My name is Mary Jones and I need to diversify my stock portfolio!

Oh man, I am getting into trading like a wicked mofo. One more week and I go back to real money after a trimester hiatus. I have had a fabulous two weeks—it doesn't feel like I'm working, I'm playing. I wake up at 730 and start my morning by watching Bloomburg financial ticker, than CNNfn's market watch, then CNN. I love it! The glory, the pathos, the whole thing.

But I still owe you guys part 2 and 3 of my travel log. And since today the market is vomiting down to the 1150's (oil prices went down, so all the fags on wall street think the oil companies are going to be taking a hit). I've read all the articles on phatfree.com, theonion.com, all the yahoo news briefs, half the articles on aldaily.com, foxnewschannel, and spatterings on the smoking gun. I am done absorbing, so instead, I'm going to be creating something for others to read. You may thank me later.

New Zealand Part 2: Out and About Christchurch

When Mark and I were not touring the island and sleeping near hippies, we were hanging around in the city of Christchurch, where Mark goes to school (University of Canterbury—very nice concrete buildings surrounded by willows and spotted elms). As I am feeling quite self-contained and organized, I shall list impressions and adventures of Christchurch in bullet form:

- Food. Being as we were both on budgets, Mark and I had restricted diets of cheap ake out or home cooked meals. Takeout usually included Pizza Hut ($8 for a pizza=rad), meat pies, or a variety of various cheap Asian places (best name ever: a Japanese restaurant called “cheap but yummy”). The home-cooked meals were interesting—since both of us have read “Atlas Shrugged” multiple times, there is an inherent romance in cooking for someone you’re living with—one can’t do it without waxing poetic on Dagny’s visit to Gault’s Gulch. I made Indian dishes, beef stroganoff with noodles, and artichoke dip (which doesn’t translate well with non-American products). Mark was in charge of the majority of breakfasts, which he would make while I was sleeping.

- Dinner at the restaurant: meeting the family. Having to pick up some concert tickets from the family, we drove out to the Rossdale vineyards (that’s Ross-dale, not Rozzdale, as I incorrectly pronounced). About 20 minutes from Mark’s house and in the middle of the country, Rossdale was completely beautiful: netted vines in between heavy trees and shaded roads. The vineyard’s main office was in a prarie-style home, about a mile of the main road. Mark’s aunt was a no-nonsense, tom-boyish kind of woman who was perfectly suited for the day-to-day task of running a vineyard. She knew who I was, as did the other women in the office, which was an unexpected honor, as I hardly expect anyone ever talks about me when I’m not around. After poking around the house, Mark and I walked outside to find George, Mark’s paternal grandfather, who had the tickets for the evening’s symphony. George apologized for not getting up, as he had to replant some parlsey. When he finally hauled himself to his knees, he turned out to be a robust, blue eyed man in his eighties with an enormous kind of formal ease that only well-bred people of a certain generation seem to posses. He lit up a fag and asked me a few questions about myself, interspersing with just enough cheeky comments to sweep me off my feet with charm. He invited me to The Office for drinks sometime, then bowed a bit and headed into the house to wash up.
Mark’s aunt, as a belated birthday present and a housewarming gift to me, allowed us to have lunch in the Rossdale restaurant for free, a gesture that wasn’t wasted on me, as it was a $75 value. I also loved the fact that it was completely unexpected—the concert tickets, the lunch, The Office invite—I love days that unfold like that. The restaurant was a little further down the road, in an old cottage that used to be for the grounds keeper. The inside looked like a standard pub, so (despite Mark’s objections) we ate outside in the sunshine. Mark knew the maitre d’, so we chatted with him a bit (skinny, big shoulders, awkward, twenty something) and ordered—stuffed chicken and beef with hollandaise sauce, potato cakes and squash corn soup, cheesecake and raspberry crème caramel, Riesling and kiwi juice (surprisingly refreshing!). The entire meeting was so wonderful I nearly passed out. Mark went back to thank the kitchen staff, and though we were late for Mark’s appointment at the university, we were stuffed and deliriously happy. I took an hour nap in the grass.

-Living with Boys: why do we bother?
Since I wasn’t paying rent, or pitching in for water bills, I felt like I needed to give something back to the inhabitants of 31 Cashel Street. Though the boys were rather tidy, that does not mean that they were clean, a distinction I think few single males (and many single females) actually make. As a result, everything was put away, but there was grime on the stove, dust under the tables and chairs, grime under the plates, unwashed bath and tea towels—the list goes on. So I spent free time scrubbing sinks, mirrors, washing towels, and cleaning under and on top of things. The response? “You washed the towels?” and “why bother? It’ll just get dirty again.” Why bother indeed.

