Cracker by Damian Christie

Okay, so then I got on a plane, spent a few marvellous days in Hong Kong, sharing fits of laughter and more Good Times™ with erstwhile Asian Correspondent Charlotte Glennie. Turns out she’s not even Asian. Talk about misleading. Cute though.

But as SE Hinton once penned, that was then and this is now. I’ve been back a fortnight or so, and it seems increasingly odd to be writing about memories that are fading as quickly as my generation x attention span. One final travel photo I really like:

On the other hand, being back is as surreal as being there, if only because it feels so immediately comfortable. It’s like someone’s been saving your seat at the bar while you were going for a piss; the cushion is still warm and your half-finished beer is getting flat. And every day the feeling that I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else than London subsides even further.

We’ve got it so easy here.

I drive home on the Western motorway in rush-hour traffic (in a car, by myself, like everyone else in this city) and it takes me a mere 25 minutes. I’m sure there are far worse examples of commuting in Auckland, but in Oxford the congestion heading to London – at least an hour and a half away – would start almost as soon as you left the city limits. It would be like leaving Hamilton and suddenly being stuck in Auckland traffic. (I’m assuming that doesn’t happen yet, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong).

The parks aren’t just bits of overcrowded muddy grass that everyone flocks to as soon as there’s a break in the weather.

It’s easy to stay out drinking until 6am and get home cheaply and safely. (Okay, maybe that’s not entirely a good thing…)

Aside from the occasional torrential downpour, the weather has been unseasonably fantastic since I’ve been back. Hotter than my time in Hong Kong even.

I start a new job at work on Monday, which means you’ll be seeing more of this New Zealander on Air. More details in due course, suffice to say I’m very excited and you should (continue to) watch Close Up.

I’ve got the next two days off work and plan to do little else than muck around in the garden, tending to my neglected ferns.

It’s good to be home.

Well, I'm back.

But let's just pretend I'm not for a bit, while I cast my mind back and recount my final days in the dreaming spires.

After finishing my paper (more or less, there's the small matter of a conclusion that needs writing), I encouraged a friend to do what most of my London pals had been promising for three months, to leave town and see the country. I'm glad I did, because it turned out I'd seen bugger all myself. There's nothing to help you see your own neighbourhood like showing someone else around, and while I still held a valid Oxford student ID, it was as accessible as it's ever going to be.

The student-free All Soul's College

So I did the rounds. University College, New College, Jesus College, H College, Christ College, Magdalene College, All Souls' College. For the most part they're very similar, architecture-wise, differing in scale and accoutrements, if that's the right term to use – you know, gargoyles 'n' shit. Each consists of two immaculately kempt quadrangular lawns, surrounded by the student's rooms, which make up the castle-like walls.

Christ College quad

Each has a dining hall, of varying magnitude (Christ College's is where they film Harry Potter's Hogwart's dining hall scenes), most have a chapel (almost all of which have a certain 'wow' factor) and an impressive library of leather-bound tomes.

Christ College/Hogwarts Dining Hall

Spring had achieved its past participle, and the daffodils and cherry blossoms really had transformed the countryside. Previously barren, muddy fields had finally earned the name 'meadows'. Everything suddenly resembled a scene from a jigsaw puzzle.

This photo looks heaps like a jigsaw puzzle I had when I was little

Touring duty out of the way, it was time to pack my life into two ill-equipped suitcases, or when I was finished, two ill-equipped suitcases, a backpack with camera bag tied on one side, tripod on the other, a Duty Free Australia bag stuffed with dirty clothes, an Adidas bag full of books and a Sainsbury's bag with records and random papers that wouldn't fit in any of the preceding receptacles. Thus laden – and looking as though I was hunting for a cardboard box in which to sleep– I made my way to the bus stop, and departed Oxford.

It wasn't until I was 20 miles out of town and had stopped sweating from the effort that I realised I hadn't actually said goodbye to my adopted home. Not that I was expecting much of a response.

Just a nice picture of some graves near my place in Oxford

I made up for it by seeing off London in fantastic fashion – the first night saw me standing outside a certain gentleman's club for half an hour at 6am, trying to convince a good friend that the stripper really wasn't coming out to meet him; the second ended far too soon with my airport shuttle turning up at 9am. At least there was no doubt I'd said goodbye.

