It’s finally here. After two years of waiting, labor, and pining, I’ve made my imminent return to the capital of New Zealand: Wellington. As the plane began its descent the surrounding mountains and crystal waters began to refinish and restore the mental image I had kept stored in my mind for so long, too long. Just like a carpenter to an antique table, the perfect flawless image was whole and beautiful once again, no longer handicapped by the jading effects of photographs. Everything looked just how I had left it. But how did I leave it, really?
My previous visit left me a menial two days of life in the kiwi capital, so really, how much was there for me to remember? I remembered the views, of course; the museum, Nomad’s Capital hostel, the “movie-trailer” experience I had of Cuba Street, as well as the ferry. That’s about it. As the wonderfully friendly shuttle driver made his way to the hostel, I truly began to realize that I had no idea who this mysterious Wellington really was. Suddenly, I was stricken with a quick burst of nervousness. Where was I? My god, this place IS actually foreign to me!
This changed everything. My original plan had been to spend a day in Wellington to get acclimated to the time difference, then trek a quick and recklessly planned path stretching 260 miles toward the town of Rotorua. It would have been a fantastic tribute to Christopher McCandless (a personal role model of mine), as well as been fairly humbling (side effects including significant weight loss and wanting to eat every little thing that breathes). Philosophical revelations aside, I began to entertain the idea that I should begin an immediate affair with this unknown city to which I had previously pronounced my love. What did I miss? What am I missing now? What could I have done that I was too naively touristy to do? Anthony Bourdain forgive me!
I’m now worried, self-conscious of my life’s travel track record, and ashamed of my cautious 18 year old, inexperienced choices. What else is there to do but to throw back a few of the Old Reliable? Definition: Guinness draught. I roughly recalled a fun Irish pub on Cuba Street, and made my way through the breezy streets, quite proud of my recollection of the city layout after two years time. The brick walkway appeared, and I knew I was in the right. Suddenly the sounds of the Pogues/Dubliners collaboration single “The Irish Rover” flowed gently to my ears. “Every little memory has a song,” sang Ted Leo, and this memory was of good friends, good times, and home. God bless the Irish culture.
The floorboards creaked under my feet, confirming the pub as a legitimate Irish product. “A Guinness, please,” I say to the barkeep.
“Sorry, no Guinness here.”
Legitimate? Perhaps I spoke too soon.
“An Irish pub with no Guinness? What is this?”
After a brief explanation I was informed that the manager didn’t believe in sporting Guinness that was made in New Zealand, it wasn’t fair. It was like lying to the customer, he preached. Brawn be gone-That is a man among men! So Murphy’s Stout, he said, “is made in New Zealand and its like Guinness, its also cheaper.” I appreciate a man looking after my wallet, and so I obliged.
Murphy’s Irish stout, what is there to say? Looks like Guinness, smells like Guinness, therefore must be Guinness right? I won’t play anyone, nor can I lie about it due to my drinking history starting on Ireland’s pride. One can definitely tell Murphy’s is not Guinness, but being $1.50 cheaper per pint, I was strangely alright with it. Murphy’s still gave me the thick, filling, homey taste of Guinness that makes one feel like you just finished a meal. I seemed to have found a fine replacement, at least while in New Zealand.
As I’m enjoying my new Irish friend in a glass, the bartender inquires if I will be playing poker. A brief exchange, and I can’t refuse the offer. Buy a beer get $250 worth of poker credit, $1000 credit gets you $1000 in chips, play until you’re out, no real money gambled. I decided to give the game another go, even though the last time I took part in a friendly poker game my inner card shark seemed to be off devouring some helpless white trash beach bum to the sounds of John Williams.
When you’re hungry, you tend to not think as clearly, and since intense cards, breeds intense appetite, I was pretty much destined to make a fool of myself. Irish pub? Shepherds pie is the hunger medicine of choice. After a few bites into the delicious classic I heard a fellow player say, “you’re up Shepherd.” Problem#1- I actually responded to him. Problem #2- sixteen hours into my five month stay in New Zealand and already I am, once again, being affiliated with the wool-laden mammals. Not just by my friends anymore, but by strangers, New Zealand strangers at that. Being half Scottish and obsessed with the little country down under, one can imagine, and expect, the sheep jokes that arise. But come on, give me a chance to escape, just for while? Please??
Regardless of bestiality jokes, I redeemed myself by placing 5th in the National Pub Poker League preliminaries. Don’t applaud me just yet; it’s not that big of a deal. The word “national” has a way of making things sound big, important, and commendable. In this case, “national” means the inclusion of the entire country, but no one knows about it except for a few pubs in one city. So come the following Monday, I’m off to the big boy tables to prove my worth against the other card playing beer lovers. And thus begins the series of events that eventually snowballs into a chaotic maelstrom of people, places, and even a smidge of drama. Ah, it’s just like home. Only ten times more beautiful, and this time I can actually enjoy my drinks at restaurants.
Let the journey commence
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