Five Months Later, or: Oops, I Did It Again

Let's play pretend for a minute. 

Let's pretend that, immediately upon finishing my last blog entry, I was whisked away on an adventure of intrigue and mistaken identity comparable to "North By Northwest." Let's pretend that, during this time, I was accompanied by a band of memorable characters --an exiled pirate king and his genius parrot, a double-agent who forgot which organization she was working for, a narcoleptic ninja-- all of whom helped me clear my name and bring down a sinister organization, hell-bent on world domination from its base on the Moon. Let's pretend that after finishing that adventure, I was abducted by aliens and got amnesia during my daring, impossible escape, and that I have only just remembered who I am.

Let's pretend that this is why I haven't updated my blog in so long. 

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CHAPTER FOUR: IN WHICH TEDDY RUNS OUT OF EXCUSES

So. Let's talk about Ghana, where the weather was hot and the people were cool. 

During my stay, I lived with a family in Accra, who treated me with such hospitality that I felt less like a guest and more like an adopted son. We lived in a walled-in compound that was inhabited by family members and fellow foreign guests, surrounded by coconut, almond, palm nut, lime, mango, and pear trees. There was also a pool, which remained (tauntingly) under renovation during the duration of my stay. They kept me well-fed with enormous portions of a variety of Ghanaian foods: Fufu, red red, gari, banku, groundnut stew, yams, beef, chicken, fish, rice, beans, plantain, and fresh fruit. I also attended church with them: a Charismatic denomination that is raising money to build their own church. The services were a far-cry from those I was used to growing up Roman Catholic --with singing, glossolalia, and instances of being "slain by the spirit" abound-- but the community was always warm and welcoming.

During the week, I volunteered full-time for a school for autistic children, which doubles as an organization that navigates issues of raising autism awareness in Ghana. The commute there and back was three hours total --wake up at 5:30am, home by 4:30pm-- during which I sweat it out in a ramshackle system of mini-buses called "tro-tros." Every day was an adventure on the tro-tro: rides included everything from a sudden flat tire to independent preachers delivering sermons (typically in local languages, although I would often catch some English words, such as "Jesus," "Father," and "REPENT!"). The traffic was bumper-to-bumper bonkers, the leg-room nonexistent, and every breeze a miracle. 

Photo courtesy of Naa O.M.

Anyway, the school is a small building with a handful of rooms and a playground, where I spent many an hour observing the staff and helping out however I could. Since there is still a profound lack of autism awareness in mainstream Ghanaian society (many doctors still don't know what autism is), the staff has their work cut out for them as teachers, carers, and activists. During my time there, we had discussions on how to properly define autism in local languages (such as Twi, Ewe, and Ga), which don't have words for "neurobiological disorder," yet words for "illness" or "madness" aren't appropriate either. They also staged a march towards the end of my time there, complete with pamphlets, live music, balloons, and news coverage (yours truly appeared on two local news channels, according to my host mom!). Finally, they invited me to a conference on autism awareness in Western Africa, where presentations covered a range of issues from the benefits of swimming instruction for autistic youth to strategies for helping autistic adolescents get through puberty. 

Unfortunately, the school's drama and movement therapy coordinator was busy with planning and fund-raising, so the performance side of my project never quite materialized at the school. So, to get my performance fix, I took mbira lessons with a musician working at the University of Ghana. I was recommended to him by a visiting speech therapist from the UK, and spent the last month of my time in Ghana visiting his office three times a week. Our lessons were more akin to jam sessions: he'd give me a new phrase to learn and repeat while riffing on his guitar. We rehearsed under a mango tree outside of his office, interrupted only by the occasional ant, spider, or bird poop that fell on the instrument from time to time. Speaking of instruments, I had a few musical adventures during my time in Ghana: The speech therapist from the UK invited me to a pre-funeral vigil concern for the recently-deceased director of the Pan-African Orchestra. It was about three hours of traditional African music. She also invited me and two other Americans living in the compound (a pair of wonderfully kind students studying abroad) out to a concert featuring a French-African singer, during which bold audience members were welcomed to the stage for impromptu dance-offs. We also went to a jazz club, which was rained out, but not before a set featuring two dueling drummers who gave the thunder a run for its money. 

