By Lucy

An unfamiliar ceiling.

That’s a line from Neon Genesis Evangelion, a very strange anime. The main character gets knocked out and wakes up in the hospital a lot, to the point that he barely recognizes the ceiling in his bedroom.

This room is strange – I assume a girl used to live here. It is painted soft pink, and furnished in similar colours. There is a dressing table decorated with girly ceramics. The bookshelf is the odd place out. It is clearly the bookshelf of someone who is used to waiting around an airport, because the authors are airport lounge staples; Dan Brown, Nora Roberts, McDermid.

For a long time I woke up in the same room. I moved exactly once before I was 18, but this was before I was 4 years old and I don’t really remember it. I wasn’t often allowed to stay over at friend’s places. Moving out of my parents place was a shock for many reasons, although it helped that I was moving in with my then-boyfriend and was used to his place.

I moved more than I intended to in my early 20’s. I had every intention of wanting to buy a house and settle down as soon as possible, which is interesting when juxtaposed with how I’ve been living recently.

I believe Jacob has developed a bit of a crush on me. Not that it means anything – I have no interest, and in two week he will be gone and I’ll probably never see him again. Still, I am curious why he is interested in me. For a quick fling with a pretty girl? Or is he drawn to the idea of having a girlfriend who also travels?

They’ve been going for walks after work. They declined to have a vehicle because they are used to walking 20 kilometers a day, and ordinarily I would agree with them. Most people think anything beyond a half hour walk is too far, but there really is nothing around here and they finally had to agree.

On Saturday we went to Washpen falls, which is just around the corner from where we are, although too far to walk. Originally it was planned that Ethan would drive the three of us, but Simonetta is frantic that the house is ready before the photographer comes in a weeks’ time and roped both of us into working. It marked 7 straight days of work for me, but the work is straight and I appreciate why she is concerned. We somewhat worked out my pay, so at least I have some more cash in my pocket. As long as there’s food on the table and gas in the bike, I don’t need much.

At 2 PM Ethan pulled back into the parking lot and threw his truck keys and debt card at me. “Don’t crash my truck. Fill it up at Windwhistle.” Then he hopped in Gary’s truck and was gone.

What?

I went into the laundry room and asked Simonetta if I could be released early and she agreed. I grabbed the boys and we piled into Ethan’s truck and drove to Windwhistle for gas, and then Washpen.

At the very least, I’m already used to driving on the wrong side of the road, but the way the dashboard is laid out is odd. Nonetheless, I am a good driver and it’s a short trip, so we made it fine.

Washpen is so named because the original owner of the property (or I should say, the first non-Māori owner) thought that his wool might fetch a better price if it was washed before the sheep was sheered. So he dug a large “pen” in the river bank to make a lagoon, and then made the sheep bathe before sheering them.

The current owner, Tom, is a retiree who is quite enthusiastic about his self-appointed career creating and maintaining the hike, which costs 10 dollars per person. After we told him our nationalities, he informed me that the hike would be “boring” by Canadian standards, as there are no large mammals that could kill me in the area! He stood and chatted with us for a few minutes. There is a map in the kiosk to take a picture of, as well as a pamphlet he hands out with a history of the area.

It is a well-maintained trail; you can see the money at work! There are 23 signs indexed to paragraphs in the pamphlet, although admittedly most of them are about the local flora and fauna, some are historical. There are lots of well made stairs and benches as well. It’s worth the drive even if you aren’t a big hiker, it takes about 2 hours to complete.

It is steeply uphill for the first leg, I was out of breath a bit. About half an hour in, you get to a series of natural caves, with the outline of some worn basalt clearly visible. I’ve never seen any caves like them and I thought it was awe-inspiring!

There is a portion of the caves decorated with lead paint, supposedly from target practice in the second World War.

Shortly after leaving the cave, you walk past a small waterfall called the “Armchair” waterfall.

There was some red lichen of some sort growing on the cliff which I found very fascinating.

A few short steps later, we were at the top!

The view was amazing! It’s really too bad it was a somewhat muggy day – on a completely clear day, you can see all the way to the ocean!

We got passed at the top and on the way down by some guy who was jogging the trail, which struck me as very odd, if for no other reason than because this is the only trail with paid parking.

Descending into the valley ringed by craigy cliffs, decorate with small shrubs clinging to any scrap of dirt and lined by palm trees, felt like we were wandering around Isla Nublar. Just waiting for a dinosaur to pop out!

After half an hour of descent, we found the titular Washpen falls. A little bit after that, we encountered a sign declaring the pool under the falls to be “Lucy’s Lagoon”, which everyone found terribly funny.

