After my laptop charger burnt out, the clutch on Mimi’s car followed suit. So we were stranded for a few days in the Coromandel, but not a bad place to be stranded, really.  We hitchhiked around the area while waiting for the local garage to overcharge us and we got to visit Hot Water Beach, where natural hot springs bubble up through the sand like little steamy personal spa pools with the cool ocean surf at your toes.

$700 and a couple days later, we were back on the road and en route to Auckland.  I was once again startled by the transition to the city, with its buses, traffic jams, tall buildings, shopping malls, and people everywhere.  Once again, I felt bamboozled by sights and sounds of big city life.  A weird feeling for a city-boy like me, who last called Los Angeles home.  More than ¼ of New Zealand’s population lives in Auckland, which means that most of the country has that small-town vibe that you find on isolated parts of the California coastline or nestled amongst the corn fields of the Mid West.  I’ve really become accustomed to that cruisy lifestyle and being back in the city had been a major adjustment for me.

On Saturday night, Mimi and I finished a bottle of wine and went for a walk into the city center to see if we could find in trouble to get into. Midway through our walk, I had to stop on a pedestrian overpass to get my bearings.  We were standing over a network of highway interchanges that twisted and wove around each other like giant concrete serpents.  I could smell the car exhaust mixed with a hint of salty humidity blowing in from the nearby marina.  Beyond the highway, the lights of the Sky Tower and the surrounding skyscrapers lit up the horizon.

I took a deep breath and smiled – I really had missed city life.

We continued on our walk and stopped into a couple of bars for a couple of drinks before heading back to our hostel on Ponsonby Rd.  A pretty mellow night, but a good time, none the less – next weekend should prove to be a bit more raucous.

Now, I’ve just got to decide what the hell to do with my life…

My funds are dwindling, so once again it’s time to start the old job hunt.  On the advice of Gaby and co. (thanks for all the wine and the subsequent headache, btw!) I’m considering staying in Auckland for a month or so before heading to the far north to find a summer job somewhere on the beach.

In the meantime, I’ve got to find some kind of temporary work to keep my bank account bloated enough to sustain my strict diet of greasy takeaway food, Jaeger Meister, and cigarettes.

So, it’s all going to have to come together soon, right?

As many of you know, I hate making decisions for myself unless I am absolutely forced to.  Chance and happenstance rule my life and I usually let the world figure everything out for me.

So world…any suggestions?

PS- A special thanks to Chris for getting me back on track with my laptop.  As agreed, I owe you a prostitute. Cheers!

So here is the latest update:

We left Wellington and cruised randomly around the North, visiting weird country townships and awesome cruisy beach towns. 

We landed in New Plymouth for the weekend and partied with a local Maori guy and a Chinese guy, battling the likes of an aggressive German-Maori half breed who kept saluting to hitler and telling me how much he hated Americans.  There was also the Bouncer who tried to tell me my Diesel Jeans werent designer enough to get into his club. ha!

We meandered our way up the West Coast, and ended up in a mellow farmy hostel where we helped to nurse two abandend lambs back to health.

We spelunked, swam, tubed, and crawled on our bellies through a cave in Waitomo –its called blackwater rafting, and its totally awesome.

Then my laptop crapped out — but luckily, I think its just the charger, and I’ve already got another one en route to Auckland where I’ll pick it up at the post office.  (Thanks Chris!  I owe you a prostitute.)

And THEN…

Mimi’s car broke down.  Just as we were driving the last few kilometers up highway 25 to reach our Cormandel destination of Cathedral Cove, the clutch gave out.  A mechanic picked us up, towed the car into town, and dropped us off at a backpackers down the road.  It’s going to cost a few hundred dollars, but we’ll be back ont he road tomorrow and on our way to Auckland.

 Times up on the internet!  laters!

The alarm on my cell phone started to scream out its obnoxious and terrible song.  A combination of pulsing vibrato and too-cheerful music – the only thing that can really wake me up in the morning.  I stumbled out of bed and fumbled to the kitchen to brew myself a cup of ambition.  It was leaving old Nelson town behind in just a few hours, and I still had a lot to get done.

