sweet as.

On Friday night, I headed towards the bars on Courtney Place. I walked past the bars and climbed the steps to a yoga studio above a bagel shop. Hot Yoga NZ wasn’t much compared to Wade’s class at home. I’ve honestly never found a class as good as Wade’s. I'm gonna go ahead and say it might just be the best in the world. But it was cheap, I did a lot of restorative breathing, and I probably lost at least 10 pounds in sweat. Overall a good time.

Early Saturday morning I ran 15 miles along Wellington’s waterfront. Waves caught the sunlight and sprayed up onto the sidewalk. A light breeze sent clouds scuttling away across the sky. Everything was easy and bright. It only took about two hours. Not too shabby.

After the run I gallantly set off to erase every health benefit I’d accumulated in the past 12 hours.

Our lovely Arcadia program staff had another awesome activity for us: a pavlova-making lesson. (Remember how excited I was about pavlova? It's probably one of my favorite things about New Zealand.)

A Wellingtonian named Matt graciously opened up his home to introduce us to the sugary side of Kiwi culture. 

He even had balloons to celebrate Trevor's birthday and a full table spread of Kiwi snack food: marshmallows, gummy Eskimos, mini sausages, fairy bread (what Kiwis feed their children: bread with butter and sprinkles), and some kind of mysterious cream-filled sponge cake called a lamington (pink thing in the back right corner). Everything was deliciously processed and full of white sugar.

Matt walked us through how to make a good, fluffy meringue. Good God. It's labor intensive. We used a hand mixer, because I assume electric mixers make food taste worse.We took turns beating the egg whites and sugar together and taking breaks to nibble on candy. After about half an hour of whipping (Matt: Beat the hell out of it!), pavlova bakes in a barely-warm oven for hours and hours before it's the proper crumbly consistency. A whole lot of love has to go into a good merengue. Matt chuckled and pulled out two a couple he'd prepared the night before. We split into two teams to decorate, and the claws came out. Lemon curd and tangerine slices were flying.

Our team went for a classic Kiwi motif with subtle hints of accent color.

The birthday boy's team got creative with sprinkles and letter-candles. They came up with "Happy Dr. T" and a lemon curd face.

 A striking resemblance.

Silly decorations aside, Matt's pav was delicious. We sat around the living room eating and chatting and playing with balloons.

Since lamingtons, fairy bread, and sausages have gluten I opted for a second serving of pavlova. I had a fantastic sugar buzz vibrating in the back of my head as we left that afternoon.

On Sunday I woke up with a sugar hangover. My friend Loren's birthday party to go to that afternoon. It was supposedly going to be a tea party, and there were rumors of a cupcake decorating contest. The thought of sugary treats made my teeth hurt. I'd only have a couple nibbles.

My resolve fell apart immediately.  First Loren had a selection of terrific tea, along with fruit kebabs and hummus and more fairy bread. She even walked me through all the foods so I knew which ones were gluten-free.

Then the cupcakes came out.

Another sweet contest ensued, this time with lots of frosting-nibbling and sugar-sprinkling.

I went a little overboard this time. My theme was "everything." I even had candy dinosaurs.

But my sprinkle explosion didn't stand up to the beach scene or the giant marshmallow tower.

Or the cupcake of death.

Thank goodness Loren had ice cream and more cupcakes to console those of us who didn't win the final vote.

I walked home from Loren's with a deep desire to brush my teeth. It was absolutely delightful.

So friends, you might want to rethink going out to the bars for your birthday parties. Explore the possibilities of tea and cupcakes.

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.

speaking American

"You're an American, right?"

I hear this question at least twice a day. I'm still not sure how I feel about it. Do they mean to squish me into their idea of how Americans act? Am I fulfilling my own stereotype?

In my opinion, I'm not a horrible tourist. I'm polite to strangers. I don't talk loudly. I think it's embarrassing to walk around in a big group of Yanks. I don't like Toby Keith or rusty vehicles, and I try not to drink Starbucks' coffee unless it's free.

I figured I'd get along swimmingly with the soft-spoken Kiwi folk in their happy little country. People are really friendly. They love to ask what state I'm from and then pretend to know where it is. They love laughing and talking about the weather. They make great desserts.

But here's what I didn't realize: things would actually be different here. I'm not used to people who act like Kiwis.

Sometimes I feel like there's a barrier. I hesitate to call it a language barrier, because I can understand about 93% of Kiwispeak (except when people talk really fast about fish n' chups n' jandals on yer mates). Maybe it's more of an ideological barrier.

Next to the quiet, chilled-out Kiwi, I feel like a loud-talking ball of East Coast American nerves. I can't quite get a handle on the dry humor either. Most of the time I feel un-funny and tacky.

And you can't sue people here. In other words, shit happens. Unprepared backcountry hikers and whiny students who can't figure out the library printers before their assignments are due get no sympathy (although the former might get an emergency helicopter ride if they really need one).

There's also less immediacy in business transactions. You want your latte faster? Tough shit. Everyone else is waiting too. But nobody will actually say that to you. They'll just suggest it with their eyes.

The passive-aggressive Kiwi is a sight to behold - the texting girl who charges down wrong side of the the narrow sidewalk until you move out of her way; the driver who zooms through a pedestrian crossing without flipping the bird or shouting obscenities; the clerk in the expensive trinket shop who refuses to acknowledge you because you and your strappy hippie sandals clearly can't afford a $75 Pirates hat. Their brand of rudeness is so polite it's almost invisible.

Still, these are little things that only bother me on bad days. I can usually cope with having to ask the waitress to translate the menu. I'm used to getting lost a lot. I understand that they can't have Thanksgiving because there aren't any turkeys. I can even forgive their liquor prices for being so high. There are few things I dislike about the lifestyle in NZ.

Mostly I'm just surprised to realize how very American I am.