Travelling is all about not holding back and seizing the moment. Carpe Diem they say… Seize the carp!? Anyway, Carp seizing often doesn’t come cheap. For instance one must pay a fine dime to get pushed off a cliff in a rubbish bin. Thus bringing me to part II of my travels: Making money.
That’s right I ran out of money, as most travellers tend to do. So I decided to relocate down to a South Island town called Blenheim. That’s right, Blenheim. It’s known for it’s extensive collection of vineyards and prominent Bogan population (If you don’t know what a Bogan is, it probably won’t be funny). The town is about as exciting as the word, Blenheim, sounds. It rhymes with denim and come to think of it, it’s about as flashy as a denim tuxedo.
My first night was what one would refer to as a personal test, where all of the thoughts going through my mind sounded something like “What the hell am I doing here?” I came into town at about 10:30 pm and walked all over town trying to find a vacant bed. It was past midnight before I found one and let me tell you it wasn’t pretty. The backpacker’s was like the grey of the crayola crayon box: just sort of there. I shared a room with a bunch of toothless old men (but not old enough to be toothless), who I think were drunk; although, I didn’t see them drinking. I just lied and began to laugh at the situation I found myself in. “What the hell was I doing here?”
The next morning I was up and on my way to find another backpackers, with significant speed - I should add. I came across a nice little place called “The Lemon Tree” partially because lemon trees surrounded the place. It was small and cosy and I thought, “Hell, anything should be better than the last place”. By the end of the day, I had a job and a comfortable bed in a 12-person dorm (a story unto itself).
Straight away I felt at home, the place was filled with other working travellers all staying for an extended amount of time. The 20 cans of Double Brown beer for 20 bucks didn’t hurt either. In total I spent nearly a month here with many others and share some pretty good stories. Like the countless number of nights at the Copper Bock, the local pub, and on one occasion included a tube of super glue. There were also the random nights that everyone ended up drinking in the house and never left, especially the night when Andy decided to cut loose and ended up telling everyone he loved them. Classic. Andy, you’re a star. Oh and make sure you get my address off of me so you can send me some of your cider you were going on about. What was the name of it? Dickens?
Random conversations filled time in the house, some insightful and some not so much. For instance some of Darren questions. “If you ate yourself would you double in size or disappear?” Happy Days! Or when Steve tried to explain dyslexia to Alex, the French girl. Granted there is a bit of a language barrier, but I can’t blame Alex for not quite grasping the concept when Steve explained it as “someone mixing up a word like hotel, with motel.” I’m not sure I know what the difference is. It’s all good Steve, I know you what you were going for. Shhhh- Mokin’.
But the most memorable times would have to have been the trips to the beach. We crammed something like 14 people in Roey’s van and headed to the beach for a fire. Guitar and a pack of DB’s in hand with the tide at our backs we sang and danced (well I did) on the beach.
Funny to think that a place I made bad denim jokes about would become a little home to me. Although I came home from work sore, tired and dirty, there were twenty other people going through the exact same thing (minus Ra and Mark, who seemed to do absolutely nothing). It was nice to just sit with everyone and just laugh through to the next day.
Oh yeah and as for the work itself, it sucked. But I can now finally put wrapper and stripper on my resume without lying.
To all the folks at the Lemon Tree, thanks guys for the good times, keep in touch and remember “the sweet just don’t taste as sweet without the sour”.
Happy Trails,
Ryan
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