full of coffee & enough fruit to feed a family of twelve. I stepped outside to feel the sun and was nearly knocked flat by the Autumnal bliss all around me. It's cool and the air smells damp, but clean. A freshness, I guess I'd call it. The sun is soothing but I am bundled up in it.
I spent yesterday with Christian the Chilean Giant & the two Frenchmen Piere-Henri & Gil. We hiked around on the beach, along the sedimentary cliffs of Cape Kidnappers. The tide was high & this was all the more excuse to tear off my shoes & roll the trousers up & let the numbness of the Pacific cure my weary work-boot-ridden feet. We sat together quietly for a long while at the foot of a tremendous cliff--it was smooth and severe & looked like it was carved into the landscape with some enormous cosmic cookie-cutter. When the sun started its descent a fierce wind picked up & brought yawning waves closer to our bodies & we noticed small stones began falling from above. I looked up, "Christian, did you see that?!"
He seemed confused.
Another stone landed by his foot & then another & another. The wind was blowing rocks off the top of the cliff. We stepped back & watched as this great hunk of earth teased us, assaulted us, playfully heaving little stones in our direction as if to say TIDE'S COMING IN, BOYS. BEST TURN BACK. & that we did.
/////
We roamed about the vineyards of Elephant Hill, contemplated the soil content. It was gravelly, slightly silty & dry. The clusters of Cabernet were massive & very clean, like they'd just been rinsed under a faucet. The stems were a glow-in-the-dark green, almost luminous to the point that I wondered if they could harvest at night.
The sun was shouting out Last Call so we made our way up to Te Mata Peak to catch the last moments of daylight. Te Mata Peak is quite the spectacle with a haunting, ancient energy to it that I find impossible to describe. The Legend says that a famed Maori chief was challenged to eat his way through the mountain to prove his love for a woman of a different tribe. The dramatic peak on which we stood was the final fabled bite that choked & killed him. Maori people say the mountain then took the shape of the Chief's body & serves as a memorial to his unbridled desire for his lady (and is does look like a huge resting corpse).
We caught the sunset & roamed with some grazing sheep & with all the language barriers between us did so mostly in silence. The whole experience was peaceful.
/////
I returned home & made myself some supper & retired to my quarters to read for the remainder of the evening.
I didn't realize quite how tired I was until I woke up around 2 AM in my clothes, on the floor, half-a-plate of supper, candle softly burning. Apparently I'm narcoleptic. I woke with sadness all inside of me. I splashed my face with cool water & dipped into my prized carton of Hokey Pokey ice cream attempting to massage my spiritual ailments with good ol' fashioned sugar. But I was blanketed by melancholy & there wasn't enough Hokey Pokey in the world. I went back to bed & closed my lids & meditated on the things that were getting to me. It helped to simply acknowledge where I was at, to just be in a moment of blues knowing full well they were bound to pass, as all things do. I dove back into my book (thank you, Aaron) & read about an Indian boy who lost his entire family in a shipwreck mid-way across the Atlantic, along with his family's menagerie of zoo animals which were en route to a new home in Canada. The boy was the only human survivor & spent weeks curled up in a lifeboat with one companion--a full-grown (hungry) Bengal tiger. I drifted off to sleep again feeling renewed , lighter-hearted, knowing that I'm a fortunate person who still has his family, his friends, his purpose (thank you, Aaron).
/////
4.12.09
So I woke up this morning in a better place; still missing my home, still tired from work, but at least alive in the present & aware that any sadness only comes from a fantastic appreciation for everything I have across the sea (and not buried in it!), & that it is a good thing that I so long for it all.
/////
Today I will run some errands. I've just gotten paid & that comes as a relief as I've lived off of very little since my arrival. I've taken stock of my rations:
One package of noodles
Tomato sauce
Half of a block of cheese
One apple
NO Hokey Pokey
I think I'm due for a run to the supermarket, no?! I'll stock up on fruits & veggies, sandwich fixings, coffee & cheap beer (how/why is anybody reading this? Good grief, I'm blogging my grocery list!). Then a long shower & it's back to the slaughterhouse for me until later next week.
//////
Tomorrow is Easter & I'm recalling those of my childhood. Egg-hunts in bad sweaters, packed-to-the-rafters Sunday services at the Methodist church, aching teeth from too many chocolate bunnies consumed, embarrassingly huge feasts with family, little sister & me kicking each other's shins beneath the table. I will be thinking on these fine memories from the bellows of my wine factory & will smile.
