On Reverse Culture Shock

August 5, 2016August 5, 2016 / MsStovall313 / 3 Comments

Disclaimer: this is a personal website. All views and information presented herein are my own and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program or the U.S. Department of State.

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Fulbright teacher alumni jumping for joy at last year’s orientation. Photo cred: Stacey Tatera

In two days, I’ll kiss a plane.

As much as I love the opportunity to see stars from a different vantage point in the world, I’m terrified of flying to get there. So, as superstitious and silly as it may be, I must kiss every plane I walk onto. I’ve been caught once or twice by flight attendants who gaze at me with a mix between amusement and pity, and I’ve gotten ninja-quick with how fast I can kiss my hand and press it against the plane. Sure, it’s a small, futile gesture, but it’s something that calms the panic building up in my ears. And makes me feel oddly sunny to know that there are planes in the air right now that have my smooch-blessings on them.

I’m going to Washington D.C. to greet the newest batch of incredible Fulbright Teachers at their orientation. It’s strange to think that was me two summers ago, feeling mostly like I didn’t belong there, that they had chosen the wrong girl for the Fulbright. I was unconfident in myself, and I spent more time studying my shoes than facing forward toward the transformative experience that was to come. And now, two years later, I refuse to look down, and I find much gratitude in being able to embrace things head on.

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Presenting at the Fulbright orientation last year

One of the most impactful sessions for me during the three and a half day orientation was on reverse culture shock. I had never considered that when I returned from my trip that I’d feel anything other than happy and grateful. But as the speaker Craig Storti, the author of The Art of Coming Home expressed, home has changed. And I have changed. When I returned, I did struggle with adapting with feeling like I constantly wanted to talk about this life-changing-sound-the-trumpets-I-uncovered-the-best-me-and-I-want-to-conquer-the-world-now year, but never actually talking about it as I felt that no one would really understand it. Luckily, the orientation helped me moved pretty seamlessly into my new kiwi culture, and it got me emotionally prepared for the occasionally turbulent transition back into US culture. But what it didn’t prepare me for was how occasionally funny that transition could be.

When my family picked me up on Christmas Eve eve from the airport, we decided to stop into Buffalo Wild Wings because I was dying for some Asian Zing chicken. Within a few moments, I turned to my brother Danny and exclaimed, “Why is everybody screaming?!”. For the first week or so, I felt like everyone was talking at me in all CAPS, and I put earplugs in my Amazon wishlist (which coincidentally I realized I still had in there as of a few days ago, so I swapped it for back-to-school scratch n’ sniff stickers).

My brothers and I reunited after my Fulbright experience.

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Shuffle Along, or How a Musical Can Teach Us to Remember and Treasure Black Art

July 27, 2016July 27, 2016 / MsStovall313 / 3 Comments

Enjoying my summer in NYC for an NEH grant.

I have always been a closet fanatic of musicals. I say “closet” as my bank account does not possess the sort of balance required to see the array of musicals I’d have to see in order to be considered a true connoisseur (I have never seen things like Cats or Phantom, for example). But I do enter lotteries and try to score rush tickets, so I’ve gotten to see things from The Lion King to Rent to The Book of Mormon. When alone in my apartment, if I’m not fervently listening to my latest audiobook (the current one being Jesmyn Ward’s The Men We Reaped), I’m singing along to Broadway showtunes. Believe me, I’ve put on some pretty elaborate productions complete with Rockette kick lines while washing dishes and making my bed. Idina Menzel would be proud.

I’m spending two weeks in the great New York City for a pretty amazing National Endowment of the Humanities seminar called “Freedom for One, Freedom for All? Abolition and Woman Suffrage 1830-1920.” As history is cyclical, it is so fascinating to see how relevant the issues of voting rights, the right to love, and the disenfranchisement of people of color are still so stubbornly present in today’s culture. It’s been an amazing seminar so far, but quite emotionally intense with a pretty hefty workload. I’m still able to see some of New York, but on each train ride, you can find me frantically reading and annotating our readings to and from my daily adventure.

Our two core texts for the institute.