Three months of serious academic pursuit and social madness in the UK isn't achieved without the help, hospitality and setting of bad examples by any number of people. The former have been thanked in my paper, but for the good times I'd like to thank the following people:

Graeme & Frith, Dave & Andy for your couches and love; Charlotte, Jason & Renee, Angus & Rita, Rolf & Sarah, Steve, Clare, Nicole, Kate & Anna, Arch, Emma, Sally, Tanya, Rebecca D and late arrival Hugh for accompanying me on my Good Times™.

And I never once drank warm beer.

New York eh? What to say. How about I start with:

Ten things I didn’t do in New York.

1. Central Park
2. Statue of Liberty
3. MoMA
4. The Met
5. Scarlett Johanson
6. Times Square
7. Go to the top of any tall building
8. CBGBs
9. Eat a bagel
10. Appear in the audience of any TV show

Yeah I know. The list of things I didn’t do is even longer than that, thanks to so many of you who gave me suggestions, tips and phone numbers (special mention: Rhianna, whom I failed miserably I’m sorry). I’ve got enough things to do now for my next twenty visits to the Big Apple. Especially at my current rate of ticking things off.

It turns out it’s pretty easy to make your own fun in New York. Well, as long as you’ve got a recently extended credit card limit and no fear of converting your hard earned Kiwi pesos.

It was a cold and wet September day, when I touched the ground at JFK…hang on, that was someone else. For me, no it was sunny and late March. Halfway through the bus ride I was bouncing around on my seat. Possibly I had worms, but I suspect it had more to do with my first glimpse of the world’s most famous skyline. London doesn’t do tall buildings you see, other than in the commercial development of Canary Wharf, and IMHO, it’s worse off for it. Big buildings rock. You know where you are when you’re driving into New York.

First stop was the mammoth B&H camera store (34 and 9th from memory) where I treated myself to a Nikon digital SLR, which hung from my neck like a tourist’s albatross for the next few days, and provided the photos on this post. I caught the ferry to my friends’ townhouse on the Hoboken waterfront (a 5 minute ride across to New Jersey, the view of Manhattan makes it like Devonport on steroids). I went to sleep that night, leaving the blinds up. So worth it. At six the following morning I woke to the sunrise over Manhattan.

I think that was the only day I actually woke to the sunrise, rather than walking home in it.

Four days of shopping, drinking and general merriment ensued.

Shopping-wise, if you like your sneakers then it’s the city for you. Of course, if you like your cowboy boots then you’ll also be spoiled for choice. Same with golf shoes no doubt. You get the point. If it’s more modern stuff you’re after, then there seems little need to venture above 14th, unless you’ve got a hankering to blow some serious cash on Madison and places like Barneys. I don’t think my credit card’s ever going to stretch that far.

Aside from a wander up Broadway and down Madison, where the highlight was giggling at women in fur carrying dogs in wool, I spent most of my time below 14th Street. I’m sure there’s plenty else to do, but NY is a seriously big city, and a whole day can easily be taken up wandering a few blocks square.

Friday night I went out with my friend Dana, who’d pulled some strings (I hope that was all you had to do Dana?) and got us a booking at an ultra-swank Thai/fusion place called Kittichai, which is part of the equally snazzy hotel 60 Thompson. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten somewhere quite as intimidating – the waiters were straight from the pages of Vogue, the food was incredible (chocolate-covered baby back ribs), and you can check the décor out yourself on the website if you feel so inclined. And no, it wasn’t cheap (if you really want to know, it was US$320 for two of us) but it’s not every day it’s the day before my birthday in New York, and until my credit card becomes due next month, it was worth every penny.

Everything gets a bit blurry after that, to be honest. Cocktails at the Soho Grand; vodka (try Level Vodka if you get the chance, it’s good) with ex-pat kiwi and NY legend Harry the Bastard at Cafeteria (11th/9th); cue more blurriness; Harry’s couch; breakfast and pints at a pub owned by Ang Lee I think, somewhere in Chelsea; Raining so no point going sightseeing; Whiskey shots with Jimmy the most excellent Puerto Rican super; Taxi missions; Final series of the Sopranos – FANTASTIC!; Eating snails with a guy called Matt from Kansas City; Staggering back to Hoboken as the sun rose on a beautiful NY Monday morning, knowing I’d have to sleep through most of it…

All of a sudden it was time to head back to the airport. Five days in New York, like that. A birthday weekend I’ll never forget, as soon as I remember it.