As far as down-time goes, I spent many an hour (and drank many a gallon of water) in the shade of our compound: reading, writing, milking the most out of the Internet while it lasted (Accra is currently plagued by power outages --The Dumsor-- which can last anywhere from 12 to 48 hours at a time), and chilling with my little host nephews (who love Spiderman and insisted on helping me button up my shirt many, many, many times). Sometimes I hiked to the local Vodafone for their Internet, where I Skyped my friends and family and caught up on "Archer." Otherwise, I made very few excursions during my time in Accra outside of the occassional dinner invite from the American students, or from another American couple living on the compound (who gave me a battery-powered fan and invited the students and I over for a meal on Easter). We all mostly sat out in the compound --guests and hosts alike-- chatting while the sun set and the breeze picked up, watching swarms of bats and the stars come out, and frantically swatting at persistent mosquitos. 

My last few hours in Accra were hectic: I rushed out the door after a several-hour long engagement ceremony and saying goodbye to my wonderful, wonderful host family; I had my bag --which I spent hours the night before packing and repacking to fit the carry-on weight limit-- checked in anyway; I had my visa extension challenged by two security guards (after a lengthy process earlier that month, during which I may or may not have been coerced into paying a certain immigration officer an extra couple of cedis, only to have my extension messed up); I lost my luggage reclaim receipt, only to find it stuck to my shoe after some frantic back-tracking; I had my passport given to a stranger by an absent-minded security officer; and I had a long chat with another airport officer about their experience raising their autistic child. In the words of my Watson contact: "It's almost like Ghana had said, 'Okay, I don't think we gave Teddy enough challenges so let's send him off right.'" 

In the end, you could probably look at those last few hours as a sort of microcosm for my time in Ghana: the snafus, failed plans, near-crises, farcical moments, and personal connections in the airport serve as a sort of Rorschach-Test of frustrations and opportunities, out of which I had to forge my own meaning. While my time in Ghana may not have given me the experiences I was looking for, I'm glad it didn't: I'm not sure what experiences I was looking for to begin with, anyway.  

So there you have it: My time in Ghana. 

Let's pretend that it was my best blog post yet. Let's pretend that it was the most fun you've ever had reading anything, ever. Let's pretend that you now feel caught up on my life, despite the fact that I'm writing this two months into my time in South Africa.

Let's pretend it was worth the wait. 

~To Be Procrastinued~

A Very Apologetic Title, or: How Meta is Too Meta?

It had to be done; there was no getting around it. Try as he might, the forces of procrastination could only work their hypnotic spell for so long, and so total avoidance was impossible. Things here were wrapping up with plenty of time to spare for last-minute arrangements, so there was simply no excuse: He had to write it. 

It would be difficult, yes. After all, how do you summarize three months of adventures? But it was necessary, part of a promise he had made. And so Teddy Hoffman --Prince of Procrastination, Evader Extraordinaire-- sat down and began to type . . .

A week later, he remembered that he still had to finish, so he sat down to update his blog. "They've waited this long," he thought, "So I owe them something personal, something that really gets to the core of my experience, something that oh hey look the new season of "Archer" is online."

The next day, he actually began to write. For realsies.

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CHAPTER THREE: IN WHICH TEDDY BREAKS UP WITH INDIA

Dear India, 

You've always been honest with me, so I won't beat around the bush. I owe you that much. This in mind, I hope you'll forgive me if what I'm about to say comes across as blunt, but here it is:

I'm leaving you.

It was never going to be a long-term thing; you and I both knew that. I will always be a "population-of-under-one-million" small-town boy, and I am not in a place in my life where I'm comfortable settling down. It's time for me to move on, for us to go our separate ways. 

But that doesn't mean I won't miss you.

Remember the night we met? I had just gotten out of the airport and was on my way to my contact's house, and I saw an elephant blocking the traffic. It was love at first sight. 

