Sunlight streams through the highest windows in my house, here in Texas. Sunlight, false testimony to a winter that has already provided its first hard freeze. Away to the south and east, the ocean beckons, this time hundreds of miles away, the air here robbed of that vibrant tang of the sea.

And so my third week back home begins. As I’ve become accustomed to the rural life once more, I’ve taken care to pause every now and again for a bit of reflection.

This is the sad conclusion of things for my abroad experience. Yes, already. For those of you who are new to my blog and curious about my time in New Zealand, I urge you to click the “Blog Index” or “Tag Index” button at the bottom of this page, and select topics according to your tastes.

I must apologize, though, to the rest of you. Because to me, this really isn’t the sad conclusion of anything at all. I went to Aotearoa, I had my time there, and now I’m back. While I miss places and people, I’ve decided to focus more on the fact that I was blessed enough to have my time with them in the first place, replacing sorrow with joy.

No, instead this is how my story continues. If you—as in the MindSay community—would like, I’ll continue my Adventures in America on another blog, the name of which I will post in the Comments section of this post as soon as I have devised it.

But before I head off into that wild Texas sunset, I would like to give some advice to those of you thinking of studying abroad, whether in the near or distant future.

Ahem, without further ado, I present to you Jon’s Thoughts on Studying Abroad:

•A sturdy pair of basketball shoes serves almost as well as hiking boots. Almost.
•Take as many pictures as you can. You’ll regret those blurry pictures of someone’s elbow a lot less than missing that spectacular sunrise after all is said and done.
•Enjoy the little triumphs as well as your larger escapades. Turns out that you’ll remember the everyday just as much as that time when a monkey ate your friend’s hair.
•Get over your shyness; meeting new people is one of the best adventures you can have. Yes, it’s easier said than done, and yeah, you’ll stick your foot in your mouth a few times, but it’s well worth it, I promise.
•Try new things. Like crazy new stuff. Now. Don’t “wait until I’m more settled;” new stuff is what gets you settled. Go get lost, volunteer, bungee jump, hike, build a snowman (or sandman!)—don’t even let the sky be your limit.
•Take classes you know you’ll like; it’s tough enough being distracted by the fact that you’re in another country without having to deal with your arch-nemesis, literature, in the classroom.
•While you should try new things, don’t repeatedly do things that clearly aren’t you. If you’re not a drinker, don’t drink; if you’re not a partier, don’t party; if you’re not a social person, hang out with a couple of people at a time. Stay true to yourself.
•Cut the apron strings. If you’re in another country, be in another country.
•Get used to stereotypes. You’re going to hear them, you’re going to be forced to speak in them. No, it’s not fair. Get over it.
•And for the love of people named Mike, don’t freak out. The paperwork will get done, the flight will be okay, people will be nice to you. It’ll all come in the wash, so remember to actually enjoy yourself, all right?

And one more thought to the next generation of BloggersAbroad (and I suppose for everyone in general, too): for me, chronicling my adventures in this setting was both a fantastic opportunity and a huge hassle, particularly when I had those weeks when nothing happened worth writing about. Or rather, when I thought there was nothing worth writing about. There’s always something to comment on, and I’ll never forget how surprised I was when I was awarded a Top Blog for writing about something I honestly thought no one would even read. So in that sense, writing for BlogAbroad taught me to be more observant of my experiences, and I urge you to do the same. Write in such a way that even people who see your sights every day will step back and view their world with fresh eyes. But above all find your style, find your voice, and run with it.

And now my story will continue. While you joined me in the midst of my adventures, I’m still a newbie, out of his element on a multitude of levels. The rest of my life holds in its hands many things, most of all uncertainty. And that, I think, is the most exciting part. Here we go. I’ve got a song in my ear, a lightness in my heart, and a sparkle in my eye. It is my determination that when I’m finished, this earth will never be the same.

My name is Jon Jackson, and I thank you for spending with me the first semester of my junior year at the University of Otago in Dunedin, New Zealand.

Memories lay scattered around my room. Here lay a photo, there some loose coins stamped with a kiwi, over there half a dozen plane ticket stubs. Normally, I’m a fairly tidy person, but for some reason, I could not bear to gather the remnants of my abroad experience until some not-so-subtle prompting from my parents. Some things, I thought with a smirk, will never, ever change.

Still though, it was a difficult process to sort everything into neat(er) piles, put them away. It seemed wrong in a sense; how was it possible to take these things, this proof that I had lived, and put it into a corner, a shelf, a drawer to quietly gather dust? Was it denying that New Zealand had never happened, relegating its place as once more just a dream? Was I supposed to go on with my life normally, now that “Visit New Zealand” was checked off my To Do list?