Even though I’m trying desperately to save pennies, thanks to my new friend Laurie, I heard that the musical Shuffle Along, or the Making of the Musical Sensation of 1921 and All that Followed was closing for good. The post-reconstruction era and the Harlem Renaissance are two of my favorite times in history to teach. Not to mention that I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see the Audra McDonald live. And Tony winner Billy Porter. And Tony winner Brian Stokes Mitchell. And nominee Joshua Henry… And well, you get the point. The show is pretty much packed with some of the best talent on earth.

But tickets were sold out. I refreshed the seatgeek app several times an hour hoping that someone would give up his ticket, and I put up on ad on Craigslist. And then, on Saturday evening—the day before the show closing–some tickets suddenly popped up on the screen for the final show, and I typed in the numbers on my credit card faster than I could consider the price (I paid face value. But still). I would find out later that Audra McDonald called off and stated that she would not perform as the care of her baby comes first (did I mention that she tap dances, does incredible high kicks, and belts her esophagus out, all while in her second trimester?!), which is why so many people gave up their tickets. I’m glad that I a) did not know this fact and b) was happy to see that Audra did in fact perform the show closing. She is one phenomenal woman.

As seen outside the theater. #truth

I’ve never even so much as gone to a movie by myself, so I was a little intrigued to go a large broadway show stag. But I was fourth row center, so I figured that the performers will feel very much like my companions for the evening. It was an amazing experience to be almost close enough that if a character was downstage, he or she could spit on me when they over-enunciated words. It turns out that half of my row was solo, and so we found ourselves talking eagerly together in anticipation of the curtain opening.

It was thrilling to be in the caffeine of the packed house. And it really was packed, as people even stood and shifted their weight from foot to foot in their jagged line against the back wall of the theater. The only seemingly empty seat in the house was the one to my left. About two minutes before the opening note, an attractive man snuck into the seat next to me. “You made it!” I exclaimed with such exuberance, I’m pretty sure that the people in our close vicinity thought that we were friends.

“I better have,” he said, wiping sweat off of his forehead. “I called off in order to be here for this.”

“Oh?” I said. “What show are you in?”

“Motown the Musical,” he replied, looking a little embarrassed.

“What?! Cool! What role do you play?” I was suddenly proud my solo seat family thought we were friends.

“Marvin Gaye.”

“That’s so awesome! That musical is on my list of musicals to see!”

The light went out a little bit in his eyes. “You better go soon. We close next week.”

I had obviously struck a chord, and I stuttered a bit in my response. “Oh man, that’s terrible.”

“Yeah,” he said, not making eye contact, “The social climate is changing. It’s not one that’s as open for shows like us…”

He got cut off as the lights started to dim and people began cheering in anticipation at the start of the show. I clapped and hollered too, but what he said stung and the irony was not lost on me. Shows like us. Shows featuring predominately Black casts?

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Going With The Flow at Hierve El Agua

July 16, 2015July 16, 2015 / MsStovall313 / 2 Comments

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Hierve El Auga, on the top of the world!

Before I moved to New Zealand for a semester, I received two guidebooks for the country as gifts. I studied them both, inside and out, carefully marking the adventures I wanted to turn over in my brain during dull moments, like waiting for buses and late friends. Both books were heavy to carry with me across the planet, but I wanted to have my post it notes and bookmarks. On my first full day in New Zealand, I found my way to the tourism office, and I took so many brightly colored pamphlets that one of the women working at the tourism bureau asked if I wanted a shopping bag to take them all home with me.

But I’ve done quite the opposite while in Oaxaca. Instead of meticulously planning out each and every second of my days, I’ve tried the “go with the flow” method. I decided I wouldn’t research, wouldn’t highlight and star, I would just accept as many invitations to see and do and feel as possible. One reason—the pragmatic one at least–for my change in mindset is that I know that there is such a plethora of things to do and see that I realistically cannot see all of that I would want to see in Oaxaca in just thirty days. This is further exacerbated by the fact that my primary reason to be here is to study and collaborate and not to play.

Our band photo

So, I knew before coming here that if I just “let things happen,” that I can better stay in the moment, saving me some of the uncomfortable and scratchy “shoulda/coulda/woulda” feelings that can follow me home in the night. The second is that I’ve just simply been tired—tired of working, tired of planning, and most importantly, tired of worrying. So, in Mexico, I am just going to jump into things, arms outstretched, and see what returns my hug of the universe.

