Mexico is so Mexican

I read somewhere that Mexico City appears as if its hurling from one disaster to the next. Which, in my experience, is a fairly astute observation and actually sums up the city quite well. Example: the ubiquitous motorcycles that drive (or bob and weave) at death defying speeds that I am fairly convinced are meant to put hair on the drivers' pre-pubescent chests. Oh and did I mention there's usually at least three or four people on them? And when I said motorcycle, I should have used the word scooter, because it's a more accurate term given the size of these bikes, particularly relative to the number of people squeezed onto them.

Yet the writer who described Mexico City this way also points out that this sprawling, logic-defying city of over 20 million people (that's about 9 1/2 Portlands in an area that is just less than 4 times as big...) also manages to reach beyond mere survival; it thrives. I don't know how to explain this, because truly, the entire city is completely illogical. I mean, I could understand a city of 20,000 or maybe even 200,000 being completely disorganized, inefficient and chaotic and yet somehow managing to get itself together enough to have businesses and a bank and roads and taxis and all the little details that make a city run. But 20 million??!! I am 100% convinced that there is absolutely nowhere else in the world that a city like Mexico City could function successfully. But those Mexicans have figured it out. The city reminds me of this guy that I went to school with, who lived in my building my freshman year, directly above me. Among other endearing habits that made him a less than ideal upstairs neighbor was the way he studied (which was not often... I will give him that much). For starters, the Cranberries would be playing at a volume that could be heard within at least a three dorm range. Usually he was a few beers deep as well, and I could always hear him with 3 or 4 pens or God knows what other "instrument" keeping beat to the music and tapping them on chairs and desks and beds and anything else that was readily available. And this was his 'zone'. I absolutely didn't believe he was studying the first time I saw it, and I still do not really understand how anyone could absorb any kind of academic information (he studied Spanish this way....seriously) in these surroundings. But it was what worked for him and looking back, I'm sure he had some (or every) form of ADD so badly that he needed all the chaos and the distractions just to keep his mind somewhat occupied. So maybe Mexico City just has a really severe, incurable form of ADD. All I know is that every time I am here I marvel a little bit at all the little crazy, every day things going on around me. Here are some examples:

*Propane (for houses... you buy your own tanks instead of getting billed) is sold on Thursday and Saturday mornings at 8am. A man walks through the street and buzzes every apartment yelling "BEEELLLLLAAAHHHRRRR... gaasssssssss..... BEEELLLLLAAAARRRR..... gaaassssss" over and over and over loud enough that it has woken me up every week. This is a perfectly normal occasion and when you are running low on gas for the apartment, you call down to him (through the apt buzzer) and go down and pay him for a new tank of gas. At which point he continues his yelling as he proceeds down the street.

*Traffic salesmen are the most amazing thing I've ever seen. At stop lights, men, women and yes children of all ages walk through the lanes selling EVERYTHING. And I really mean everything. For example, yesterday the following things were being offered to us while we were in our car: Bart Simpson dolls, cell phone chargers, cell phone cases, fresh fruit, water, newspapers, a dozen roses, tray tables (for breakfast in bed), lollipops and cheese made by the Mexican equivalent of Mennonites. Oh also, while you are waiting at these stop lights, kids walk through with water bottles filled with soapy water and will squirt your wind shield and clean it (like at a gas station) for change unless you say emphatically tell them no.

*Everyone here honks. At everything. Pedestrians, other drivers, the police, dogs, cats, traffic salesmen, the rain, everything. I think it is the Mexican version of comparing penis sizes. Except women participate too.

