The Great Adventure Concludes.

April 17:

We woke up (again? wow, what a shocker) and walked downstairs to eat PB&J's for breakfast. When we were there, we got to know our Hostel-mates a little better. Again, as I've previously noted, there were no Kiwis. There were two guys from the UK that were there to hunt deer, who were continuously hassling and getting hassled by an awesome Italian cowboy. They were glad to have Ben and I as that nights Americans, because, apparently, the night before, they were blessed with the presence of a Texas Cowboy and an overly gay Englishman, who, as the story goes, about halfway through the night went up into an upper bedroom for a private "rodeo." Ahem. So, yeah, they loved us.

We then bid a tearful farewell to our one night friends and drove to Christchurch, New Zealand's second largest city. Just before we got to the city, we figured that since we were effectively done driving in NZ, that we should probably wash our car. Unfortunately, we forgot to put down the antenna in the car wash, whoops. Anyways, we finally got to Christchurch, booked a hostel for the next two nights, and set out to explore the city.

Christchurch is actually a pretty cool little city. The city's center is a somewhat old church (hence the name) that you can climb up and take pictures from.
I just thought this was interesting: apparently Kiwis don't believe in a bearded Jesus.

Around the Church is a shopping district, and if you walk about 4 blocks in any direction, you get to residential areas. All in all, it's a cute little city, and, like everywhere else in NZ, it's about impossible to feel threatened in it. But, since it is the second largest city, we saw something there that we'd never seen before in New Zealand. Bums. Seriously, there are no homeless people in New Zealand, it's like there's a law against it or something. Of course, if you think about it, it kinda makes sense. There's 40 million sheep and 4 million people, so it's a pretty safe bet to think that you can get some sort of occupation on a farm if you try.

After wandering about the city center for most of the day and learning our way around, we realized that, other than shopping, there really wasn't anything to do in the city. So we saw a movie. But not just any movie, a Zhang Yimou movie, The Curse of the Golden Flower. The only reason we went to see it is because, in our Chinese Film class, we've been studying Zhang Yimou, so I actually (for the first time) felt like I had learned something in that class. Oh, he directed Hero too, so that should help. It was a decent movie, thought provoking at the very least, and we returned to our hostel, I watched Sin City with Germans and some Englishmen, laughed at them because they didn't get the movie, and went to bed.

April 18:

Today we cruised along museums and the botanical garden. This is also the point where I describe just how much I really, really dislike modern art.

Okay, so some of it can be poignant and meaningful. That gives it a point towards art. Unfortunately, I see the ability to make art as a gift, in other words, it is something special that is not given to everybody. We, as human beings, should be able to recognize our limitations and not attempt to do things that we, let's be honest with ourselves, can't really do. The story of Icarus and Daedalus comes to mind. So, this simply means that people like myself, who can't physically draw a smiley face, shouldn't really attempt to make themselves artists. And shame on you, whoever told this budding artist in kindergarten that they could be an artist someday. Shame.

Also, modern art is pompous as hell. They seem to think that they're the only ones in the world that understand anything, and they make their art purposefully obtuse just to make sure that they, themselves, are only ones that can understand it. They also seem to think that they're important; they seem to believe that making something out of toilet paper rolls and pom-poms makes some important, world-altering change. Honestly, their self-riotousness is simply disgusting. They sacrifice aesthetics for politics, and then can't even get the point across that they're trying to make. It drives me absolutely bonkers. Or Bat-Shit crazy. You can take your pick. So here's some pictures to drive home just how much it makes me nuts:
This is a pretty famous exhibit. Here's the lamp when it's on.
And here's the lamp one second later when it's off. . . yeah. 'Nuff said.

At least Ben got to be the Bic man.

Anyways, we wandered around museums, and just as we were about on our way back to town, somebody caught my eye. It was a large, Caucasian male with flaming red hair dressed in a bright green T-Shirt. I only knew of one person in NZ fitting that description, and, against all odds, it was Rhett. He was down from Massey University for Easter break as well, and we'd said goodbye about two weeks before, so the odds were astronomical, but nonetheless, we met him randomly on a street in New Zealand's second largest city. We stared at each other, shocked, then talked in brief about our respective trips to the same places, and we decided that, since they knew of even more Americans about to come into Christchurch that night, that we'd make it An American Night On The Town.