20 minutes down the track, we found a neato surprise. There was an area clearly set up for entertaining, across from another lagoon. The pamphlet informed us that this one was for a generator the original owner had rigged up, which he had retrieved from a World War submarine. Which really just asked more questions than it answered, like how did he get ahold of a generator from a submarine? As in, a military submarine? And how did he bring it 70 clicks into the bush to hook it up to a flywheel?

I got basically nothing done on Monday. Not that I’m arguing, but I was in a fit of anxiety worried that they’d suddenly recall something urgently as I was getting ready to head out.

My plan was to hop in the shower by 2:30 at the latest and be out of the house by 3. I didn’t really want to shove a wet ponytail into my helmet, but I didn’t have a hair dryer, I definitely wanted to shower after work, and sometimes those things just happen.

Simonetta was in video calls all day, so I had to wrangle Gary for work. He had no better plan than to give me a grinder with a cement cutting blade and asked me to take a chunk out of the back doorstep because it’s breaking. He did, at least, give me safety goggles and some proper ear muffs, although no dust mask. Cuz after all the asbestos and lead paint I’ve inhaled, what’s a little concrete dust?

It makes me smile, cuz when I’d work with my dad he’d wrap me up in all the PPE and then use barely any himself, and when I questioned it he’d give the same answer.

After the cement was cut, he gave me a Hilti drill with a masonry bit he filed the end off of with a grinder, and told me to dig out at least 2 centimeters of the broken concrete so he can smooth it out later.

Then he was gone.

That took me maybe an hour and left my hands buzzing, because it’s always a good idea to activate your neuropathy and carpel tunnel before you spend more than an hour on a vehicle with precise controls.

Simonetta barely managed to emerge from her office to ask me to peel potatoes, before she was dragged back in to another meeting. I filled up the basket she keeps under the counter, peeled and quartered large 5 potatoes, and left them rinsed in a bowl on the counter. Then I told Regan to tell Gary I was done for the day and went to shower the cement dust off.

I felt pretty pumped about the drive. I know I’ve seemed ambivalent about most of my trips and I sort of was, but today was a good day. I’d given myself 2 hours to reach my destination. It could be less than an hour in perfect driving conditions, but I wouldn’t have those. At a minimum, I knew there was roadwork between me and there and that would add time. It was a lovely warm, sunny day, just hot enough that I felt comfortable in my jacket and jeans. I threw everything I needed into my bag and away we go!

I did get stuck in construction zones. Motorcycles are such finnicky things, although it is a lot easier for me to be stuck in stop and go traffic than the Vagabond’s big beast; pouring off heat, and heavy. My little sport bike still can’t manage to muster any heat and is easy enough to hold up when stopped.

My biggest concern became that I was at the front of the line of cars, and the road was all torn up. I wasn’t going fast enough to hurt myself if I fell, but a line of cars would quickly chew me up! At this point, I have so much practice with gravel I should do motocross, and made it through without incident.

The Waimakariri river gorge is absolutely beautiful, although it does kind of just look like Rakaia’s.

My route was straightforward until I got to the suburbs – just follow the signs that say “Scenic route 72”.

I didn’t get lost in the suburbs either. I pulled up to a white, two story house and kicked the bike into neutral. Before I could get off, a woman exited the house. “Don’t leave it there! Bring it into the drive.”

I wheeled it into the driveway. I had arrived.

If I had to describe Anthea in one word, it would be forthright. She doesn’t suffer fools, that’s for sure. She’s tall and stately, with piercing blue eyes, and if it wasn’t for her grey hair I wouldn’t believe she was north of 60. She showed me my room, across the hallway from the bathroom, and left me to sort myself out. I swapped my sweater out for my sport-coat with pins, brushed my hair and swapped my boots for my shoes.

We had a cup of tea and talked in the living room for about an hour before we had to head out to the meeting.

It wasn’t until Anthea put on her pins that it clicked in my head, although I’m sure I knew it before; she’s president-elect of the club. I’m not sure what the president-elect’s position is (they hold it for 2 years) but she must be just under the president in terms of authority. A shiver went down my spine; here I was, this ratty kid with a bike and a dream, thinking I could hang out with important people like her.

Once we arrived, I was given a glass of wine and steered around the room to several introductions. Anthea had thoughtfully given me a name tag, but everyone knew me by name already. A fair number of people were almost giddy to meet the girl from Canada, the carpenter who bought a motorcycle to tour around the country (all the way from Methven!).

“If only they knew,” I thought, “that I’m just a second term apprentice, and not much of a biker,” and then it clicked. Why aren’t I a biker? Not a long term or very skilled one, although I suppose I must give myself credit for braving both gravel and rain, something a large number of bikers would refuse to do. I bought a bike and I drive it as my main vehicle, not a Sunday driver. And the carpentry thing… I’ve completed every task set to me by Simo and Gary, maybe not quickly or elegantly, but still. Maybe things here weren’t as action-packed as I imagined… but that’s alright.