No, not the elephant. You, India. 

Sure, we've had some hiccups along the way: You gave me my fair share of the Delhi Belly Blues; I was unable to meet with the theater group I hoped to meet because the founder was in jail; Your rickshaw drivers and I had our disagreements; My visa application process for your Ghanaian High Commission was a nonsensical rigamarole; The lack of elbow room and deliberate rejection of "right of way" in your metros left me passive-aggressively mumbling to myself (much to the confusion of my fellow passengers).

But we made it work. And we had fun too. 

So let's focus on the good times, the things we'll remember when the pangs of separation fade away in favor for the warmth of nostalgia. 

Am I being wordy, perhaps melodramatic? Of course. 

I double-majored in English and Theater, after all.  

Central to my time in Delhi (the Scarecrow to my Dorothy) was a Grinnell alum who arranged my accommodations, picked me up from the airport, and checked in throughout my time (taking me along on walks, an Italian Thanksgiving dinner, and viewings of American movies) to make sure I was getting along okay. Without the support and guidance of him and his wife, I would have had a very different, less enjoyable experience. 

Thanks to them, I made the acquaintance of my ever-accommodating, always-hospitable hostess and her vigilant domestic staff, who kept me comfortable and well-fed (it is no small testament to their  cooking skills that I enjoyed being a vegetarian these past three months). The staff were always friendly and enthusiastically supported my decision to grow a mustache, and my hostess made sure that I had plans for Christmas and New Years: she swept me out of my room --where I was mournfully listening to a live stream of Minnesota's Christmas radio station-- to a party hosted by her cousin, with good food, good conversation, and good whiskey abound. Likewise, we spent the first hour or so of 2015 in Delhi's ever-jammed traffic coming back from a quiet gathering of her family and friends. She even facilitated my subtitle-less introduction to Bollywood, with the help of friendly whispers to keep me posted on the plot developments. 

These people were central to my experience: they enabled me to enjoy my time with you, India

Through their advice, I was able to create new project-related contacts via some hard-core networking. For instance, I had the pleasure of meeting multiple mixed-ability schools, who championed integration on all levels of their institution, offering education for children and hands-on experience for university-level students hoping to become doctors and/or educators. Their warmth and hospitality and hard, hard work was apparent in every visit. One of these schools let me sit in on rehearsals for a play they brought to a conference of schools, where mixed-ability performers preached against the evils of junk food. They even let me write a jingle: 

An apple a day keeps the doctor away, and other fruits do too. / And don't forget your veggies! They are also good for you. / So before you eat a burger or a pizza or a cake, / Remember that those junk foods will give you a stomach ache!

Like I said, English and Theater major. 

Another school with a focus on blind women let me run sound-effects for a play they were developing. The piece was written by a blind woman and starred a blind cast, and was brought to two conferences on raising disability awareness and shifting the focus from "disability" towards "possibility." Although my duties involved the not-so-strenuous task of hitting buttons on my iPad, the director insisted on giving me a trophy along with the rest of the cast and crew. 

Photo courtesy of Zaid K. via Facebook

I also had the pleasure of meeting champions in the field of theater education and enabling marginalized demographics: I met a doctor whose dedication to disability rights was central to his campaign for the inclusion of the humanities in the education of medical students; I was invited to a week-long theater festival by a professor at the National School of Drama, where local children composed and performed their own works; I toured a school run by a professional puppeteer, who incorporated puppetry into lessons on body-awareness and self-advocacy; I saw a play and had a picnic with a drama therapist, whose work is aimed at homeless children who are survivors of sex abuse; and I had tea with a director and his wife, who helped me get in touch with most of the above contacts. 

When I wasn't busy navigating the metro and meeting these contacts, we spent our time together strolling through the infinitely walkable Lodhi Garden --"The Largest Garden in Asia"-- with its monuments and stray dogs and surreptitious snoggers in the trees. Or you sat with me in Khan Market: At the cafe where I did my writing (and where I am composing this letter, a recently-emptied coconut my only company), or at the restaurant where I had lunch so often, the staff committed my order to memory. They even rewarded my dedication by giving me a sweater as a gift, remember that?

