Lord, won't you send me a sign?

The chaos of our lives is diffuse with symbols directing us toward specific paths of thinking. These very snaky, wormlike squiggles splattered across the page help make-up words, which are themselves symbols. And then the words, which signify something separate from themselves (or not) can take on a plethora of other meanings and the whole thing gets very complicated and convoluted. In the simplest sense, signs concisely tell us what to do and oftentimes what not to do. No Parking. 50% Off. Poison Do Not Eat. Stay On Track. Ladies. Gentlemen. Continue Reading.

So I didn't quite know how to segue in to describing just how many more signs tourists have to pay attention to than non-tourists, since everyone's daily life is chock-full of pictograms and hieroglyphs and various other forms of communication to decipher. I guess, we are all in the same boat, just some of us are in a boat with signs that tell us we are on the symbol boat and that there will be snacks.

There have been funny signs- “no boozin' in the kitchen”. There have been sad signs- “stolen Camera- please give back the memory card to room 433, no questions asked” and some of been downright disgusting “ladies, please do not leave used sanitary products on the floor”

It can be exhausting to plod your way through endless series of commands given to you on white, shiny aluminium tablets bolted to poles; it's irksome to collect stacks of “Hostel Regulations” and “Wwoofer Rules” pamphlets. It's that same phenomenon of saying something over and over again until that something is strange and alien, repetition to the point of meaninglessness.

But alas, once in a while an unexpected reprieve comes along and makes you eager to read the next sign.


The other sign in the display said, that if we paid the zoo, we could feed the giraffe, I guess, it may still die that way too? But zoo keeper didn't endorse that sign, only the “Close Encounters” did so I am unclear about it.


Saddest sign monkey ever. Sadly, he looks to be in better shape than some of the real chimps housed at the zoo (yikes)


I seen it!

Thanks Wellington Zoo

America

“I am an American tourist, and am thus ex officio large, fleshy, red, loud, coarse, condescending, self-absorbed, spoiled, appearance-conscious, ashamed, despairing and greedy: the world's only known species of bovine carnivore” David Foster Wallace from A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again

Tomorrow marks the half-anniversary of my time in New Zealand, an occasion I am using to discuss my unavoidable Americaness. In fact, I find that when most people want to know my nationality they ask if I am Canadian (I believe this is because Canadians are deeply offended at being mistaken for Americans, while Americans just evoke a haughty laugh when they are incorrectly pegged for Canooks). The moment that I reveal my true identity it's as though a bright neon sign flashes above my head and it says, “American whipping girl: free shots for all”.

When people ask me about life in America, at first it appears to be a earnest inquiry into my thoughts, but usually it's just a polite segue into their long-winded lecture about why and how much they dislike America. I don't (usually) don my oversize stars and stripes tracksuit in public yet people continually make me feel like my being American is a spectacle. Let me clarify, people accuse me of being American, like they want me to apologize for having been born there, that I am somehow to blame for what they perceive America and its citizens to be. I feel like they want me to humiliate myself with some jesterial (apparently not a real word, but such a good fake word that I am staking claim on it) song and dance in order to justify their righteousness. Before I have a chance to reason through the mess of implications people hurl at me, I am defending and usually professing some degree of remorse on behalf of both myself and the U.S.A., then, once I have had time to comprehend what is actually being said, it's too late, I am irritated, annoyed and angry for having been so easily guilted into defending my nationality.

The fact is, if I was just a little calmer under pressure I could respond to these attacks with the poise and caustic wit that's always just a little too delayed. Maybe if I was a little more “American” I would just say, “fuck you, what you think you know about America amounts to nothing more than what media decides to show you, you xenophobic fuckwit”(1) . You are probably wondering where, if anywhere, this rambling his headed.

I am not ashamed of being American nor am I ashamed of America, but most of the time I am not particularly proud either. My identity is not reliant on being American, inextricably connected, sure, but so are the facts that I am also white, a woman and an atheist; these things inform my identity but are not paramount. Never will you see me attempting to indoctrinate anyone into being more American (or more like me for that matter) and I only (half-jokingly) discourage it and if that is a cop-out, so be it. I am not vapid reality tv stars, I am not McDonald's, I am not Barack Obama and I am not a twisted, cynical, shallow, hyperreal American, I am Kristen Fraley born and raised in the U.S.A, do you still want to get to know me? Or in other words, “quit hatin'”.


(1)-In honor of DFW. Here is a good contemporary example of what I mean, The NZ Capital's paper, The Dominion Post, recently covered Obama's ceremonial awarding of the Medal of Freedom to Joseph Medicine Crow. A hugely symbolic acknowledgment of the large role Native American's played in WWII. The picture shows Obama tangled up in the feathered headdress of Joseph, his face a near grimace, desperately trying to avoid sneezing. Obviously, the big joke (as uttered in the picture’s caption) was Obama trying not to sneeze, never bothering to mention what the ceremony or medal were about until much later, although I can’t prove that because the Dominion “online” is owned by Stuff.co.nz and archives their information in such a radically different way (or not at all), that I actually can not get to the article, you just have to trust me.