So we did. Later in the night, Ben and I went to Rhett and Co.'s hostel, and I watched as they all played a rousing game of P&A, or for those of you not currently up on college drinking games, President and Asshole. I'm not even going into that here. Suffice it to say, by the time we actually left their dorm to make a round of the local bars, everybody else had at least a buzz. And one girl, Diane, was already really, really drunk. She averaged a straight line. The first place we went was called Sticky Fingers (which I said sounded like a gay bar, but luckily I was wrong) and the baker's dozen or so of us just talked about our trips, and, since it was a bar, drank. So, since it wasn't a Thursday, we closed the place down at 1:00. We then proceeded to explore Christchurch city center in search of an open bar, but, in the whole of the city center, there were only two. Yeah, this place is weird. Then the party continued at The Stock Exchange, where we talked some more and drank some more. This continued on for another two and a half hours or so, and Ben and I elected to leave, 'cuz tomorrow we had to check out of our hostel. The strange part came during the walk home, I saw something else here for the first time (even though it's legal), we, Ben and I, encountered prostitutes. Now, wouldn't it make sense to be attractive and be a prostitute? Wouldn't that help your business? Apparently not, because these girls were ugly as sin. I think, as I walked past to an offer of a blow job, the glass on my watch face cracked.

April 19:

Today, like any day that ends a vacation, had a cloud over it. We didn't really posses the energy to do anything (which is good, because there was nothing more to do in Christchurch) was non-existent. So we watched Terminator 2 in the lounge of the hostel, and eventually called an airport shuttle to drag our lazy American butts to the airport.

So, throughout our journey, we saw signs for something called the antarctic center. "One of New Zealand's top attractions." "Voted best indoor entertainment in Christchurch." "Will make you poop gold for one week after attending." Stuff like that. So we decided that since we had about 5 hours until our plane left, we might as well go to The Illustrious Antarctic Center.

The outside of the place looked cool, if you'll forgive the pun.

So I don't know if I've said this yet, but all of the museums in New Zealand are free to the public. Donations recommended, of course, but to starving college students, free. The Antarctic Center, however, cost $30 to get in, which, because everything else was free, seemed really steep. But, whatever, we were there, we'd get to poop gold, so we decided that we should go in. Maybe our feces would make up for the admission. . . but no, it was really unimpressive. It was a bunch of static plaques describing Antarctica and its history, which is really less than exciting. There were really only two rooms of note. This one:

This room simulated a real Antarctic storm, which was pretty cool. They supplied warm coats and coverings for your boots. The clock counted down like it was the new year, and then they turned on the fans until it got rather frigid. I, of course, wore shorts. It really wasn't that bad, but I like the idea. As I was heading out, I made a flippant comment about how next time they should make it snow too, and I was really surprised to learn that Antarctica doesn't really get snow storms. An Antarctic storm consists of almost entirely wind. Cool. Ha.

And they had a room dedicated to Blue Penguin preservation. So I actually get to show you pictures of real, live, mobster Blue Penguins. It was pretty cool to see them during the daytime, not nearly as awesome as seeing them during the night in a red light, but it afforded a somewhat better view. And, I would like this on the record, these things are damn cute. I want one for a pet. Adorable.

We then parted the Antarctic Center, disillusioned. But, Ben being the weird kid that he is, decided that he'd stop by the New Zealand Antarctic Institute and ask what it takes to get to spend some time working there. The lady at the front desk, bureaucratic as ever, told us that they couldn't actually help American students, we had to go across the way and ask the American Antarctic Institute our questions. Naturally, the door was locked. Bureaucracy wins again. Sigh. After that disappointment we caught a plane back to Palmy, a shuttle bus back to Massey, and we crashed in our respective dorms, content with an awesome trip.

Ben and Brandt's Great Adventure was over. Back to school, if not back to reality.