The “frozen” waterfalls

And the first real experience was my day trip to Hierve El Agua, beautiful mineral springs in the valley of Oaxaca. My other NEH colleagues started murmuring about this natural wonder from the first day I arrived, stating that they wanted to see the beautiful waterfalls. At one point, I got confused because someone asked me if I wanted to see the “frozen waterfalls,” and as I was sweltering in 88 degree heat, it felt incredulous that water could be frozen anywhere in the state of Oaxaca outside of a freezer. In addition, the name “Hierve El Agua” translates as “boiling water,” so I thought that for sure the name must be incorrect.

One angle of the “frozen” waterfalls.
Photo cred: Aisling Roche

But as someone finally explained to me: Hierve El Agua isn’t waterfalls at all, but streams that have created hard, rock-like mineral deposits that give the appearance of enormous frozen waterfalls. They are amazing to see, and the community has also damned some of dripping water to create beautiful, natural mineral water for people to swim in. It’s a wonder (and gift) from nature.

I said yes without thinking twice. We had a meeting point of 12 p.m. outside my friend Benita’s hotel. In all, eight of us showed up: Benita, Steve, Vanessa, Shidah, Geoff, Aisling, Katherine, and Jesse (a male Jesse, whom everyone calls “el Jesse” and me “la Jessie”). After everyone congregated (Ashling and I were late as we had spent the morning running all over the city to photograph street art), we had to figure out how to get there.

And boy am I glad I said yes before I knew exactly what I was getting into. Let’s just say that unless you go with a tour, the ride there is half the adventure.

Pictures of colectivos.
Source

First, we walked north a mile to a colectivo stand. There are three main forms of transportation in Oaxaca—bus, taxi, and colectivo. The bus is pretty self-explanatory, but it is entertaining to see men hanging outside of the passenger entrance yelling the bus’s particular destination. Second, there are taxis, which you can hail off of the street, call, or jump into at taxi stands. There are no meters inside the taxis—you negotiate your price before you get in the vehicle. It seems the going rate, no matter how many people are with you or where you are going in central Oaxaca—is 40 pesos (roughly less than $3). The other day, my friends and I took a taxi to a restaurant that was almost twenty minutes away, and there were four of us the car—and the price was still 40 pesos. Amazing!

So last, we have the colectivo, or collective cabs. This is definitely the cheapest option if you want to travel out of central Oaxaca and see the neighboring cities. A colectivo has a specific designation (made clear with a sign in the car’s front window) and makes its rounds at each of the designated stops. Anyone desiring to go to that destination can get hop in, and the driver will notify how many spots are open by sticking the corresponding number of fingers out of his window while he slowly drives by. Colectivos are a far cheaper way to get out of town, and be a quarter of the cost of a regular taxi.

We split into two groups of four to try to make hailing a colectivo easier. We finally negotiated the ride for 25 pesos each (less than $2), which I realized quickly was a large victory as the drive to the city of Mitla was about 35 minutes away. Once we arrived and got out of the comfort of the taxi, I stretched and smiled, thinking we were almost there. But soon, I saw one of my Spanish-speaking friends negotiating fares in front of what essentially was a pickup truck with a top over it. I gulped and imagined someone holding my frizzy hair back as I puked up the three amazing al pastor tacos I had enjoyed from lunch. Remembering to bring medicine for car sickness is not something I had put on my daytrip packing list. Swimsuit, yes! Motion sickness pills, a big ole nope.

Here’s a video clip of our journey before we start climbing the mountain thanks to Aisling Roche!

But I made it. We piled into the camioneta and settled in for 40 minutes of going up a mountain over potholes and dirt terrain. We had to hold on to whatever we could—the metal poles on the edges, the seats, each other. I was my total chameleon self—because the group was happy, positive, and bubbly, I stayed comfortably in the same mood. As we reached almost the top, I thought we had finally made it. Nope. We had to change hands and pickup trucks, and the “new” truck made the old truck look like a hot rod. It was smaller with torn up seats and a roof that leaked. In addition, the new pickup truck already had passengers inside, so we squished even more next to a kind and very curious Oaxacan man.