Days drifted past. My brother went back to Rice for one last week of classes and then finals. I kept myself busy by doing those little jobs around the house that always needed doing, but no one ever had time to do. It was in washing the windows, weeding my mom’s many gardens, cleaning out the barn that I was able to find answers to my questions. New Zealand had clearly happened, and was much more to me than simply an item from a checklist. I had refined my life’s direction on a bike trail, appreciated determination at the top of a mountain, encountered passion at a rugby game, discovered a new kind of culture in the classroom, and learned the value and beauty of nature while strolling the streets and pastures of a country far, far, away. These events and emotions had really shaped the Jon That Is, and there could be no denying that.

I also found myself struggling with those common re-entry problems that most people endure, such as how to answer that much-dreaded question: “How was New Zealand?” (Actually, I had to deal with “How was Australia?” more often, as a surprising number of people thought New Zealand was in, or at least a part of, Australia. No offense meant to any Aussies out there, but I believe I speak for most New Zealanders when I say, “Hmph!”)The classic quandary: how to summarize five months of…everything into the two or three sentences that most people wanted? I managed to finally come up with an answer or two I could live with, which was, “Oh, it was definitely one of the best experiences of my life” or, “It was basically a five-month vacation [insert chuckle or sheepish grin here].” There was also the stereotypical problem of incessantly talking about what they do/have/say in New Zealand to anyone who would even look in my direction for more than a moment, though since I’ve been on the receiving end of this sort of behavior, I’m quickly learning to keep the reins in on my mouth. And of course, there’s always the looking at the thousands of pictures and short movies on my computer, and thinking about how fun this was, or how I actually miss my flatmates and their bizarre ways, like Dan’s inability to wink or Hayley’s jigs.

There have also been some unexpected issues with being back, like the fact that I haven’t tried driving on the left side of the road or anything like that, or how strange it is to hear “zee” as the twenty-sixth letter of the alphabet as opposed to “zed.” Perhaps the strangest side effect of being back is the fact that it has become very difficult for me to understand thick Texan accents without unwavering concentration. My brother and I once had a conversation with an elderly gentleman and I spent the whole time thinking he was talking about boxes or building something until my brother, unable to contain his laughter, informed me later that he had been talking about a delicious meal that he had had that day.

Thus, what I’ve realized is that there is no need to keep separate the world that I experienced in New Zealand with the world that’s back here in Ben Wheeler. Though one place connotes excitement while the other is named after the first postmaster in Van Zandt County, both are now an integral part of who I am. It is not a matter of putting something away and forgetting about it, but rather it is continually moving forward, dreaming up, establishing, and overcoming the next challenge. For me, the next semester awaits back in Houston, and thanks to my time in New Zealand, my life and my mind is chock-full of new dreams which I intend to see through into reality.

But enough of that now. I believe some of that good old fashioned Blue Bell ice cream calls my name.

The view outside of my window. Though it’s the same as it has been for years, it is only now that I can fully realize how beautiful it is, and how nice it can be to be home again.

The night was humid. Really humid. Lordy, was it really possible for me to breathe this much water without drowning? And how was it possible to be warmer here than in New Zealand?

My friends didn’t seem to notice the watery air around us, and in spite of sucking down a gallon of water with every breath, the smile on my face remained broad as I chatted with them. The conversation spanned topics, continents, time. I was introduced to some of Rice’s newer students, one of whom suddenly turned to me and said, “Ninja.”

Ninja? What? We were talking about something completely diff—OOF!

The wind was knocked out of me as one of my sneakier pals crashed into me from the left, and I went reeling. Ah, I had been given a warning. But I was laughing as I teetered crazily for a moment before regaining my balance. Just like old times.

I was back at Rice University for a few days before Thanksgiving, and the yearning for all things Kiwi that I had expected to feel was instead replaced with a quiet happiness. Though a large number of my friends are yet scattered across the globe, enjoying their own incredible adventures, I was still surprised at how much I really had missed my friends, missed Rice. Upon my return, I hugged, laughed, talked, listened, watched, wrote, and even sat down with more gusto, more passion than I thought possible. After being around the world and back again, life just seemed so much bigger and capacious than it did before I left. The most monotonous tasks were now performed with a smile and genuine enjoyment, and I relished the weather, so much warmer and sunnier than Dunedin, though for my former home summer approached.

But then again, not everything was quite like old times. The university had undergone a few cosmetic changes while I was gone, which was a little tough to adjust to. And of course there were the innumerable new faces I saw everywhere. Also, since I was this time a visitor and not a resident on campus, I had rather limited access, which meant I had to wait patiently for someone to enter or exit before I could enter most buildings.

There was also that peculiar sense that I was slightly out-of-phase with everything. It was akin to that same feeling when one goes back to their old high school for the first time a couple of years after graduating. You see all these people whose whole world is contained within those walls, and you can’t see why they can’t see an existence beyond those bricked bounds. There’s a bit of nostalgia mixed with the thought, “Wow, was I ever really like that?”

