this isn't real.

"No way. This isn't real. This is our life right now. This is too perfect."

"I know. We're so good at vacation."

Lauren and I had this exchange at least ten times a day over the past two weeks. Everything was absolutely, undeniably awesome. Even the things that weren't awesome are probably turning themselves around in my memory to become awesome.

Before I bombard the Internet with a thousand posts, here's some highlights:

Three of us slept in a hippie van in Nelson. We met some Irish guys with perpetual hangovers who had a rough time keeping it together on the windy mountain roads. And we met some awkward German friends who destroyed our English skills. We stepped on a glacier. There were bright blue kettle lakes and gold autumn leaves in the mountains. Lauren paid money to throw herself off a bridge. We consumed an obscene amount of wine, food, and chocolate in Queenstown. We ate ultimate dinners and giant burgers. Then we walked for four days on the Kepler, saw some amazing sunrises, realized you need matches to light stoves, and had wild and crazy 9:00 bedtimes. Our brains nearly exploded from the scenery at Milford Sound.

And I didn't even break my camera.

That was probably one of the best two weeks of my life. More updates later when I sort through my 900 photos.

Amazing Abel Tasman

Ok, I've given myself three solid days to recuperate and remember how to blog.

Like I mentioned in my previous post, last weekend our wonderful Arcadia guides took us on a trip to Abel Tasman National Park. Abel Tasman's an area on the tip of the South Island, near Nelson (a.k.a. NZ's sunshine capital). Maori used to live there, until some Dutch explorers came along and tried to conquer them so they could re-name the land after themselves. In the 1940's a progressive-minded lady campaigned for the area to be turned into a national park to preserve its natural beauty. She bullied the government into agreeing with her.

We'd catch a sea-shuttle out onto a point on the Abel Tasman Coast Track. Then we'd hike - ahem, tramp - a section on the first day. On Sunday, we'd do a guided kayak trip back to where we started. 

But before all that fun, we had to get an early start for our traveling day on Friday. We had to catch one of the the Interislander ferrys to get from Wellington to the South Island. 

The folks at Interislander seem to have a monopoly on the island to island transportation. But they do a darn good job. This was more like a cruise than a ferry ride. There was a full bar with fresh espresso (duh, because it's NZ), a food court, and a terrific motown band on deck 7. Check out their page. It's worth it.

Plus the scenery along the way was simply incredible.

The trip was pleasant enough. Something about being on a 3-hour ferry ride before 8:00 in the morning makes everything seem more mellow and slow. I chatted about tramping and rugby with a Kiwi guy sitting next to me. He was a scuba instructor with a passion for Arc'teryx jackets. He drank three beers before 10 and said "sweet as" at least twenty times. 

We landed (docked?) in Picton, a sunbathed little seaside town with a couple bakeries. We piled onto a tour bus and drove around the bay and through the hills to arrive in Marahau, a tiny beach town right next to the park. I'll spare you the pictures of roads and sheep.

Just kidding. I had to sneak one in. Sheep are too great.

We explored the area a bit. I went on an amazingly gorgeous run on the Abel Tasman track. Infinite jade water and white sand all around. I joined up with the rest of the group, and we hung out on a sandbar until it was time to consume massive quantities of carbs lovingly prepared by Mother Jane and Alex, our Arcadia support guy from Wellington.

We annihilated heaps and heaps of pasta and salad and dessert.This picture doesn't do it justice.

We spent a star-studded night in these adorable wooden huts and got up early the next morning to start the first leg of our hike. We caught another little boat that dropped us off further up the Coast Track.

I took at least fifteen pictures of the same water and trees. I had a hard time believing anything was real.

The ferry dumped us out on a beach and started pulling away before we could scoot off the gangplank.

The trail was easy - gently rolling, clean, and sandy. We had a leisurely hike, stopping for photos, lunch on a beach, and swingset breaks.

 

During this photo, the boys were busy looking at rocks. Typical.

Mother Jane at Cleopatra's Pool

Eventually we strolled to the sun-soaked bay where we'd spend the night in the hull of a boat.