Photo cred: Aisling Roche

So by the time we made it to the top of the mountain, it was 2 hours and 45 minutes after we had initially left. Our eyes welcomed the snack and taco stands at the top of the hill, but we weren’t swayed by the owners’ beckoning calls. We could impale our stomachs with food later. For now, we just wanted to see it.

The beautiful natural swimming pool.

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The Imprint of Leaving New Zealand on both my Heart and my Foot

February 5, 2015March 20, 2015 / MsStovall313 / 8 Comments

So much snow in Chicago!

Disclaimer: this is a personal website. All views and information presented herein are my own and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program or the U.S. Department of State.

My car sits in a blanket of snow. We’ve just had the 5th largest snowfall in Chicago history after Monday’s blizzard, and I know that soon I’ll be on my way to Michelle Obama arms after I manage to shovel my Pontiac from its white cocoon. It’s hard to think that just a few weeks ago, I was sitting in the blazing warmth of a sunny Sydney summer, and now I am checking my cupboards to make sure I have enough hot cocoa to help defrost my fingers later this afternoon.

Side by side comparison of Sydney and Wisconsin

Left Sydney, right Wisconsin. The only thing they have in common is that I love them both.

The end of my official Fulbright experience was a wonderful blur. Sometimes, it’s not until we say goodbye to a place that we realize how much that place has impacted us. As I gave my final hugs and my final gazes at places that have become security blankets, I realized just how grateful I was to have this experience.

Remember Maurice, the neighbor who helped me get through a New Zealand winter? Well, here he is. I miss him!

When I arrived home from the Milford track, I only had three days in Wellington before I left the country, as Fulbright granted me the dream opportunity to spend two days in Sydney, Australia (blog post to come). It was a crazy three days attempting to sardine in all of the suitcase packing and goodbye hugs that I wanted to do. And on top of it all, the Parliamentary Under-Secretary to the Minister of Education read this very blog you are reading now and called me in for a meeting to gain my perspective on New Zealand partnership schools (again, blog post to come). These events all led to a very exciting homestretch of my Fulbright experience.

But it wasn’t without an interesting finish.

One of my goals while I was living in my beautiful apartment on Oriental Parade was to walk out of my apartment one sunny morning, cross the quiet street, walk across the golden sand, and run out into the sea, arms outstretched to embrace the watery soul of the earth. But then it never got quite warm enough for me to want to venture into the ocean. If I’m honest, I barely dipped my toes in. It felt so much more beautiful (and comfortable!) to look the ocean from the warmth of my apartment.

The farewell dinner with my Fulbright friends: Tricia, Max, and Sarah.

After a wonderful farewell dinner, a couple of my Fulbright buddies decided to come back to my apartment, partly because I didn’t want to say goodbye, but mostly because I needed people to sit on my suitcases so I could get them shut. As we chatted in my living room, I started to feel some pangs of regret. How is it that I lived on the ocean for over four months and never swam in it? What kind of adventurer am I?

So, while my friends continued their chatter, I slipped into my bedroom to sneak on a bathing suit. When I came out in a towel, my friend Sarah exclaimed, “You’re doing it?!” And I was.

Sarah and Max braved the rain and wind–Wellington’s retaliation of my departure was to withhold drops of sunshine in my final days–to witness my venture into the sea.

They thought I was just going to prance around in the water and run right back inside. But oh no, if I was going to run into the sea, I was going to run. into. the. sea. And it was pretty much how I always anticipated. There I was, running out into the ocean, arms outstretched, traveling deep enough to submerge myself, and then…

OUCH! BLOODY HECK! WHAT WAS THAT?

A sharp pain shot up my left leg. Thinking I stepped on a sharp rock, I paused for another second in the water to complete one more pseudo-doggie paddle, and then I turned around to limp back to shore.

As I high knee-d in, shivering and smiling, Sarah and Max wore impressed expressions on their faces. I felt proud that I had accomplished a personal goal, but I was worried about my left foot. As we walked back up the four flights of stairs to my apartment, I favored my left leg, not wanting to look to see if there was blood. I really, really don’t do well at the sight of blood. I hopped immediately into the shower to wash the sticky salt and sand from me, giving me a clear picture of what happened to my foot during my dip in the ocean.