Special thanks to Matt & Melissa for their hospitality; Dana for whatever you had to do to get us that booking; Harry for the couch and the good times; and everyone who gave me suggestions – Mr Reid, you were absolutely right.

It’s my last night in Oxford tonight. The paper’s all written (hence the relative silence from me these past few weeks) and I’ll make it available online for those who want to read it. I spent today wandering around looking at all the things I hadn’t got to see in the past few months, which, well, was most things. But I’ve seen them now. Stay tuned for updates. I’m back home on Tuesday via a weekend in Hong Kong. Wish me luck.

Dear Lord. I go away for a couple of weeks, come back and all you Nu Zilders are talking about gumboots.

Given that my time here in the UK has largely been spent in the company of Kiwis, it’s still funny that I find my ears prick up excitedly everytime I’m out and about and hear that homegrown rising inflection. Yes, it’s a funny little accent, but it’s ours. Well, ours and the Australians, at least as far as anyone over here can discern.

We were watching the 6 Nations at the pub the other night (It’s like the Tri-Nations, but there are twice as many teams, and the rules state that each team must be made up entirely of physically-challenged forwards chasing a greased ball). Italy was once again proving they were only brought in so the other teams never had to worry about coming last (note to Tri-Nations: Argentina).

Anyway, we’d struck up a friendly conversation with some kiwi girls who were at the bar, which lasted until Graeme arrived, and commented loudly they looked weird. New Zealand girls might be friendly, but they’re not deaf (well, apart from those who are, and that’s really unfortunate and stuff, but not the point). So we moved to the other side of the room and started talking to some locals. A great evening ensued. Long story short, as they were leaving, I overheard them say “haven’t you noticed Kiwis are really easy to get on with?”

Which was nicer to overhear than “you look weird” I guess.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had some great times with Londoners, but I have picked up an appreciation for what (huge generalisation, but it’s a positive one so it’s okay) easy going, nice people we are on the whole. So, um, yay us.

Highlights from the last couple of weeks in brief:

I did two things I swore I’d never do (don’t worry mum, neither of them involved needles). I bought my first Mac, and I went for a jog for the first time in 18 years. I’m very pleased with both. The Mac is a little gutless compared to my PC at home, but it’s beautiful and does everything I need. The jog was a one-off so far, but I got to discover bits of Oxford I never knew existed (canals!) and got soaking wet in the rain running through Christ Church College gardens. It was cool.

I got food poisoning from a bad oyster and threw up multiple times in a plane (in my seat, in the bag, next to people). The German word for “Air Sick Bag” is Spuckbeutel, which is the only amusing thing to come out of the whole wretched incident.

My thesis thingy is progressing. So is my time left in the UK, rapidly. Much like simultaneously watching the DVD and battery life bar on my Mac when I’m on the Oxford to London bus, it’s going to be touch and go to see which one runs out first, my thesis or my visit). But that won’t stop me from:

New York this weekend for my birthday. And this is where I need some help. Due to no fault of their own (or mine, I hope), all three of my friends in New York have to leave town the weekend I arrive. I have a place to stay, don’t worry about that. But, as it goes, I’ll be alone for my birthday this Saturday (the 25th). Anyone got any great ideas how I can entertain myself, or even better, anyone fancy showing a blogger a good time in the Big Apple? My interests include drinking and music. Flick me a line. Prove I'm right about us being good sorts.

The European Commission was somewhat grander than NATO, but only in the same way that, um, Bowen House is grander than the Beehive (for Wellingtonians), or St Lukes grander than Manukau Shopping Centre (for Aucklanders). Neither is exactly a rockin’ good time. But given we were there to learn about tariff reduction, EU expansion and other such things, my expectations weren’t exactly at roof level.

I amused myself by watching my fellow Fellowship Fellows dropping off to sleep in anti-dumping seminars, then teasing them about it. Other than people falling over or catching fire, there’s very little as funny as seeing someone nod off with their head on their elbow, then watching the same elbow slip out from under them as they face-plant into the table, jolting awake with a confused and pained look. Classic.