You also kept me busy by visiting famous monuments like Humayun's Tomb, where I underestimated the amount of time I should spend there; or Iskcon Temple, where some new friends bought me a tome of a biography on Krishna; or Old Delhi, with its used book market and pickpockets and the impossibly long line to get into Red Fort and the ridiculous prices to watch one's shoes outside of the Jama Masjid mosque (all well worth the "Foreigner's Entry Fees"); and The Nizamuddin Darga, with its Sufi devotional singing and wishgranting string. 

From markets to monuments, temples and museums, I've enjoyed all of these places (and have the selfies to prove it).

Oh, and the wedding I was invited to, along the white sand beaches and smoggy sunsets in Goa. Remember that? The panicked shopping for appropriate Indian attire and wild goose chase for kurta buttons? Or when I was swept into the Bollywood-style dance rehearsals shortly after arriving, and declared "an Indian in his past life" due to my enthusiastic participation, and was consequently rechristened by the family as "Teddinder"? Or the Mendhi and all its colors and drumming and dancing? Or the Sangeet, with the dancing and Indian food buffet and open bar and more dancing? Or the Wedding, with the the groom leading a procession of friends and musicians on a white horse, a bonfire on the shore overlooking the sunset during the ceremony, and the afterparty that lasted until the wee small hours of the morning, the DJ declaring that I was "from Mars, man; out of this world!" and "The Superman from Minnesota"?

Photo courtesy of Sophiyaa N. via Facebook

 

Remember how that family later invited me to join them for the quiet celebration of Lohri, treating me to gol gappa, sesame, peanut, and biryani over a bonfire, with singing and good conversation that lasted well into the evening?

 

Yes, we've had some good times, haven't we? You've certainly kept me busy; one could say too busy to update a blog (cough, cough Give me a break, it's been a busy three months cough, cough Well, that, and I have the attention span of a potato cough, cough Man, it is really smoggy cough, cough here today).

I'll miss your confidence and how you wore your heart on your sleeve with pride, never afraid to show me your best and your worst in the same few minutes; and how you appreciated my mustache, a talisman against outrageous rickshaw prices and testament to our time together. In many ways, I think our time together helped me grow too. The transparency, busyness, and rhythm of Delhi forced me to get out of my head and to be present wherever I was; to own my place in this crazy, beautiful city and appreciate it. 

Through the contradictions and inconsistences, funky smells and pushy strangers, we had a great time these past three months and forged them into something unforgettable. Now, slowly but slowly (as is my habit), I am preparing for my next step to Ghana...

Oh, I'm going to be seeing Ghana now. I hope that isn't weird. 

And no, it isn't a rebound. 

Anyway, I hope we can stay close, and next time I'm in the area I'll try and pay a visit, if it's okay with you. 

Platonically yours,

Teddinder

~To Be Procrastinued~

No Good Reason, or: Why I Haven't Updated My Blog in a While

You've failed your readers, Teddy Hoffman. 

He woke with a start and listened for the voice again. Nothing. Just the sounds of New Delhi at night, its distant honks and beeps and vrooms and wee-oo-wee-oos muted into a sleepy hum. "Must have been a dream," he thought, "One of those weird ones you get after eating spicy foods." He had been eating spicer foods lately.

Stop thinking about food. 

The voice again. "Who's there?" he whispered, blankets bunched under his nose.

It's me, your conscience. I charge you with abysmal procrastination and taking advantage of your readers' patience. What have you to say in your defense? 

"...I was busy?"

Poppycock! cried his conscience, Try again!

He tried again:

"Putting off writing my second entry may seem like an act of careless procrastination, but you will find that it is actually a highly strategic and deliberate decision: After all, what better time to reflect on my three months in New Zealand than a little over two weeks after I have left? Sure, punctuality may have kept the the folks at home updated –and may have been what I promised, and may be what's expected of me as an "adult"– but over the weeks I have gained the nostalgic retrospect necessary to give them the update they deserve. Rather than a rushed immediacy, I will instead offer them a detailed, thoughtful, and cohesive summery of my last few weeks in New Zealand." 

