Antarctica seems but a dream. While some were having a hard time adjusting to civilization, I can’t actually believe I stood at the South Pole. In contrast to our military flight in, which only had two small windows, we flew out on an Airbus and I made sure to get a window seat. It gave me a whole different perspective of the continent seeing the glaciers, mountains and valleys, open seas and ice shelves. I was happy I stayed for the extra month, but also ready when it came to a close. Then I followed my typical in-flight routine and feel asleep until the plane began its final descent into New Zealand.

I grabbed my luggage off the carousel and placed it on a cart before jumping on the back myself and riding it outside and to the Antarctic Clothing Distribution Center like a skateboard. The warm breeze and humid air felt euphoric against my bare arms. I checked in all of my cold weather gear and then joined others to hop on the shuttle into the city. In town, we noticed a group of four women dressed as pirate maidens heading to some party or dance. A few blocks later another group of maidens. Then a different quad with pink hair in fairy costumes. We had been in a place where the male to female ratio had been 4 to 1. I forgot the general populous was 50/50. Then I saw a peculiar creature, otherwise known as a baby. And then a small child and elderly. Then some more girls with blue and green wigs. It was land of the freaks.

Sitting in the hotel check-in line, four young women in Catholic school girl outfits approached us and asked us a question. We just looked at each other and started laughing. The first words a civilian in the real world uttered to us were, “Do you have any ribbed condoms?” Apparently it was for some scavenger hunt or a bachelorette party, I don’t remember. They continued asked other people nearby as I moved forward in the queue and got my room number at the looks-like-Apple-designed-it, Hotel So. The trendy rooms weren’t liked by all the roughnecks from the ice but I enjoyed it. Later that night I met up with a couple of the guys I knew from the Pole.

The dynamic between the two was like hanging out with Bert and Ernie. One was a deliberate, conservative in demeanor, Ivy League graduate from New England and the other was an Texan who worked on oil rigs and has a girlfriend that wants him to get a job in Kuwait because you can’t do anything immoral in that country or they chop off the offending member or hand. All night long, without his girlfriend watching, The Texan would goad and prod the Ivy leaguer into drinking faster than just one beer an hour, drinking more than just two or three beers a night, and staying out later than midnight. I laughed the entire evening, they were like movie characters. Our journey started with me feeling really old just from looking at all the young looking people in line. The girl in front of us started a conversation by noticing my pale arms and gleefully exclaiming “You’re just as white as I am,” before bursting out in laughter.

We started talking a little bit, but before soon I had to ask how old she was. She started giggling again and said “I’m 27. Ha ha ha ha yeah I’m 27.” She then showed me her ID which looked like a gym membership. Suddenly something dawned on me as I scanned the crowd. I looked at her and said, “Yeah I’m 27 too, just like you are, only the opposite direction.” Translation: I was just as close to age 27 as she. The legal drinking age in New Zealand, like the majority of the world, is 18. Her fake ID made me want to get out of there in a hurry, as I could picture my sister calling me a sicko. We ended up not going inside and finding a more mixed crowd but I had other problems. Usually foreign people in New York love talking with me because I speak English so slow they can actually understand someone, but here I just talk, umm, I’ll say exotic. I ordered my drink three times before the bartender could comprehend my words. I’m having trouble with their accents once in a while too.

I walked into a bathroom and was about to enter a private stall, when I heard a voice calling to me. I looked up and saw a beautiful blonde woman dressed up in a French Maid costume. Yes, another one from the costume party thing, this is my chance. I smiled big, flattered that she would want to strike up a conversation with me, but had to excuse myself because I couldn’t understand what she said. Looking her in the eye, I focused with all the concentration I could muster, embarrassed to make her reiterate her words a third time.

“Um excuse me sir, you’re in the woman’s bathroom. “ she repeated. My giddy smile turned to a look of complete terror as I looked around. Through the propped open door I could see men entering and exiting a room just on the other side of the hallway. Where were they before and why hadn’t I seen any signs? AHHHHH. I meekly apologized, tucked my tail between my legs and scurried out. In hindsight I should have just started a new conversation like nothing was wrong, but I always think of things too late. Several bars in New York have unisex wash stations with stalls in separate individual small rooms. It never occurred to me that it was strange for a woman to be striking up a conversation with me in a restroom. I trotted back upstairs laughing about the situation. There, Ernie was pushing Bert to go to a nudie club. With my vote we stayed away and simply ended up at another nearby bar before calling it a night.The next day I went to a professional rugby game and then met up with those two for another interesting time. They both left Sunday morning though, while I slept in and ate a nice brunch around 1:30 in the afternoon.

I walked around in the foothills of Christchurch, through the botanical gardens, and got a relaxing Thai massage. Looking for lunch one day, I wanted something authentic and searched for an ethnic restaurant with native people eating inside. I found my spot, Sala Thai, and promptly asked for a table. They gave me a table alright, one directly in a corner. Either seat I choose had a grand view of the wall in front of me. I had to turn my body sideways between bites to face out into the room to observe the subdued scene. There were even empty tables. I finished my meal and went looking for backpacking gear. In one of the stores I bumped into a young woman I knew from the Pole. She had been trekking for the past four days in an area called Arthur’s Pass and was on her way to the South Pacific Island, Vanuatu. We made dinner plans and met up with another couple later that evening beforing saying goodbye again.

The next day I took a nine hour bus ride through the Canterbury Plains, through the Southern Alps and down to Queenstown. The town would be well described as the offspring of opulent and chic Park City and adventure driven and adrenaline riddled Moab. As long as we are pretending, the setting reminds me of what that mythical town would look like on the edge of a massive lake at the top of Little Cottonwood Canyon. As for now, the tourists in town are mostly from Australia, The U.K., France and Germany from the sounds of things. Aside from nationality, they also seem to fall into two categories. The first, foreign baby boomers with sweaters draped over their backs and shoulders like a superman cape or like they are going to a tennis match. All the fine dinning establishments have several groups of this type sipping fine wine and engaged in clever conversation.

The other segment of typical tourist here is young twenty-somethings wearing swim trunks, flip flops and t-shirts looking like they are heading to the beach. This group stays at hostels and buys their peanut butter and jelly at the grocery store so they can have more money for booze. While I don’t fit in with either contingent, it’s a simple guess on which side of the fence I landed. Case in point, last night my roommates were four spicy Swedish meatballs. Haven’t seen tonight’s cast that came here looking for extreme sports, but I’m sure I’ll meet them around four in the morning.

Some of the broucheres I’ve seen for the action, include bungy jumping off a bridge the length of 1 1/2 football fields, jetboating through narrow canyons at high speeds, and paragliding. I’ve heard of people driving Formula One race cars. But the best excursion I’ve seen was paying $400 dollars to drive a huge military tank. And for an extra 400 you can even crush and roll over a car. All prices are NZD, for the redneck in all of us.

As for me, I think I’m going to be holed up here for a couple of days because the weather is turning sour. I’ll try to wait it out so I can do the Rees-Dart Trek. It’s about 50 miles long and will take 4 or 5 days. I don’t want to do it in the rain, mud, swollen rivers and obstructed mountain views. I may do the bungy jump in the meanwhile, but the $230 price tag is creating hesitation. I might end up just moving out of town. We’ll see if I get too antsy waiting for sunshine while messy roommates leave shaved facial hair in the bathroom sink and fart repeatedly at night.