Uh oh.

There was definitely blood, enough that I had to slump against the glass side of the shower to collect myself. And it was more than just a scrape or a cut– inside my foot were about 15 puncture wounds with little brown tips sticking out of them. It could only be one thing: a sea urchin.

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The Milford Track: Thriving on Dehydrated Food and Water from Waterfalls

December 17, 2014December 17, 2014 / MsStovall313 / 5 Comments

I start this blog post as I cruise down the Doubtful Sound on a beautiful sunny day. It is one day after I have finished the Milford Track, something I booked way back in July, and it’s hard to believe that I have completed it after many months of thinking/dreading/dreaming about it.

I was really nervous about my ability to complete it. Since I’ve been in New Zealand, my skin hugging skinny jeans now require a belt, yet I’m not in any better shape than pre-New Zealand. In fact, I’ve just lost most of my muscle weight from stopping the strength training I’d been doing in Chicago. The only workout I’ve really had is stuffing my cheeks with beautiful New Zealand pies. Just two weeks prior, I was unable to keep any food down after coming down with a horrible stomach flu. And this would also be my first real hike. Well, ever. And it was 33.5 miles that included an avalanche trail and an alpine trail. Things just weren’t looking too good for me.

It certainly was a physical feat–today I’ve been groaning each and every step I have to climb or descend, and my right ankle is purple and bulbous–but I have just seen and experienced something profoundly remarkable. Please note that the pictures and notes will in no way be able to do it justice.

Prior to the Milford Track:
I booked in July. The popular Great Walks of New Zealand sell out within a couple of hours of going on sale when they open on the New Zealand Department of Conservation website. Luckily, Amy, another Fulbrighter, was on to this fact and let the whole Fulbright New Zealand teaching crew that we had to book now!

I’ve never ever properly hiked, or tramped, as they say here. So, I had to rent all of the gear. Luckily, Bev’s Tramping Hire was there to the rescue. Bev got me outfitted with the right pack, sleeping bag, cooking ware, and clothing. I even got to try walking with a walking stick, which I’d later use as a cane to hobble around like an old woman when my legs got sore.

I packed a lot of food. Amy took one look at it and told me to put some of it away. “Too heavy,” she explained. She also looked at my freeze dried meals and said I wouldn’t like them. Luckily, if there is one thing I know about myself is that this girl can eat. And I mean, eat. As in, I ran out of all of this food on day three.

This is all the food I brought/ate.

Day 1
Objective: take a bus from our hotel in Te Anau to Te Anau Downs. Then, take a boat to Glade Wharf, start of the track. From the track, walk an easy 3 miles to the first hut, Clinton hut.

Highlights:

Heading to the start of the track with my borrowed back!

1) I successfully carried my first pack! It was a little heavy with all of the food that I brought (although Amy told me not to).

2) I walked over the second swing bridge of my life. It was quite scary, and I bobbled all over from side to side like a staggering zombie. I would eventually get better, which is good because I would cross about 17 more during the next three days.

3) The weather! I mean, this is a temperate rainforest and Fiordland is known for its rain. It rains 200 days out of the year and parts of the Milford Track floods. Just two and a half weeks ago it snowed here. Just under two weeks ago, it flooded so badly that the trampers had to be helicoptered out. And yet, for the next four days, it was to be sunny and beautiful, a rarity here. In fact, as I type this in on my cruise, it is day 6 of no rain. (Nine days here is considered a drought to put things in perspective).

Some people would say that this is bad because the “real” Milford happens when it rains, as there are hundreds and hundreds of waterfalls down the mountains (the mountains are granite, so there is nothing to soak up the water). But I’ll swap slippery slopes and being soaked to the bone for sunshine and seeing everything clearly anyday.

4) Next to our huts were several little glow worm caves. It was fun to wait until the sky started to raven to see the blue-green lights glowing along the trail path.