*I have been lectured about my frivolous use of electricity here. And I don't mean that I leave lights on or anything. I mean that I have been so neglectful as to leave the fridge plugged in while I use the espresso machine. Or heaven forbid that I forgot the washing machine was running while I was foaming milk. Yes, this is how horribly shitty the circuits in the apartment buildings are. One appliance at a time or lights out. Speaking of lights out (and as an Oregonian this especially drives me nuts), this city is completely incapable of handling rain. Power outages are common, businesses close, parking lots flood (7 feet of water-- seriously, this happened 3 days ago), streets become rivers, and people absolutely cannot drive in the stuff. We're talking about a thunderstorms here. They last an hour, maybe, and are done. Like the type of rain that lasts for 48 hours in Oregon. But I suppose Oregonians don't know what to do when the weather gets above 90℉. I actually received an email from my mother complaining about the inadequacy of the air conditioning in my car since the temperature had finally risen about 70 degrees....

*Now, I don't want to sound racist or anything, but I swear that for every one task or job, there are about 3 or 4 Mexicans employed to do it. In parking lots, it is completely common to see at least five people on your way to a parking spot that are all carrying whistles and ready to help you park. They are called viene vienes (come come) and from what I am told, they are not only completely necessary as Mexicans apparently struggle with the whole parking thing (these are regular spots, not even parallel), but they are often not even employed by the company that owns the lot. Most times they just show up there and what they make is what you tip them, and if they help you, you have to tip them or they will scratch your car. Wow.

My friend Hallie, who has lived here for three years now, tells me that the novelty of these oddities has worn off to the point that they are essentially normal. I imagine that three years would do that, but for me these will always be the wonderful little things that make Mexico so fabulously Mexican.

Casa Blanca

Aaaariba, Jamaica, oooh i want to take you to.... Acapulco!

Pie de la Cuesta to be precise. Which is about 45 times better than Acapulco actually. It is this amazing and beautiful and pristine and not-at-all crowded beach on Mexico's West Coast where the water makes a bathtub look chilly and the most difficult decision you have to make is Pacifico or Corona; Mojito or Margarita.

Now, normally i am not really a beach girl. There's just not a lot to do but lay around in the sun. Which wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that I am pretty much incapable of focusing on only one thing at a time. I am a busy-body. I prefer to have multiple projects going at once-- say, cookies in the oven while I'm doing laundry while I'm talking on the phone while something is cooking on the stove while a movie is on. For example. But this was an absolutely fabulous mini-vacation. For starters, it was hot and humid enough that I always had at least one thing I could be thinking about. And the setting was unbeatable: the pool looked out over the ocean, with nothing but some palm trees, hammocks and big comfy lounge chairs between poolside and toes in the ocean. It was the most serene, naturally beautiful setting. Since it was rainy season the tides were quite high and the water was fairly rough so the waves were absolutely mesmerizing. We spent our morning walking Xoco (the sweetest one-year-old chocolate lab) along the beach and trying to keep her from a) being lost at sea and b) eating horse poop....don't ask me why dogs do this... and then would spend our afternoons swimming, reading, tanning, napping, and trying to decide which variety of fresh squeezed juice was our favorite that day. We even fit in some time for a few extreme watersports aka handstand competitions, somersaults underwater, and backflips until our ears were so clogged with water we could barely hear one another. I am proud to say that I can still do seven somersaults in a row before coming up for air. And that I have not lost my childhood desire to be a synchronized swimmer. Although that might have to wait for the next life...

The pool was essentially where I lived during our stay. The only thing I had to get out of the water for was the occasional bite to eat. And seeing that my stomach had shrunk to about 1/3 of its usual size due to the 12 hours I spent sick and vomiting on the couch the day before we left (no mas chicharones!), I did not have to do this often. I did make sure that I was out and lounging often enough to a) completely engross myself it some fabulous literature that the wonderful Sylla (yay for Third Street Books) recommended and b) freckle myself to the point that I am almost, practically, one large, brown spot. Except for the parts where I am one large, red spot. But what does mamma always say? No pain, no gain. Beauty has a price, people.

