I didn't really sleep well after my All Blacks celebration. Somehow I manage to stagger to the shower and shave. The razor blade sounds like a buzz saw crossing my face. I feel like shit and look even worse.
Today is my Tango lesson and I can't miss the class it is already booked and my Tango friends would be disappointed. For a brief moment I contemplate knocking on the Potter's door and feebly excusing myself . A deep rooted Canuck pride prevents me from doing the sensible thing, besides I can hear them up and wandering around. Oh my head hurts - shit.
I am ready early and wander in front of the house pacing back and forth aimlessly, trying not to be ill. The air feels good but I can't look at, let alone eat any food. I swear off drinking for at least a fortnight (as the Tui beer ads say "y'ah right") as I rub my throbbing temple my overnight bag slung over my shoulder, I make a pathetic sight in the early morning light. The Potter's take me to the bus I feel like a son saying goodbye to my Mum and Dad they have been wonderfully helpful and now wait patiently with me for the bus. I bid them farewell, thanks, cheers see you guys in a week.
The bus glides over the rolling hills as the highway cuts a path to Featherstone I repeat my mantra "I will not be sick - it works. I find myself standing on the platform at the train station, my suitcase feels like I am carrying a lead weight, my head feels worse the sunglasses help a bit.
In a couple of hours I am in Welly once again, the sun is shinning and I feel better but dead tired. I can't help but wonder how the Maori warriors, Sam and Wolly are faring this morning. I straggle along the stunning waterfront boardwalk, the beauty lost on me my only goal is to get thee to the Nomad's Hostel and a bed. A couple of hours sleep will see me right. Check in isn't for several hours but the bloke at the front desk takes one look at my pathetic washed out face and gives me the room card. I collapse on the bed fold myself into a neo-natal position and drift off to sleep. Bliss is mine. Two hours later my head still reminds me I hurt my brain last night but I throw on my sports jacket, leather shoes, pinch my cheeks and bravely face the day, okay the afternoon.
The Tango is a storied dance unlike any other rumoured to have started in the brothels of Buenos Aries it is a dance of concentration, serious foot work and body language. I meet up with Jane of the Tango we grab a bite at Fidel's on Cuba St. and are off to my first lesson. Sarah a beautiful young gal in her very early 20's works with me to school me in the basics of the Tango.
"Don't look at your feet Steve look at my chest and lean in" She innocently coaches.
"Are you kidding me Sarah, as a high school teacher I have been trained to look anywhere but there" I reply gap mouthed.
"Right here Steve look at my chest not your feet" She insists.
With a shrug I give in and we start to sway, after a few moments I begin to get the basic idea of the dance and then the lesson is over. We head back to Jane's house in the hills for a bite to eat before the dance that evening. As the ladies get ready I clean up the kitchen. They are dressed to kill, I quickly realize a big part of the Tango is getting natty and dressing to the nines. My golf shirt, airline wrinkled sport jacket and creased slacks pale by comparison. We pack into Jane's little car and snake down the hillside to the centre of the city. Hillside slips challenge even the most veteran of drivers. Slips are mudslides which crumble to the road from the steep mud cliffs that surround the city. Hair pin turns and sudden swerves are all part of the fun as we barrel down the narrow streets.
My role for the evening is to be photographer so I hide in a corner and snap picts. I am too inexperienced to dance as the male always leads in the Tango the lady provides the panache and glitz. The hall is dimly lit proving to be a major lighting challenge for my camera. I am in illustrious company, an Oscar winner who doesn't mix film talk with Tango nights - darn! A legislative legal eagle who drafts legislation writing current laws for the government and an award winning novelist who writes speeches for high ranking government officials. It is all about the Tango though, and these folks are serious. There is no idle conversation while dancing, bodies sway and partners lean in to each other. One chap likes the fancy moves, the next shuffles slowly across the floor partner in tow. A woman traces the outline of her partners leg up to his thigh, a foot flick, a knee bend and definitely no smiles which puts some people off the Tango.