Mimi had returned from Australia a few days prior, and together we would be road-tripping through the North Island, en route to Auckland.  I said a lot of goodbyes (I really will miss you all), had a very boozy going away party (Jaeger Bombs and Black Sambuca…gag.), and once again packed my life into a backpack. 

That morning I ran around the house like a maniac, trying to figure out how to make everything fit in my bag and find the things that I didn’t want to leave behind… and find the words to say goodbye to the people I didn’t want to leave behind.

regardless, I’ve hit the road with Mimi, and it does feel good to be back on the move!  We cruised though the Marlborough Sounds via Queen Charlotte Dr. I nice scenic drive.  Then we hopped on the ferry and in a few hours we were lost in the rain in Wellington.

We’re staying at Elle’s place, an awesome cavernous flat that reminds me of my old life in Los Angeles. The fridge is covered with sharpie markings from visitors and tenants pas — silly sayings, words of wisdom, and penis drawings.  One phrase summed it up nicely.  “It’s like the perfect flat, only with less perfection and more drugs.”  Oh, how I miss my old life in the big city.

But I think I’ve become too accustomed to small town life.  From Nelson to wellington was quite a culture shock.  there are loud noises and tall buildings and busses everywhere.  there are punked out kids on street corners smoking cigarettes and and there are shops that stay open past 6PM.  All the modern conveniences and and gritty realities that you really grow to love when living in a city.  Definitly a change from my cruisy life in Nelson.

Cant write anymore, as I’m back working at internet cafes and my time is up!

Next stop: No one knows!

Why do we choose to live life on the road?

Why do we force ourselves into a life where we are constantly making and breaking social connections – it’s exhausting.  Mentally and emotionally draining.  And yet we totally fucking love it.

Travel is less about the places you visit and more about the connections you make — I’ve said this many times before, but the flipside of the coin is something I’ve ignored.  All those wonderful, beautiful connections that you make along the road must inevitably be broken.  Left in the dust as you hit the road, scouting new horizons.  In this way, travel is about living in constant state of heartbreak and leaving little pieces of yourself behind with a few empty booze bottles, an overflowing ashtray, and hopefully some fond memories.

But we can’t possibly live this way forever, can we?

We are all running from something, we must be, else we’d just go home.  But what is it in the contemporary world that scares us so much?  Some people run from failed relationships or failed careers (probably both in my case) and find solace in a nomadic world where social ties are fleeting and jobs are disposable. It’s comforting to know that nothing you do really matters because in a few weeks, you’ll be in another city or even another country.

I think a lot of travelers (myself included) are running from normality.  You can sleep-walk through your whole life, doing exactly what you’re supposed to do, and then suddenly, you wake up with a university degree, a career, and the possibility of a family and you wonder how the hell you got yourself into such a far-too-typical situation. You start having nightmares about mortgages, and your shitty relationship with your mediocre wife, and your 2.4 children, and your stagnant sex life, and you can’t help but think how disappointingly average you have become.

Suddenly, those old ideas of traveling the world come flooding back.

You want to get smashed and get into a brawl with some Irish footballers.

You want to do lines of coke off the bar with a Swedish model who just wants to fuck you because you lied about your Hollywood connections.

You want to wake up in a gutter in Bangkok, and meditate with monks in Tibet, and hitchhike across the Australian Outback.

(All those things are still on my to-do list, by the way)

You’ll do anything, and everything to shatter the numbing fog of normality and failure that has somehow taken over your life.

Sounds pretty sad, I know. But don’t feel bad for me.  We all live in our own little tragedies, but for the most part, I had a good life back in The States.  I think more than running from normality, I’m running from responsibility. I just don’t ever want to have to do anything. So really, what it comes down to is that I’m a selfish bastard, and thats why I travel… so I can do what I want, when I want.

And I do.

And I fucking love it.

So I run from the plague of normality.

From the fear of being average.

I run from responsibility.

I’m selfish and fickle and I run.