I am in Mexico for a grand total of 22 days and so far, besides the whole vomiting thing, it has started off quite well. I mean, who can argue with being swept away to a beach-side resort with a swim up bar and fresh, drink out of the shell, coconuts? Not I! Here though, I do need to make a little footnote: I don't know who you are, Mr. Inventor of the Swim Up Bar, but let me just tell you that I am raising my glass and toasting your ingenious, fortuitous, carpe diem attitude towards life. The only person who could possibly rival your invention is the man that decided bar stools should also be in the pool. Budweiser, take note: These people need to be the subjects of your next 'this Bud's for you' campaign. And I want at least a ten percent cut. But I digress. I am in Mexico two more weeks now and it should prove to be a busy and blustery two weeks. My fabulous friend Hallie and her equally fabulous husband are moving back to Oregon, he for the first time and her after 3 years being here in Mexico City. The task at hand to to dismantle their last three years and somehow fit it into 5 meters squared. Right. I'm glad I'm in charge of organizing and the power drill. That I can handle. In the meantime, I will be consuming a lifetime supply of tacos and tequila because with my favorite Mexicans moving back to the states, I just do not know when the next opportunity will be. Although I'll be keeping my distance from the pesky chicharones....

teacups and toasts

Here, there and everywhere. This is essentially what the last few weeks or months or whatever they are have felt like. But it's been a fantastic whirlwind of cities and people and hugs and family and friends and so so so so so much happening. Like a flipbook kind of (i love those things), but not quite that fast. More like the teacup ride at Disneyland... it was always my favorite. Everything just spinning around you and the wind whirling and you can't really see anything because it's all a big fuzzy wonderful mess of colors and sounds and laughing till your stomach aches. That is basically what the past months have been like.

And today I am turning 25. It feels like a bookmark of sorts. It's not so much an important age but a good place to mark a spot. I have the advantage of having all of my friends turn these ages before I do, so I get a good while to test it out and see how it feels, get accustomed to it, you know. This birthday I decided long ago that I wanted to spend outside of the country because...well, I can. If you're going to be unemployed and homeless, you should take advantage of its blessing if you ask me. So forty five minutes into my 26th year of life, I am sitting on a comfortable, quiet couch in Mexico City with a laptop and a cup of tea and a surprising amount of peace about the previous 25 years and the (hopefully) next 25 to come.

This is not to say that I have any kind of inkling or notion about what even the next 25 months will bring. But that's ok. I mean, I've made it this far, right? And really, the likelihood of screwing up the first 25 years is probably a lot higher than screwing up the second. Plus, I've decided about a few things, both long term and short term; silly and perhaps less silly. Firstly, there is no time like the present (that's why they call it a present!) and why not use my birthday as a good excuse to start blogging again. Yes, some may tease me about it and yes, it is possible that I have been called "Rose glasses" a time or two, but whatever. I like it. And I feel like this may be a year that needs documenting.

Secondly, my present state of unemployment (I have put myself in this situation so please don't think there is any self-pity or wallowing happening here) is leading me to think about careers and jobs and what I really want to be doing. And I think writer may be making it onto that list. I am not really sure if I am good at writing or not, but I surely cannot get any better if I do not practice and work at it and well, write. If I were considering whether or not to go on a date with writing, this is what I would put on the 'pros' list:
flexible hours
flexible location
can be applied to a variety of subjects and interests
is a creative process
i like it.

Other things that have made it onto my mental, 'Potential Careers/Next Step' list are:
lawyer
law school
lobbyist
beauty school?
more wine industry (production or sales?)
Import/Export wine
travel industry
curator in an art museum
masters in art history
restoration
move to new zealand
move to france

Needless to say, I think I have some options. Which I guess is all you can ask for at any age. So to celebrate, I think I will pour myself a large glass of champagne and toast all the good, all the bad, and all the confusing things that have dropped me off at this point in my life. Happy birthday to me!

