by Karina Halle
Everything happens so fast. The next day I quit my job. They aren’t too sad to see me go, which makes me realize that even if New Zealand goes tits up, at least I made the right decision. I’ll get a new job; a better one.
I collect my vacation pay and put it aside in the bank. I did save money, that was no lie, but it’s really not a lot. I can put the flights on my credit card but everything else has to come from the savings account. I start looking into hostels, into backpacker buses, into camping. Everything seems so expensive but I see some cheaper options out there to make every dollar stretch. I can work on farms in exchange for room and board. I can do the same in some backpackers. I could probably even find some under-the-table work if I really got stuck. I could eat ramen noodles and drink cheap beer. I could make anything work, if I had to.
The fear doesn’t set in until it’s a few days before November twenty-third, the day of my flight. I talk to Vera on the phone and she’s still in disbelief over the whole thing.
“I can’t believe you’re actually going,” she says.
“I guess it’s a bit out of character,” I muse, rolling up a joint in my room.
“Well, no that’s not it,” she says. “You’ve always been a bit impulsive. I just never thought you’d be this way for a girl.”
It was probably a mistake to tell her about Gemma. I didn’t tell her much, but it’s enough for Vera to get the wrong idea.
I sigh. “I’m not going for her. She just . . . made me think if she can do it, I can do it.”
“What am I, chopped liver?” I know she’s a bit hurt that I’m going there and not to Spain, especially over Christmastime.
“But you’re really tasty chopped liver, Vera,” I tell her as I light the joint, taking the first puff. I used to smoke a lot more but I’ve seriously cut down over the last year.
“Thanks, dickhead.”
“Seriously,” I say, “I don’t know why I picked New Zealand but it just seems like a good place for my first time overseas. It’s small, they speak English, it looks a bit like Canada . . .”
“There’s a hot chick there that you want to bang,” she adds.
I grimace at those words. “That helps, but that’s not why I’m going.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I don’t actually know her.”
“You keep saying that, too.” She pauses. “It’s okay to be infatuated, I understand. Believe me.”
“You and Mateo,” I start, searching for the right words. “You had a connection but you also knew each other. It wasn’t . . .”
“Insta-lust?”
“No. Well, maybe. Hell, I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“There’s nothing wrong with insta-lust, Josh. I mean, isn’t most lust instant? You see the person and right away you’re like, damn, I want to get in their pants. If insta-lust didn’t exist, there wouldn’t be one-night stands, would there? You saw this Gemma chick and you wanted to fuck her right away. The fuck was good enough to make you want more. It’s simple.”
“I don’t think we should talk about this anymore.”
She sighs. “You’re so weird about this stuff.”
“I’m not, you’re the weird one.”
“Fine. Well, anyway, I say go have fun. You’ll have the best time of your life, I’m telling you that right now. And Josh . . . I’m proud of you.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”
“No, seriously. It takes guts to do something like this. I hope you get the girl. Just remember to keep me updated.”
“I’m not getting the girl,” I tell her again sternly.
“Just like I didn’t get the guy.” Then she tells me she loves me and hangs up.
The funny thing is, my closest friends, they obviously know about the trip and are super excited for me. My friend Brad has even been to New Zealand and gave me his Lonely Planet guidebook stuffed with all his highlighted recommendations and shit to do. But I never discussed Gemma with them. I guess because I don’t want them to assume the same thing that Vera does: that I’m going there for her. They’d never let the pussy jokes stop. And, if I’m being honest, a part of me is afraid that if by chance I do come across her, it won’t be anything like I remembered. I’m afraid that I’ll lose her before I have a chance to have her.
I really should go back to lying to myself.
Chapter Four
AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND
JOSH
I have no idea where I’m going. I’m unbelievably tired, sore, strung-out. People are speaking with funny accents. The light in the airport is too bright. I don’t know what time it is. The customs officials are asking me too many questions about soil and seeds and fruit. I’m in another hemisphere, another day. I’m in the future. I’m a traveler through both time and space, yadda yadda. Led Zeppelin must have been talking about jet lag.
Somehow I find my way into the arrivals area of the Auckland airport. I’m here. I made it. I’m really here.
Holy fuckfarts.
This was a huge mistake.
The weight of all my impulsive decisions come crashing down on me like rolling rocks, picking up speed. I drag my overpacked backpack to a chair and plunk myself down on it, head in my hands. I could have thought this over yesterday. I could have had second thoughts on the long-ass plane ride, when I watched thirty million episodes of New Girl and How I Met Your Mother.
Instead, all my doubt smashes into me the minute I’m on New Zealand soil.
I’m alone in a foreign country with a finite amount of money to my name. I only have a backpack with some random shit I didn’t need to bring. Outside the large windows it’s summer. My head is in winter. I quit my job to do this. I may be doing this for a girl I don’t really know.
I’m an idiot.
I don’t know how long I sit like this. Maybe minutes, maybe an hour. I only raise my head when I feel someone sit down on the chair next to mine.
It’s an older, heavyset man with a bushy beard, a baseball cap on his head. He’s got a stuffed Kiwi bird in his worn hands and twirls it around.