That same smothering panic that I first experienced in Los Angeles was here, too, though thankfully less extreme. Everyone seemed to have accepted its presence, forever combating the stress and fatigue, but never quite rising above it, and I couldn’t understand why. I told a few of my friends to relax, that everything would still work out if they chilled out, but my concern was met with incredulity, disbelieving laughter, and shakes of the head.

It was at those times I felt the most as though there was a bubble surrounding me, separating me from my friends in a sense, making me feel as though I were a merely a shade, a ghost floating in and out of existence. With that buffer, I felt I was also separate from the breakneck pace that whirled around me, the pace that had suddenly become my anathema.

No…not suddenly.

The people, the brochures, the books, that enigmatic collective we call They, all told me to expect changes to have occurred during my time abroad, both at home and within. I had prepared for changes at home, but I was somewhat surprised to find just how much I had changed. After all, if I had remained here, I would be just as strung out, just as tapped out, just as burned out, and now…nothing could have been more repellent to me as that sort of existence. Even during those mad rushes to finish papers and cram for finals back at the Uni of Otago, it was all suffused with that notion that life was much too important and precious and short to freak out over something as miniscule as a few sheets of paper. So there was live jazz when I should have been studying, mountain climbing when I should have been writing, dancing when I should have been thinking. And though in the end it was my worst performance in an academic semester ever, I have no regrets. Instead, I have memories, and you know, I think it’s that sort of thing that makes our time on this earth worth experiencing. More than anything, more than souvenirs, more than stories, more than grades and pictures, being back at Rice showed me how much I want to hold on to that feeling, the one that tells me to enjoy sunrises and Godzilla and snow and ::wince:: bicycles and being cold. Of course, I’ll always be working towards a better future and better Jon, but not at the expense of the Jon that is, the future that unfolds today.

And so my ten days in Houston passed, in defense of my new creed. I lived, loved, laughed, and was as one free. I got used to things that had become strange to me, such as seeing squirrels again, and finally, I departed that place for my third home, Homehome as some call it, back to Ben Wheeler.

I rubbed my eyes wearily and glanced at my watch. Wha…? Three in the morning? Why was everyone yelling? Wait a second…where was I?

I pulled myself into a sitting position, the airport chairs utterly unforgiving. Ah, yes. Auckland. Awaiting my flight to Dunedin in the morning. With just my backpack, because my luggage had once again been lost, this time simply left in Sydney for no discernable reason. Oh well, it was just all of my clothes and most of what I owned. Just everything I need.

I shook my head to clear it of the crankiness. Now wasn’t the time. People yelling in an airport at three in the morning does not often bode well for anyone. I adjusted my glasses and looked around. Everyone was staring, transfixed, at the television screen. Was everyone waiting for a flight or something…?

Then it clicked. The All Blacks were playing Ireland. The time delay. Ohhhhh.

It was going to be a very long day. Literally. With time changes, and heading back to Houston, one day was going to be stretched across forty-one hours and still retain the same date. But the day got better as it progressed, though it was still frenzied. I flew from Auckland to Dunedin later that day, took a shuttle back to 10c Moat, stuffed my few remaining belongings in a bag, ordered another shuttle, and sat down to breathe while the flat descended into full chaos. Marco, Dan, and Christa were also leaving the same day along with a couple of friends and a neighbour, headed for the north part of the South Island for weeks of tramping through forest, mountain, beach, and everything in between. Some of us would not return to 10c, and so the frantic packing was tempered with a few moments of sitting around and talking as though we’d see each other the next day and the day after that, and the one after that, though this was really goodbye.

I’ve never been good at goodbyes. Period. There simply haven’t been many times when I had to look someone in the eyes, and know that I probably will never see him or her again. So rather than tears being shed, jokes were exchanged, and 10c was as vibrant as ever in its final moments.

I was the last to leave, the flat strangely quiet while Hayley and I stood by the door waiting for my shuttle. This really was it. She and I joked a bit, avoiding acknowledgment of the end. 10b and 10a Moat were similarly quiet, as the occupants had also mostly emptied out.

And then it was time. There was a honk, and a driver strode to the door briskly, calling loudly. I picked up my bags, gave Hayley a tight hug and a few hurried words of goodbye, and walked away from Moat Street. I glanced back once, but Hayley had already disappeared from sight.

The day passed in moments that lingered, hours that flew. I claimed my luggage (though I can’t say “without incident”…grumble) upon my return to Auckland, and met up with only two other Arcadia kids, a trio of three from the original thirteen. Others had gone home early or delayed their trip, so we stuck together throughout our wait and flight, and toasted our time in New Zealand with one final glass of chardonnay, as two of us would soon relinquish our freedom and be underage once more. I chuckled quietly to myself as I glanced at the nighttime sky. I arrived in New Zealand in the early morning, and was leaving late at night. How appropriate.

