korean daddy school

Last week, my father called me out of the blue and said, "I love you."

So naturally, I asked him, "Are you drunk?"

Turns out he wasn't.  My father is attending Korean daddy school.  Korean daddy school is a 12-step program at churches where Korean fathers learn to get in touch with their feelings.  See this New York Times article on it so you will believe this is real.  I am stunned that my father agreed to do this, but why look a gift horse in the mouth?  If I go home and he gives me a hug, I think my head might explode.

turning 30

My dad always said, "Life begins at thirty." He also used to call me a dirty communist, but hey, no one can be right all the time.

home

I am back home in Los Angeles after three weeks in New Zealand, where I wasn't able to blog much for several reasons:

(1) Typing on an iPad is really hard
(2) The internet in New Zealand costs a trillion dollars
(3) There was no way to describe the awesomeness of my trip

Anyway, after jumping off the world's highest canyon swing in Queenstown, skydiving from 15,000 ft in Lake Wanaka, and hiking up the Fox glacier, it's sad that the thing I feared the most was having another screaming punching baby sitting next to me on the plane ride home. I was lucky, though. The person sitting next to me was just a really fat man whose thigh and arm took up half my seat. At one point he turned to me and asked, "You flying back to China?" He did not, however, punch me or otherwise disturb my sleep.

My time in New Zealand was unforgettable and indescribable, so I won't even try to do it justice. All I will say is that the mini-country I was traveling with kidnapped my bottle of Tabasco sauce nearly daily, but in the end, it was always returned to me safe and sound before my next meal. That's the thing about fellow travelers. In the end, they always have your back.

tabasco hostage

I am writing from Wellington, the capitol of New Zealand, where I am undergoing a severe crisis. My travel buddies have engaged in a collective conspiracy to kidnap my bottle of Tabasco sauce. This is a matter of life or death, since they know I won't eat anything without Tabasco sauce and will therefore die in a few short days if my bottle is not recovered. In one particularly cruel move, the Swiss German doctor showed me a photo of it sitting on a fence, a beautiful ocean serving as the background. If you get this message, contact the U.S. Embassy immediately.

caving, glowworms, and the maori

Yesterday, I went caving in Waitomo, where I did not almost die unlike the last time I went caving, in Guatemala. To be fair, here in New Zealand, they arm you with a wetsuit, a helmet with a headlamp, a floating tube, and rubber boots. In Guatemala, we were barefoot in our bathing suits and were given candles to hold as a light source (while being required to swim, tubeless, at least a mile through the water). In any case, here, our guides took us through the gorgeous cave system where thousands of glowworms, tiny creatures that glow in the dark, were scattered along the cave walls like bright green stars. It was incredible, and you were left to sit there to wax poetic to yourself about how beautiful the world is until one of our cave guides explained to us that the glowworms were maggots that were pooping at that very moment. 

In the evening, we drove to Rotorua, where we were taken on a cultural tour of the Maori, the indigenous people of New Zealand. It is actually quite incredible here how New Zealanders know so much and take such an interest in the Maori. It could not be more different than our complete apathy and general ignorance of the American Indians who were supplanted when the colonists showed up, which was not that much longer before the first settlers stepped foot on New Zealand. I don't mean just that they teach Maori history in schools, I mean that it seems as if Maori culture has actually been intertwined with modern New Zealand culture, and New Zealanders take pride in it. At first I thought it was just for the benefit of the tourists, but more and more it seems that that is not the case. Our resident college kid pointed out that the people who settled New Zealand were different from the people who settled America. Those who went to America were Puritans escaping religious persecution, whereas the English who were sent to New Zealand were looking for new resources for trade. Crazy how the impact of that difference in ideology is so visible today. Whereas the Americans saw nothing of value to preserve in American Indian culture, convinced by the superiority of their own religion, New Zealanders, even from the first, tried to understand the Maori because they knew it was better for business. Of course, I write this speculative account based on five days in New Zealand and one off-hand comment from a British teenager who knows way more than me about everything. Makes me wish I had paid more attention in history class instead of practicing my awesome signature or doodling Sailor Moon.

Of course, no one has explained to me yet when the hobbits came into the picture. 

our own country

Yesterday was the first day of our adventure tour. We have on board an American doctor, a Swiss German doctor, a Scottish nurse, a British diplomat, a college student, and an American lawyer. If you never hear from me again, it will be because I have left with these folks to start our own country, where I, being the lawyer and therefore the most useless of the bunch, will of course serve as president. My first action as president will be to ban the use of comic sans, which unfortunately is used all over the place in New Zealand.

what i have learned in new zealand so far

I have been in New Zealand for about three days now, the first part of my 21-day hurrah before I (1) turn 30 and (2) start my new job, and this is what I have learned so far:

- New Zealand has more Asian people than Asia, and most of them are Korean.

- When a baby screams and punches you on a plane, its mother will just talk to it in an urgent voice, saying, "Now now, you know better than to do that," as if her eight-month-old screaming child understands why it is punching me, or why it is screaming for that matter. I am all for babies, I am. My politics are what they are, but I can confidently say I am pretty pro-baby, you know, once they are out of the womb and all. But I don't understand this whole babies-fly-and-ride-for free thing, like they are just an extra carry on purse you are bringing. No. Purses are quiet and nonviolent. Your baby is a crying screaming pooping punching machine. You should have to pay something for bringing that baby on board, if not to the airline then to the poor suffering soul who got stuck in the broken middle seat next to you on an international flight to New Zealand. Maybe if you had to pay to bring that baby, you would have to think really hard about whether you really need to be traveling with a baby. Can you leave the baby with a trusted family member if you're only going to be away for a short amount of time? Are you being overly protective? If no one can watch your baby, do you really have to go at all? These are the things I think about, long and hard, when considering what to do with my dogs when I travel. To come on this three-week long vacation, for example, I flew my mother out to Los Angeles all the way from Atlanta so that she could watch my dogs while I am away. Would I have gone to the trouble if it were free to fly with dogs on a plane? Probably not. With all due respect though, my dogs don't punch people, and they sure as hell shut up when I tell them to. So maybe we have it backwards here. Maybe they need to make flying with your dog free, and flying with your baby should cost a fortune. I am going to write someone a letter. 

- I was absolutely right to go on one last backpacking trip before turning 30 because I have realized that I am over hostels and those who inhabit them. No, 21-year-old girl from Germany sharing my disgusting bunkbed, I do not want to bail on the tour I paid for to go with you to find a job on a farm that will let you stay for free in exchange for free labor. No, tonedeaf kid who brought his guitar to the common dining area, I do not want to hear that song you wrote, and also you are talentless and everybody hates you. By the way, as we speak, my newest bunkmate, an 18-year-old boy from Germany, just offered me  a muffin and told me about his plan to drive around New Zealand with a random group of dudes he just met. Just last year, I would have wanted to join in, but today, I find myself relieved that I booked a tour, and it is starting tomorrow.

- I am old.