THE ROAD TO PAIHIA

Oh, I felt like saying.

She’s from Colorado—how boring.

We waited on the couch and after 15 or 20 minutes, Robert-Jan emerged from the elevator.

The girl is named Mirjam. She’s blond, tan—looks foreign enough—like a cat, a tan tabby—large eyes, twitchy nose, etc.

She seems a shy.

Robert-Jan is tall, bearded, and smiles like an old friend. He’s from Holland, and whereas I’ve only known Mirjim for 20 minutes, I’ve known Robert-Jan for a half-hour. We were in opposite bunks on the 9th floor and decided to grab coffee together, blinded by sunlight pouring in through the shades. He wanted to shower—I already had—and while waiting, I met and invited Mirjam to accompany us.

The three of us head to a café and order some coffees and juice. It’s a windy day in Auckland, rushing napkins from tables, stirring straws, flooding through alleys and streets and open doors, a restless element seeking to disrupt the calm, dispersing dust. I have a bus to meet at 5:15 for The Bay of Islands. Robert-Jan has a bus to the same place the following day. The girl books a ticket to meet us there on Tuesday.

She then says goodbye, climbs onto a bus, and Robert-Jan and I look for food.

It takes us awhile.

I’m meeting Caroline and co. today at 1:30—that’s Caroline, Isabelle, and their other roommate, Michelle, from Holland.

It’s nearly perfect—again—two Americans, two Dutch, yes, but only one German.

If Bernhard were with us we would be quite the trio, a diverse party of the unquestionable cool—but he’s not.

As it is, Robert-Jan and I eat and meet them and the Hollanders hit it off. We walk to a museum that the girls get in to for free, as students, while Robert and I spend our money elsewhere—on beer.

The pub is Irish, live music hammers the ceiling beams and patio-tent.

We sit in the shade.

We’re making bets on how long it will take the girls to finish touring the museum. Robert-Yen is explaining to me the school-system in Holland. We discuss life, love, education, and values. He tells me that in Holland you must work until the age of 67—fuck that. He agrees, considering immigrating. He’s a genuinely good guy, with a sound philosophy—exploring, studying, learning, living, laughing—and he believes in giving back, believes that there is more to life than taking.

Over the course of days, Robert-Jan will become a close friend. He is the most like-minded and intelligent man I’ve had the pleasure to met, as of yet—not to mention we make an excellent team, two formidable bloodhounds for waitresses and gorgeous women.

The girls arrive an hour and a half later—we loose our bets—we’re already two beers deep and I’ve got to leave in 45 minutes, pick-up my pack, and catch the bus. There are jokes and fun and thinking, and it’s an all-around great time.

I haven’t got many minutes to spare when I notice the subtle details, forming the moment—the details that weave throughout our lives, unnoticed mostly. The band is playing “Somebody That I Used To Know”—significant to all drifters, floaters, backpackers, life-livers, and travelers. There is a chip in my water glass—representing my own brokenness. The girls order a pitcher of beer. Robert is laughing.

The wind has calmed into a breeze, pleasantly cool.

And they are—

We are—

I am—

Just somebody that I used to know.