One of our Tango group, Suzanne drops the hint that a newly minted Tango student might like to give it a whirl. I hesitate and develop a sudden attack of nerves.
"I think I'll wait thanks" I hide behind my camera and snap more picts. The little voice from deep in my gut questions my rationale What is wrong with you a beautiful woman just asked you to dance and you chickened out shame on you, an imaginary finger wags in my face.
After a long period of contemplation I screw up my courage and ask Suzanne if she could show me a few steps. A chap that is with her offers his take on my dilemma.
"That's the stuff mate just move your feet, it's no that hard"
Fated words to be sure but I take the leap and we slip on to the floor, she guides me through the dance. I am a wreck by the end but I didn't step on any toes, however I don't get asked again hmmmm. I assume my role as camera geek one I easily don to suit the moment. The evening ends without the newbie doing any further damage to the storied dance.
As we walk back to the car Jane asks me if I like staying at the hostel. I tell her it is affordable but that it's not comfortable with doors slamming at all hours of the night coupled with the fact that you never know who your are rooming with. She asks if I would like to stay at her place. Suddenly I am not longer staying in the bowels of the city in a co-ed dorm room with a bunch of people at party central. Instead I will wake up to a breathtaking view of the harbour and city. Tomorrow I head off to the South Island but for now I am revelling in the peace and quiet of my new digs. Thank God for the Tango.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
An All Blacks Night
I must apologize for my tardiness in getting back to this blog but the system wouldn't let me back in to my own blog to add more chapters hence the new title - partII
I had a wonderful couple of days riding my bike and meandering around Martinborough. It is a liberating feeling to have time to just wander and explore. I have fallen madly in love with New Zealand, the pace of life, the people and natural beauty. Of course while push biking around town I bumped into good ole galloping gums, off we went to the pub for a couple of pints. Fortunately Tony had to go to Mass so I was somewhat spared from a prolonged dissertation. As we were sitting outside enjoying the first hint of spring while quaffing a pint, Jancis (Mrs. Potter of Middlearth fame) drove by with Maree, they both waved. The smile on Jancis face said it all - poor bugger's got stuck with galloping gums again.
Back at my flat I gather a few things together to prepare for my Christchurch (South Island) adventure. The Potters have graciously offered to take me to the bus at 7:55 in the morning. My stuff has finally dried, it takes two days to dry here as there are few dryers and plenty of clotheslines. I scarf down a garlic chicken curry stir fry that I cooked on my one burner element. It's raining again, bollocks, to hell with it off I go on my trusty bike, can't hide in my rabbit warren forever! I head down New York Street aiming for JAQ'S pub home of the biggest screen to watch the game. It's a big night, the All Blacks, the national rugby team that is the pride of N.Z. are tangling with the Wallabies (Austrailia) it promises to be a good game. The match is treated with same reverence as we reserve for our beloved hockey hero's.
I feel a bit out of sorts when I arrive at JAQ'S, the blokes all look at me with the "where the hell did he come from on a bloody bike?" I belly up to the bar and order a pint of Tui's then wander into a cavernous room framed by two large couches. I plant myself on one and sip my beer as the Tri-Nations Rugby match starts. The game begins with the Haka, a Maori war dance that the All Blacks do to intimidate their opponents (no the All Blacks are not all black guys). Suddenly two Maori rugby fullbacks book end me on the couch. They are built like brick shit houses and have no necks, or at least none that are obvious to the casual observer. A pint of beer looks small in their meaty clutch and doesn't last long as soon find out. My new mates are Shaun and Wooly (Willy) they spend a good part of the game explaining what is going on. Each time the home team scores they jump up and hug each other catching me in the middle, crushed between these two gentle giants. I get into the spirit and spirits the game ends with the good guys winning keeping the N.Z. reputation intact.
My new mates insist on having a few beers, a glance out the window at the pouring rain and I am in, cheers mates. Willy gives me the low down on every woman who walks by on the way to the ladies loo.
