I Regret that I Do Have *Some* Serious Obligations to Attend to

I promise that I will post the remainder of my New Zealand journal before next week begins! For now I just wanted to say hello, that I do love Melbourne and have found a dear friend in Terri, and am having lots of exciting discussions with Kristian, and that I'll never finish all the work I have to get done while I'm here! Ack! (That's a good, happily-busy "ack", you will note. Sorry if that didn't come through). Kristian may have convinced me to write my dissertation on entanglement... to think about spending a good, solid year (I WILL write it in 12 months I WILL, I WILL) pondering the metaphysical implications of an aspect of the physical world that the physicists themselves hardly take into account, yet which is so deeply entrenched in our current theories and remains a great mystery... yeah. I think I can do that. !!!

Yesterday night I couldn't sleep. I was too happy and high-strung thinking about certain...events... that have transpired of late and all that they entail. So at about 5:30am I gave up, showered and dressed, and went into the city. I had breakfast at a little restaurant down an alleyway that I'm certain I could never find back and can't remember the name of. It was marvelous. Two tall men dressed entirely in black served me, their only wee-hour patron, a flat white (espresso with milk) and steaming apple/cinnamon crepes topped with maple syrup and cocoa powder. Excellent. Breakfast or brunch is always such a difficult decision- what do go with, something sweet or something savory? My choice was between the crepes and a basil-infused eggs Benedict (you say "bAH-sil" here, not "BAY-sil". Jodie taught me that). Very difficult choice. When you're dining with friends you can share (Teasel, I would have made you order the eggs) and then you split half-savory and half-sweet, and it is truly the best of both worlds. As you see, I went with sweet; I have ridiculous sweet...tooths. If you could only eat one category of food for breakfast for the rest of your life, sweet or savory, which would you choose? I wonder if this means anything deep and significant about us as persons. Probably not. But Tall Skinny Man Dressed in Black Number One rang me up after the meal, and noticing my Notre Dame card, told me he'd gone to high school nearby, up in Michigan. I asked whereabout, and he seemed skeptical I'd heard of the place, but then said "Grand Rapids."
"I went to Calvin!" I said, probably too enthusiastically. We smile, thinking to ourselves what the odds are of meeting some other person in a back alley at 6 in the morning on the other side of the world who has actually eaten at Yesterdog and knows about that giant orange sculpture-thingy downtown that's on all the GR paraphernalia. It was nice. I felt a little less alone in the big world.

Yesterday, because I hadn't slept the night before and had been working since 8 am, I left work at 4 to go see a movie premier at a local cinema. The movie was called The Band's Visit. It's an independent film about an eight-member Egyptian police band that gets stuck overnight in an Israeli town, and it's won heaps of awards from Cannes and Toronto and in Sydney. But I must confess: while it was a fine movie, I felt as though it wasn't for me--that I wasn't supposed to be watching it, somehow. It was extremely subtle-- the essence of deadpan-- based on tensions between Israelis and Arabs. But not having a deep or personal understanding of that conflict, or of the relationship between these peoples, the point the film was trying to make (by *not* trying to make it, as is the wont of better indie films) elluded me. I'm sad for it, but it just did not affect me like it was meant to. And there was a much smaller role for music in the film than one would hope, given that it is about a band. I hope the warm reception of the film elsewhere speaks to the something that I couldn't relate to, the something that makes it great.

After the movie, I wandered around Melbourne for a while trying to stay awake until a decent hour. I stopped in a posh clothing store empty of all but 3 women--the clerks-- who all looked extremely bored, extremely tired, and who were gossiping about someone. I picked out the most fantastic, expensive dress I could find-- a red silk dress-- to try it on and convince them I might actually be able to spend that much money on a dress far too fancy and flashy for my present state of affairs. I mean, this would be the sort of dress you'd buy if you were the sort of person Gerard Butler might ask to an awards show. It was THAT kind of red dress. So I took my time trying it on, and it was fabulous to wear. Then I started to feel a little bad for leading the clerks on in that way. I mean, now all of them were swarming around convincing me I MUST have this dress, and that it looked perfect with my eyes and hair and height and nose shape and zodiac sign and.... and finally I felt so bad that (after taking a loooong time to change back out of the dress again) instead of just saying "Neat, but I don't think I want it. Ta!" and leaving those poor, paid-on-commission souls, I ended up lying and saying "I really will think about it... I will." So here I am, fulfilling my obligation to think about it. Plus, there's always the off-chance that Mr. Butler will in fact ask me to some posh event or other in the next two weeks. Though he is, being Scottish, most likely in Scotland at the moment. And he's also a movie star, so there's that.