I am a gardener

Well, well, the time has come. I leave New Zealand in a heart-wrenching 5 days, and the entire trip has flown by much much much too fast. I have been savoring the first few sweet flavors of unemployment and so far... well, I didn't know what I was missing. It's sort of like being a kid again and relishing the first two weeks of summer when school gets out. Before summer camp starts when you're still getting up at a reasonable hour (before noon) and life is just so beautiful. You can do no wrong because everyday is your day. Except that it's winter here and I don't have a car so I've been doing a lot of walking and asking for rides, which i guess is actually quite like being a kid again. But I digress...

My last two weeks I joined "the gardeners" aka the vineyard manager and assistant vineyard manager out in one of the winery's contract vineyards. It was glorious. The sun was shining and the weather was beautiful and clear and warm once the morning's frost cleared off. I worked out there for about two weeks doing odds and ends and just enjoying being outside after the previous two months in the cellar, which can be a fairly cave-like experience. Lowlight: three days pulling large metal staples (more closely related to horse shoes than actual staples) out of shitty wooden posts. Highlight: getting to take the ATV to pull out said staples on the last day. Woo! Don't worry, Dave (head gardener) took a delightful video of me. He used his creative license and made nascar sounds at the end.




Everyday, promptly at 10am, we stop for morning "smoko" (break). This was fairly uneventful and straightforward at the winery, but out with the gardeners it is a fantastic and sacred "15 minutes" (read: close to an hour) of hot tea, delicious biscuits (cookies) and an amazing opportunity to hear Rick "spin a yarn" (tell a story....more like an epic tale). I really wish someone else could have been a fly on the wall for these smoko breaks because it's quite a wonderful hysterical little production. Rick and Dave are both talkers and both have the most ridiculous stories about the most ridiculous things. Each story reminds the other one of something else and half the time they are finishing each others sentences and the other half of the time i don't think either of them is listening to a bloody word the other one is saying. The best by far was when the neighbor stopped by to tell us about his pig hunting weekend and offered to take me out pig hunting and teach me how to shoot the pigs at close range. Oh goody! I then learned the entire history of pig hunting in New Zealand and a bit of the history of farming and how cities and farms have changed over the past 50 years. This typically will lead into something about native wildlife, which is always where Rick shines. The man knows LITERALLY the latin name for almost every plant we came across. Also what purposes it serves and how to best utilize it. Did you know that papaya has healing properties and is sometimes just cut open and wrapped around a wound? Me neither! And when clover is mowed or cut, the plant releases nitrogen into the soil acting as a natural fertilizer to everything around it? Who would've thought? So all in all, I lived the vineyard dream and retired just in time as the rain hit the following week and I don't suppose that I could have quite called it the 'dream' had it been down pouring the whole time.

The gardeners, Dave (left) and Rick (right)

Astro, Dave's dog, and our vineyard mascot

Beautiful HTD (Highfield Terrace Down)

And these are just good pictures...

Pretty much what got us through vintage.... espresso and the keg (keeg)

Inspiration with a lamb bone

Bob Dylan and pork belly

My oh my it is the beginning of May already. I must say, this is the first year I have not shamelessly celebrated Cinqo de Mayo with at least a fajita or two. Although I hear Americans make a bigger deal out of it then Mexicans, they both have New Zealanders beat. Oh well, when in Rome I suppose.

So work at the winery is done and dusted and I've had some time to reflect upon the highlights of the vintage. Let's call them, "KC's greatest hits"

-The Flea. When I first arrived at the winery and they were showing me the lab equipment and how I was going to be processing everything, the vineyard manager, Dave, showed me a pill shaped magnet, 2 cm or so long, called the flea. it's used to keep samples mixed while the tests are being run and it spins round and round and round. He said, "be careful when you're cleaning everything not to drop the flea down the sink, because that's a beer fine*." And how did I respond? About the second time I used it, there goes the flea, straight down the sink. Brilliant.