There is a high school student who is a new member of the chapter here, Simone. At first blush we have very little in common – she’s almost half my age, the horror – but it occurred to me that if she continues to work with the Soroptimists, some day she may be the regional president and we’ll be working together. This could be the start of a lifelong working relationship!

I made an attempt to meet everyone there and have something original to say to each of them, but there was at least 30 people and I got burned out.

Dinner was some corned beef with mustard (horseradish?), asparagus, baked potatoes (with no butter), beets and some coleslaw. It was very tasty, if a bit dry. Dessert was some sponge cake with custard, cream and chocolate-covered blueberries.

After dinner there was a brief lecture by one of the members. She works as a dental technician. Her boss sends her to other countries to learn about the cutting edge dental technology, like the TRIOS scanner and 3D printers. She was on a trip to the Cook Islands to provide dental services to the smaller, underserved islands, and was planning a trip out to Vanuatu in the future. Curiously, her trip to Vanuatu was working closely with a Rotary club chapter, which made me wonder again if I aught to join them or if that’s gilding the lily.

Once she was done her excellent, planned speech with accompanying Powerpoint, the MC turned to me. “Could you speak as well?”

I laughed nervously as I got up and went to the front of the room. I knew it was coming, but I was lost on what I was speaking about. I had prepared a bullet point list on things about our chapter in Thunder Bay, but… but…

Contrary to, perhaps, how I carry myself, but I’m actually a fairly good public speaker and I don’t get stage fright. I was just lost for a topic. I introduced myself and trailed off. What did these people want me to talk about?

Anthea rescued me. She asked some gentle questions from the sidelines and I found my feet again. Every eye was turned my way, everyone laughed at every joke. When I mentioned part of my interest in Soroptimists was to convince girls that the trades was a career option for them, the room broke into applause.

I can do this.

I am doing this.

No one is perfect right off the bat. And I suffer a bit from seeming like I know what I’m doing, I think. But I am doing it. I can travel the globe, meet other cultures and learn from them, and I have something to offer in return.

The speech was short, even if it felt like an eternity. I fled gratefully back to my seat and watched Anthea guide the rest of the meeting with poise and grace.

Once the meeting was over and we went back to her place, she made herself a tea and me a hot chocolate. We sat down in the living room to talk again. She has an eye for such things, as indeed she must, that I have leadership skills and aspirations, and that I am struggling under the weight of expectations.

We talked until both of us were yawning, and then we retired for the night, which is how I woke up in a strange room yet again.

She warned me that she wouldn’t be up early and I could sleep in, but I couldn’t sleep in. It occurred to me that I’ve spent the better part of a month sleeping in airports, hostels and the tiny cabin, and this was my first night back in a bedroom in a house. I made myself a tea and sat in the kitchen doing Duolingo until she stirred.

Kiwis are quite generous. She bustled around the kitchen, making bacon, eggs, coffee and toast with marmalade, and set the dinning table for a full service. I felt sort of grubby and underdressed, but she seemed quite thrilled to have me there.

We talked for another couple of hours over breakfast and she invited me back to stay if I find myself adrift in my travels. It helped settle my nerves a bit, because as much as I am sure Simonetta would host me again, at some point she will have sold her place and be unavailable. Anthea also mentioned she knows the woman I contacted in Hokitika as well, and some others who would be more than happy to offer me a room for the night.

The ride back was colder, unfortunately.

It gave me lots of time to think. No longer was I alone in a foreign land. It was becoming less scary.

Additionally, they had invited me to some sort of regional conference for Soroptimists, which was happening in Invercargill – irony of ironies – a week after I planned to leave.

I could always adjust my plans. I had no real reason to be back in Canada halfway through March, beyond figuring I would have seen everything there is to see and giving myself some time to adjust and see friends before jumping back into work. I also didn’t need to do my extra week in BC, although I probably would. I would still have 2 weeks spare; one week in BC, then one week back in Thunder Bay?

And, of course, now that I was settling, my mind was starting to contemplate coming back for the balance of my visa. I could couch-surf for the shut down in Thunder Bay. Dryden would be a hotel stay anyway. And then just hop on a plane and come back.

What do I want?

When I got back, I did a full clean of my cabin, including pulling out all the furniture to sweep under it, and wiped down my motorcycle as well.

Then I started unpacking my things into the dresser and desk.

It felt better now that I knew the cabin was my own, not littered with dirt and belongings from previous occupants. It also helped that Regan is indignant on my behalf about the half-finished nature of it. And then, of course, there is the second bed, taunting me as it sits unused in the corner.

On Wednesday I had to be up early; I had a tattoo appointment.