In the hustle and bustle of clearing customs in LA, I lost sight of the other two Arcadians as I was accosted by a solicitor who told me that he used to go to Rice University, and played football for “Coach Ken” and he even designed and did the tattoo on his arm himself, in just under three hours, and…the tales grew taller. I rolled my eyes and walked away, knowing that I had just bungled yet another farewell.

As I waited for my flight, I wondered at the knot of anxiety growing in my stomach. What was wrong? My luggage was fine, I had all of my documents, customs had found no flaw in my belongings, yet…I looked around at the drawn faces around me in the airport terminal. Every face was a reflection of my own brooding, and I realized that this tenseness, this anxiety, this worry that I felt was just how it was to be in this place. The politeness and smiles I had received from the New Zealand staff were replaced with harassed-looking faces, half-snapped commands. I supposed then that this was my critique on American society after being away from it for so long. Many people comment on the rampant materialism and like things, but Australia and New Zealand are cut from similar molds, and so to me, there was not a major difference in that realm. The difference was in the attitudes. Even in bustling Sydney, the mood was relaxed, a sort of “Eh…whenever” feel about the place that told all who entered to just chill, everything would work out in the end. In LA, I could feel the stress, desperate to consume my newfound calm. On that final flight to Houston, I thought wearily, How can people live like this? How can people exist in such a worked-up state?

Suddenly, it was all over, and I was greeting my beautiful girlfriend and brother at the baggage claim. After all that time, some things hadn’t changed, and for a moment, for one single moment, it felt like I hadn’t left at all, like my entire experience was already a fading dream.

I walked out into the night with my companions and luggage. Back in Houston…what would it be like?

“They’re called the Blue Mountains, but they’re not really blue, and they’re not actually mountains, so…yeah,” our guide, Luke, said easily. He couldn’t have been more than four or five years older than me, and seemed to fully embody the word “scruffy.” He sported a beard that looked far too patchy to be taken seriously, drove a van that couldn’t be too much younger than me, but his eyes…His eyes spoke of a wildness that wasn’t limited to western New South Wales. As we made the hours-long jaunt toward the Blue Mountains that really weren’t, he told us about his travels around the world, and how he had ended his journey right back where he started, if only for a little while.

The moment I stepped on that dubious van, I knew that this trip would have everything that the previous day didn’t. I traveled with a handful of people rather than a busload, and the trip was structured to interact with nature rather than photograph it. We even ate lunch in a wind cave:

A couple of people on the tour eating lunch with Luke, our guide (middle).

Throughout the day, Luke somehow navigated us around the crowds of tourists so that we merely passed by them instead of jostling amongst them. We learned that the Blue Mountains are older than the Grand Canyon, and are blue because of oils released from trees that provide a haze in the air to give the appearance of bluishness, and that they’re a series of plateaus interspersed with valleys rather than actual mountains, but hey, “Blue Mountains” is much easier to say.

The weather, where it was perfect the day before, was now temperamental, giving us a few rays of sunshine before turning windy and torrential, and then back again. A few of us wound our way down a narrow, snaking track in one of the more severe downpours, the hardy grass slashing at our faces and arms, umbrellas and rain gear long since useless. We emerged at a lookout point just as the sky cleared, and beheld something totally unexpected:

A spectacular double rainbow (look very closely) arching over the valley as the clouds cleared. The rain gone, and the returning flies forgotten for a moment (quite an event in itself, as anyone who has ever been to Australia can tell you), we grinned at each other and lingered on our little precipice a little longer, then made our return, Luke stopping dead every few moments to identify this half-seen bird, listen for that frog. This was the difference in my two trips. From the perspective of the staff, one was a job, and the other was a dream made reality, and it was that passion for one’s work—or lack thereof—that made or broke the entire journey.

Finally, we traveled to our final stop, a remote park that was often frequented by wild kangaroos. While we munched on some snacks that Luke had brought along, our group roamed the park, though it wasn’t long before we spotted our first kangaroos. How close did we get, you ask?

Pretty close.

A short while later, we chugged back to Sydney on the Little Van That Could in high spirits, though almost disappointed to leave that sanctuary, home to hundreds of diverse species, some of which are unique to the region. I wished we could have done a bit more hiking, but all in all, the trip was fantastic, and half the price of dolphin watching. Sunset in Sydney seemed somehow more soothing that evening as I made my now-standard rounds of Darling Harbour and Circular Quay. At last, the adventure addict in me had quenched its appetite and bedded down for a few days.

