Waiheke

Saturday started off like a good many Saturdays in my life have: sitting in a Starbucks, drink in hand, chatting about plans for the day. However, around 10 a.m., when Everett, Laura and I stepped out of Starbucks and onto Queens Street in Auckland and said our farewells as Ev headed for Rotorua and Laura and I to Waiheke Island, normal/previously experienced things kind of came to a halt.

Laura and I ended up actually running (not particularly gracefully) with our packs on to catch the ferry just in time to make it to the island before noon. Then, after some serious maneuvering on a full bus (I literally had to back up the aisle with my pack and some New Zealand kid started beeping like I was a wide load with my massive pack. quite flattering), we were dropped off and told our hostel was about a half mile walk down a hill.

The island is beautiful. I'd say it's kind of Martha's Vineyard meets Carmel, CA New Zealand style. It used to be a bit of an artist's colony and there are still studios and artists around the town. It's got breezy streetside cafes, numerous picturesque vineyards and beautiful beaches.

Our hostel was... well... interesting. I liked it fine, Laura did not. It was kind of a bohemian spot where the owner actually mixes house music all day long that plays around the pool and decks. I'm pretty sure he's a bit of a pothead, but he was nice enough. Unfortunately, our room was us, three guys from Chile, two guys from the UK and a guy from Australia. Most of them had been living there for weeks. And it was all bunks crammed into a VERY small space so it was insanely messy, kind of dirty and reeked of boy.

WE quickly left and headed for town where we had a nice afternoon meandering around shops, eating lunch and then laying on the beach. Around 6 we wandered back up to town for dinner a fantastic spot looking out over the beach. However, because we didn't have a reservation we were kicked out of our table promptly at 7:15 (about the time I took my fork out of my mouth after my final bite) and directed to a bar just around the corner to watch the sun set over the water.

This was where things got a little different.

The bar was actually have a burlesque show that evening. Laura and I had never seen a burlesque show, but it sounded interesting enough. So, we ordered drinks, sat down and watched the crowds come in. Lots of women in very short black dresses and men in tuxedos. And lots of odd maid costumes, nurse outfits and the occasional gothic look. Fantastic people watching.

Until a man who would later become known to us as the stamp nazi came and asked to see our tickets for the show.

We obviously hadn't purchased any and when we found out they were $35 there was no way were going to. He asked to see the stamps on our hands saying we were supposed to be there. We didn't have any. So he said we had to leave. We said fine. And then we didn't move.

Five minutes later he came back to escort us out. By this point, for some reason, we had decided we were going to watch this burlesque show and we were going to watch it for free. So, instead of leaving, we went to the bathroom. As we waited in line, he came up again. We said we would leave as soon as we used the bathroom. He walked off.

When we came out of the bathroom Laura and I decided that we were going to just hide. In retrospect I'm really not sure why we wanted to stay so badly. I think it was the principle of the matter. We'd already been kicked out of a restaurant, we didn't want to be thrown out of a bar. So, even though we were wearing our bathing suits and casual clothes and everyone else looked like they were dressed for a Halloween Gala, we tried to sink into a couch and look inconspicuous. I've never longed for fishnet thigh highs, a corset and a nurse's costume so much in my life - especially for the purpose of fitting in with a crowd!

We befriended some New Zealanders, hoping they would make us stand out less and chatted with them until a rather naughty looking nun came on stage, did an odd dance with two girls in thigh highs and bored us to death. We decided that maybe burlesque wasn't nearly as exciting as we'd hoped and we left, smiling at the stamp nazi on our way out.

Filling a little unfullfilled from our evening, we decided to go to a party at a vineyard we'd heard about earlier in the day. The vineyard, called Stoney Ridge, backs up to a "clothing optional" beach on the opposite side of the island from where we were staying.

We found a bus, hopped in, asked our driver (who smelled a lot like he'd just bathed in anchovies) to tell us when the stop for Stoney Ridge was, and settled in. The other people on the bus were a little crazy. At some point a guy wearing an odd Roman Soldier outfit got off carrying an ax. Weird.

Finally, we arrived in what appeared to be the middle of no where at the end of a gravel drive and the driver announced this was it. Laura and I got off. Alone. Walking up the empty, silent road, thanking God the moon was full enough we could see, I wondered where in my life I made the turn that led me to be rambling around random islands in New Zealand wearing my bathing suit and looking for a party.

Eventually we heard the music ahead and finally found the party. And wow, it was a party. Actually, it was a rave. Apparently there were about 2,000 people there and they'd all come over from Auckland and were returning on the midnight ferry. And I'm pretty sure Laura and I were 2 of about 4 people not wasted out of their minds at this event. I've been to a lot of parties in my day, but never one with quite this much in the way of drugs. And people on drugs. And techno music. And people just randomly dancing among olive trees.

Laura and I sat in the grass together, people watching, and every few minutes another guy would come up and sit down beside us. The best part was that they would all start talking to us as if we'd been mid conversation and now they were coming back.

"Yeah, so my mate took some heroine and now he's not even speaking with me," a guy plopped down and said.

"I'm sorry to hear that?"

My favorite was the guy who sat down next to me, explained that he'd taken a "lolly," whatever that is, and then said that he was Pharrell's cousin. He swore it so much and made me promise to believe him. I said I did. But I lied. Because he was white.

Eventually, we shared a cab with some New Zealanders and made it back to the lodge where we stayed up until the wee hours of the morning talking to two 18 year old British guys who were quite funny. I've not felt that old in a while, but they made us laugh, which was good because Laura was feeling a bit discouraged from our bed situation for the evening.

(Ok, so I was going to write about our experience at church today for Easter, but this entry is getting insanely long and if anyone has read this far then you're a better friend than I. So, I'm cutting this short. Also, I'm doing laundry tonight and it's time to go and check and see if maybe my clothes don't smell like something died on them anymore. Thanks for reading!)