Balderdash! cried his conscience. That's not even an original excuse: You wrote that during your 11-hour layover in Hong Kong! And that was the only thing you wrote! You could have written and published your second post with time to spare! His conscience had a point.

"You have a point, conscience," he admitted, "And you have convinced me: I will write that second post. Tomorrow."

MARK ME! If you pile up enough tomorrows, you'll find that you are left with nothing but a lot of empty yesterdays!

"You stole that from The Music Man," he declared, blankets now held confidently under his chin, “And A Christmas Carol.”

Don't blame me: I'm just a projection of your guilt made manifest by your overactive imagination.

"And spicy food."

And spicy food. 

Scoville scale-related cuisine aside, his conscience was right. After all, hadn't he promised his readers to update his blog on a week-by-week basis? And even if that promise was a kind of tongue-in-cheek, wasn't two months a long time to go without any updates? Yes, yes it was.

"Fair enough, conscience," he admitted, "I will go update my blog now. I owe it to the folks at home." 

Good. And while you're at it, you have some emails to respond to, and whatever happened to...?

But Teddy couldn't hear his conscience, which had faded into the background like the white noise of traffic. He had work to do. And so, dear reader, Teddy brushed the dust off his blog and began to type. 

One thing at a time. Baby steps. Slow and sTeddy wins the race.

"Hey, that's a good line," he thought, "I should find a way to fit it into my second update…that, and 'Electric Boogaloo.' That joke never gets old."

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CHAPTER TWO: IN WHICH TEDDY TRIES TO UNOBTRUSIVELY FIT "ELECTRIC BOOGALOO" SOMEWHERE IN THE TITLE

Boogaloos aside, last we left off I was on the brink of a few adventures. Since then, I have left the land of Middle Earth with a tale or two to tell, so rather than bore you with the Extended Edition, I have boiled down the details into a handy-dandy list of:

THINGS I'VE LEARNED IN NEW ZEALAND . . . 

…ABOUT FRANZ JOSEF:

What it's like to spend several hours in a car driving through New Zealand, feeding birds that aren't supposed to be fed and cracking jokes about things like what a whale might order in a bar.

How dizzy you can get soaking in chlorinated hot springs. 

How to stop a ceiling from leaking the night before your glacier hike when no one is at the front desk of your hostel and the emergency number isn't working.

How to complain the next day, but not vehemently enough to get a discounted price.

What it feels like to ride a helicopter and kiss a glacier and hold an icepick.

How hot hiking up a glacier gets on a sunny day, and how scary Global Warming is up close.

How exhausted the whole kit-and-kaboodle can make you, especially after eating two victory PB&J sandwiches upon your return.

…ABOUT PERFORMANCES AND GOODBYES WITH JOLT DANCE:

That coffee and pizza go together quite nicely over a long day of tech rehearsing for a dance performance. 

That I am utterly terrified by and near useless around sound boards and projection programs.

That pounamu is the Maori name for New Zealand jade (AKA "greenstone"), and that it is known as the "traveler's stone" for its protective properties and the "dream stone" for it's ability to help wearers realize their potential.

That pounamu has a spiritual etiquette to it: You must never buy it for yourself, and it can only be received as a gift. Preferably the night before a show.

That this gift can be made even more precious when the cast that you've been working with for the past three months passes it around a circle, each member blessing it with a silent wish for your future.

That I am just barely capable of not crying in front of people after giving me precious gifts.

That a sheet can become a wave and a boat and dancers can become whales and warriors; that seaweed and seafoam and plastic bags and cardboard boxes all make excellent dance partners; and that the folks at Jolt Dance know how to put on a darn good show.

Photo courtesy of Ms. Hill via Facebook

…ABOUT REHEARSALS WITH A DIFFERENT LIGHT:

How to scout out a performance space in a cafe armed with video cameras and (fabulous) dresses.

That part of being a company means working together through conflict, and that such conversations and situations ultimately improve the relationships and quality of work.