The next two days were a blur. The end of my week suddenly seemed a lot closer after dedicating so much time away from Sydney. I returned to many of the places visited before, including a return trip to Bondi Beach to see the rest of the Sculpture by the Sea exhibit, and to watch some random guy break the world record for the highest bungee jump by leaping out of a helicopter and plunging 300 meters (almost 1000 feet). Then once again my bags were packed, I was hugging my friend goodbye, and I was on an airplane watching Australia dwindle into the distance.

Wednesday, Day 4, was the first of two day trips I planned out of the city for various activities. The people at the Information Centre not only have information on day trips, they will also book them for you so you don’t have to deal with all that, with no cost above the original trip.

The coach that picked me up early in the morning was sleek, shiny, and clearly featured the latest in bussing technology. It was built for travel in comfort and in style. AAT Kings didn’t mess around, and I suppose a trip costing me the exorbitant rate of US$110 had better show me exactly where the money went.

Our first stop was the Australian Reptile Park, home to dozens of different types of crocodiles, lizards, skinks, etc., as well as a large number of horrendously huge spiders. Now, I am not frightened of spiders per se; it’s more of a mutual dislike, and, well, spiders that large should definitely not be allowed, and even more definitely not be allowed to roam freely around a country in which I was spending a week of my time. That’s all, honest.

Anyways, it was when we arrived at the kangaroo and koala sections of the park that I realized that I was having a miserable time, though it was a few minutes more until I figured out why. Everything was so controlled, so planned to the most minute detail, so…touristy, and I could not handle it, in addition to the swarms of people devouring every last image with their cameras. We grabbed snacks from the nearest café, and munched among kangaroos and echidnas. I sighed dramatically for the nth time; as close as we were to nature, it was all so fake, so routinized, so constructed that to me, the reality of nature was as remote as the moon. Where was the spontaneity? Where was a sense of danger, perhaps in the form of a waiver that I had to sign, releasing AAT Kings from any liability from crocodile bites or the sinister machinations of power-hungry dolphins?

We boarded the bus, bound for Port Stephens, and I shook myself out of my irritable mood. The best was yet to come for certain. 99% chance of finding dolphins, the pamphlet boasted. As we sailed off into the bay following a small pod of dolphins, I found as quiet aplace on the boat (read: small cruise ship) as I could, and closed my eyes as the sun and wind played over my face. This was much better. Much more to my liking.

Yells suddenly pierced my constructed solitude. I looked around, and…

Wait…what?

There’s nothing–!

This was getting ridiculous. Those horrible dolphins were disappearing just before every shot. They were there, honest! Finally, after a couple of dozen very nice pictures of water, I finally caught something resembling a dolphin:

If you look just to the left of the center, you can sorta kinda make out the dorsal part of a dolphin. Let’s just hope it wasn’t a funny-shaped log or something.

In the end, the trip went exactly as expected. We saw lots of Australian wildlife, just as expected. We went out and the dolphins hung out with the boat-cruise-ship-thing, just as expected. The staff and crew were very polite, conversational, and professional, which any person could rightfully expect. We even arrived back in Sydney right at 7pm, fully in line with what they advertised.

What was unexpected, though, was my contempt for such things.

New Zealand had turned me into an adventure junkie, and the thought of paying money (and so much!) for something that didn’t get my adrenaline pumping or test my physical limits was utterly ludicrous. Returning to Sydney, I walked around the city without plan or purpose, and liked it that way. On some level, after so much time not knowing what sort of crazy trip the weekend would bring, or how this half-baked scheme would play out, or even where I was going to be in an hour, I needed my daily dose of the unknown, of schedules made, revised, then tossed aside completely. Watching twilight gather from some nameless bridge while eating dinner, I could only hope that my next day trip would be more to my liking. But Jon Jackson, Adventure Junkie…I kinda liked the ring of that…

On Saturday, November 5, I packed the last few items in my bags (meaning I crammed them in with force and prayed for the best), wolfed down my now-standard breakfast of buttered toast and milk, and set out for Australia. I have a friend studying for a semester in Sydney, so my last week abroad seemed a perfect time to visit her. Over the next few posts, I’ll recount my adventures, some in narrative, some factual reporting, but in all I include actual prices, converted to US dollars, in case any of you are thinking of planning a trip to New South Wales.

The flight went by without much incident, until I arrived in Sydney and stood in line for an hour and a half to be wearily informed that my luggage was missing, last location unknown. I wasn’t too fussed, but eagerly accepted the overnight bag they gave me in apology.

