Where Sea Meets Sky

He gets up and I watch as he greets a young couple and their little girl in a pink dress. There’s a lot of hugging and tears and he gives the girl, his granddaughter, the stuffed Kiwi bird. She hugs it, delighted, albeit still shy around her grandfather. The reunited family leaves together, looking happy as pigs in shit.

I’ve never felt more alone. And I know the feeling will only get worse if I don’t get up. I need to get to the backpackers in the city, I need to unpack and sleep and take comfort in the idea that the world is small. It’s something I can handle.

I go outside and wait for the next airport bus. I have a moment of panic when I realize I never got any New Zealand currency out from the bank machine, but it turns out the buses here accept credit cards. I hold my breath, praying there’s enough room on the card for the twenty dollar ticket after all the plane tickets I bought. There is.

Throwing my backpack in the bins at the front, I find an empty seat and take a moment to get a grip. I feel discombobulated, like a gumball bouncing around in a gumball machine. I feel like I’m in a dream, like I’m here but not here at the same time.

By the time the bus engine roars to life, my leg is jumping up and down to a restless beat. I’m anxious, nervous, worried about things I’m not even aware of. But when we pull away from the curb and chug down the road on the wrong side, I’m hit with a thrill. I’d forgotten that everyone drives on the left here.

Suddenly, a mere bus ride turns into a novelty. It trips me out, going against everything I’m used to. It’s foreign. It’s exciting. I’m not at home. I’m elsewhere.

I’m free.

Bright fields of French lime and forest green fly past the window, dotted with cows and sheep. Cars zip down the highway with names I’ve never heard of before, like Holden and Peugeot and Daihatsu. Everything is so much the same and yet so different. It hits me, smacks me, time and time again, that I’m not in motherfucking Kansas anymore.

I feel high. It’s the jet lag. It’s the lack of sleep. But the unknown is all around me, and kilometer by kilometer, I am falling in love with it.

By the time the bus winds along narrow suburban streets, well-kept houses, and yards filled with lush, subtropical foliage and bright flowers, and then through downtown Auckland with its concrete and glass buildings, my body is fighting a war between the need to explore and the need to close my eyes.

The bus drops me off near my hostel, the Sky Tower Backpackers, located across the street from the famed tower, a building so tall that it puts the CN Tower to shame. It makes me nauseous to crane my neck back and stare at the top, and even more sick when I see a tiny person jumping off the top and descending it while attached to wires, like they’re rappelling some cliff, not a thousand-foot-tall structure among city streets.

The girl at the front desk of the backpackers is cute and friendly and giving me the eye, but I’m suddenly in no mood for chit-chat. Part of me wants to talk about a million things, do a million things, but most of me just wants to crash for a few hours.

She gives me the key to the hostel and the bunk room and tells me a few rules that I don’t really pay attention to. Then she shows me the way.

The room wasn’t the cheapest—it has only two bunk beds instead of four or six, but I figured the first few nights I was in Auckland I’d need all the extra privacy and sleep I could get. To my relief the room is empty and clean enough and the only available bunk is on the top, which means no one will be disturbing me.

It seems like there are only men in the room, judging by the state of their backpacks and the mess around their beds. There are lockers and I use one to store all my valuables, like my passport and credit cards, then I change into a new pair of clothes and climb onto the top bunk, cradling my backpack in my arms like it’s a girl who refuses to spoon. I had heard horror stories about people’s shit being stolen from their bags, and even though my roommates don’t seem to care about their stuff, I figure it doesn’t hurt to be cautious on the first day.

In seconds, I am out.

I wake up to shaking. It takes me a few moments to figure out where I am, then why the bunk is swaying back and forth. I try to open my eyes and it feels like I need a crowbar to finish the job. Dim golden light is coming in through the window. I don’t know what time it is or what day it is. I barely remember I’m not in Canada.

“Aw, sorry man, did I wake you?” A strange accent jabs into my skull.

I slowly turn my head to see what jackass has dared to wake the sleeping giant.

A short dude with a mess of brown hair is standing by the bunk and staring up at me expectantly with a big smile on his face. Though I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck and my body is begging for more sleep, I can’t really be mad at this guy. He’s got one of those faces.

“I was sleeping, so yes,” I tell him groggily. One of my arms is numb under my backpack.

His grin broadens. “American? Canadian?”

“Canadian,” I tell him.

“Right on, I’ve been to Toronto.” Before I can tell him I’m not from Toronto, he gestures to the other guys in the room. “We’re from Germany. I’m Tibald and this is Schnell and Michael.”

I lift my head and see two other guys sitting on the bottom bunk. They raise their hands in hello. They all seem to have this wholesome, enthusiastic vibe that I can’t seem to wrap my head around.

“What’s your name?” Tibald asks, stepping up onto the bunk below so he can get a better look at me. I move back slightly, not used to having my personal space invaded by strange men (which is probably a good thing not to be used to).