"That one there's the butcha in C watch out she likes raw meat" He leans over elbowing me in the ribs. On one of several trips to the bar I spot a bottle of 12 yr old single malt scotch on the bar. After explaining to the pretty young barmaid what "neat" means to a scotch drinker I saunter back to my seat with the lads. Shaun decides he might like to try a shot so I fetch him one and leave my charge card at the bar to start a tab. I hand Shaun the drink which he knocks back like a shooter. The warm buzz from the whiskey gives him a jolt and of course now Woll wants to try one. Off I go to fetch hither some more of natures nectar. When I get back another Maori brick wall named Charley has joined us. They have been tossing back Jagermeister, red bull and beer all mixed in one drink. The Karaoke grinds on behind us sounding a little less offensive, the scotch is having it desired effect and I share the grin that my new Maori friends have pasted on their faces. Life is good no worries here mate. The boys keep downing their horrid concoctions I am stunned at their ability to drink. At one point they are so knackered that they down my scotch by mistake, Sherry the manager graciously replaces the liquid gold with two drams courtesy of the house. After several bleary eyed toasts and too many beers I bid adieu to my new mates with a Maori forehead bunt (not recommended) and the promise to return for a Hakka lesson in the near future.
I manage to find my way to the door only to have Sam, a local farm manager insist that I have another drink. At 6'6" I am not about to argue with this giant of a man. His wife winces as he reels on his feet and passes wind that has the same effect as a WW1 mustard gas attack. He then turns to me and accuses me of passing wind. His wife punches him in the shoulder and Sam smiles down at me with a devilish Kiwi look and asks "what're ya drinkin mate?" He sways on his feet I am not sure which one of the two of me that he is addressing.
"Water" I manage to mumble while pushing the door open to allow some air in and mitigate the stench .
"Naw, yah gotta have a beer mate c'mon" He goads me.
"No thanks just water" I mumble in reply knowing that another drink would put me into the black hole of alcohol excess and bed ridden for two days. Sam relents after another pounding from his wife and wobbles over to return with a glass of water shooting me a look of pity. I am already dreading my a.m. bus and train ride to Welly in just over four hours. Sam wants to know about moose to make his point he holds his thumbs to the side of his head like a pair of antlers and bellows "mooooooosssse" at me. We have a conversation or as close to a conversation as you can have when two drunks encounter each other in the wee hours of the morning. I manage to extricate myself from the crew after an invite to visit their farm and go pig hunting when I return from the South Island.
I leave the bar and weave home on my bike the rain has stopped and the air feels great. The town is quiet and at peace, the smart folks went to bed hours ago. I flop into my own bed sliding between the starched white sheets and pass out. As I drift off I wonder what the farm will be like hmmmmm zzzzzzzzzzzz!
I had a wonderful couple of days riding my bike and meandering around Martinborough. It is a liberating feeling to have time to just wander and explore. I have fallen madly in love with New Zealand, the pace of life, the people and natural beauty. Of course while push biking around town I bumped into good ole galloping gums, off we went to the pub for a couple of pints. Fortunately Tony had to go to Mass so I was somewhat spared from a prolonged dissertation. As we were sitting outside enjoying the first hint of spring while quaffing a pint, Jancis (Mrs. Potter of Middlearth fame) drove by with Maree, they both waved. The smile on Jancis face said it all - poor bugger's got stuck with galloping gums again.
Back at my flat I gather a few things together to prepare for my Christchurch (South Island) adventure. The Potters have graciously offered to take me to the bus at 7:55 in the morning. My stuff has finally dried, it takes two days to dry here as there are few dryers and plenty of clotheslines. I scarf down a garlic chicken curry stir fry that I cooked on my one burner element. It's raining again, bollocks, to hell with it off I go on my trusty bike, can't hide in my rabbit warren forever! I head down New York Street aiming for JAQ'S pub home of the biggest screen to watch the game. It's a big night, the All Blacks, the national rugby team that is the pride of N.Z. are tangling with the Wallabies (Austrailia) it promises to be a good game. The match is treated with same reverence as we reserve for our beloved hockey hero's.