Enough of that drivel. I went back to the flat after my affair with the red silk dress, fell asleep on Terri's green couch, dreamt about space travel and ultimate frisbee (don't ask), and awoke this morning at 10:30. It's a beautiful sunny day, and I just had a tasty lunch at a local deli with Kristian (p.s. I've gone vegetarian again. I have to admit it... I really am no longer the carnivore I once was. I just can't... enjoy meat the same way anymore). We had a fascinating chat, talking more about my dissertation, and about his paper for the Giant, Important Conference. Now I'm writing from my darling little (big) office. (To answer your question, Brooke: I post from Bo (my labtop) using the Uni Wireless, and the same from Uni Sydney, but at the Baalbergen's and at Terri's I post from home computers via ethernet. Can I ask *why* you wanted to know? They do have wireless in Australia. They also have too many iPods and blackberries and other annoying American things, like SUVs and cell phones that ring in loud, electro-synthesized hack versions of Für Elise or Rondo Alla Turk....ack. Beethoven, Mozart and the lot of them must be barfing from the beyond. It's like using a Grecian urn to pee in. If you can get the recording to sound like a real recording, then great. But none of this electronic, synthesizer-of-the-80s-era ringtones. Barf, barf, again I say barf.)

I love my office here. I've mentioned this before I think, but my desk faces three large old windows, which look down into a courtyard with dark green grass (despite the "winter") and four enormous pink flowering bushes. I'll take a picture at some point for you. My office, having the past occupation of housing a few graduate students and a visiting philosophy professor, also has the virtue of containing just those quirky props you'd expect a philosophy office to have. There are tea-stained mugs and dirty spoons, nothing on the walls except a white board (yeah! I have a white board!) and a Garfield cartoon in German (thank goodness I can read German), and of course, shelves and shelves of books, papers and journals on symbolic logic, linear and relevance logic, introductory logic, and the art of reasoning( I think I can guess at the former inhabitant's specialization), semantics and phil mind, causality and philosophy of physics, and one shelf of just the classics: Locke, Berkeley, Hume, Descartes, Aristotle, Russell, Kant, ooh! and a book by Notre Dame's own dear Bob Audi. There is also a giant rubber-band ball in the corner, about 8 inches in diameter, with which I plan to amuse myself shortly, a black-and-white framed photograph of a train engine (not hung), and in the middle of the floor lay a single brick wrapped in brown paper on which is written "This is not a brick." That one's for you, Uncle Alex. I would take the particles-arranged-brick-wise home for you, but I'm afraid I'm already having to ship a few things back due to weight restrictions (consider yourselves warned: leaving the U.S. you are allowed TWO 50- lb. bags. Traveling anywhere ELSE internationally, you are only allowed ONE 20-kg bag. That's about 44 lbs. total.) In any case, I'm sure the U.S. has plenty of their own bricks. Oops, I mean particles-arranged-brick-wise. (Why can't you bee like the rest of us and stop pretending you don't believe in everyday objects? I don't care what PVI says.)

Now I must delve back into my work for a few hours. But as I promised, I will not leave you in suspense much longer about NZ. I never meant to do that in the first place... I just realized that I only have two more weeks left to research here, and to explore Melbourne. Not enough time...must work faster...must eat more than three meals a day... ooh, that rubber-band ball looks like fun.

New Zealand Day 2

June 11

Today the adventure has really begun. I am writing from the TranzAlpine train-- we're waiting for the last of the passengers to board here at Christchurch station, and then off across the island we'll go. And already I've uttered Edwin's word, "maldita", numerous times. Maldita is Peruvian slang for "shucks", or "fiddlesticks." I find it rolls off the tongue easily enough in situations it adequately describes....

I got up early to meet my shuttle bus to the train station at 7.45. I went out front of the hostel at exactly that time (I know! Right on time! Very unlike me)...however the driver was already there waiting for me. He said he had almost left without me--even though I thought I'd arrived on time! I am much confused... In the shuttle bus, 5 other people about my age were all waiting for me. They stare at me in the early morning quiet as I climb in the van, bumping my head on the doorway and whipping some innocent girl with a backpack strap as I crawl to the very back seat. I am finally seated. I nibble on a bit of muesli bar in the complete silence and think, Maldita.

After a fifteen minute drive or so, the 6 of us were deposited in front of the railway station. My excitement was growing-- I could see the foothills of the Southern Alps from the platform, away down the track. It's a glorious sunny day. The snow on the mountains blinks at me from far, far away. I can't wait to meet them--these new mountains.

But first I needed to check in. The man helping at the desk was a tall, slender man with kind eyes and the genuine sort of patience you rarely see behind desks. I handed him my ticket, which the girl at the hostel had booked and printed for me last night. He looks up from the paperwork to ask, "You do know they're doing work on the track a bit today-- happens once in a blue moon. They're fixing a tunnel beyond Arthur's Pass, so all the passengers will be put on bus there to finish the trip to Greymouth. Were you aware of this?"