Not only do I run, but I blog about it, which is probably the most ridiculous and egoistic thing that I do.  Who could possibly want to read my ramblings about travel and blah blah blah.  On the road, you’ll meet plenty of people who think they’ve seen it all and want to tell you all about it – and sometimes I feel like this blog is just another one of those annoying, one-way conversation.   I never want to be one of those road-weary false-prophets who force fellow travelers to listen to their supposedly sage advice after one too many glasses of box wine.  I know I’m guilty of these pontificating rambles myself, but these days I try to avoid advice altogether – taking and giving.  I’d rather let my experiences just happen on their own without letting them be tainted by someone else’s ideas.  And in the same way, I like to let other travelers and life-livers discover and inform their own experiences.

So don’t read this blog.

I’m a hypocrite anyway – supposedly running from responsibility, but headed back to Blenheim for another week of 9 to 5.  What ever happened to being free?

I quit.

And thats why Blenheim exists.  Its a town built to house the itinerant labor forces that keep the area’s population waxing and waning throughout the seasons.  Blenheim actually has a nice downtown area, but for some reason there isn’t anything to do downtown.  There is one good cafe (Home cafe) and two good places to eat (Sasa and the kebab shop) and thats about it.  There are too many hostels and not enough bars. It’s probably one of those places that people always say would be “a great place to raise a family.”  But we all know what that means — boring!

Sure, it’s safe and yes, the locals really were a friendly bunch. You might actually want to raise a family in Blenheim, but lets face it: a young rambling man like myself needs a bit more action than little old Blen town could offer.

So how the hell did I end up in this dead-end town?

Well, everyone needs a cellphone, even grape-picking drones. And the local Vodafone store needed someone to run the show while the manager was sick or injured or on vacation (still not sure about that one).  So I was imported from Nelson, put up in a private room at a backpacker motel in Blenhole, and told to work my sales-slut magic.

And thats part of the reason why I haven’t updated this blog in so long — I only had internet at work, things were really busy, and I’ve been working 6 days a week for the last month.  The whole thing has been completely exhausting, but at least I made a bit of money.  Which is good, since I’m leaving Nelson in just two weeks to travel Northward with Mimi.  We’re heading to Auckland, where she will catch a flight back to Germany, and I’ll either find a job or move on to the next town.

As for my slack blogging, I’m perpetually apologetic.  My friend Bridget gave me a much needed kick in the ass last night (thanks!) and reminded me that the whole time I’ve been living in Nelson, I haven’t made a single video blog! In fact, I’m still behind on old video blogs that I never put online.

So I’ll try to get it together, and I’ll promise you a video blog about Nelson before I leave.

*Update:  I finally found a retailer in America who will ship a Flip Video Mino to New Zealand!  At least I hope so — the order hasn’t been finalized yet, but I placed it tonight.  I’ve been on the hunt for one for quite some time, but some strange trade regulations have prevented me from getting one shipped overseas without paying hefty fees to dodgy Ebayers.  There will be a slight drop in video quality, but the convenience of the Flip should mean more videos more often — yay!

So, my dearest Chelsea and I would crawl out of the depths of last night’s hangover and somehow make it out to Walnut Creek for Karaoke night at Crogans.  We went every week, and never once sang a song.  Instead, we guzzled Vodka and Redbulls (poison mixed with poison, really) and smoked too many cigarettes on the patio.

Well, here in New Zealand, I’ve tried to keep the spirit of Taco Tuesday alive in some form.  I usually rally together a crew for the House of Ales Quiz Night, which consists of teams of closet alcoholics, pretending that their innate love of trivia is the reason they leave the missus at home while they go out and down 7 pints of piss on a Tuesday night. Good times.

This week, my brain just wasn’t up for anything intellectual, so flat-mate Dave and I hit the town in search of cheap beer and good company.  Stingray was closed, so was Sapphire.  We decided to go the the Shark Club, a soulless pool-hall / nightclub on the main drag, where trash-talking locals liked to swig jugs of Tui and shoot pool to a playlist that mixed country western and euro pop, with the occassional Wierd Al Yancovic tune thrown in for good measure.  I mean, the place has the overlit, sterile ambiance of a gynocoligist’s office –i didn’t get it either, but Nelson is a small town and our options were limited.