/////
4.13.09
Well, work is a haze of monotony & barely worth mentioning. People are getting tired & loopy. This seems to happen every harvest, the crew starts losing it little by little when there's still weeks of work to be dealt with. It's deceiving because bodies & minds are "over it", but said bodies & minds absolutely must grin & bear it. As the infamous Drew Voit used to say:
"Keep it together, people. We've got a ways to go yet."
/////
4.15.09
Another mild sunny day in Hawke's Bay & yet another day off from the winery grind.
I've borrowed a guitar & computer from a friend & have spent most of the afternoon working on some new songs. It's strange to me that even without an instrument at hand I've been writing music--something about not being able to play at any given moment has given the space between my ears some sort of heightened sonic Spidey-Sense, like a mental phantom limb. Anyway, I'm enjoying not thinking about wine for a few hours.
I did step out for a bit to take my housemates to work, during which time I was pulled over by the local police.
My mind raced a bit, whatdidIdowhatdidIdowhatdidIdo?
"Hello, Officer."
No response...ooookaaayy. He stared at my passport (if you've never seen it, my headshot is nothing short of psychotic-looking).
"Was I speeding?"
"Nah."
"Oh........did I not signal?"
"Nah."
"Mmmmmkaaay....did I--"
"You're just not a real confidant driver."
He handed me my passport, "Just wanted to let you know."
"Alright, thank you, sir!" with a cheesy grin & high-pitched tone to my voice that only happens when I'm being pseudo-appreciative.
A cop has never pulled me over with the sole purpose of calling me a weenis before. First time for everything, I guess.
I hereby pledge to drive more aggressively from here on out. I'll honk my horn, tailgate, maybe even mow over an old lady or two...that's my promise to you, New Zealand.
/////
With a quick glance at a calendar I realized my time here is coming to an end very soon. It's a bittersweet relief on many levels. Harvest is amazing & excruciating all at once. New Zealand is lovely, but not my home. My friends here are fantastic, but they're not my best ones. At the very end I think I will feel more fulfilled than anything else. & I look forward to returning home, to a new chapter, one with a perfect Northwestern Summer in the city of Portland that I so dearly love.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Yellow Hair, You Are a Funny Bear
4.1.09
The world looks so peaceful from the top of a stack of barrels. The cellar looks quiet & clean & organized, hoses coiled just so, rows straight & even. At the top a cellar rat can look down on his work & feel a sense of pride, of ownership. & when a cellar rat takes a raging spill from the top of a stack of barrels one can naturally conclude that these warmfuzzy feelings are swiftly shot-to-hell. This is the best way I can describe the way my head hanged yesterday when I slid from my ladder & came crashing to the concrete floor from five barrels up.
There was I, topping some Chardonnay barrels, all smiles & cheer bound up in my face, gorgeous music vibrating through my headphones when I felt my boots slide across the rung. I flailed my arms frantically in a desperate attempt to catch myself Cliffhanger-style. No such luck. I hurled through the air like a comet from the heavens & crashlanded with a bony thud on my back. The back of my head even got a good solid smack (for good measure). Meanwhile, the valve on the discharging end of my topping setup was still wide open & caught dangling two barrels up from my now crooked, dead-looking body, showering me in a torrent of Chardonnay. I lay there for a moment, trying to both catch my wind & wrap my mind around this stupid shit that just happened, all the while mouthing untranslatable curses. And my thoughts:
I felt foolish. I wanted to go home, curl up in a fetal posish with a teddy bear & spend the rest of the day suckling on my thumb. Instead, I took the "high road" & continued working as if nothing happened, wincing with every step & wondering if little pieces of my spine were scattered on the cellar floor.
/////
4.3.09
Oh, work is beginning to wear on my brains. I need to find a healthy balance, or simply the time to get outside of harvest-mode & inside my heart & head so I can keep writing down all the significant (and some definitely insignif) details that roll around in these cavernous spaces.
Pinot noir has been rolling in, which has been exciting for me. It's not exactly top-shelf stuff, but still it's good to work with something close to my soft spot. It is quite possibly the roughest looking Pinot I have ever laid eyes on: green & herbal flavors, no acid, loaded with botrytis & shriveled berries & I believe some of the clusters have a case of the Clap...we're still looking into that one.
I'm only a day away from yet another Sunday of personal freedom. This I greatly look forward to.