He catches me staring and gives me a knowing look. Just add a twinkle in his eye and a pipe in his mouth and he could be fucking Santa Claus.
“Jet lag is a bitch, aye?” he says in a gruff Kiwi accent.
I nod. “I guess you could say that.”
He narrows his eyes, sussing me out. “Where ya from, mate?”
“Canada,” I say, turning my backpack over so he can see the freshly affixed Canadian flag patch I placed on it.
“Where in Canada?” he asks.
“Vancouver, British Columbia. West Coast.”
“Where in Vancouver?”
I raise my brow. “Uh, in the city, near downtown.”
“Where in the city?”
“Commercial Drive?” I say, as if the truth isn’t the right answer.
Finally he smiles. “Love that area. My cousin lives on Broadway, near the Drive. Last time I went was just before the Olympics.”
My mind is blown. First person I talk to in a foreign country and they pretty much know exactly where I live. I’m not sure if this is good or bad.
He’s watching me. Then he says, “Small world, aye?” Suddenly his attention is caught by a load of passengers coming through the arrivals area. “Excuse me, my granddaughter is here.”
He gets up and I watch as he greets a young couple and their little girl in a pink dress. There’s a lot of hugging and tears and he gives the girl, his granddaughter, the stuffed Kiwi bird. She hugs it, delighted, albeit still shy around her grandfather. The reunited family leaves together, looking happy as pigs in shit.
I’ve never felt more alone. And I know the feeling will only get worse if I don’t get up. I need to get to the backpackers in the city, I need to unpack and sleep and take comfort in
the idea that the world is small. It’s something I can handle.
I go outside and wait for the next airport bus. I have a moment of panic when I realize I never got any New Zealand currency out from the bank machine, but it turns out the buses here accept credit cards. I hold my breath, praying there’s enough room on the card for the twenty dollar ticket after all the plane tickets I bought. There is.
Throwing my backpack in the bins at the front, I find an empty seat and take a moment to get a grip. I feel discombobulated, like a gumball bouncing around in a gumball machine. I feel like I’m in a dream, like I’m here but not here at the same time.
By the time the bus engine roars to life, my leg is jumping up and down to a restless beat. I’m anxious, nervous, worried about things I’m not even aware of. But when we pull away from the curb and chug down the road on the wrong side, I’m hit with a thrill. I’d forgotten that everyone drives on the left here.
Suddenly, a mere bus ride turns into a novelty. It trips me out, going against everything I’m used to. It’s foreign. It’s exciting. I’m not at home. I’m elsewhere.
I’m free.
Bright fields of French lime and forest green fly past the window, dotted with cows and sheep. Cars zip down the highway with names I’ve never heard of before, like Holden and Peugeot and Daihatsu. Everything is so much the same and yet so different. It hits me, smacks me, time and time again, that I’m not in motherfucking Kansas anymore.
I feel high. It’s the jet lag. It’s the lack of sleep. But the unknown is all around me, and kilometer by kilometer, I am falling in love with it.
By the time the bus winds along narrow suburban streets, well-kept houses, and yards filled with lush, subtropical foliage and bright flowers, and then through downtown Auckland with its concrete and glass buildings, my body is fighting a war between the need to explore and the need to close my eyes.
The bus drops me off near my hostel, the Sky Tower Backpackers, located across the street from the famed tower, a building so tall that it puts the CN Tower to shame. It makes me nauseous to crane my neck back and stare at the top, and even more sick when I see a tiny person jumping off the top and descending it while attached to wires, like they’re rappelling some cliff, not a thousand-foot-tall structure among city streets.
The girl at the front desk of the backpackers is cute and friendly and giving me the eye, but I’m suddenly in no mood for chit-chat. Part of me wants to talk about a million things, do a million things, but most of me just wants to crash for a few hours.
She gives me the key to the hostel and the bunk room and tells me a few rules that I don’t really pay attention to. Then she shows me the way.
The room wasn’t the cheapest—it has only two bunk beds instead of four or six, but I figured the first few nights I was in Auckland I’d need all the extra privacy and sleep I could get. To my relief the room is empty and clean enough and the only available bunk is on the top, which means no one will be disturbing me.
It seems like there are only men in the room, judging by the state of their backpacks and the mess around their beds. There are lockers and I use one to store all my valuables, like my passport and credit cards, then I change into a new pair of clothes and climb onto the top bunk, cradling my backpack in my arms like it’s a girl who refuses to spoon. I had heard horror stories about people’s shit being stolen from their bags, and even though my roommates don’t seem to care about their stuff, I figure it doesn’t hurt to be cautious on the first day.
In seconds, I am out.
I wake up to shaking. It takes me a few moments to figure out where I am, then why the bunk is swaying back and forth. I try to open my eyes and it feels like I need a crowbar to finish the job. Dim golden light is coming in through the window. I don’t know what time it is or what day it is. I barely remember I’m not in Canada.
“Aw, sorry man, did I wake you?” A strange accent jabs into my skull.
I slowly turn my head to see what jackass has dared to wake the sleeping giant.
