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“A weird way of saying awesome?” I ask. He nods and I sigh. My heart has been racing for the last minute. “I don’t really need moral support, you know. I mean . . . I don’t even know you guys.”
“Sure you do,” Tibald says. “That’s the beauty of traveling. Haven’t you caught on yet? There are no strangers here, just friends you haven’t met yet.”
I roll my eyes. “How cliché.”
“We only learn the clichés in Germany.” He grins then raises his beer. “Here is to tomorrow and Josh’s first night in New Zealand. Prost!”
Well, I have to prost to that.
When I wake up the next morning I literally have no idea where I am. I’m facedown on the scratchy carpeted floor. I can hear two people snoring on and off, like dueling piano players from hell. My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow and my nostrils are filled with the odor of stale beer.
Cautiously, knowing my brain is about to explode from dehydration, I raise my head. I’m in the backpackers. I’m in Auckland, New Zealand. I have the worst hangover of my life.
Tibald is passed out in his clothes on top of his sleeping bag. Schnell is snoring in his bed, but he’s all turned around and his feet are on the pillow. Michael is snoring on my bed, having fallen asleep on top of the wrong bunk. Why am I on the floor? I have no idea but it doesn’t bode well for my first morning in this country.
I lie there for a few minutes, trying to piece together the last night. We were drinking at an Irish bar, I remember that. Then we were walking down the city streets and eating sushi-to-go from vendors on the sidewalk. I remember being by the water, seeing the lights of the city reflecting on it, the span of the harbor bridge and the land across the dark bay. The memory is peaceful, and then I’m bombarded by spliced images of drunk girls and laughing faces, shots spilling over on crowded bars, and shitty, shitty dance music.
Ugh. First night in a foreign country and I can barely remember it. Perhaps that’s for the best.
I gingerly get to my feet and stagger over to the communal showers. I find one stall unoccupied and stand under scalding hot water until I feel remotely clean. I hear people talking as they stand around waiting for the showers, a blend of accents, but I’m in no rush, no hurry. Part of me prays that the Germans are too hungover to want to make the trip out to Mission Bay.
No such luck. When I get dressed and back to the room, I’m shocked to see all of them are awake and already showered. Smiling, even, though I guess that’s not surprising for Tibald.
“Hey, you’re alive!” he says, slapping me on the back.
I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously. “Why are you guys so chipper? Did you drug me last night?”
“We’re just more manly than you, Josh,” he says, spritzing himself with deodorant spray. “Germans can outdrink everyone. Ready to go meet your woman?”
“She’s not my woman,” I tell him, my eyes even more narrow now, trying to burn holes into his smiling façade.
He seems to thrive on it. “Sure, sure, she may not be yours but she was for one night and that’s enough.”
Actually it wasn’t enough, that’s why I’m here. But I don’t say that.
He continues, slipping on his sneakers. “And, if she made that kind of impression on you then I’m guessing you did the same to her. Women are very into . . .” he wriggles his fingers at me up and down, “this.”
“He means to say tattoos,” Michael speaks up. “At least back home the women go crazy for them.”
I open my mouth to say something about it being more than the tattoos that made the night memorable for her, but I decide to keep quiet. Sometimes I forget that my humor doesn’t always translate.
I barely have time to pour myself a cup of coffee from the machine in the hostel’s communal kitchen before we’re out on the streets of Auckland. It seems like a different world in the daytime. It’s sparkling clean, the strong sun bouncing off the glass buildings, and in minutes I am regretting wearing jeans. The change from Vancouver’s fall to Auckland’s spring is fucking me up, and I’m soon taking note of the stores we pass by, wondering where I could pick up some board shorts and summer gear. Once again, I am ill-prepared. Story of my life.
When we reach the end of Queen Street and come up against cruise ships and ferries leaving for exotic-sounding islands, we hop on a bus and head out along the water. Tibald tells me about the volcanic island of Rangitoto that is peeking out on the bay like a green cone, and how the three of them had run straight to the top of it. You know, just for fun. I do my fair share of running and hiking back at home to keep in shape, but these guys seem to have a death-by-exercise wish.
The scenery whizzing past the bus is beautiful. The sky here seems brighter, clearer, giving everything a sharp intensity. I want to paint the glare of the sun on the water, silver skimming green. I want to sketch the mound of islands in the distance—all, according to Lonely Planet, remnants of old volcanoes. I want to duplicate, create, expand upon.
Yet even if I had brought my sketchbook on the bus with me, I wouldn’t be able to work. I’m in a stranglehold, caught by the beauty of my new surroundings and the fear of what I’m about to do. What if Gemma isn’t there? What if there’s no way of finding her? I’ll pretend I won’t feel disappointed, I’ll go on and travel and see the country the way I said I would, but it will still hurt. Maybe for only for a second, but it will be a sharp, swift kick.