I was sort of lost as to what I was getting, actually. I had messaged her around 3 weeks ago to book the appointment, but she hadn’t provided a lot of guidance around pricing and I was nervous about spending a lot of money (for obvious reasons). I had a back-up option if I was feeling cheap.

It was another fabulous, warm, sunny day, although the Nor’Easter was at it again. I just hunkered down over the bars and stood on the pegs like I was preparing to jump a show-horse and limped along.

The studio was just an unused loft at the back of a spa, but I suppose that’s all a single artist needs. Regan knows her, so I said hi for him. She told me with the 100 dollar deposit, it would only be another 70 for both tattoos I mentioned, which is an absolute steal. Even with the exchange rate, I’d be getting them cheaper than in Canada (or Barrie, anyway).

The meaning behind Sisu is simple, ish. Sisu is a Finnish word that roughly translates to “tough as nails” (there’s no direct translation for it). There’s a couple of Finn’s in the Discord server I used to run movie night on, and they suggested Sisu the movie. It’s very gory and gritty, it looks like it was made by Tarantino. It’s about the black period of history when the Western world basically abandoned north Finland to be ravaged by AWOL Nazis and Russian soldiers after World War 2. The word was their version of “keep calm and carry on”.

After we watched the movie, someone commented I aught to get a tattoo of the word, since I have been through so much with my cancer treatment. So I decided to get it above the scar for my Port-A-Cath. The “cancer ribbon” for desmoids is blue (more of a light-blue/ teal, but I decided a darker blue would compliment my skin better).

For bonus irony points, we watched the movie while I was in Dryden for the first time.

It took me longer to get the scar than the tattoo, although I was awake for the port surgery. They told me I could wait 6 hours for the anesthesiologist with recovery time in the post-surgical unit, or just have it done with local numbing and be in and out in half an hour. The pain was about the same, though. Tattoos above the breast and below the collar bone don’t hurt much, they just feel like someone is pressing really hard on your skin with a pen.

Amor Fati is more philosophical. It’s Latin for “love of fate”, although Nietzsche and his admirers often change it to “love of one’s fate”. The idea, so far as Nietzsche is concerned, is to accept, if not enjoy, everything that happens to you, good or ill, because it makes you who you are. Every person who broke your heart before you found the one for you was merely keeping you available for your one true love. Every job you got fired from kept you looking for the career you really loved. Or, alternatively, it’s gotta rain some time, just accept it. Or any other way you’d like to interpret it.

I first noticed it in the trailers for a Morgan Freeman movie that seems to have slipped under the radar last year, “A Good Person“. It’s about a woman who kills her future sister-in-law in a car accident, then becomes an addict and hits rock bottom before going to AA… run by her former father-in-law. Morgan Freeman as the father-in-law has the saying as a tattoo.

I like the saying, but it really struck me in the context of the movie. Him trying (and eventually failing) not to hold a grudge against a young woman who killed his own child. Trying to help her find peace and healing while also struggling with alcoholism himself.

It came out around the time when I learned that the Vagabond has lost his license for drinking and driving in the past. And he’s still somewhat unrepentant about it; he continues to insist the cop “had it out for him”, even though he obviously was over the limit or they wouldn’t have been able to pull his license (I would like to stress that he’s learned his lesson and takes cabs home from the bar now).

On November 1st of this year, it’ll be five years since I lost Luke to a drunk driver on Halloween night.

It still hurts.

It just seemed sort of… interesting… watching the Vagabond defend his own actions when he knows I’ve lost someone to the same sin.

As I move forward in life, starting to have people in my life who aren’t squeaky clean, and sort of deciding, if not to forgive them, how to move forward in an “agree to disagree” sort of way. How to confront your own feelings about certain things. Why people break the law and deal with the consequences therein.

The wrist hurts more – it felt like she was plucking at my tendons with a knife. Again, I didn’t let myself ask for a break, I just balled up my sweater in my fist and dug my nails in and went to my happy place. Just like surgery.

I referenced Shinji earlier, but the character from Neon Genesis I always identified with more was Rei. Doctors try very hard to preserve your modesty, your identity, your looks, but I’ve spent so much of my life in cold, white rooms, with a mask pressed over my face while someone tells me to count backwards from ten. I’m surprised I don’t have nightmares about it.

This is pain I chose.

She holds up a mirror. I smile. The pain is fading already.

“I love it!”

It’s funny that all my tattoos so far are words. My body is becoming a book, how fitting.

I appreciate the timely responses from everyone I reached out to. The guidance and kind words were very helpful. I think I will try to stay for the meeting in Invercargill.

Amor fati…

“Give me the strength to change what I can change, the courage to accept what I can’t, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

I like the double meaning of the title. Born to run, IE born to be a wanderer and a biker, but also, born to be a leader. Born to run for office. I’m starting to see how I could have both, when I thought I’d have to chose.