5) In an effort to stay hydrated, I drank a lot of water before bed. That meant that in the wee hours of the night, I had to sneak out of my hut in search of the toilet. When I got outside, I threw my hands up in stark fright. This gesture was so rigid I almost flung up my flashlight like confetti at a surprise party. It wasn’t because I had come face to face with an animal–the best thing about camping in New Zealand is that there isn’t anything deadly lurking in the woods–but because I was so shocked to see how blazing and bright the stars were.

I. have. never. seen. anything. like. it.

I could see everything: the galaxies, the Southern Cross, the twinkling planets: the stars seemed as close as the glow worms I had seen a few hours before. Spilled down the middle was the Milky Way. Never have I ever felt so happy to have nature call as on this night.

Picture of people playing cards and knitting

The first night as everyone starts to get to know each other.

6) It was really lovely to see the immediate community build up. From the first night, people shared food and stories. I became friends with a couple from Boston, Kendra and Neal, a couple from Poland, Gregory and Dorota, and a family of three: Robin, Michael, and their ten year old son Ethan. I met the Polish couple as we were searching for eels in the nearby stream. Look as we tried, we had no luck. Amy and I gave up, headed back to camp, and tried out the huge hula hoops (we had a lot of time to kill).

Soon, Gregory came running up the path, exclaiming that he had found eels. However, by the time we ran back down the trail, they were already gone. But the sweetness of the couple’s gesture stayed with me for the rest of the journey. Later that night, we would all play cards until we couldn’t see anymore.

Low points:

1) Because the hike was so short, there really wasn’t anything to do when we got back. I couldn’t sit outside and enjoy the late afternoon sun because I was too delicious of a snack for sandflies. Sandflies are very similar to mosquitoes in that they suck your blood; however, unlike mosquitoes, if you kill one, it will send out a toxin that will send more its way (unless that is a total myth told to me by my Doubtful Sound tour guide just now). So we were pretty limited on what we could do.

2) In this first hut, there are two bunkrooms. We got into a room with the door slammers. Meaning, it seemed as if every person leaving the hut, no matter what time of night, had gotten into a serious argument with their mom and dad. I jolted awake too many times from these door slamming nincompoops, and I made a mental note to avoid them at all costs at the next hut.

Pictures from Day 1:

Amy and I at the start of the track!

The boat that would take us to the beginning of the trek.

The view from the boat

The first section of the walk was all New Zealand beech trees.

The walk is just magical. I knew I was in for a treat.

I had to take a picture of the fern, the New Zealand symbol for new beginnings and personal growth. Perfect for me.

My second ever swing bridge (I would go over many, many more!)

These are the streams we drank our water out of!

Taking a break to enjoy the scenery.

A picture of the hut!

Video clip from day one:

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Video: A Windy Day in Wellington

October 19, 2014October 19, 2014 / MsStovall313 / 6 Comments

The Wellington sign that you see on the way to the airport–highlighting just how windy the city can be!
Source

A couple of weeks ago, I posted what an amazing spring day in Wellington looks like. It really is true that you can’t beat Wellington on a good day. But then there are the not-so-good days. It’s funny that I went from one “windy city” to another, but the wind here can sometimes be otherworldy. To put in perspective, Wellington can average 18 mph winds while Chicago averages 11.1 mph, and winds can get up to 64 mph here. You better hold on to your hat!

To show you just how windy it can be, check out this little video of one morning’s walk to school:

Hope your day is a lovely, smooth sailing kind of day!

Regina and I demonstrating what happens when you try to take photos on a windy day.

7 Things I Learned the Hard Way in Wellington

September 23, 2014March 20, 2015 / MsStovall313 / 9 Comments

Disclaimer: this is a personal website. All views and information presented herein are my own and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program or the U.S. Department of State.

I’ve been given the most amazing experience I could ever have dreamed. And it has been wonderful. But as with any transition to a new culture, it isn’t always easy. There are hiccups, embarrassing moments, and cultural misunderstandings. I’ve definitely cried into a jar of Nutella. But that’s all a part of the journey. I won’t grow if I don’t encounter obstacles.

The following are the seven things that I’ve learned the hard way in the first month of living in Wellington, New Zealand. Some are small, some are big. Some might be funny, others more serious. But all will contribute to my growth. I can’t wait to walk away from this experience a more confident, mature, and culturally competent woman when I step on that plane back to my homeland.