-The Word. So we have this lovely word puzzle that is in the local paper in the section with the crosswords and sudokus and such. It's a 3 by 3 box with nine letters in it. The point is to make as many words as you can out of the combination using the center letter. There is always one nine letter word and it's always a point of pride to get the word before everyone else and harass them all by continually asking, "have you got the word?". Which always means, of course, that you've got it and they probably don't and you are just rubbing it in.
One particular day I was having quite a bit of trouble with the word. I could absolutely not sort it out to save my life. It looked something like this: URNCIEHRA, but in a square. All day I looked at it and looked at it and all day everyone asked me, "have you got the word?" "KC, have you got the word yet?" grrrr. I get (surprise, surprise) a bit competitive so continued to get more and more frustrated that I couldn't get the word. Then they start asking me questions about that hurricane in the gulf coast. Oh yes! Katrina, Hurricane Katrina. Of course, I know it, I did a research paper on it at University! Mick is insisting it was called "Katherine" and Jeremy is laughing hysterically. "No" I say, "it was Hurricane Katrina. I promise you it was Hurricane Katrina". I cannot tell you how long this went on before I looked at my hand (with the scrambled letters written on it) went beat red and realized that they had been taking the piss out of me the whole time. Hurricane, of course. They immediately dubbed me 'hurricane' and give me shit about it for at least a week.
This nickname may have died down except that about a month or so later, the same word reappeared in the paper. The only word to be repeated in the paper and it had to be hurricane. But, of course, I could not, for the life of me, figure it out. Again, all day, everyone is asking me, "did you get the word?" "oh KC, you're going to just kick yourself". All day, i could not work it out. And then during evening plunges after I've sworn up and down that I will get the word before dinnertime, I hear the beautiful voice of Bob Dylan... "Here comes the story of the hurricane, the man authorities came to blame".
And at Highfield I will forever be known as 'Hurricane'.

-The Hydrometer. My primary job once fruit had started to come in was to check all of the ferments daily for temperature and brix (a measure of sugar content). To test the brix, i used three different hydrometers that covered a range of brix levels (-1 to 11; 9-19...you get it). Basically you pour the sample into a tall cylindrical container, put in the hydrometer and it will bob up and down, settling at the brix reading. Anyways, they're glass, about 10" tall and a bit fragile and why not, here's a picture.

Now, I am inserting a picture here to demonstrate that these do indeed look like fragile, expensive, carefully calibrated little instruments. Imagine my disdain to find, in the sink, that I had broken one of the hydrometers into two neat, completely unusable pieces.
Now, imagine the look on my face when sweet Jeremy (assistant winemaker) looks at me quite gravely, shakes his head, and says, "oh boy. I hope they have another one of those in stock. They have to be imported from France, you know." KC's already paled complexion goes a bit paler. Jeremy continues, "Yep. Takes a couple of weeks if they don't have them in. About $400 dollars a piece." KC now looks like she is going to throw up, pass out, cry or do all three simultaneously. How wonderful. And I have more samples to do! So I take a moment, take a deep breath (outside) and swear loudly. Then I go back upstairs to grab the rest of my samples. At this point the winemaker (Al) and Jeremy come back out of the lab. I am feeling a bit dark and exasperated with myself at this point and they both just look at me. Jeremy says, "well the good news is that Pac Rim (the lab supply place) has one in stock." Ok..... He continues, "and it's going to cost..$40."
I wasn't quite sure if I wanted to laugh, or cry or kill them both. They thought it was quite funny, although did admit that they felt a bit bad about how hard I'd taken it. Shit heads. I still haven't quite lived it down.


