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:

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.

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.
/////