A short dude with a mess of brown hair is standing by the bunk and staring up at me expectantly with a big smile on his face. Though I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck and my body is begging for more sleep, I can’t really be mad at this guy. He’s got one of those faces.
“I was sleeping, so yes,” I tell him groggily. One of my arms is numb under my backpack.
His grin broadens. “American? Canadian?”
“Canadian,” I tell him.
“Right on, I’ve been to Toronto.” Before I can tell him I’m not from Toronto, he gestures to the other guys in the room. “We’re from Germany. I’m Tibald and this is Schnell and Michael.”
I lift my head and see two other guys sitting on the bottom bunk. They raise their hands in hello. They all seem to have this wholesome, enthusiastic vibe that I can’t seem to wrap my head around.
“What’s your name?” Tibald asks, stepping up onto the bunk below so he can get a better look at me. I move back slightly, not used to having my personal space invaded by strange men (which is probably a good thing not to be used to).
“Josh,” I say, clearing my throat. I eye the golden cityscape outside of the window. “What time is it?”
“Seven,” he says. “At night. You must be jet-lagged. You should have seen us for the first few days. There’s an eleven-hour difference between here and Koln, where we’re from. We were batshit crazy.”
His English is very good. I nod. “Jet lag, I guess. I didn’t sleep on the plane either.”
“Well, you got enough sleep now,” he says, smacking the railing. “If you keep sleeping, you’ll wake up in the middle of the night. Come out with us. Have you seen any of Auckland yet? Did you come straight here?”
There are too many questions for my brain to handle. “No, and yes.”
He breaks into a smile again. “Well, then, you have no choice but to come with us. We’re just about to get something to eat at a pub.”
I slowly sit up. “I should shower . . .”
“Shower? What for? Are you planning on meeting any women and bringing them back here? I hope not. The bunk seems barely able to support you alone.”
I stare at the boisterous little man blankly. “Suit yourself,” I finally say. “You’re the ones who will have to put up with my stink.” I hop off the bunk—does teeter dangerously under my weight—and quickly brush my teeth at the sink they have in the room. I finish off with a spritz of cologne, just in case.
Twenty minutes later, Tibald, Schnell, Michael, and I are all at some Irish pub around the corner. I’m still tired but the beer is perking me up. I snack on potato wedges dipped in sour cream and sweet chili sauce before moving onto meat pie.
The Germans are an affable bunch. Tibald is the loudest and most talkative, while Schnell is silent and stone-faced and looks eerily like Paul Bettany in The Da Vinci Code. Michael, with his baby face, is happy and eager to please. I learn that they’re all triathletes back at home and Michael was thinking of doing his degree in sports medicine at one of the city universities, so they all came down to check it out together. They’ve been here one week already and in a few days are joining some multi-week bike tour, heading toward the South Island.
“So what are your plans?” Tibald asks me after he goes over their route in detail.
I shrug and take a sip of my beer. “I’m staying at the backpackers here for a few more days and then . . . I dunno.”
Tibald laughs. “You’re serious? No plans, nowhere you want to go?”
“Nope.”
“Milford Sound, Mount Cook, Lake Taupo, Bay of Islands, Abel Tasman? None of those places tickle your fancy?”
“There will be no tickling,” I tell him.
“So why are you here?” he asks.
I pause before I gulp down the rest of my beer. Why am I here? Wasn’t I still in the process of figu
ring it out?
Aware that the Germans are all staring at me, waiting for my answer, I say, “I just figured it was something I should do.”
“I see,” Tibald says, leaning back in his chair. “Just get here and figure out the rest later.”
“Something like that.”
“And you don’t know anyone here? You randomly picked New Zealand?”
I tilt my head, considering the question. My eyes quickly dart over to him and he slowly nods, smiling.
“You do know someone. Who is she?”
Now Schnell has perked up, seemingly more interested in my nonexistent story.
“Who said anything about a she?” I ask, but I realize I don’t want to pretend anymore. These guys are strangers but that makes it easier. I sigh and then launch into everything about Gemma.
When I’ve finished, the three of them look impressed, like, Hey this guy is actually a dedicated stalker. I must make them feel better about themselves.
“Are you going to go see her?” Michael asks.
I shake my head. “No. Like I said, I don’t even know her last name and she was right, there are a million Gemmas here, at least on Facebook.”
“But you know where she works.”
“Not really. I forgot the name. She just said an Australia rugby player, or ex-rugby player, owns it, has a chain of them or something.”
Suddenly Michael is on his phone, Googling something. “Murphy’s Gym?” he asks, looking up at me. “There’s an Australian rugby player, Nick Murphy, who used to play for the Wallabies. He owns a gym here called Murphy’s Gym. Could that be it?”
He slides the phone over to me and I stare at the smug face of Nick Murphy on the website’s home page. His neck is thick, his blond hair buzz-cut and he has the body of a meathead. I quickly scroll through, trying to find out if Gemma works there, but her name isn’t listed as one of the personal trainers.
“I don’t know,” I say warily. “It doesn’t seem like the place. I mean, she’s not listed as working there.”
“Well, maybe stuff happened between then and now,” Tibald says. “We should all go there tomorrow and see. It’s in Mission Bay, not too far from here.”