-The Tank. At this point it is towards the end of vintage and I am finally feeling like less of a putz around the winery. It's been a while since my last woops and I'm feeling quite good about myself. Insert catastrophe here. I have my job sheet up at the tanks and am excited because I'm doing something new and feeling good and confident about the whole situation. I have 4 tanks to do and finish the first, no problem. sweet! Onward and upward: next tank. Oh god, there is foam, oh god, there is a lot of foam, oh my god the foam won't stop coming. The scene looks something like this: 2500 litre tank full of sauvignon blanc with KC standing at the top of it on the catwalk. Jeremy has left, Al has just run outside and I have no idea where Brian (other intern) is so I am in the winery, for the moment, completely by myself. Not normally a problem, but I have exceptionally bad timing. Foam is shooting and spraying upwards and sideways out of the 1 1/2 foot opening in the top of the tank, covering, no I'm sorry, drenching me, the catwalk and every tank around me. I have NO idea what to do and being as clear headed as I am I frantically try to close the lid (not going to happen, way too much pressure built up) and then proceed to wave my hands in the air and try to yell but I am now breathing so quickly that I cannot speak or really make any noises at all besides a meager, quiet, 'help'. Meanwhile, all I can think is, 'oh my God, I am losing half of this tank of wine and they are going to send me back to America. I am going to get deported.' Luckily, Al comes in at this point, realizes what is happening, releases some pressure by opening the racking valve (covering himself in wine as well) and then calls out to see if I'm ok and if it's stopped foaming. It is subsiding so i run downstairs, dripping and hyperventilating to find, at the bottom of the tank, a winemaker covered in sauvignon blanc. At this point I'm not sure if he was more concerned about the tank (it's not as much wine as it looks like he says), himself, or the hyperventilating American. He said he was going to swing home for a change of clothes and said I would probably want one as well. All I wanted was bourbon.

-The Dinner (or lack thereof). After a month or so of working pretty much every day, for a good 10 to 12 hours a day, a relaxing night as a beautiful cabin in the Marlborough Sounds was sure to be a fantastic choice for the end of vintage party. We had a large quantity of beer, loads of wine and a menu that would make anyone jealous. There were 3 dozen oysters for our bubbles tasting (woo-hoo!), deep fried risotto balls stuffed with gorgonzola cheese, a rack of lamb, pork belly, venison, you name it. And 8 of us. We drove up to the small coastal town of Picton, got in a couple of boats and took an absolutely beautiful boat ride through the Sounds out to the cabin, which was right on the water. We set up shop, had some beer, did some tubing, tried to ski, came back and set up for the bubbles tasting. The bubbles were fantastic, the white wines were fantastic, the oysters were fantastic and so was the four hour nap I had, straight through dinner. So you'll have to ask someone else how dinner was.

NOTES:
*Beer fine: Beer fines come in quantities of 6 and 12 and are pretty self explanatory. They serve two purposes: deter people from breaking things/doing stupid things and keep the fridge stocked with beer. For example, a flea down the sink is a 6-er, jack-knifing a trailer is 24.

Blog-spiration

So I haven't blogged for a bit and there are a few reasons. They are these:

1) i am tired when I come home from work and would rather a-read, b-shower, c-frost cupcakes or d-any and/or all of the above. Blogging just isn't my top priority as it involves sitting in one place and concentrating for an extended period of time. Not my strength....

2) After a rash (ok, a few) good blog ideas my creativity has run dry and I hit what I will call 'blogger's block'. I feel as though nothing is worse than a bad blog, especially when the standards have been set so high... :) hehe...

3) Honestly, not that much exciting stuff has been happening, which is related to reason #1, but I believe deserved it's own number.

Yet I'm blogging now! I had an early/short day at work the other day (6am to 1pm) and was blessed with ample quantities of time to sit outside and enjoy the sunshine and call some friends and family that I have not spoken with in a long while and that left me recharged, refreshed and feeling quite happy. and, shall we say, inspired. I wrote this post about a week ago and am just getting it up. woops. Anyways, being inspired made me think of things that are inspiring to me:

1) Bob Dylan's song "The Hurricane"

This is a sort of long story, but basically I have earned the nickname "hurricane' and this song reminds me of that. and makes me laugh. Plus it's just good.

2)

Sunshine. It's great. it gets cold here, but it's very rarely overcast or gray or rainy at all. very un-oregon. and uber-awesome.


3)
nuff said.