I Went to New Zealand and All My Mom Got Was a Lousy Frankenfoot

This has nothing to do with New Zealand per se, it is merely evidence of just how badass my mother is (now enhanced with several moveable titanium parts!)

I could insert some lame joke about how efficient the American health care system is and if my mom were in NZ she would still be waiting to see a doctor...or I could use the screw(s)as a device to undermine the TSA's over-the-top security measures (the various protests arising from keeping alloyed mothers away from their children) but really, why detract from the absolutely frightening x-ray? I mean, look at it! I believe one of her little piggies was described as "pulverized" by the head surgeon.

I love you mom no matter what percent of your body, is technically not really, you.

Because I Never Miss an Opportunity to Share

It was at exactly 12:13 a.m. on Friday the fifteenth of August when I realized that for 25 years I had misunderstood the lyrics to "Home on the Range".

Before the aforementioned moment, I always thought it meant this:

"where seldom is heard, a discouraging word"

as in, life on the range is downright discouraging because 'seldom anything happens', 'seldom are people happy here, or 'suicide, seldom have I heard a better idea professed aloud on the range'. I always pictured weathered farmers muttering these types of things to the old horse they were about to shoot between the eyes.

Apparently, it was meant more like this:

"where seldom is heard a discouraging word"

as in life on the range is one void of discouraging words.

Although that is probably because life on the range is probably void of words in general, discouraging or not, which makes it seem like a pretty miserable place. So maybe, I had it right all along?

Winter Blues

Winter is a notoriously bad season for me, whether it's a case of the SAD or just nature's way of telling me to hibernate. I despise the bitter chill in the air and I resent the sun for spending more time in the other half of the world; however, New Zealand has gone above and beyond to fan my burning hatred of winter into a raging, destructive wild fire.

Firstly, they celebrate mid-winter Christmas. Santa, this is an outrage! You are clearly contracted to give presents to every good boy and girl in the world on one day a year, not two. A snarky “Ho ho ho” better have been the only sound from your lips when Kiwi's came up such an obscene request. True, they don't have Santa's parading the streets, forcing small hysterical children on to their laps or tacky decorations or gigantic pushy BUY ME NOW sales or any of the irritating hooha associated with the holiday's, but come on, embrace the fact you are outside in the summer sun barbequing and camping at the beach during Christmas.

Secondly, denying the fact that the winter is cold will not keep you warm. Excluding very new houses, most Kiwi homes have no discernible insulation. Not even in the South Island, I am told, where it gets very, very cold. They are also largely without central heating or double-paned windows. Instead, condensation collects like rainwater atop window sills and scary flammable space heaters are scattered throughout common areas. This poses a whole new set of problems, of which North and South magazine claim kill more people here than in Siberia. Also, fireplaces and space heaters in lieu of proper insulation directly contradict the Kiwi's haughty belief that they are “eco-friendly” and better than the rest of us.

Lastly, I would like to emphasize the fact that it is retarded to get ice off your windshield with water from a garden hose and amazingly silly to wear tiny shorts (this applies to both men and women) when the wind chill renders the air a frosty thirty degrees.

-photos stolen from the pranksters pictured

72 Hours in Auckland...

...can change a lot.




Our dear, lovely and devastatingly gorgeous expat posse Amberly and Mike are being forced out of the country, despite pouring all their overseas income into New Zealand, the bureaucracy has made up its mind(s) and wants them out (your loss New Zealand *vigorous fist shake*), so Katie and I went up to chill in AKL one last time.

I haven't been very subtle in expressing my disdain for Auckland, often mentioning that it's the worst place in New Zealand. The major things I dislike about Auckland are as follows.

-Architecturally it's a garish mess of poorly designed and ugly multi-colored coated glass buildings (which is wholly understood given the time period these atrocities were constructed, in any case, it feels disjointed and cheap)
-It's too vast, much the way that L.A. is vast, the roads are horrendous but you have no other choice but to use them.
-People that live in Auckland, think that they are the shit because they live in Auckland (just like neo-Brooklynites) I want to slap the shit out of all of them.

That being said I would like to offer my apologies to the city of Auckland and those residents of said city I may have offended. My last 72 hours in Auckland have changed my mind entirely. It's an airy and pretty, walking friendly, culturally diverse city. Things stay open twenty-four hours, people are out and about every night, there is graffiti and hookers and crazies and dealers on the streets. It's big and bright and lovely.

Maybe it's just that warm ethereal feeling I get whenever I am within arms reach of Amberly (the one where I can't stop gushing about life and believing that the world is a good place), or maybe I just got over the arrogance I felt at having moved to a country who's population is less than half of New York City's or maybe, just maybe, Auckland really is a nice place.

*photos gracelessly stolen from Katie and Miss Amberly Jane*