That David Lynch-inspired dream sequences make theatrical soap operas even more interesting.

…ABOUT LOSING YOUR DOG:

That it is very, very, very, very, very, very hard. 

That it can be beautiful too, especially when walking through Christchurch’s botanic gardens and feeling, inexplicably, like your dog is taking one last walk with you.

That seeing a lunar eclipse and a shooting star is an excellent way to end a long, rough day.

That Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” is the wrong song to listen to after losing your dog. Even if it’s heard while watching a movie like “This Is the End,” during which you startle your housemates by sob-laughing through the last 15 minutes of the film. 

That writing is a surprisingly effective way of working through some tough times.*

*The folks running First Class Lit (a postcard-based literary blog) were nice enough to publish a short story I wrote while working through the process of grieving my dog, which you are welcome to read (as well as the other great works published there). It's called "Canis Major."

…ABOUT AUCKLAND AND FESTIVALS:

That you get what you paid for with cheap hostels.

That what you pay for in cheap hostels is loud roommates with a penchant for drinking until 6am, flies in your room, people with a habit of misplacing (or outright stealing) your (labeled) groceries, little birds that steal your breakfast off your plate, an electric stove that might electrocute you one day while stirring your ramen with a fork, things on the bathroom floor that should've been in the toilet, and free tea.

That Auckland has some very nice libraries. 

That vegan burgers  and “Frozen” go quite well with wine and new friends.

That Auckland has a pub called “Father Ted’s,” and that it is an excellent place to meet your contact and his collaborators and talk about leadership, how to set up networking for differently-abled artists, and what being “illegally” deaf or blind might look or sound like.

What you might see at a festival for differently-abled artists: Crayon Pollacks and neon Roethkos with titles like "Me With My Pants Down" and "Frankenstein and the Mermaid," tactile art exhibits for the blind, steampunk musicals, poets, rock stars, belly dancers, and clowns. 

How to justify to yourself not liking certain performances, and what you might learn about your project and yourself by working through your disappointment.

That even well-meaning people can unintentionally delegitimize differently-abled artists’ artistic agency. 

That, despite a few problematic hiccups, such festivals are a great step towards acceptance and validation. 

…ABOUT RETURNING TO CHRISTCHURCH, PROCRASTINATION, AND LEAVING THE COUNTRY:

That Auckland says "Goodbye" with a sunset, but Christchurch says "Welcome back" with a kick-butt street festival.

How to spend 100 minutes on hold in the post office --ready to mail off your visa application but waiting for confirmation on one small detail before you do, only to have the call dropped because the consulate office closed while you were on the line-- and not lose your mind.

Where to buy a stiff drink in Christchurch.

How to forgive the consulate for their aforementioned offense when their staff go out of their way to call you and extend your visa an extra month just to give your travel dates a little wiggle room.

How to get malaria medication, gifts for your family, postcards for your loved ones, an absentee ballot, and rid of anything you can’t pack in one week. 

That you can always count on good friends to give you a ride and/or see you off to the airport, listening to Barry White and Bobby Womack along the way.

So concludes my time in New Zealand, the first part of my year-long adventure, and my second blog entry. Remember to check the "Out & About" link above for new photos!

But wait! cried his conscience, You still haven’t told them anything about India! But Teddy wasn’t listening to, or perhaps he was deliberately ignoring, his conscience. Due to his innate gifts in procrastination, he had become well-adjusted to the infamous "India Stretchable Time," and had no intention of going against the cultural norms of his new residence.

Nevertheless, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, where that little spark of productivity flickered, he resolved to hash out his next entry soon. Maybe not today, maybe not next week, but certainly within a month. 

Definitely. Most likely. Probably. Maybe. We’ll see. All in good time, dear readers. All in good time…or should I say, slow and sTeddy wins the race? 

Ha! Still golden. 

~ To Be Procrastinued ~

A Regrettable Lack of Swashbuckling or: What I've Been Up To This Past Month Or So

PREFACE

"A week," he decided, "A week is plenty of time to give myself before I start my blog. And when I'm all settled in, I shall update this blog every week."