Hm. Well, no. The website hadn't warned you? Well....I wasn't looking at the website myself-- the girl the hostel who booked my ticket was-- but no. She didn't mention anything. But that's all right. I don't mind.

The man continues shuffling papers around, making a few beeps here and again on some technical gadget behind the counter. He pauses; his brow wrinkles. A long, slow "Hmmm" is his only comment.

And then I get it: that sudden sinking feeling. That feeling you get when you arrive at some posh event but your name isn't on the list or when your card gets declined because you're in a foreign country and you have to use the card your parents gave you for emergencies (p.s. Dad, I have to tell you something later). It's the sort of sinking feeling I usually get when I'm about to experience my Obligatory Misadventure with Public Transport in a Foreign Country.

Maldita.

He looks the list of passengers over a second time. Still none with my surname. I am not there. I explain to the kind man that I'd only just booked the ticket last night, about 12 hours earlier... and that it wasn't in fact myself that had done the booking-- it was the hostel girl! It's all her fault!

More furrowed brows. Now the man turns to the computer and tries looking at an updated passenger list. No luck. He returns his gaze to my ticket, scrutinizing it like a criminal under inspection. It just lies there helplessly on the desk between us, knowing what it knows... and somewhat crumpled from being in my back pocket during the shuttle bus trip.

After an eternity, he emits a slow and understanding "Ah."
"What is it?"
"She's booked you for tomorrow."
"WHAT???"
"She's booked your trip for 12th June. That's tomorrow. Your ticket is not valid today. I am sorry."
I begin to panic, thinking my thoughts out loud. The poor, kind man just stood there and blinked while I spout, in one anxious stream, "But oh no Ack I only have four days in New Zealand just four and I've planned them all just right When is the next train But it's not until tomorrow And I can't do my planned route backwards can I When does the northbound train leave oh it left an hour ago didn't it and it's only once a day isn't it What am I going to dooooo???"


The kind man looks pained. He goes to speak with the higher ups in an office I can't see. I hear murmuring from the doorway. I wait, tapping my fingers on the desk as though I'm playing the Minute Waltz in 42 seconds.

At last he returns. He looks at me sweetly and tells me that he's sorry but the news isn't good. Because of this once-in-a-blue-moon track work and the necessary bus ride, the space for passengers is much more limited. And the trip is booked full up. I will have to take the train tomorrow.

Maldita.
Maldita.
Maldita.


"Ah, eh, ur, meh, but could I just take the train half-way at least? To Arthur's Pass? Would I be able to book some other transport out of the mountains then?" I'm desperate. My desperation has spread and this poor man seems to feel it.

"Yes, yes, you could certainly do that. You would still have to pay the full price, just for the half-trip to Arthur's Pass. And we'd have to ... to leave you there. But yes. That is an option."

I'll take it. I don't know how on earth I'm going to get myself out of this one; let the adventure begin. I'll find my way out of Arthur's Pass if I have to cling to the undercarriage of the bus. Besides, I only had my winter coat and a small backpack. About 8 kilos total. Surely no one would notice the extra weight.

Since I didn't have a proper ticket for that day, the train manager-- who was short and round and had neon cherry lipstick and painted eyebrows-- assigned me to what I assumed was the "problem people" carriage: car H. The car who's back housed the cafe that all the passengers would be visiting at some point during the day. And the car for the manager to sit in, with her neon lipstick. Though, I must say I didn't mind. Other than her I had the entire car to myself, but for the cafe at the back. The other folks will just be passing through to get their coffee and then disappear again to the normal-people carriages. Just the solitude I'd craved yesterday. I've got to make the best of this. I am in New Zealand after all. And things like this make much more interesting stories, right? I've got nothing to do now but make friends with the train managers so they'll be inclined to help me out at Arthur's Pass. Good thing I actually put on mascara this morning...

The train lurches beyond the platform. I recognize the tall, slender man who was privy to my... situation...from the station. I am comforted to see he is on board with us. He approaches me and says, "I have made the staff aware of you, and we'll see what we can do for you."

He's made them "aware of me"? I don't think anyone's ever said that to me before. It is pretty funny. I laugh to myself and pull out another muesli bar. It's difficult to write now as the train is bobbling along, and the Southern Alps are growing larger in my window. I must catch every second of the scenery. Ta for now.
Oh, and note to self: NEVER LET HOSTEL PEOPLE BOOK THINGS FOR YOU. EVER. You're a big girl; book the darn things yourself.
*Maldita*.