The last two days in Queenstown have been somewhat uneventful—scratch that, very uneventful. I spent my first day catching up with the laundry, grocery seeking, repacking. I cooked, ate, called Dad, hydrated, and just took it easy.
My bunkmate is a broad, powerfully built Finnish dude named Veli-Matti. He has wide-set eyes, shaven head, and a curling pointed goatee. He is watching the Simpsons on his laptop, grunting, laughing occasionally.
I spent some time with Dor, the Israeli girl I met upon my arrival—she’s fierce, dark, eager, bored, hates Queenstown. We share several ongoing jokes about finance and dialect.
We—Veli-Matti, Dor, and I—became a trio for a thirty-minute haunted house walk called the Fear Factory. Good stuff, laughs, a few scares.
Queenstown is swept into darkness as the sun disappears behind snow-caped mountains, lowering a curtain of darkness over the lake. Stars twinkle in the smooth surface, lost above the brilliance of their earthly reflections. It starts to rain. Veli-Matti and I venture into a seamy pub on the waterfront.
We drink.
There was one moment here—although brief—that I will never forget. I’ve spilled a drop or two of a dark rich beer on my clean white shorts and I’m staring at the stains. All of the sudden, and for five minutes to come, my Finnish friend is receiving a back massage, on his stool, beer in hand, from a redhead dressed in maid-gear.
What the fuck.
The next day Dor and I wondered Queenstown.
It rained all day.
Not much happened.
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