I walked out of the terminal, gave my friend a huge hug, and set off into the twilight, destination adventure. By the light of ten thousand bulbs, I was introduced to Darling Harbour and immediately put the place on my mental list of Top Ten Places that Jon Likes a Lot. We ate dinner on the harbour, and chatted while we ate dinner overlooking the harbour, parting ways not long after. I checked in to the Wake Up! Hostel in Central Sydney (great accommodation, by the way; though I was in a room with nine other people, there’s plenty of space, very clean, an incredibly friendly and helpful staff, an enormous kitchen, a TV lounge, good location in the city, not too expensive by any means, all in addition to a very popular bar in the basement. Perfect for the 18-30 crowd), and upon meeting my new roommates, I was, unfathomably, dubbed Texas Pete by a couple of the British guys. Apparently there was some cartoon show with a discarded teddy bear given special powers, and the leader of the bad guys was my namesake. However, I digress. Not long after I took a bit more flak for being from the same state and country as our president (it’s something I’ve dealt with during my entire abroad experience), I headed to bed.

Sunday I was an all-star, to be humble about my accomplishments. I did the Harbour Bridge Climb (nice, but a bit overpriced at around US$140, I think), the Sydney Opera House tour (fairly interesting), walked along Manly Beach twice (beautiful and free), wandered around The Rocks (lots of shopping there) and Circular Quay (I always pronounce it wrong, but the place is nice), went to the top of the Sydney Tower (decent views of the city) and saw a show called OzTrek (more for young children, but still mildly entertaining), and finishing off the day with a visit to the Sydney Aquarium (very cool, but I recommend going during the day—US$34 as a combination package with the Sydney Tower) and another walk around Darling Harbour. Feeling like a champion, the day absolutely gorgeous, I returned to Wake Up! and promptly fell asleep.

Pics from Day 1:

In terms of getting around, the Information Centres in the city are a must for booking trips and seeing what’s available. They try to push the Sydney and/or Bondi Explorer packages for travelling around, but I recommend purchasing a TravelPass. Whereas the Explorer packages can run up to US$28a day, the TravelPass gets you all around central and a large portion of greater Sydney for US$32, which lasts a week, and if you traveled around by bus, train, and ferry as much as I did, it’s a fantastic deal.

The second and third days didn’t go nearly as smoothly as that first golden day, as many of the events I tried to see were cancelled, closed, or poorly planned on my part, and my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants decision-making process crashed down around my ears. I was able to see the Chinese Friendship Garden (very quiet and peaceful; probably the best place to go if you’re feeling a bit stressed), a bit of the Sydney Olympic Park, Bondi Beach (they have a sculpture exhibit this time every year, and it’s amazing, particularly with a backdrop of sand and sea), the Taronga Zoo (not a patch on San Diego or any of the super-huge zoos, but not half bad in its own right), and spent a lot of time wandering aimlessly around Circular Quay and Darling Harbour, falling more deeply in love with the city with every meandering circuit, causing me to be late to nearly every meeting with my friend, but that was all right—though Sydney may not be as laid back as the rest of the country (as well as New Zealand), the ideal of a leisurely pace still pervaded the city, and I took full advantage.

Pics from Days 2 & 3:

I lay panting over my stuffed suitcase for a moment, the quiet euphoria of having shoved five months’ worth of life into a couple of bags coursing through me. The curtain over my window was drawn, as night had long since settled, even at this time of year when the sun traced lazily across the sky. Ahead of me, one last examination from the much-lamented New Zealand Lit, followed by sweet, unabated freedom. Behind me…

When the goodbyes first began in late October with the Arcadia farewell dinner, I felt ridiculous. It was a fantastic event, our program director Jane treating us all to one of Dunedin’s swankier restaurants, Bell Pepper Blues. It was an evening of much storytelling and laughter, camaraderie and recollection. There were still three whole weeks left before I left New Zealand; surely it was much too soon to make grand speeches and reminisce over fond memories. Surely it was much too soon to exchange contact information for keeping in touch. Surely it was much too soon to utter that most permanent of parting phrases, “Goodbye.” And while the feeling was too subtle to articulate even in thought, I felt a faint stab of irritation when someone started in about going back home. We still had ages yet!

With one week left, I chided myself for thinking that I ought to start packing. There was still so much left to do, and a week really wasn’t that short a time, after all…

Now, with just over twenty-four hours left, I stare around at my bare walls and empty closet. Goodbye presents have been exchanged with the flatmates, in addition to a week of fantastic dinners in honor of the imminent break-up of 10c Moat. I have triumphed in my wrestling match with my luggage, which now sits behind me, overstuffed and defeated. My plans for a week in Sydney have been finalized, paid for, and triple-checked. Yet I still cannot wrap my head around the fact that I will very soon be leaving all this behind, returning long enough to pick up a bag and head out again. That’s the reality, but it is not quite real to me yet.

I suppose it all seems so sudden; one moment I’m in late August, bored out of my skull because I’ve spent four solid weeks in Dunedin, and much to my surprise, calendars everywhere have turned to November, and my time here has dwindled to nothing. I think that’s what it is more than anything, surprise. It’s not sadness or reluctance, though those feelings are there in small measure. I have spent my time well here, and indeed, a growing part of me is excited about the next adventure. However, I think that tomorrow tends to look a long way away when you’re living in the moment, and anything further than that just a wisp of a dream.