Anyway, I ran into some friends there — Courtney and  Britta — always good for a laugh and a couple drinks.  I meant to keep it mellow.  I just wanted a beer to unwind and chill out. Half a pack of cigarettes and maybe a few too-many pints later, this crazy American douche bag is ramming his 4×4 truck into the metal railing of the outdoor smoking lounge and trying to kill us all.

wait.  I should rewind.

So there is this American douche-face wandering around the bar by himself, downing beers and shots and causing a general ruckus, talking about smashing faces and spewing out the ridiculous banter of a drunken, wannabe prophet.

“9-11 was an inside job, man…an inside job!”

“I could snap three necks in 3 seconds, I shit you not!”

And to top it all off, the guy was wearing this ridiculous outfit with a too-small camo t-shirt, a leather jacket, and one of those outrageous leather cowboy hats, circa Crocodile Dundee.

Oh, and he was from fucking California — so of course, I’m immediately associated with this clown.  He was my arch nemesis.

At one point, someone asks him if he just came from a dress-up party — a valid question for a man dressed like a backwater bogan — there was a scuffle, then an unaccepted apology, then way too many apologies, a round of shots (true to form, I weaseled my way into the conflict just in time to score a free shot of tequila), and then American Cowboy Douche was finally run out of the bar, and literally chased down Bridge Street by a group of about 10 Kiwi blokes.

We all enjoyed a good laugh at his expense, and then carried on enjoying ourselves.  But, suddenly, the guy was back. And this time he was behind the wheel of some kind of big 4×4 truck.  And he was drunk.  And angry.

He pulled up onto the sidewalk and purposefully crashed into the metal railing of the outdoor smoking area.  Bam!  Bam!   WTF? This guy was a maniac!  Really, he could have killed a lot of people if that railing wasn’t so strong.

So the young Kiwi blokes hopped the railing and one guy put a barstool through his window, and another guy climbed in the passenger door, but was thrown free as the American Psycho sped off down the road, leaving a trail of broken glass and bent metal… but thankfully no one was hurt.

a few minutes later the cops showed up and I’m told they caught the guy shortly thereafter.  If I can find the news story, I’ll post a link to it.

Total fucking madness.  Just another Taco Tuesday in the life of Justin Jones.

Click.  It was a survey (not sure what the hell it was doing on CNN’s website) that claimed to be able to tell you what city in the world fit best with your personality. 

Well as a perpetual traveler, I’ve been all over the place and I could think of dozens of cities around the world that I had some connection to.  At the moment, I was missing Los Angeles, mostly for its weather, but also for its go-for-it attitude.  I’d always thought of LA as a city of dream chasers – a place where people from all over the world went to achieve the unachievable.  I missed the camaraderie of average people reaching for impossible dreams. But I didn’t think I really WAS Los Angeles.  

What about Europe? I’d always loved Barcelona for its international party scene and laid back Spanish culture. Or then there was Rome, an inspiring colossus of history – and my Italian roots made me partial to this beautiful, crumbling city. Paris? Nah.  Maybe somewhere in Scandinavia?  I’ve never been, but I’ve always loved tall blonds. 

London has always been one of my favourite (yeah, I spelled it your way, you silly poms!) cities, despite the terrible weather and bad teeth.  It strikes me as a city where anything can happen around any corner – especially in Soho with its poly-sexual  nightclubs, vegan restaurants, and smoky corner pubs.  London has an unabashedly gritty edge, and that’s something I can certainly relate to.

But I’m a sun-seeker as much as I am a party-holic, so I need more than just a good bar scene and a bit of culture to be happy in a place.  I need beaches and hammocks and palm trees and pretty girls in too-little clothing.  Seriously, is that too much to ask?

So, I decided to take the quiz.  As I answered the questions, I started to worry about what the possible outcome would be.  What if I was Los Angeles?  I mean I love that place, but I don’t know how I feel about being put into the same category as Paris Hilton and Perez Hilton, and all the broken souls of the entertainment industry…  is that where I belong?