Snapper cards

Bus rides took me a bit to figure out. You use a bus card (called a Snapper card) to tap against a machine when you get on and then you tap off it when you exit (they call it tag on/tag off). You then get charged by how long you ride, similar to the zoning on the London Tube station.

The first time I rode the bus, I happened to sit behind a college-aged student who was explaining to her parents that you had to tag off or you would get a fine. Oh. I thought. I would never have thought to do that.

Picture of Snapper card and Garbage bags

Here are pictures of my two frenemies: my red Snapper card and yellow garbage bags.

But even with her helpful advice, I just can’t seem to get into the habit of tagging off. Once, when my flatmate Tricia and I were riding to the Karori campus, I slipped my Snapper card into my wallet and stuffed it in my coat pocket. When we got to our stop, I hopped off without even thinking about my Snapper card. I looked back to see what was taking Tricia so long, and my eyes bugged out of my head when I saw her taking the time to tag off. In panic, I fumbled my hand into my pocket in an attempt to retrieve my Snapper card, but by the time my fingertips felt the red plastic, the bus was happily pulling away.

A few days later when I rode the bus again for the first time since my mistake, the tag on/tag off machine shouted for all to hear, “Penalty applied.” So not only did I get the full cash fare fine for not tagging off, but I also had everyone in the whole bus hear my transgression. If kiwis had judging eyes, I’m sure I would have felt them on me as I walked down the bus aisle to an open seat. Now, whenever Tricia or I forget to tag off, we will call the next bus ride experience the “walk of shame.” As in, “oh man, I really hope there aren’t many people on this bus because I have to do a walk of shame today.”

I’ve now taken to holding my Snapper card in my hand within my line of vision so that I do not forget to tag off. However, last week, there was a spout of warm sunshine that sparkled out of nowhere. I felt like an audience member on an “Oprah’s Favorite Things” show. Soon, I found myself stripping off my winter coat, feeling pleasantly and unusually warm. As I daydreamed out the window at the beautiful hills rolling outside, I suddenly snapped to reality in the tranquil bus and realized we had reached my stop.

Jumping up, I went to tap my Snapper card against the machine and realized that I had somehow wrapped my scarf around the hand that held it. In panic, I tried to use my semi-free hand to untwist the scarf free, but my effort was made difficult by the fact I was juggling my lunch box and laptop case. It seemed that the harder I tried, the more I couldn’t get my hand free. A couple of people in the back of the bus started giggling at my obvious frustration that I couldn’t find my hand. Finally, I waved at the bus driver to go to the next stop so I could calm myself enough to figure out how to free my hand. He shook his head at me, letting me know he would wait. I took a deep breath, figured out that I had somehow created a knot around my hand in my panic, unknotted and wrestled it lose, tagged my card, and walked out into the now, suddenly misting Wellington air. Man.

Lesson I learned: get the mini Snapper card that you can attach to your key chain. And laugh at yourself when your hand gets eaten by a piece of cloth.

Mold

Mold is now my greatest enemy. My mouth fills with venom whenever I think of it.

When I first arrived, I lived with or Axford fellow Ben before he moved on to travel the world. Those first couple of days before he left, I noticed that he always had the curtains open and would even go so far as open the windows. Who is this guy? I would think to myself as I shuddered in the winter wind. He must be Wolverine.

After he left, I shut the windows and closed the curtains to try to keep the fleeting summer rays trapped inside each room. But one day when I set my laptop back down and opened my bedroom door, I was slammed in the face with a putrid smell. Mold!

Even though the weather is sometimes cold and windy, Wellingtonians will still brave the weather to sail. Amazing!

I opened the curtains to see that there were tiny black spots dancing along the edges of two of the curtains. I clutched my chest thinking that I was surely dying of a black lung. I did what many people do of my generation: I jumped online and googled the harmful side effects of mold on the human body. After reading about the various neurological and respiratory diseases that can come from mold, I had to leave my apartment to gulp the fresh Cook Strait air.