/////
4.4.09
(See this is what I'm talking about, I practically stopped DEAD in the midst of a thought & am only just now returning to said thought & have very little interest in continuing the soliloquoy about said thought. One of my French neighbors, Gil, a scraggly young ruffian who is both English-retarded & paralyzingly genuine & sweet stopped by for a beer & an exhausting dialogue consisting of mostly "how-you-say's" & "I-don't-unnastand's" & we wound up sitting in comfortable & restful silence looking at a picture book entitled Majestic New Zealand. And even just now, while I relax cross-legged in the morning light Gil came over to say "Bonjour" & a crippled, lame conversation followed, resulting in his throwing up of his hands and announcing: "I go to EGG now!"
"Beg yer pardon?"
"I go to EGG now!...BREFFASST!!!")
So as I was saying I have a day off tomorrow, one that I'd been greatly looking forward to & one that I nearly had burgled from me yesterday. An unnamed intern, a serious & recently uncaged UC Davis undergrad whom I'll refer to as Golden Boy, approached me in the afternoon.
"Hey, Adam, do you have Sunday off?'
"Yes, dear Golden Boy, I do indeed."
"Would you mind working for me on Sunday, & in return take Monday off?"
Here we had a problem. It wasn't that I minded working an extra day, but more that I was due for a vineyard tour in Martinborough with the winemaker that very Monday...another experience I'd been seriously anticipating.
"Oh, well," I politely respond, "the thing is I'm supposed to go to Martinborough that day."
Silence.
Then, with gripping awkwardness:
"Uhh, I was actually asked to go instead."
"Oh, I seeeee..." (which in my head sounded a lot more like "OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!").
Let me break this down:
The world looks so peaceful from the top of a stack of barrels. The cellar looks quiet & clean & organized, hoses coiled just so, rows straight & even. At the top a cellar rat can look down on his work & feel a sense of pride, of ownership. & when a cellar rat takes a raging spill from the top of a stack of barrels one can naturally conclude that these warmfuzzy feelings are swiftly shot-to-hell. This is the best way I can describe the way my head hanged yesterday when I slid from my ladder & came crashing to the concrete floor from five barrels up.
There was I, topping some Chardonnay barrels, all smiles & cheer bound up in my face, gorgeous music vibrating through my headphones when I felt my boots slide across the rung. I flailed my arms frantically in a desperate attempt to catch myself Cliffhanger-style. No such luck. I hurled through the air like a comet from the heavens & crashlanded with a bony thud on my back. The back of my head even got a good solid smack (for good measure). Meanwhile, the valve on the discharging end of my topping setup was still wide open & caught dangling two barrels up from my now crooked, dead-looking body, showering me in a torrent of Chardonnay. I lay there for a moment, trying to both catch my wind & wrap my mind around this stupid shit that just happened, all the while mouthing untranslatable curses. And my thoughts:
Did I break my spine? Did my head just explode? Are there brains on the floor? Am I even alive? Is this heaven? Please say no...
I caught my wind & hopped back to my hooves for feet & shut the valve on the topping hose, cellar rat pride down the drain (along with several unnoted litres of wine & probably some blood).I felt foolish. I wanted to go home, curl up in a fetal posish with a teddy bear & spend the rest of the day suckling on my thumb. Instead, I took the "high road" & continued working as if nothing happened, wincing with every step & wondering if little pieces of my spine were scattered on the cellar floor.
/////
4.3.09
Oh, work is beginning to wear on my brains. I need to find a healthy balance, or simply the time to get outside of harvest-mode & inside my heart & head so I can keep writing down all the significant (and some definitely insignif) details that roll around in these cavernous spaces.
Pinot noir has been rolling in, which has been exciting for me. It's not exactly top-shelf stuff, but still it's good to work with something close to my soft spot. It is quite possibly the roughest looking Pinot I have ever laid eyes on: green & herbal flavors, no acid, loaded with botrytis & shriveled berries & I believe some of the clusters have a case of the Clap...we're still looking into that one.
I'm only a day away from yet another Sunday of personal freedom. This I greatly look forward to.
/////
4.4.09
(See this is what I'm talking about, I practically stopped DEAD in the midst of a thought & am only just now returning to said thought & have very little interest in continuing the soliloquoy about said thought. One of my French neighbors, Gil, a scraggly young ruffian who is both English-retarded & paralyzingly genuine & sweet stopped by for a beer & an exhausting dialogue consisting of mostly "how-you-say's" & "I-don't-unnastand's" & we wound up sitting in comfortable & restful silence looking at a picture book entitled Majestic New Zealand. And even just now, while I relax cross-legged in the morning light Gil came over to say "Bonjour" & a crippled, lame conversation followed, resulting in his throwing up of his hands and announcing: "I go to EGG now!"
"Beg yer pardon?"