I answered the questions as best I could:

I can’t leave home without my mobile phone.

I usually wear labels.

My biggest weakness is sex.

I was sounding more and more like a Los Angelino with every click of the mouse.

But the final result? Rio de Janeiro!

According to the quiz, “As the life and soul of the world’s party, your hedonistic nature and thirst for fun make you an energizing – and exhausting – person to be around.  It’s always caipirinha time, baby!”

Awesome!

I’ve never been to Brazil, but I know these folks like to party.  Carnival, Brazilian waxes, Beautiful beaches, tropical climate, and some of the sexiest people in the world!  It’s definitely worth checking out, when I get the funds and the time. 

For now, I’m off to the bottle shop to see if you can buy Cachaça in New Zealand.

Cheers!

(take the quiz yourself (it only takes a minute) and let me know what city you are!)

I hobbled in the door that first day, dropped my backpack, and headed to the outdoor smoking lounge to roll up a cigarette.  There were backpackers from around the globe, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, sharing laughs, and chilling out to Bob Marley – all nursing a collective hangover from the previous night’s antics. My kind of place. 

I remember thinking that this hostel wasn’t like any other hostel I’d ever been to – which is saying a lot considering that  I’ve been to hundreds of hostels all over the world. As I came to know The Palace and the interesting band of characters that inhabited it (affectionately known as Palacites), I soon realized that this was a sort of Shangri-la for backpackers.  It was the kind of place where life was just easy. Too easy for anyone to ever leave. 

Dave, the owner of the place was an awesome old burner-type character.  A life-long traveler who had been around the world and now in some ways, was bringing the world all around him. To me, Dave looked like the kind of guy you’d have a enthralling, but ultimately dead-end conversation with at a burnt out dive bar in San Francisco’s Haight district – his denim jacket and wild, wiry hair, and his jaded, “I’ve had this conversation a thousand times” demeanor made him an interesting character to tango with, to be sure.  But if you caught him at a good moment (or just after a joint), he was as personable as they come. 

Over the years, Dave had turned The Palace into what it is today, certainly a shining standout in a sea of lackluster backpacker’s accommodation.  I remember wandering around The Palace my first few days and noticing some of the things that set it apart from other hostels.  One thing was the homey, eclectic kitsch-factor.  There were knickknacks everywhere and strange paintings on the wall everywhere you turned.  In the upstairs hall of the main house, there was a triangular corner shelf that had a small brass dish on top, and underneath, a large bulbous spittoon.  In the Fritz house, there were three ceramic statuettes of chefs, complete with aprons and toques.  My bedroom had 3 (somewhat tasteful) paintings of naked women, including one of a dark skinned Polynesian women, reclining like Ingres’s Grand Odalisque.  There was just stuff everywhere, and it felt like a real home. 

Actually, it took me a month to realize the most blatant reason why The Palace was different from other hostels – no bunk beds.

“Loads of common areas and no bunks” I think that’s how Lonely Planet summed up The Palace. Which is true, and awesome, but you really can’t get a feel for what The Palace is really like from a guide book one liner, no matter how clever and succinct those Lonely Planet writers can be.  You really can’t even get that feeling from reading this blog or looking at my collection of pictures. 

To really know The Palace, you have to get swept up in the spirit of communal living and dive into the global mishmash of culture.  You’ve got have a hung-over coffee conversation and swap hookup stories with Lu, and you’ve got to drink beers and jam on the guitar with local legends, Steve and Brady.  You’ve got to Laugh with Jane and Paul and then laugh again at how ridiculous their laughs are. You’ve got to drink too many pints with the Aussies at Grumpy Mole until 4AM and then still wake up in time to catch the free breakfast a few hours later.  You’ve got to learn to say filthy and adorable things in French from Sophie, the French cleaner girl (no, she didn’t wear a French maid outfit, sadly).  You’ve got to drink way too much vodka and translate lyrics from The Killers with three awesome German girls. You have to make a late night run to McDonalds for hot chocolate and soft serve with Mimi. You got to learn how to communicate with Fish Factory Frank (short hilarious phrases, with a thick East German accent tends to work best, i.e. “Never Again” and “Fuck radio”).  You’ve got to play drunken dress-up with Iffy and Gjon, and party with the Swiss team and watch movies with Britta and drink cheap Kiwi wine with Julie, and… well… you get the idea.