Later that day, I met up with my new friend Max, and I very dramatically told him about my mold infestation. Now, I know I was being melodramatic–I mean, I understand that having a few spots of mold on a curtain does not equal a spore takeover–but I had assumed that I’d get more than a “meh” from Max. But that is really all I got–a noncommittal, so-what-“meh.” Apparently, mold is just a “thing” in New Zealand. Because it is so cold and damp here and most don’t heat or insulate their houses (and many houses in the valley are in the shade), mold is just kinda an everyday problem here.

Max taught me that I have to open my curtains each day to let the sunlight in and that I should crack the windows during the day and shut them at night. So that “strange behavior” I noted when I first arrived is actually quite normal behavior in New Zealand. In fact, there are whole documents that give you tips on how to prevent mold. And when you talk about mold with New Zealanders, they’ll just look at you blankly like, “so what?” It’s just part of life here.

The good news is that I won’t die of a black lung while in New Zealand. After talking with our landlord, we discovered that the mold on the curtains already existed. We are lucky in that we are located in a place that gets sun all day long (when it’s sunny), so we rarely even think about the mold anymore. The place where we actually do have a heater–although it took me a week to discover it–is in the bathroom, so we don’t have to worry about the moisture there.

Even so, Tricia and I have been super paranoid about mold. If there is anything slightly dark on anything, we will shriek “mold” and shake our fists to the sky. Most of the time, it’s just a crumb or a sequin. But just today, Tricia washed her water bottle and left it out to dry in the morning. By the time we arrived home to cook dinner, our most hated enemy had found its way inside because grey clouds had blanketed the sky. Curses!

Lesson I learned: Read about a country’s climate before arriving in said country.

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A Lesson in Warmth

August 26, 2014August 26, 2014 / MsStovall313 / 10 Comments

It’s cold in Wellington.

Now, I know this shouldn’t come as a surprise to me; I mean, it is winter in New Zealand after all. I thought I had packed well– I had your basic warm fleece, rainproof shell, plenty of long sleeve shirts. I mean, I’m from northwest Wis-con-sin. I know cold.

Nope. I spent the first three days whimpering like a little wet pup. You see, I had looked at the temperature on my iPhone when I was sitting in 87 degree heat in Chicago thinking, “Ah, 45 degrees isn’t bad. Pssht. That’s nothing!” But there are two keys details I didn’t take into account:

New Zealanders care about the wind. I mean, to this Wisconsinite transplant to the “windy city” of Chicago, wind is wind is wind. Wellington, nicknamed “Windy Welly,” is exposed to all directions of winds because its location on the Cook Straight. But as my new friend Ben described to me, here, the direction of the wind really matters. For example, you don’t want the dreaded “Southerly” wind, as that wind is coming straight-at-cha from Antarctica (which really isn’t too far away if you look at a map). *shudder.* And it is this artic wind that first chilled my bones when I stepped foot in New Zealand. In fact, after I dropped my luggage down in my new beautiful apartment, and I stepped out onto my balcony overlooking the sea to have a “behold! I have arrived!” moment, I was suddenly bombarded by a weird snow/hail/sleet mixture. I scrambled back inside as quickly as possible. Nice to meet you too Wellington!
New Zealanders don’t heat their houses. Now, I knew this technically before I moved here, but I didn’t know what it meant until I actually arrived. No heat basically means that after coming inside after being cold and chilled to the core by the wind, and you just want to go inside to your nice apartment and put your feet up and read–you can’t. Because it’s just as cold in your apartment–if not colder–than it is outside. So if you’re cold, you stay cold, and if you’re damp, you stay damp (and so mold is a big problem here, but a different issue altogether). So even though it’s not nearly as cold as it is in Wisconsin, the main difference is being able to walk into a warm home or staying chilly while indoors.

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Ms. Stovall 313

Overcoming Obstacles

On Reverse Culture Shock

Shuffle Along, or How a Musical Can Teach Us to Remember and Treasure Black Art

Going With The Flow at Hierve El Agua

The Imprint of Leaving New Zealand on both my Heart and my Foot

The Milford Track: Thriving on Dehydrated Food and Water from Waterfalls

Video: A Windy Day in Wellington

7 Things I Learned the Hard Way in Wellington

A Lesson in Warmth