DAY OF SHIT

I’m supposed to meet Bernhard at 9:00 for breakfast.

I wake up at half past ten—shit.

My throat is soar—shit.

My back is crisp with sunburn—shit.

I missed my bus—shit.

I’m going to be late for my flight—shit.

My last night in Auckland was spent in a giant kitchen, discussing metaphysics with Bernhard and another guy, over a late dinner of white-rice and fruit.

Everything fell apart—went to shit—I climbed off the bus at 9:55. Camille and Helene have left Auckland, Yuki is sleeping, and worst of all, Caroline is tired—the waiting game is up—she also sleeps, leaving me behind.

I struggle from my sheets, dress, and drag myself out the door. The backpack is heavy on my shoulders, my feet are dragging, head throbbing—yet somehow I make it.

I vaguely recall eating a pathetic chicken-mayonnaise sandwich, squished between two thin buns, and craving water.

Anyways, I’m in the South Island.

I honestly can’t remember the flight—it was spent between reading Franz Kafka and sleeping, I think. Queenstown is 4 or 5 miles away from the airport and I don’t have any cash for the bus. The ATM isn’t working.

I start to walk—coughing my brains out, hot beneath the sun, sweating in my boots along the endless stretch of road that leads to sweat civilization. I remember holding my thumb out, standing at intersections, looking glum and docile, non-threatening and innocent—please pull your goddamn car over and pick me the fuck up, pretty please.

No one stops, and let me tell you this: while standing at an intersection, hitchhiking and in desperate need of a ride, should someone pull over with an empty seat, headed your way, and flashing the peace sign—don’t believe the fucker.

He drives off and I continued to walk.

Up hills and down hills, beneath the hot sun, over and under, walking, walking, crawling, coughing, dragging that bloody cursed backpack and briefcase—oh damn it, why oh why oh why?

My feet hurt, the blisters bleed, throat tightens, itches, irritated, the pack is rubbing painfully against my sun-burns—and then it happens, God Bless the Canadian fellow who pulls aside and invites me within his faded-red rig for the cool, blessed ride to town.

I arrive in Queenstown with very little clean-clothing, yet somehow—after checking into my hostel, and showering—manage to make something good of this outstanding day of shit. So fresh and so clean—I meet a quite beautiful Israeli girl, named Dor, and treat her to a beer at a pub called the 1876.

The day ended well.

Stars bright, sky brimming with light. Eyes lit with lamps and glow.

Queenstown is gorgeous, a small place imbedded on a lake within the warm limbs of the mountains—reminding me of home.