Once again, my
astonishing luck for travelling hit me hard in the head as it was a pleasant
surprise to discover that we would be arriving in Queenstown on Saint Patrick’s Day
despite the fact that I booked this trip a few months ago with no recollection
of such fact. Heck, I was even supposed to go alone. Partying hard with friends
in a town painted in shamrock and leprechaun
green was definitely not a planned event.
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| Queenstown Lake Front |
First Day – Going Irish
I’ll start by reporting where we stayed in case someone reading is interested in a future reference for a good place to lay their backpack at the shore of Lake Wakatipu: Base Queenstown. It’s a chain hostel but cheap, new, clean, well located, with a bar inside and a receptionist that welcomed me with a “You are the first Portuguese person I meet in New Zealand! I've been to Silves!” (in an ocean of German and Dutch waves, who knew being Portuguese would make me such an exotic island?) And so we were off to a good start. After almost nine hours (!) on a bus, the plan for the night was simple: drop the bags, cook some pasta in the hostel kitchen, have some beers to the beat of drinking games in my upper bunk bed and finally go out and celebrate the arrival of Christianity in Ireland (double !).
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| At the Hostel |
Second Day – Pure and Free Laziness
You see, right about now I
could start lying about how we entertained ourselves in Queenstown. Lonely Planet describes it as “a place where you will never get bored”. True story but only
if you have money (a whole lot of it) to spend. Bungee jumping, sky diving, jet
boat, etc. Name the activity, Queenstown offers it. But nothing costs less than
150 dollars and backpackers (truly) on a budget can’t afford any of this. So
here’s the honest truth about what actually happened on day two: we got up, checked out, had a lazy breakfast, discovered
the town centre and all its souvenirs shops, checked in again (cheaper room),
waited for a hostel barbecue that didn’t happen, had lunch, went for another walk, went
back to the hostel and enjoy the free bar
drinks that were given to us as compensation for the broken promise of a Sunday barbecue.
In the mist of such an exciting day, I realized that I had left my pajamas in the previous room, promptly running to the reception in a dramatic attempt to avoid sleeping half naked in a room with five other people. The same guy, who made being Portuguese seem like a cool thing the day before, was there again and in what might just be, from now on known as, the worst pick up line ever, I bluntly asked him if he knew where I could find my pajama pants. He looked at me and laughed in doubtfulness regarding my intentions but after providing further conceptualization to my claim, he did went to search for it and eventually found them in a pile of dirty clothes. If making a guy go through an industrial pile of dirty laundry for you doesn't make a good impression, nothing will!
In retrospective, I guess we proved Lonely Planet wrong! The future New York Times bestseller "How to Get Bored in Queenstown" had been written. Or maybe not. Sure, skydiving would have been pretty damn cool but running and singing in the rain, climbing trees, use the children’s playground swings, enjoy a free Tequilla Sunrise with friends and make hostel receptionists think I'm a pervert, it’s really all the material someone needs to forge long lasting memories. And ending up the night at an Irish pub (for some strange reason we didn’t go to one the day before) didn’t hurt either.
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In the mist of such an exciting day, I realized that I had left my pajamas in the previous room, promptly running to the reception in a dramatic attempt to avoid sleeping half naked in a room with five other people. The same guy, who made being Portuguese seem like a cool thing the day before, was there again and in what might just be, from now on known as, the worst pick up line ever, I bluntly asked him if he knew where I could find my pajama pants. He looked at me and laughed in doubtfulness regarding my intentions but after providing further conceptualization to my claim, he did went to search for it and eventually found them in a pile of dirty clothes. If making a guy go through an industrial pile of dirty laundry for you doesn't make a good impression, nothing will!
 |
| Germans conquering a tree |
In retrospective, I guess we proved Lonely Planet wrong! The future New York Times bestseller "How to Get Bored in Queenstown" had been written. Or maybe not. Sure, skydiving would have been pretty damn cool but running and singing in the rain, climbing trees, use the children’s playground swings, enjoy a free Tequilla Sunrise with friends and make hostel receptionists think I'm a pervert, it’s really all the material someone needs to forge long lasting memories. And ending up the night at an Irish pub (for some strange reason we didn’t go to one the day before) didn’t hurt either.
