Into the Night

In all honesty, the words you are about to read are not the first ones coming out of my keyboard for this post. I had already put together the story of how last weekend seemed to have been scripted by a Disney writer who dreamed of becoming the new Woody Allen only to be stuck with writing lines to the Hannah Montanas of this world. The result of that frustration is, as usual, just another episode of my life where tragic-comic elements meet teenage drama. That story describes how I was struck by a life epiphany in the dancefloor of a gay club, how I cuddled ponies on a mountain, how I met Prince Charming while dressed as a princess (well party princess, but still) and how an evil hobbit stole him from me. After writing all of that, I realized that if I published such fairy-screwed-up-tale, I’d get in trouble with people here in Middle Earth. Therefore, that story goes directly to my post-mortem heritage and I start from scratch a more adult and less compromising version of the facts. 

To begin, and given that the relevant events of the last days all happened after the sun went down, it is time to provide for some insights about kiwi night life. Going out in New Zealand its, for itself, a sociological phenomenon worthy of empirical field research and posterior theoretical analysis. The first thing you must know is: kiwis love to drink. A lot. Too much. Driving around at 22h30 (!) gives you the feeling of being in the middle of an apocalyptic zombie movie a) because parts of the city are, indeed, in a apocalyptic state and b) long before the clock ticks midnight, there are dozens of people (young and not so young) literally dragging their heavily intoxicated bodies through the streets after already leaving behind a collection of empty bottles at someone’s house, which makes them look like packs of zombies. The dress code is the second thing that strikes one’s attention. No matter how cold it is, and it’s always pretty cold, girls (young and not so young) dress like they are going to a cocktail party at a strip club with their fancy micro dresses. And, naturally, jackets are a thing for sober/uncool people. To avoid all of this there are two options: you go to a gay club or you party with your own well-behaved friends. Last weekend I did both.  

Night Out.  On Friday night I headed for the best place to go out in any town: a gay club. It just so happens that this simple truth – already known for a long while by gay people and their straight friends – has also been discovered by the general population of Christchurch. Never had I seen a gay club with so little, well, gays. Given that the earthquake destroyed nightclubs and churches in the same proportion, there are not many options left to pray or drink. People are not becoming more atheist by the lack of churches but they are, at least, becoming less homophobic just so they can enjoy their weekly doses of David Guetta anthems. 

Night In. Life is unpredictable. That’s the main thing I have to say about last Saturday night. When I go to a house party with work mates, including Interns and PhD's students of an already reasonable age, I expect a civilized and enjoyable time with people I see every day. What I don’t expect is that I'm going to start my night by screaming from the balcony with a bunch of people to the home alone guy in the apartment building in front of ours and that such a guy is not only willing to put his shoes on and join a party full of strangers but turns out to be the best live male specimen I ever encountered of what I always pictured my perfect guy to be like. Damn it, he actually exits.

The Twenties

Someone told me today that the twenties might just be the hardest period we need to go through in life. At the sound of these words, my first reaction was to vividly disagree – after all, it is the age when we are still young enough but no longer bound to adolescent stupidity and also the age when we can still enjoy life without too much ropes tying our wrists. Nonetheless, it was an arguable but valid point. 

Yes, teenage years are hard but you always have the comfort of knowing that your life still lies ahead in a (apparently) distant future and the thirties will bring you confidence (or regret) about the choices you made in the past. But the twenties are the present. It’s the decade when you make it or break it; when it’s now or probably never. All the dreams you had and all the things you always wanted to pursuit are finally in front of you to be taken or let go. The time when you need to have the courage to jump but also be aware where you are going to fall. When the roads you choose will, indeed, lead you somewhere (which may be no where at all). In no other period of you life is the pressure so high to build the foundations of what you will become.

In the end, I couldn't counter argue such statement because I relate to it. In my twenties I achieved the dreams I had since I was young and for that I am immensely proud of myself but I also feel constantly compelled to sort my life out and make the right decisions. I can hear the clock ticking. Loudly.

These are the twenties. Today will affect tomorrow. Do you agree?

New Zealand Reloaded

The clock was ticking past one in the morning of a Saturday night when the plain touched the ground but my body and mind were still unwilling to slow down as the adrenaline that rushed through my veins for seventeen days was still going strong. The next day, however, as I woke up, I wonder if I had actually slept on my bed or been a part of a hit and run. I could feel every muscle I own punching me and every cell of my brain screaming at me. That was Australia: an extremely intoxicating experience from which I was (finally) facing a massive hangover. Simply putting it, I was having a heavy redraw from a powerful drug.

Beyond the physical pain, I was also coping with a very strange mental adjustment. On the one hand, the feeling of utterly wanting to go back to  Australia and on the other hand, that strange sensation of going from perceiving New Zealand as a far away and exotic destination I would not visit in a near (or far away) future to calling it home. It always seemed a bit surreal whenever I said the words “I'm only in Australia for a short vacation, I'll return soon to New Zealand where I live”. But it really is the place where I live as I have a house, work, friends and routines to vouch for that (sometimes I need to say this to myself). Hence, I was trap between the unbelievably amazing two weeks I had in Australia and the unbelievable reality of calling New Zealand home. 

And perhaps out of jealously for my passionate affairs with Australia, New Zealand decided to make me a love declaration and reload our relationship – a Thursday afternoon off work to go to the beach, a Saturday day trip through mounts and valleys culminating in an amazingly beautiful beach, a lazy Sunday by the pool with a city skyline as background and catching up with friends over home cooked meals.

Australia is head over heels passion, New Zealand is steady love.

Blame it on Australia

It’s been three weeks since my last post and I figure that by now I have lost three quarters of my five and half faithful readers. For the remaining, I have a valid excuse for my blogosphere absence: Australia. Three states, three major cities, a Great Road by the Ocean, a National Park, the Tasman Sea, Christmas, New Years Eve, Australian beer and the best seventeen days of my life. But fear not for my lack of written words because during my time in the land of Oz, besides taking a total of 1036 photos, I religiously carried with me a little notebook which is now full of thoughts and key words I will soon(ish) turn into my Tales of Australia. That means that there will be a lot to read. ...Or not that much depending on the amount of events I should refrain from public knowledge. For now is back to reality (and reality is being back in New Zealand which after two months still seems a bit surreal to me). Stay tuned!