My Dearest Friends and Family,
Today I called my Papa Art who was celebrating his birthday. He’s 85 years old, but last he remembers he was 23. I kind of get what he means. Last I remember, I think I was four. This world is certainly dynamic.
Proof-in-point: Last week I listed “farming” as one of my passions. Five years ago, I would have told you that same truth in an Alabaman accent just as seriously as I would tell you I was a Swedish Sepehr-moudehl while brushing my teeth. But now, I couldn’t be more sincere; I love farming. My happiest days in New Zealand have been spent in gumboots, and, when I found that weekends to “greener pastures” down south weren’t enough, I up and moved my city girl be-hind to work on my dentist’s olive farm where I am (lovingly) referred to as the “American girl who lives in the shed”.
Now, I ride my hap-hazardly Americana-themed retro “push bike” (a “Healing Skylark” – doesn’t that sound nice?) on the longer-than-I-like-to-pretend commute to campus along paddocks of varying stench, wondering. I wonder a lot of things. I wonder what everyone I love back home is doing with their yesterday afternoon. I wonder what the bulls and dairy heifers think of my bicycle (Do they stare because it’s cool?). I wonder if the hills in Palmy are big enough to count as mountains (if you’re from Michigan). I wonder how much longer I will be in New Zealand. I wonder how much longer I would be in New Zealand if I bio-terrorized it with light-ten-ning bugs. I wonder what old buildings in Detroit would look like as wedding venues and gastro-pubs and chocolate factories and how fifty-cent packages of carrots and hummus could change the world. I wonder if there’s anything to that theory that not getting enough sun can make people strange (i.e. Trolls, Norwegians) because, quite frankly, I haven’t had a decent summer in nearly two years and, well, these are the sorts of things I’ve been thinking about.
Theory or not, I’m happy to be here resisting-sunburn over the holidays. With seemingly so much going on it is nice to stay in one place for a while, plus, Palmy’s community outdoor pool has a high-dive. I plan to spend informal days in the office thinking about chocolate until my head hurts enough to excuse a weekend of wine and wetsuits. Or, there’s always running. The greatest escape of late, actually, was all three: The Great Barrier grande finale of “Miss Jessica Alexandra”(as the announcer of the Taupo half mistook)’s off-road marathon series had entire-book-reading-ly long mornings, and evening crays with malt vinegar following arvos of sweet chilli cockles and oysters. We swam naked in waterfalls and otherwise were, more often than not, being guided around the island by an underwearmodelesque boy with a boat. Oh yeah, and did the marathon. It was beautiful.
Plus, I just topped up on family time with the Clark’s big little trip Down Under. Half of me feels like we did it all; We swam with dolphins, skiied in irrigation ponds, slept on boats, caved with glow worms, and filled up on local grub. I’m exhausted, and yet the other half of me feels like even a waterfall of baby seals doesn’t crack the surface of amazing things that oddly seem a bit normal when you live in New Zealand. I blinked, and they were gone!
Still, I wish I could be “home for Christmas”, especially for that 23-year-old grandpa of mine. But, he’s quick to assure that he’s “Holy mackerel, just so darn proud” that I’m doing what I’m doing and so with that, and a heartbreakingly awesome army of uncle-angels lookin’ out, I can confidently carry on with this dynamo degree-turned adventure. And, just so long as no one scrums up the cash to buy me a mountain full of persimmon trees and a big, mean-looking Angus stud, I’ll be back before we know it.
As always, I hope all is well at home, wherever home may be.
Love,
Alexandra