Nevertheless, it’s time to go. “I will” has become “I have” in a lot of respects, but not so many that nothing is left to be done. The horror of self-complacency has faded to an ancient nightmare for me, and if nothing else, my study abroad journey has been worth every ounce of effort for that.

All that aside, I’m not disappearing from MindSay just yet, and I invite you to keep coming back. Although my final day has drawn nigh, I still have much I wish to share with you, including a full report on Australia and the stereotypically reflective re-entry posts, but also some additional adventures and insights that I haven’t yet had a chance to write about. Thank you all for your awe-inspiring support so far, and I will continue to do my best for as long as I’m around.

The Arcadia Farewell Dinner at Bell Pepper Blues. In black is Jane, Arcadia New Zealand’s program director, smiling as always, surrounded by her adoring posse, the Arcadia Otago group, or “Otago-possums,” as Jane likes to call us.

Adam and Jamie pose for a picture at the farewell dinner.

I dare you to say no to a dessert like this. I double-dog-dare you.

The day after the trip to Oreti Plains, Dan planned a trip for himself, Marco, Hayley, and me to bike the Central Otago Rail Trail, a former railroad that has been converted into a walking/riding track. It didn’t sound too bad at first, and as you can see from the picture below, I was confident in my abilities to dominate the trail.

Of course, I wasn’t entirely certain of what I was getting myself into. 150 kilometers (90 miles) in two days? Cake walk. And no hills? Even better. As we rode our rented bikes onto the trail and started our Tour de Central Otago, I marvelled at the beautiful landscape, and sincerely remarked to Dan that this was a great idea.

A couple of the first pictures of the trail, masterfully taken while I was riding my bicycle. But a few kilometres in, I realized that I was falling further and further behind the others. Initially, I attributed this to my incessant picture-taking, but by the time we took our first break at 25 kilometres, I could hide behind my photos no longer, and lagged several minutes behind Dan, Hayley, and Marco, supremely convinced that there was no way on this earth I could finish the remaining 5/6 of the trail. Not a chance.

Sometime during the break, a powerful stubbornness took hold of me, and I set out once again, jutting out my jaw with the effort of trying to remain on my bike. Five kilometres later, I gave in to the unbelievable agony attributable to, of all things, the bicycle seat, and inventing new swear words to describe my discomfort (“Groxer!”), I had to walk for some time before frustration overwhelmed pain, and I hopped on the bike once again. Thus began my ignominious battle with the accursed bicycle, and I spent much of the first day following the riding-walking-riding loop, occasionally joined by Hayley, who was a welcome companion. Dan and Marco were far ahead of us as the sun finally waned and set as Hayley and I took our leave of the last stop before ending the day in Wedderburn, some 80 kilometres from Clyde, the starting point.

Night crept up on Hayley and me, the darkness enveloping us for good around 9:30 pm. I switched on the head lamp that Dan had lent me at the last rest stop, silently thanking him for his foresight.

Hayley and I walked and walked and walked, totally unable to ride more than a kilometre at a time. However, soon enough we passed a sign, and our joy was unbounded:

The entire day had been a very gradual uphill journey from around 200m to 600m, and the sign that Hayley is shown hugging told us that we were at the highest point of the track – in other words, it was all downhill from here. That’s when things got interesting.

The ebony night around us meant we could scarcely tell cliff from trail, so I switched Dan’s headlight up a couple of notches, and it was agreed that we would resume our cycling, with Hayley keeping close behind me. The wind whistled in my ears as I fumbled with the light—which was clearly not designed for nocturnal biking—alert for any gasps or yells indicating that our beloved Kiwi had taken a rather nasty turn off the side of the trail.

Suddenly, car headlights blazed in front of me, and like so many times in New Zealand, my surprise caused me to do absolutely nothing except what I was currently doing, which was pedalling as fast as I could toward the car that was precisely where no car should be. It transpired that Dan and Marco had gotten worried about us, and the hostel owner had taken them out along the trail to find us, to Hayley’s and my mortified embarrassment. The two of us insisted on completing the trail, all traces of fatigue washed away, the demystified car following behind us, illuminating our path.

The rest of the night was uneventful, us chatting with the tavern/hostel owner (which was amazing, by the way—exemplary service, facilities, and food for about US$22) and the four of us fell asleep in a wonderfully cozy mud-brick cottage.

Day Two was much less eventful, except for my renewed determination (read: stubbornness) to stay in sight of Dan and Marco. I had found a solution to my woeful bottom blues, and rode my bicycle standing up for the entire day, which I consider a personal feat, though nothing compared to the torment of those few times when I sat down on that merciless bike seat.

