Halloween, Guy Fawkes, Continued Unemployment and Me Tearing Up Over Memories of Ron Paul

Since the last post we have comfortably settled in to the life of unemployment. Jobs are looking up, as we have gone from being told to "phone back in 2 weeks" to "phone back in a couple of days".We actually were were granted an audience with the mysterious and Arabic "Bubbly" (the only name that is listed on the job site) today, which went slightly awry. More later.

While we were enjoying the sun and lovely warm weather, Halloween snuck up on us quite effectively. Our Kiwi mates Sam, Sarah and Clara (with Buzz sadly in absentia) took us out for an exciting night on the town. First stop was the birthday of one of thier fellow classmates (Tim) at the EIT (local vocational school). The taxi dropped us off outside (what appeared to me to be) an empty warehouse. He followed the sound around to the back, and found what turned out to be Tim's garage/warehouse/house. We were imediately unsure what made us the most uncomfortable, the location, the mix of fairly sketchy (or "dodgy" to use local slang) attendees, the mysterious beverages, in coffee mugs, offered to the girls (imagine my joy at recieving a nice, cold, capped Tui) or the haphazard mixing of halloween costumes among party goers. I ended up chatting with Jonathan, a teacher from the EIT who worked on Lord of the Rings before we made a hasty departure to Ahuriri and hopefully a more legitimate scene. On the walk there, Sam pointed out to us (reenacting the events while he spoke) the spot where he had been hit, riding his bike, by a logging truck. As we reach the Thirsty Whale, we recieve an explanation to a previously inexplicably Kiwi phenomenon. There is a fair contingent, in New Zealand, of guys who get ahold of mildly sporty cars, adorned with what appear to be debris from a drag-race collision (spoilers are certainly the most popular) and drive around town screaming out the windows. Sarah explains to us that these people, whom we had called (most graciously) "assholes" were in fact "Boy Racers" ( not something I see to be very cool sounding...) and all park thier cars at one place in town, which we happened to be walking through. They undowbtedly smelled our American Fighting Spirit, and let us pass unhindered. Upon arrival at the Thirsty, we see that (nearly) the only other patrons are members of a community netball team who are (of course) all wearing costumes. We decide to have our drinks outside, and after, on a trip back from the toilet where Sam was accosted, violently and passionately, by a middle-aged woman dressed as the devil, to leave. We strolled along the scenic Ahuriri waterfront and over the hill to the Cri - the bar under out old hostel. I decide nearly immediately upon entry that drunk people in halloween costumes and an endless source on enteratinment (the man dressed (convincingly) as Jesus being a case in point). We have a couple of drinks and play some pool, before heading to the uniquely rocky beaches of Naper, via the all-night burger stand (naturally). After an exciting (and heated) discussion about hemispherical differences in the nighy skies, we leave the calm (cold) serenity of the beach to catch our cab home. However, our cab does not show. Ever. Neither did the second cab we called. Or the pair of cabs after that. We eventually split up, with Sam, Keller, Noah and Clara taking one cab home, and Sarah and I sharing one what I assumed was a meth addict (but not before being engaged in an animated discussion of American politics by a shockingly well-read drunk).

The next day, we were informed by Sam that Guy Fawkes' Day (the 5th of November) was coming up, and a fairly major holiday in New Zealand, with fireworks and barbecues and what have you. After shedding (what turned out to be one of many) a tear for Ron Paul, we headed into town with Sam and Clara to get a barbecue, fireworks, 3 kilos of ground beef and several cases of beer. The 5th found Noah and Keller watching the election while I cleaned the house. Buzz came over in the early afternoon and togethor we set about the task of lighting the grill (charcoal, of couse). After going through nearly a whole packet of fire-lighters, dumping the coals (alternatingly accidental and intentional) on the ground, smoke, burns, and much boisterous advice from Brian over the backyard fence, we get the grill lit and throw on the first set of lovingly hand-made American hamburgers. By the time that Sam, Sarah and Clara show up, the burgers are hot, firewords blazing, and nearly all flammable foliage on our property set ablaze (albiet in a controlled manner) by Buzz. 

We awake the next morning, and after seeing off our guests, we depart to Hastings and our first job interview with (the now infamous) Bubbly...but not before exchanging words on the new president (sadly not Mr. Paul), the upcoming All Blacks game, and ongoing plans to deface our new American flag (bought and flown by me) with Halley and Brian. We board the bus only to realize that we forgot 1) money 2) the map 3) the address and (to make matters complete) 4) Bubbly's phone number. Hooray. After arriving in Hastings with a generous (hahaha) 90 minutes to reach our destination, we get a map from a hotel and head to 91 Stock Rd (I'll spare you the suspense by saying here that the actual address is 41 Stock Rd. Bear in mind that we do not know this until we return home). We walk down (what seems like) mile after mile of dry, humid highway bevore turning off into the orchard-laden outskirts of the city. We notice along the way that nearly every several meters there is a horribly mutulated fowl of some sort (usually duck). We reach Stock Rd. with a meer 5 minutes to spare, only to realize that we don't know which way to turn. This would ordinarily be no problem as we could simply check the address numbers to see where we were, but due to the distance between mailboxes (hundreds of feet) and the convoluted system of RD (Rural Delivery) numbers used by the New Zealand Post, it takes us the better part of 10 minutes to realize that we are going the wrong way. After turning around and retracing our steps, we are almost 30 minutes late. It is almost 3:00 by the time we reach the non-existent address, 91 Stock Rd. We continue to 77 in search of our destination , before turning around in frustration (quite likely only one street number away (thanks again to the non sequential numbering on RDs)). 

So here I sit writing this, with a slight headache, sore legs, and a tired head. Tomorrow I launch what I have dubbed "The Unrelenting Crusade for Jobs" and will not rest until I am out of the house and gainfully employed. Everyone here is very excited about Obama (Brian (we assume) left a copy of the Dominion Post on our door, with Obama taking nearly half of the paper's coverage, while the NZ Herald had a similar feature). I reminisced over the od photos of the old Ron Paul truck and I, needless to say. 

All's well here, and looking up.