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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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