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You don’t even need to ask who the Coolest Flatmate is. This picture says it all, from my rolled-up shorts to my hiking boots.

The four of us managed to stay reasonably closer together over the course of the day, though Dan and Marco zoomed ahead a few times. When I pulled into the town of Middlemarch, marking the end of the trail, to thunderous applause from Dan and Marco, it was with a definite sense of pride. I had done precisely that which I was so sure, only a day before, was impossible for me. And there’s nothing to boost your morale like achieving the impossible.

After that, it was a cake walk. We returned our bikes to the designated area, hopped on a bus, and took a pleasant train ride back to Dunedin, ending up at the Railway station, precisely where we had started. The four of us hobbled home, chatting animatedly about such things as Strong Bad, and poking fun at any cyclist who was unfortunate enough to cross our path. We had done it, and in my mind at least, we were legends.

Final count: 157.43 kilometres (94.4 miles) in one day and four hours. Oh yeah.

New Zealand, it can safely be said, is full of sheep. Lots and lots of sheep. There’s as many as fourteen sheep to every one of New Zealand’s four million inhabitants, and when you work out the math, it’s still a lot of sheep. This means that odds are good for meeting a Kiwi who either currently lives on or was raised on a sheep farm. Luckily for us at 10c Moat, our token New Zealander Hayley fit just such a bill, and after much whining and tantrum-throwing on my part, she arranged a visit to her hometown of Oreti Plains, which is about as mind-bogglingly massive in size as Ben Wheeler, Texas. So last Saturday, while the weather tried to make up its mind what it wanted to do, Carsten and Christa graciously transported us three hours south in their “new” van.

Dan and Hayley pose for a picture, but don’t let their smiles fool you (or Dan’s attempt to seem like he was from anywhere but the mean streets of Williams College, for that matter). The van trip proved quite hazardous to Dan, who was hosed down with water bottles for the cardinal sin of falling asleep in the company of people who were perfectly comfortable doing something quite cruel to him. I had no part in it. Honest. Anyways, several hours and several laughs later, we pulled onto a dusty gravel road, and finally, in front of the place that Hayley calls home. We were greeted by her father, who epitomizes almost everything I expected a sheep farmer to be, rounded out with a razor-sharp wit that showed the rest of us precisely from where Hayley gets her sense of humor.

Before long, we were feeding some orphaned lambs, which I thought was pretty cool, but at the same time, I could understand how it might get old, having to do it three or four times a day, in addition to other farming duties.

Christa went into transports of delight at the sight of the one- to three-week old lambs, and was positively elated at the prospect of holding one. Lambing season has just ended here in New Zealand, which means that there are a lot of these tiny little guys running around at the moment.

Dan was unsure while holding his lamb, but the lamb must have been equally confused, as it tried to suckle Dan while he was holding it. His right (our left) pocket flap is still damp in this picture with the lamb’s futile attempts to feed.

Hey, what can I say? The lambs are cute, or adorable, or whatever other word I find incredibly awkward to use. They were very friendly towards us, and once they had all gotten their fill, Mr. Baird showed us his current side hobby.

He’s building his very own airplane. Here is the main body, with the wings already assembled in another shed. If you look in the corner of this shed, you can see a wooden board with some of the 974 packets (packets, not pieces) that will go into completing his project, which he’s been working on for nearly a year. While Hayley and her brother had heard it all before, and likely several dozen times, Marco, Dan, and I were deeply impressed, and I hope that he’s able to take to the skies soon. Following that, the residents of 10c Moat joined the residents of the Baird farm and had a fantastic lunch, which was (ahem) lamb. I know, I know, but it was just too delicious to turn down.

After lunch we took a grand tour of the farm, in which Mr. Baird showed us some of his more than 3000 sheep and lambs, as well as his crops. When we arrived at the “hill” on their land, Hayley reminisced about rolling down the hill with her siblings in times past, until Marco challenged me to a rolling-down-the-hill competition. Unfortunately, the entire event is on camera, but suffice it to say that Marco rolled right into a concrete post while I was stabbed with a thousand tiny needles from a thorn patch that happened to be in my parabolic path.

We toured the farm, peppering Mr. Baird with questions about farm life in New Zealand, and he answered them all with the comfortable ease of someone who has spent his life working on a farm, and had gotten quite good with his work. All save Hayley were as awed as we could have hoped for when anticipating the trip, and we saw how much the country really relies on sheep and agriculture as primary exports, even how the Baird farm interacts on a regional scale, trading with Asian countries as part of a collective of farmers. All in all, it was a brilliant day, in which I was able to see what some call the real New Zealand.

This picture was taken purely for reasons of amusement. I snapped the picture at a rest stop—honestly, who wouldn’t want to be Bruce, the King of Woollens?