Jan. 25, 1 p.m.

Christchurch sushi bar. Ordered a salmon & avocado roll and a cucumber roll with sake. Waiting for my food.

***

Three days ago I woke up to the lovely stench of cow shit. I was under pine trees, and all around me were little pools of water filled with turd, starting to bake in the morning sun. I packed up camp without eating breakfast, my back hurting from the incline, and hopped the fence. I maneuvered through the skin-ripping thorns to get down the steep slope to the dirt road. Hike...

After a half-hour of walking a car drove up. Now, I couldn't just stick out my thumb. I was on a local road, practically in people's backyards. It would have been rude to hitch. So, instead, I asked the couple how far it was to Blenheim. The answer, 20k, I knew, but I said, "Oh, that far eh?" (It helps to assume some local dialect in these matters). They offered me a ride to Spring Creek which is within walking distance of Blenheim, and I graciously accepted. Quite nice of them actually.

This one hitching website I checked out a while ago had an article that stated that hitchhiking shows you more about humanity than you would ever want to know. I disagree, at least as much as my limited (and exceptional) experience of New Zealand hitching allows me. If this is humanity, show me more!

***

In Blenheim I stayed in a tent site at The Grapevine. The main house was for backpackers, but the one across the street is inhabited by travellers working in Blenheim's many vineyards. I set my bivy in the yard next to the workers' dormitory, so I interacted with people who weren't exactly 'on holiday.' Listening to them complain was interesting. (Thank God I felt that way, it's all they did)! Broken car, no work, bad bosses, hot sun; it just went on and on. At the time, however, I wasn't conscious of the fact that they were a bunch of whiners--actually, I really enjoyed the few conversations I had. Every person I meet brings something new into my consciousness.

Most of them were Germans or Asians--Taiwan, Japan, Korea. I think one girl was Irish, but she was crusty and tough and refused to even glance at me, except for a mutual bitch-fest about shaved coconut. She and a German named Stefanie were smoking reefers and playing a little pool after dinner, but I wasn't able to make much conversation with them. When I went to bed soon after I could hear their voices from the kitchen steps; if I leaned over and peered under my rain fly I could see their silhouettes, gesturing as they spoke and laughed.

***

The sushi place on Manchester Street is excellent. Very tasty and fresh. There is a possibility they think I'm a restaurant reviewer, though, taking notes on the decor and the service instead of writing in my journal. I suspect this for two reasons:

1) A couple, just before I got my food, went to the counter to say that the man had to get back to work--they'd been waiting half an hour. He left with a $4.95 pre-made sushi box. I only had to wait a few minutes.

2) I was served miso soup and a traditional salad with my sushi--the menu mentions neither. Yummy and delicious!

So! In the future, think about conspicuously scribbling "notes" while in a restaurant or cafe. Look around, be thoughtful, say "hmmmm..." then write furiously. Maybe ask questions about the history of the establishment. See if the service is better than the other patrons receive. Laugh at their foolishness. Knock back sake, leave without paying.