I feel a bit out of sorts when I arrive at JAQ'S, the blokes all look at me with the "where the hell did he come from on a bloody bike?" I belly up to the bar and order a pint of Tui's then wander into a cavernous room framed by two large couches. I plant myself on one and sip my beer as the Tri-Nations Rugby match starts. The game begins with the Haka, a Maori war dance that the All Blacks do to intimidate their opponents (no the All Blacks are not all black guys). Suddenly two Maori rugby fullbacks book end me on the couch. They are built like brick shit houses and have no necks, or at least none that are obvious to the casual observer. A pint of beer looks small in their meaty clutch and doesn't last long as soon find out. My new mates are Shaun and Wooly (Willy) they spend a good part of the game explaining what is going on. Each time the home team scores they jump up and hug each other catching me in the middle, crushed between these two gentle giants. I get into the spirit and spirits the game ends with the good guys winning keeping the N.Z. reputation intact.
My new mates insist on having a few beers, a glance out the window at the pouring rain and I am in, cheers mates. Willy gives me the low down on every woman who walks by on the way to the ladies loo.
"That one there's the butcha in C watch out she likes raw meat" He leans over elbowing me in the ribs. On one of several trips to the bar I spot a bottle of 12 yr old single malt scotch on the bar. After explaining to the pretty young barmaid what "neat" means to a scotch drinker I saunter back to my seat with the lads. Shaun decides he might like to try a shot so I fetch him one and leave my charge card at the bar to start a tab. I hand Shaun the drink which he knocks back like a shooter. The warm buzz from the whiskey gives him a jolt and of course now Woll wants to try one. Off I go to fetch hither some more of natures nectar. When I get back another Maori brick wall named Charley has joined us. They have been tossing back Jagermeister, red bull and beer all mixed in one drink. The Karaoke grinds on behind us sounding a little less offensive, the scotch is having it desired effect and I share the grin that my new Maori friends have pasted on their faces. Life is good no worries here mate. The boys keep downing their horrid concoctions I am stunned at their ability to drink. At one point they are so knackered that they down my scotch by mistake, Sherry the manager graciously replaces the liquid gold with two drams courtesy of the house. After several bleary eyed toasts and too many beers I bid adieu to my new mates with a Maori forehead bunt (not recommended) and the promise to return for a Hakka lesson in the near future.
I manage to find my way to the door only to have Sam, a local farm manager insist that I have another drink. At 6'6" I am not about to argue with this giant of a man. His wife winces as he reels on his feet and passes wind that has the same effect as a WW1 mustard gas attack. He then turns to me and accuses me of passing wind. His wife punches him in the shoulder and Sam smiles down at me with a devilish Kiwi look and asks "what're ya drinkin mate?" He sways on his feet I am not sure which one of the two of me that he is addressing.
"Water" I manage to mumble while pushing the door open to allow some air in and mitigate the stench .
"Naw, yah gotta have a beer mate c'mon" He goads me.
"No thanks just water" I mumble in reply knowing that another drink would put me into the black hole of alcohol excess and bed ridden for two days. Sam relents after another pounding from his wife and wobbles over to return with a glass of water shooting me a look of pity. I am already dreading my a.m. bus and train ride to Welly in just over four hours. Sam wants to know about moose to make his point he holds his thumbs to the side of his head like a pair of antlers and bellows "mooooooosssse" at me. We have a conversation or as close to a conversation as you can have when two drunks encounter each other in the wee hours of the morning. I manage to extricate myself from the crew after an invite to visit their farm and go pig hunting when I return from the South Island.
I leave the bar and weave home on my bike the rain has stopped and the air feels great. The town is quiet and at peace, the smart folks went to bed hours ago. I flop into my own bed sliding between the starched white sheets and pass out. As I drift off I wonder what the farm will be like hmmmmm zzzzzzzzzzzz!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)