4)

No, this show is not what is inspiring, but MY friends who are inspiring. They are amazing, seriously. and I'm a really lucky person that they all put up with me and answer my phone calls at 11pm and read my blog :) there's nothing like a good 7200 miles of ocean to really make you think about the people who are important in your life!

Also, happy birthday shout out to Barb (mom) who turned the incredible (inspiring) age of 55 today (april 22). Good Lord, i hope I look that good at 55!

See You Next Tuesday

OK. So i realize that English is different everywhere you go and there are different words for things and sometimes certain words are more or less common. this is a fact I knew and was prepared for. This does not make me more comfortable with the C-word.

The C-word? yes, the C-word. I will not write it out. I refuse to. I do not like this word. And I have a pretty un-ladylike mouth. My mother will be the first to tell you that. She will also be the first to tell you that I did not get it from her. But that is besides the point. The C- word absolutely disgusts me. it is vile. And Kiwis absolutely love it.

I cannot tell you how often I hear it and I shudder every time. This reaction has resulted not only in it being used more and more often, specifically by my flatmate Rowan and my boss, Jeremy, but also, they are both determined to get me to say it before I leave. As Rowan was explaining to me, there are good C's and bad C's. And being a bad C, as in, "you tell Rowan that he is a dime-store C-word", is bad. But you want to be a good C, as in "there are some good C-words up at Highfield, eh?". I've been told that it's the equivalent of the word 'dick' in the states. maybe so, i will still not say it. The good news though is that it has inspired a blog about the wonderful new words and pronunciations I am learning. Because why call a tank top a tank top when you can call it a singlet?


cilantro: referred to as coriander here. Much to my dismay, this is actually the proper term for this wonderful herb. Which brings me to my next word...

herb: pronounced her-bb. like the name. no silent h. weird.

as a side note, this also makes me this of Jody's mom's friend Herb, who has an awesome, sweet silver camper van that was parked outside of our house during college graduation.

fillet: pronounced fill-it. not fill-eh. I have looked this one up and am at a loss. it's very weird to hear people say things about a "fill-it" of fish. it just does not sound as appetizing.

oregano: by far the most irritating and I don't know why. we say: or-AYY-ga-no. they say: or-ay-GAAA-no. WTF.

punch downs: I'm sorry, this is a wine term, but it needed to be included. we say punch down, because you punch INTO a take with the punch down tool. they PLUNGE a tank. So every morning I go find my plunger and do my plunges. Which makes me feel like a plumber. As opposed to a boxer, or some kind of other ferocious athlete, which i way cooler.

ah, the cooler: which kiwis call a chilly bin. haha, a chilly bin.

truck: Here, we call this a "ute". As in, "Brian put a dent in my ute when he jack-knifed the trailer". cute, eh?

french press: this drives me bananas and would probably bother me even more if they used french presses more often and therefore I was subjected to this term more often. But thank god there is espresso and they have not renamed it and it's actually very good. Plunger Coffee. This is what a french press is. I WISH i were kidding. Again with the f-ing plunger. ya, that's what they call the french press. a plunger. there are french people rolling in their graves every time I write that word. plunger, plunger, plunger.

flat white: so this is actually a new word/thing that I have learned and it's quite neat to learn new coffee things I think. A flat white is a bit like a latte, but not. it's typically a double shot, with milk poured from the bottom of the steaming pitcher into a much smaller cup, typically 5 oz. so kind of between a latte and a cappuccino because it has just a bit of foam. they're quite good and the perfect amount of milk in my opinion. although I am a sucker for the foamy stuff. Ann, this one was for you.

So needless to say, i am learning many things. I've already found myself throwing words like "reckon" into my sentences and saying "how you going" instead of "how are you". I hear it's a slippery slope. Who knows, with enough practice maybe i will come back with a cool accent instead of what has been called, "my silly American accent." Which, when mimicked, sounds North Dakotan. Do I sound like a North Dakotan?

oh, and here is an awesome picture I took of kiwi phrases that is framed on the wall of the Cork and Keg. Enjoy!