Jolly this Tequila

You sit here, quiescent, waiting, and I would like
to infect you suddenly with the great, intense
excitement that comes of self-recognition, of knowing
the fact of your being, your rising at morning and
being yourself again after night, after dreams, after
temporary cessation.
Tennessee Williams

I’ve been laughing so much recently that my cheeks and tummy hurt on a regular basis. When I left for work today the sun was warm and the birds loud (one hundred percent a deviation from the recent rainy norm, but all the more welcome for it). When I got home in the evening the air was heavy with jasmine and may, although they are both now past their peak, and gradually giving way to honeysuckle.

This week my housemate bought me flowers because I’d had a rough day. Right now another of my housemates is making us fries and playing French songs. The sky outside is pink and smokey and I’m almost at the end of a twelve day stretch but still excited for work tomorrow. How wonderful that you can just pick yourself up and drop yourself down somewhere on the other side of the world and find so much happiness in places you never even knew existed just a few months ago. And how exciting that there are so many more places to explore.

A few weeks ago it was Labour weekend, and my flatmates and I rented a bach in the Coromandel. We drove over in two cars, stopping at hot (sulphuric) springs, and once we were off the motorway the road was all twists and bends, high coastal cliffs on one side, with little avalanches of red soil and sprawling blankets of nasturtia, turquoise waters and white beaches on the other side, the drop sometimes too close for comfort. When the playlists ran out we played word games (boat, iota, hymn) and counted cows.

Something I never want to forget. One of my all-time favourite (drinking game) forfeits is to make Americans talk in a British accent. It always delivers, and it did this time too (Oh Mr Darcy, God Save the Queen). But adding a French guy into the mix took it to a whole new level. “Pass the butter” will never sound the same again; “look at yourself!”; I laughed so hard I cried.

We went to Hot Water Beach that weekend, and tried our best to divert the stream of fresh (boiling) water into our own pool. We trekked down to Cathedral Cove, asked strangers to take our photo, and made burgers for dinner and eggs for breakfast. We played “Kiwi” (!) Pong in the garage, card games around the big table, and when it was too dark to see we ran down to the beach and watched waves of bio-luminescence crash and tiny blue firefly specks wash up around our feet and slip through our fingers. We spoke of heartbreak and hope, in that universal language of semi-drunken sisterly love, and tried to make sense of the Southern Hemisphere stars. On the way home we drove through sheets of torrential rain and braced ourselves for traffic that never materialised. Our brains were too tired for word games by then.

I bought a new phone the day before I flew out here, legit just for the increased storage space for photos and podcasts. I listen to them when I run (always one earphone out, this is what it is to be a woman) and I’m always looking for new ones, so if you have any faves, hit me up. I went to watch a live recording of The Guilty Feminist with a couple of friends the other day and it was so much fun. The whole town hall was filled – we’d literally gotten the last three seats.

If you’re looking for recommendations, from one end of the spectrum to the other, my own recent obsessions have been My Dad Wrote a Porno and Our Man in the Middle East. (I’ve linked to Soundcloud and BBC Radio iPlayer, but if you have a smart phone they’re free in your podcast app).

The first one is the most absurdly hilarious and non-erotic thing that you will ever hear, although you gotta give it a few episodes to get into the swing of it. (Just do it, I swear you won’t regret it). The best thing about it is how genuinely the friendship between the three presenters comes across. Also, if you do listen, and you think season one is fun, just wait until he starts giving the characters accents. Again, so much laughter.

The second one might make you cry, but I feel it should be compulsory listening for anyone British or American, especially with everything going on right now. It is so incredibly well produced; I’ve listened to each episode at least four times over already and will probably listen to them as many times over again. I think if I hadn’t somehow stumbled into medicine I would have gravitated toward some form of foreign correspondence. Perhaps in some way I’ll still end up combining the two. The BBC tends to take things offline fairly rapidly, so go get it while you can.

I feel pretty settled now – as I said in my very first blog, it’s been so easy to fit in. Now I’m at that stage where I’m not necessarily seeking out something new all the time, but starting to revisit favourite haunts. Back in Cheltenham, just days before I left, I was sat at my love Sarah’s table, a mess of emotions and sleep deprivation, trying to make a list of everything I needed to do to ensure the move would go okay. “You just need to find your version of the hills,” she told me.

The hills. We spent so many hours up Leckhampton and Cleeve hill, playing on rope swings high in the trees, browbeaten by the wind, rescuing lambs, burning our mouths with hot chocolate and watching the sun set over the racecourse, as light gave way to dusk, and the town began to sparkle and wail with lights and sirens. It was the place we went to clear our mind, to let go of frustrations and injustices, to find peace. We went up there one last time before I left, at 4am, to catch the sunrise. It was everything.

I haven’t quite found my equivalent of those hills yet. Auckland has no shortage of them to climb, not that the equivalent over here need be hills too. But I have favourite streets that I run down, a favourite bagel place for lazy weekends, a favourite nook in my garden and favourite beach nearby. I’m still looking for a good secondhand bookshop, the best view point over the city, the best spot by the water.

I’m so happy right now.

People ask me all the time if I intend to stay. I didn’t leave the UK because I was unhappy. I left because I was restless and curious and wanting a new challenge. The only thing at any point that made me question what I was doing was the knowledge of how happy I already was, of how much I had to lose. But every juncture has felt that way. It is beautiful out here, and there are so many places I have yet to see, but I could have found enough beauty in any place I’ve ever lived never to leave. So I’m happy because I chose to come here, because making that choice feels like everything I am and want to be, not because of here per se.