Third Day – Tourism and Drunkenness
Finally, a day from which I am able to report a few touristic activities. After breakfast, we took a walk along the lake, mesmerized over the flowers of the Botanical Gardens, discovered frisbee golf and went to find the oldest buildings in town - a tiny church and a tinier 120 year old house. At 1 p.m. we had an appointment for the self proclaimed "biggest Ice Bar in Australasia" with entries usually costing 20$ (32$ with cocktail) but I found us 1$ entries online (yay!). It was a veeeery cool experience! First, because it was my debut in an Ice Bar (I wasn't previously aware of my uncontrollable craving for licking ice walls and ice furniture. I am now.) and second because we had the bar completely to ourselves. Like the very awesome bartender/boxer, Tank, pointed out when I stupidly make a remark about the emptiness of the place, "who comes to an Ice Bar to have cocktails at one in the afternoon?". The same people who go to Queenstown to climb trees, that's who.
And given that enduring negative temperatures for almost an hour drains a lot of one's energy, the next logical stop was to grab a magnificent Fergburger by the water. It was the kind of simple but delicious situation for which I like to indulge myself into believing that the concept of 'quality of life' was invented for. With this gastronomic orgasm fully lodged in our stomachs and the sun still smiling at us, it was time to take a boat cruise. In all honestly, it was nothing extraordinary and it felt more like a real-estate lesson on pricey lake houses than anything else but just for the captain's sense of humor, it was totally worth it. Pearls of wisdom such as " is there a small child on board we can throw to the fishes to see them feed?" or "don't worry, I won't kill you. I'm not an Italian ship-captain!", were pure kiwi brilliance. And no, our stay in Queenstown didn't alternate solely between activities suitable for 8 or 64 year old people. At night we mostly behave like we were 15.
The evening didn't start very well. No one could agree on what to do and too much time was wasted just to reach the simple conclusion that we should cook, play drinking games and stay in the hostel. Wasn't really the ideal last night I envisioned to have in Queenstown but democracies are known for ignoring the minority voices so I bowed to the wishes of the People. Additionally, after eight years without drinking a drop of alcohol, I learned to love vodka, tolerate beer and absolutely continue to hate wine which happened to be the beverage of choice. Hence, while my friends and posterior attached strangers got increasingly drunk, my sobriety stayed the same. But life does have a way of sorting itself out.
When the drinking festivities moved from the kitchen to the laundry room, there I was, sitting in a bag of dirty laundry (pajama irony?) surrounded by a bunch of intoxicated international souls with a conversational IQ level similar to a Fox News' debate. By than, my inner Jon Stewart forced me to stand up and leave those poor washing machines to their own faith. As I also had no intention to go to bed at 11 p.m., I decided to go to the hotel lobby, write on my travel diary and give judgmental/envious looks to the hot blond (german/dutch/british) girls that would occasionally pass by. Sounded like a solid plan.
In the end, time flew by as I found myself chatting away with that very same receptionist which still remained nameless so I called him by the city he was from, Liverpool. The night hold a few more tours and detours between Queenstown and Liverpool but for the sake of your reading patience I won't dwell on it. Will share, though, that once again New Zealand proves to be tutoring me in all the right lessons. For this time, I am unshamefully proud to admit that I am utterly happier to sit in a couch of an empty hostel lobby at late hours of the night talking with the guy behind the counter than partying hard at the club next door.
Forth Day - Back to Reality
Waking up at 7 a.m. and standing at the bus station one hour later to catch a long ride back to reality, back to Christchurch. For a good part of those nine long hours, between mountains, lakes and sheep, I came to the realization that friendship can be easily defined: that second when you suddenly and instinctively put an end to a good moment happening to you to make sure your drunken friends throw up in the right place. Even if they decide to disappear and go film their own adult entertainment hostel made production instead. The joke was definitely on me.