"Yes," he affirmed, "This is a good plan, a foolproof plan." 

"Besides," he continued, "I'm a new man, a college graduate. A world traveller, with a fellowship to boot. I do grown up things like networking and grocery shopping and buy my own toilet paper. I have no excuse for procrastinating. And so I won't. Nope. God as my witness, I shall be vigilant in my blogging!"

To give him credit, the following month or so was sprinkled with some progress, just enough to keep him guilt-free: he designed the blog's layout, thought of a punny title, snapped some artsy photos, and uploaded them to Shutterfly. He even has the apps to prove it. Yet somewhere down the Google-search-rabbit-hole of "Top Ten Best Free Blog Servers" and "Best Bang-For-Your-Buck Photo Storage Apps" and "proper grammatical usage of the word 'bumble,'" Teddy Hoffman -- Grinnell College Graduate, Class of 2014; 2014-2015 Watson Fellow; new man; toilet-paper-buyer -- lost his well-intentioned way and forwent his duties to the blogosphere. But he knew that someday he would triumph over his (admittedly self-imposed) challenges and keep those promises to the folks back home. He would write that blog, come hell or high water.

So ends my roundabout apology; and so begins my belated blog's maiden voyage.

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CHAPTER ONE: IN WHICH TEDDY ADDRESSES THE CONSEQUENCES OF PROCRASTINATION

"But how," Teddy asked himself a week after finishing his preface, "can I catch my readers up on my month or so of (mis)adventures while staying terse and pithy?" And so, dear reader, we face the Balrog of this blog, a demon of rambling recounts and dull details born from my procrastination, which must be conquered in the name of concision. In lieu of a staff and sword I will do my best to chronicle my trip thus far in a way that is short, sweet, and to the point:

After long flights and short layovers, I was settled in and connected to my contact (A Different Light Theatre) through the generosity of my cousin's cousin and her husband, despite the fact that they were weeks away from and preparing for their immigration to the US (the first of many examples of Kiwi hospitality that I would experience). I was also introduced to another performance group (Jolt Dance) through A Different Light. Since then I have been kept busy by my work with both companies, spending my free time hanging out at Urban Utopia, the Beat Street Cafe, and the Botanic Gardens, or having (mis)adventures in Akaroa, Mt. Cook, or Lake Tekapo. 

Don't recognize any names, places, or things in the synopsis above? Worry not, dear Internet-peruser! Here is a handy-dandy key of terms, with elaborations for your convenience:

THE CITY:

Christchurch - Devastated by some earthquakes a few years back and slow to rebuild, much of Christchurch's City Centre is peppered with the remains of once-popular stomping grounds, creating a quiet, abandoned, haunted feeling that permeates certain areas of the city. Despite this, great street art blooms from the rubble and seems to illustrate the resilience of the residents and their support of the arts.

THE PERFORMANCE GROUPS:

A Different Light Theatre - The first thing that the company of A Different Light Theatre did when I walked into their studio was interview me: Where was I from? Why was I here? Was I in a relationship? Did I know what it meant to be polyamorous? What kinds of music did I like? Was I familiar with Guns 'n Roses? ACDC? What were my first impressions of Christchurch? What did I hope to gain from my year abroad? The questions were more invitinng than interrogative, and I was immediately impressed by the company's repartee and warmth. They are currently devising several pieces, including works exploring the subjects of "Ecology," "Mobility," and "Thoughts & Feelings," as well as the third part of a theatrical soap opera (in which Yours Truly may make a cameo appearance). The process so far has included acapella sound-effects for the ocean, mask-based guerrilla theater, and improvised filming in the back room of a coffee shop; each rehearsal is thought-provoking, challenging, and rewarding, and has a healthy dose of bantering to top it off.  