As we left Brussels I peeled off from my classmates, having planned a night in Paris on the way back to Oxford. I had my tickets, I knew in theory where I had to go, but theory is a long way from practice when you’re negotiating the minutae of public transport in another language. My cellphone was out of credit, and outside of the UK was impossible to top up. I couldn’t call anyone if I wanted to.

Aside from deserts and jungles and possibly the polar caps, there’s nothing quite like being lost in a foreign airport, railway or underground station. Nothing looks familiar, the foreign words on your foreign ticket doesn’t seem to match any of the foreign words on the foreign signs directing you from one foreign destination to another. Time is always of the essence, which also makes passers-by less inclined to stop and help as you turn dizzily round in circles, searching out the One True Sign.

My train was close to leaving, and I still didn’t know how to find it. I felt like I was on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Phone-a-Friend was out; with dozens of options there was no point going 50/50; and everyone around me was too busy or too foreign for me to Ask the Audience. I had to rely on dumb luck.

Sometimes I can be the luckiest dumb person alive.

Much sweat, jarred nerves and a couple of hours later, I’d chanced my way through Brussels Midi, Paris Nord, Haussmann St Lazare and the evening streets of Paris. All this for 22 hours in the French capital.

I hadn’t reckoned on the beauty of the Eiffel Tower at night as the snow fell steadily, quickly covering everything. As much as I hate “doing the whole tourist thing”, there’s a good reason certain things acquire their popularity, and in the case of the Eiffel Tower (at night), it’s well deserved.

Not so with the Louvre’s two star attractions, the Venus de Milo and the Mona Lisa. IMHO there are better sculptures and better paintings at the Louvre – hell there are even better Da Vinci paintings – but none have the huge crowds and flashing bulbs of these two lasses.

Don’t get me wrong, I still sought them out, it would be an affectation of cool on my part to do otherwise, but when you compare the size of the flock around those two, to the one other person sitting in front of the stunning, mammoth (5m x 7m), and still pretty damn famous Raft of the Medusa, you gotta wonder.

Other than a bit of random street wandering, which I consider just as vital as seeking out a city’s star attractions, I didn’t have time for much else in Paris. I returned to the hotel to grab my bag.

I have a slightly egocentric view of the Universe, i.e. I believe everything exists solely because of me. Refining this theory somewhat, I’m increasingly convinced that whoever’s in charge of making new people for me to meet is either incompetent, or as lazy as I am.

In my lifetime I have known precisely one Parisian woman. We worked in a bar in Devonport together a decade ago, and developed a firm friendship. She taught me the stupid French phrases that I had been throwing around Paris for the last 21 hours. Being in my early twenties, I probably tried to sleep with her.

As I approached the hotel reception, the following conversation took place in Universe HQ.

“Shit! Who was in charge of creating a new French chick to help Damian check out? Murray, was that you?”

“Sorry Kyle, my bad.”

“Well what are we going to do?”

“Just use that woman he worked with in the 90s. He’s stupid, he’ll never catch on.”

And it almost worked. I stood there thinking “Wow, crazy, all these French girls look the same.” She recognised me though, and with typical French aplomb, kindly remarked how much weight I’d put on. Um, in a good way, apparently.

Okay, so we’ve all got one of those “it was crazy, I was in London and I met some guy I know” stories. But I know heaps of people in London, and there are probably many people I know who I don’t even realise are in London. So when I ran into someone in London a few weeks ago it was funny but not freaky. But this was freaky, especially as she’d only started at the hotel that week.

Anyway, all that is probably about as interesting as when someone tells you about their dreams: “And then there was this guy right, and he was standing in a field, and he was carrying a flag. And it just felt so real.” So I’ll leave it there. But I maintain it’s pretty freaky.

Many of you will have seen The Go! Team at the Big Day Out this year. I missed it, obviously, but made a point of seeing them play in Oxford last night. Wow. What an evening. If you ever get the chance, make a point of it. A great combination of quirky (my personal favourite), rocky, dancey, retro hip cool. Great live band, great album. Have a good look around the website if you're unfamiliar.