There were too many good times and way too many good people to mention them all here.

Since my days at The Palace, I’ve moved into a flat on Bronte St. I’m just a short walk from the palace, and I’ve been back often to visit.  Unfortunately, these days most of the old Palaceites have moved on – some are still traveling somewhere in the world, while others have returned to their respective home countries to resume their normal lives.

In the time that we all had together at The Palace, I think we shared a kind of uninhibited lust for life.  I mean, we were really living it the way it’s meant to be lived – just enjoying ourselves and each other’s company.  We were like children on their first summer vacation and we never wanted it to end.  It was the kind of wild, free-wheeling experience that you could spend your whole life trying to recapture.  The kind of experience that often shakes Nostalgia from its slumber and sends you chasing memories and quietly smiling to yourself,  because no one else will ever understand.

Thanks.

The harsh, New Zealand sun is shining and there is no shade in sight, so I trudge up the road to a spot where the shoulder widens – a good place to hitch a ride without being run down by groggy drivers.  About a hundred yards up the road, I see the hazy silhouette of a man with a small backpack hanging off his shoulder.  Heat radiates from the asphalt road, distorting his image like a mirage or an old VHS movie.  He waves, and I wave back, and we both drag our packs towards middle ground.

I’m hesitant, but he is friendly. His name is Sebastian and I call him Seb. He is from Holland, and working without a visa, picking grapes or apples or whatever he can get paid for.  We’re both headed in the same direction (me, with no real destination in mind) so we decide to pool our limited resources and hitch together.

We spend the next few days hitching rides with strangers and weirdies and some very kind folks.  A few of our rides were quite memorable, like the young Kiwi gear-head who picked us up in his supercharged WRX and made record-breaking time, squealing around blind corners on the winding West Coast highways.  Then there was the friendly old man who told us stories of getting drunk and seeing how far into the mountains he could drive, as we three sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the cramped front seat. That ride ended with a sudden, “I’m going to the pub now.  This is where you get out.”

Seb and I got stranded in punakaiki that night – our last hitch dropped us off at the Pancake Rocks just before sunset, so we snapped some pictures before heading down the road to look for a place to stay. The Backpackers was full, and we were lucky to get a cheap cabin at the campsite down the road. We had to borrow plates, forks, and a pot to cook our meager dinner of pasta and canned tomatoes – all the food we had left. 

I met a friendly Israeli named Liat Okin, and we decided to meet for a drink at the pub down the road.  We had a few, shared some laughs, and called it an early night, as we were both on the long-haul hitch and wanted to get an early start in the morning.  She was headed South, and I was headed North. 

Two months later, her body would be found near the Routeburn Track, seven weeks after she went missing. I wouldn’t even know she was missing until I recognized her from a picture on a news report about the search and rescue mission finally coming to an end.  A sad and strange turn of events.

Seb and I caught a ride easily that morning.  After four or five short rides, we were dropped off at an intersection about 30k outside Nelson.  We sat on a grassy embankment on the side of the road for over two hours, waiting for our next ride.  Finally, we were picked up by an old school rock and roller who introduced himself as Edwin.  He was blasting Guns and Roses from his tape deck, and as I eyed the tattoos on his neck and arms, I silently chuckled at how un-rock and roll his name was.  Edwin proved himself to be a very friendly guy.  We talked about life and family and music and travel.  

When we arrived in Nelson, Edwin dropped us at a petrol station and pointed out the house on the hill adjacent. He said it was a backpackers hostel called The Palace, and that he had done some work for the owner in the past.  “The best backpackers in Nelson,” he said.

So I said my goodbyes to Seb, who was headed to Blenheim for some pruning work on a vineyard, and I started to make my way up the seep (and slightly creepy) driveway to the old house on the hill that modestly referred to itself as a palace.

And so began a new chapter in my travels – Long Term at the Palace.

To be continued…