"I go to EGG now!...BREFFASST!!!")
So as I was saying I have a day off tomorrow, one that I'd been greatly looking forward to & one that I nearly had burgled from me yesterday. An unnamed intern, a serious & recently uncaged UC Davis undergrad whom I'll refer to as Golden Boy, approached me in the afternoon.
"Hey, Adam, do you have Sunday off?'
"Yes, dear Golden Boy, I do indeed."
"Would you mind working for me on Sunday, & in return take Monday off?"
Here we had a problem. It wasn't that I minded working an extra day, but more that I was due for a vineyard tour in Martinborough with the winemaker that very Monday...another experience I'd been seriously anticipating.
"Oh, well," I politely respond, "the thing is I'm supposed to go to Martinborough that day."
Silence.
Then, with gripping awkwardness:
"Uhh, I was actually asked to go instead."
"Oh, I seeeee..." (which in my head sounded a lot more like "OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!").
Let me break this down:
1.) Golden Boy wants me to work an extra day this week so that
2.)He, GOLDEN BOY, specifically, and not I Bobo the Dancing Circus Bear/Juanita the Cleaning Lady (apparently) , can go to Martinborough.
2.)He, GOLDEN BOY, specifically, and not I Bobo the Dancing Circus Bear/Juanita the Cleaning Lady (apparently) , can go to Martinborough.
Is this doing a favor, or is it some fantastic slight-of-hand ego-rape?
I said, "Fine."
Cuz I'm soft.
But it wasn't fine, and as the day went on I felt it rolling around in my head like a big marble with spikes on it & soon this irritating feeling of being profoundly dicked-over transformed itself from a pungeant but solid & tidy turd of a quandry to absolute explosive diarrhea (in college we called that "Number 3", a horrifying combo of both solids & liquids & possibly molten lava shooting out of your ass). So with Number 3 of the brain I had to go to my supervisor to say "Yo, Soop! WTF?!!"
But before I could launch into it he stifled me with
"Hey, Ads, I got good news."
Oh?? Could it be?? Have the tables proverbially turned??
"Great," I replied, "I love good news!"
"Yeah, well you're back to your normal schedule."
Perfect.
"Man, I'm so relieved...I really have my heart set on seeing Martinborough."
Awkward.
Silence.
"Oh, well, no [Golden Boy] is going to Martinborough. I just meant you still have Sunday off, as planned."
Perfect.
"But you should definitely check it out after harvest...it's AAAHMAAAAYYYZING."
Number 3 makes it's triumphant return.
/////
4.5.09
This morning is one for the books.
The sun is soothing & pleasant, birds are shrieking all around me & the hypnotic whir of a lawnmower plays an industrial basso continuo beneath their feathered songs. It's anew. Anewness, can I say that? I mean it freaking feels like "anewness". And it is my Friday, at long last. I will let images of fresh Farmers' Market produce & an afternoon of Sauvignon Blanc & Bluff Oysters & stunning carved-out monster mountain vistas carry me through the day & into the night.
I said, "Fine."
Cuz I'm soft.
But it wasn't fine, and as the day went on I felt it rolling around in my head like a big marble with spikes on it & soon this irritating feeling of being profoundly dicked-over transformed itself from a pungeant but solid & tidy turd of a quandry to absolute explosive diarrhea (in college we called that "Number 3", a horrifying combo of both solids & liquids & possibly molten lava shooting out of your ass). So with Number 3 of the brain I had to go to my supervisor to say "Yo, Soop! WTF?!!"
But before I could launch into it he stifled me with
"Hey, Ads, I got good news."
Oh?? Could it be?? Have the tables proverbially turned??
"Great," I replied, "I love good news!"
"Yeah, well you're back to your normal schedule."
Perfect.
"Man, I'm so relieved...I really have my heart set on seeing Martinborough."
Awkward.
Silence.
"Oh, well, no [Golden Boy] is going to Martinborough. I just meant you still have Sunday off, as planned."
Perfect.
"But you should definitely check it out after harvest...it's AAAHMAAAAYYYZING."
Number 3 makes it's triumphant return.
/////
4.5.09
This morning is one for the books.
The sun is soothing & pleasant, birds are shrieking all around me & the hypnotic whir of a lawnmower plays an industrial basso continuo beneath their feathered songs. It's anew. Anewness, can I say that? I mean it freaking feels like "anewness". And it is my Friday, at long last. I will let images of fresh Farmers' Market produce & an afternoon of Sauvignon Blanc & Bluff Oysters & stunning carved-out monster mountain vistas carry me through the day & into the night.
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