Photo courtesy of the company's website: http://www.differentlight.co.nz

Jolt Dance - Because A Different Light only meets once a week, I was recommended to shoot the folks at Jolt an email, and was promptly invited to sit in on a class. After that, my following weeks were filled with Junior, Intermediate, Youth, Teenagers, Young Adult, and Adult classes, with a Creative Movement workshop, a series of community classes that double as teacher training for some of the veteran participants, and rehearsals for the company's upcoming production ("Shorelines" premiering on Oct. 2nd in the 2014 Body Festival). Finding the whole "sitting and observing" thing intimidating and boring, I decided to join the groups in their dancing and have since been proven time and time again that they are far better dancers than I am. Besides creating an environment that encourages creative agency, the instructors are prime examples of Kiwi hospitality and general friendliness: over the past few weeks I have been loaned a bike, treated to a sushi sandwich, and invited to a birthday party (after which I was given two bags of leftover food, two bottles of wine, and a jug of cranberry juice to disperse among/force-feed to the hungry, thirsty masses of Urban Utopia). 

Photo courtesy of the company's website: http://www.joltdance.co.nz

THE HANGOUTS:

Urban Utopia - One in a neighborhood of houses belonging to Urban Rooms, a long-term backpacker's chain in Christchurch. France, Germany, Argentina, Italy, Belgium, England, Northern Ireland, Chile, and Minnesota send their travelers here to eat, drink, sleep, wash their dishes, not wash their dishes, try to figure out who isn't washing their dishes, curse quietly when the water pressure in the shower is low or the Internet is slow, host BBQs and birthday parties, plan weekend excursions to Akaroa/Mt. Cook/Pak 'n Save/Lake Tekapo/Franz Josef Glacier/That-Little-Place-With-Five-Dollar-Fish-And-Chips, etc. Home-away-from-home sweet home. 

Beat Street Cafe - A little cafe a few blocks north of Urban Utopia where you can buy a stranger a cup of coffee and get impromptu discounts on your drinks. The place maintains a delicate balance between intimately cozy and endearingly grungy, with a hipster-punk vibe and baristas who notice when you've started a new book. Tom Waits and Bob Dylan rasp and mumble respectively over the speakers while a certain Recovering English Major sips his Soy Flat White, eats dark chocolate, and reads until dinner-time.

The Botanic Gardens - A little under a 10-minute bike ride west of Urban Utopia and part of the massive Hagley Park, where I meander, meditate, and get my Thoreau on. And watch the duckies. 

THE (MIS)ADVENTURES: 

Akaroa - Three liters of water, Ibuprofen, Band-Aids, hand sanitizer, Pepto-Bismol, and copious amounts of dried vittles accompanied me up and around the mountainous hiking trails, a day-trip braved by my international cohorts and me. The day was cold, grey, windy, and damp, but the lambs we saw along the way were adorable and the views we had from the top were amazing. 

Mt. Cook and Lake Tekapo - The first day belonged to the mountain: perfect weather, burning-cold and milky rivers, and the sobering remains of once-majestic glaciers made up the day, with overpriced Pad Thai, conversations on cannibalism, and bonding-time with wine in the evening. 

The second day belonged to the lake: sun-bathing in a pile of sleepy hikers, skipping white stones across the impossibly clear water, streams of shadows through mossy mountain woods, and scatological puns on the name of the crystal-blue lake finished off our two-day trip.

So concludes my first entry of (mis)adventures up to now; and so begins my journey into the wonderful world of blogging. Hopefully you are feeling all caught up (if not exhausted by my needlessly wordy prose and penchant for alliteration), but if you have lingering questions, feel free to shoot an iMessage/email/Facebook Message/carrier pigeon my way. Or just use your imagination; that would probably be more interesting (and fun). Also, check out the little "Photos by Yours Truly" box in the top-right section of this page for a link to Out and About, my more-convenient-than-uploading-them-all-to-Facebook photo-sharing website! 

Tune in next time for Chapter Two, where I'll flail my way through an Indian visa application, fly to Auckland (in a plane, smarty-pants), stumble across a glacier, buy more toilet paper, and generally bumble through the whole "living independently and making your own decisions" thing. 

When will this entry be posted, you ask?

"A week," he decided, "A week is plenty of time to give myself before I update my blog..."

~ To Be Procrastinued ~