It was cozy.

After we shoved all our stuff into our little beds, we found out that the roof of a katamaran is an excellent diving deck. 

Then the captain and crew grilled us a manly dinner. We went to bed sunburned, exhausted, and full of lamb. 

The next morning came around drizzly and gray. A great day to not get sun poisoning in a kayak. After we squished into the boats, we weren't dry for the next five hours. We paddled around the bay, stopping to look at fur seals hanging out with the seabirds.

Our guides acted like raft guides, telling lewd jokes and flexing their muscles under their lifejackets. Like all my friends at WV, they really got a kick out of telling me how small my arms are. I focused on looking bigger.

Success.

We paddled back to Marahau and realized that we had to go back to Wellington. There was another long ferry ride waiting for us.  We killed off most of the trip with card games and tried to pretend we weren't seasick. 

And now we're back in windy old Wellington, waiting out the rain until we can go on our next fantastic adventure. Unfortunately Arcadia won't be organizing anything else, so we'll have to pay for it all... and it probably won't be quite so seamless.

orientation, shepherds, bars, and backpacks

If you're not my friend on facebook, you probably think my plane to Auckland crashed in the Pacific. It did not. I'm just a negligent blog-updater. Since my last post, I've been in New Zealand. It's a delightful place where the favorite word for cool is "sweet as" with no more words after, you get food "take away" instead of "to go," and sheep really are everywhere.

For the first week, our lovely program coordinators from Arcadia University held our hands as we struggled past our jet lag and took us on a whirlwind tour of Auckland and Rotorua. We saw lots of rain clouds, sheep, a traditional Maori village, a geyser, some kiwi birds, and rocky holes that spewed sulfurous steam. We drove through Hobbiton, watched a show about sheep, and rolled down a hill in a giant rubber ball. I ate my first-ever slice of the traditional Kiwi dessert called pavlova, which is a giant merengue topped with cream and fruit. Plus it's gluten-free. I nearly died of delightedness. I also discovered New Zealand-style coffee. It's always made with love and might be the most wonderful thing since pavlova. Other students worry about spending all their money on alcohol. I'm more concerned about spending mine on lattes and cake.

Real Kiwis are too shy to be photographed, so the conservatory supplied a fake one.

Pavlova, you own my heart...

so do you, flat white.

Suddenly orientation was over, we were on a plane to Wellington, and we weren't American tourists anymore. We were foreign students in a foreign country. We had a school to go to and groceries to buy. That was a little scary. Then I remembered that I was in New Zealand and I got over it.

I've spent the past few days wandering around Wellington, running up its steep windy streets, and nearly getting blown off my bike by the wind. It's an enchanting little city packed with artsy cafés, bars with nightly live music, and a few classy theaters that college students can't actually afford to visit. Plus Wellington has about five bike shops within 2 miles of each other, and it's only a 4-5 hour drive away from some amazing national parks. You really can't beat that kind of city.

The view from my street.

 architecture downtown.

This weekend seven of us Americans decided to get out of the Wellington bubble. We booked some bus tickets on the fly, stuffed some trail mix into our geeky hiking packs, and went on a New Zealand "tramp" (which is what they call hiking, since they're in the habit of using silly words for things). We'd be doing the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, rated one of the best day hikes in the world. The weather was supposed to be less than ideal, but a little wind couldn't hurt, right? Besides, we're Americans.

The universe laughed in our faces by pummeling our 6-hour hike with "alpiney conditions," as our shuttle driver euphemistically put it. Some parts of the track were so clouded over that we couldn't see more than 100 feet in any direction. Most of the famous landmarks (including LOTR's "Mount Doom") were totally invisible.

It should've looked something like this:

Instead it was like this:

There was a lot of fog, and I nearly got blown off the side of the moutain. I was too scared to take pictures at that point. But it was still worth the awesome experience and the views on the other side of the pass.

Then it was time for some much-deserved sleep in a makeshift camp shelter when our tents got blown over by the wind.

As my new Kiwi mate put it: welcome to NZ, we hope you enjoy your stay.