Goodbye Queenstown. Goodbye Liverpool.
Finally, a day from which I am able to report a few touristic activities. After breakfast, we took a walk along the lake, mesmerized over the flowers of the Botanical Gardens, discovered frisbee golf and went to find the oldest buildings in town - a tiny church and a tinier 120 year old house. At 1 p.m. we had an appointment for the self proclaimed "biggest Ice Bar in Australasia" with entries usually costing 20$ (32$ with cocktail) but I found us 1$ entries online (yay!). It was a veeeery cool experience! First, because it was my debut in an Ice Bar (I wasn't previously aware of my uncontrollable craving for licking ice walls and ice furniture. I am now.) and second because we had the bar completely to ourselves. Like the very awesome bartender/boxer, Tank, pointed out when I stupidly make a remark about the emptiness of the place, "who comes to an Ice Bar to have cocktails at one in the afternoon?". The same people who go to Queenstown to climb trees, that's who.
And given that enduring negative temperatures for almost an hour drains a lot of one's energy, the next logical stop was to grab a magnificent Fergburger by the water. It was the kind of simple but delicious situation for which I like to indulge myself into believing that the concept of 'quality of life' was invented for. With this gastronomic orgasm fully lodged in our stomachs and the sun still smiling at us, it was time to take a boat cruise. In all honestly, it was nothing extraordinary and it felt more like a real-estate lesson on pricey lake houses than anything else but just for the captain's sense of humor, it was totally worth it. Pearls of wisdom such as " is there a small child on board we can throw to the fishes to see them feed?" or "don't worry, I won't kill you. I'm not an Italian ship-captain!", were pure kiwi brilliance. And no, our stay in Queenstown didn't alternate solely between activities suitable for 8 or 64 year old people. At night we mostly behave like we were 15.
 |
| Burger with a view |
 |
| On the boat |
The evening didn't start very well. No one could agree on what to do and too much time was wasted just to reach the simple conclusion that we should cook, play drinking games and stay in the hostel. Wasn't really the ideal last night I envisioned to have in Queenstown but democracies are known for ignoring the minority voices so I bowed to the wishes of the People. Additionally, after eight years without drinking a drop of alcohol, I learned to love vodka, tolerate beer and absolutely continue to hate wine which happened to be the beverage of choice. Hence, while my friends and posterior attached strangers got increasingly drunk, my sobriety stayed the same. But life does have a way of sorting itself out.
When the drinking festivities moved from the kitchen to the laundry room, there I was, sitting in a bag of dirty laundry (pajama irony?) surrounded by a bunch of intoxicated international souls with a conversational IQ level similar to a Fox News' debate. By than, my inner Jon Stewart forced me to stand up and leave those poor washing machines to their own faith. As I also had no intention to go to bed at 11 p.m., I decided to go to the hotel lobby, write on my travel diary and give judgmental/envious looks to the hot blond (german/dutch/british) girls that would occasionally pass by. Sounded like a solid plan.
In the end, time flew by as I found myself chatting away with that very same receptionist which still remained nameless so I called him by the city he was from, Liverpool. The night hold a few more tours and detours between Queenstown and Liverpool but for the sake of your reading patience I won't dwell on it. Will share, though, that once again New Zealand proves to be tutoring me in all the right lessons. For this time, I am unshamefully proud to admit that I am utterly happier to sit in a couch of an empty hostel lobby at late hours of the night talking with the guy behind the counter than partying hard at the club next door.
Forth Day - Back to Reality
Waking up at 7 a.m. and standing at the bus station one hour later to catch a long ride back to reality, back to Christchurch. For a good part of those nine long hours, between mountains, lakes and sheep, I came to the realization that friendship can be easily defined: that second when you suddenly and instinctively put an end to a good moment happening to you to make sure your drunken friends throw up in the right place. Even if they decide to disappear and go film their own adult entertainment hostel made production instead. The joke was definitely on me.
Goodbye Queenstown. Goodbye Liverpool.
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