- Pool Tournaments
Mark had taken up, in the absence of any kind of diversion, his old habit of pool playing, resurrected from his German pub youth. In fact, I brought over a pool cue from the US so he could improve his game. On the weekends we were in town, we would head over to Pockets (a name so embarrassing I’m loathe to type it) and watch the hot shots in town compete for various national or local tournaments. Andy, the roommate, was a fabulous player, obscenely forceful. There were guys in tight pants and vests, a guy that looked vaguely like a “Bossanova”-era Frank Black, a skinny welfare recipient who supplemented his income with pool winnings, and a hot rich young boy with big lips and an upturned collar. My game didn’t get any better watching them, but it was voyeuristically fun to watch the passion devoted to something I consider a barroom sport.

- Botanical Garden—Old elms, a collection of bonsai trees, a fern forest, and a collection of willow trees that mark said looked like roman senators. I tried to look romantic and tripped on a curb. There were too many ducks.

- Rugby and the Casino
The Office turned out to be George’s name for his private club at the casino. I have never been to the private club of a casino, and judging by my family and friends, would probably never again have the opportunity to go to one. Getting ready was incredibly stressful, as I had almost no clothes to wear to formal occasions. I changed my shirt two or three times and spent much too long on my makeup, but I figured it was passable. The casino was typical glitz—marble and gold and valet and all of that. Mark took me up to the second floor, overlooking the main gambling floor, and opened a darkwood door to a small room containing a bald, tuxedoed man and a desk. After telling the man who we had come to see and signing a ledger, he opened the door and we entered a much larger, gold-and-red club area. To the right were private roulette tables, blackjacktables, and a brass balcony overlooking various games and slot machines. To the left was a table laid out with a buffet of chicken, stirfry, coldcuts, and cheese, and directly in front of us was a bar. Mark’s grandfather and grandmother (stunning looking, elegant woman who looked like she walked off the set of “Casablanca”) had reserved a table for us, right in front of a plasma screen television. The rugby match we had been invited to come watch had just started, so we gathered food and drinks (all free! The privileges of membership!) While I’m not really a sports person, rugby is something I could really sink my teeth into—the blood, the sweat, the glory of makeshift battle! Mark’s grandfather was an old rugby player himself, so he’d lean over and give me hints on the game and the strategy. After the match (Christchurch wins), Mark and I walked around and observed as Asian business men lost thousands of dollars at the roulette table. I’ve never seen gambling to this degree and was suitably horrified at the sheer waste involved. The actual gambling seemed seedy, kind of low class, a striking contrast to the elegance of the room and the dress and manners of most of the patrons.

- Kung Fu class, and sexual harassment en plus!
Always up to trying new things, I decided to join Mark and sign up for kung fu classes during my sabbatical. Unfortunately, time and money did not permit me from participating in more than one class, but one class was enough to interest me in martial arts, and disinterest me in taking martial arts in Christchurch. The class was marvelous—apparently, I have a natural fluidity and “body confidence,” an assessment I somehow found hysterical, as I can’t help but view my body as something that moves my head from place to place. The martial arts school was in a two level former dance studio, with random couches and punching bags scattered everywhere. I dug it immediately, as that kind of messy, warm chaos always makes me comfortable. Mark is a yellow belt, so he practiced sparring in a different part of the studio, whereas I practiced beginning punches and kicks with a master and his teaching assistant. The master, Master Drake, was a very sweet, Australian looking man with a red face and a military haircut. He was sort of shy around me, but very patient and kind. He had a red-belt teaching assistant, who is more like the typical British looking man—35 and ruddy, with bad teeth and a receding hair line. He came up to my shoulder. When we had to pair off the practice wrist locks, Master Drake went with the 50 year old male student, and I got the red-belt, whom I’ll call Bill. Now, at first, Bill and I had a nice sort of sweet relationship, as one would expect with such a large discrepancy of ages. He kept praising my form, my high kick, and the way I twisted arms (much practice there). Then he gave me some personal pointers on different kinds of ways to punish unwanted pub-advances, and got kind of touchy feely-rubbing my shoulder and my arms. I have gotten to the point where such things strike me as funny, which is much better than the awkward embarrassment of college flirting. Good heavens, I feel bad for the horrendous ways I disposed of would-be suitors. So I allowed him to touch my neck and arms in the lazy, sarcastic way I allow everyone a chance to embarrass him/her -self, and thought no more about it. But then, the following week, I showed up to watch Mark practice. There I am, sitting on the couch, minding my own business, trying to write in my notebook, when he comes down and sits down next to me under the pretense of stretching for his class. He ends up saying things like, “Oh American accents are so sexy” and “how do you like your breakfast?” and “you are such a naughty girl,” and I’m laughing because of the absurdity of his thinking and the ham-handed way he was trying to get me to flirt with him. It was funny for the first hour or so, but by hour an a half of sexist, unerotic innuendo, I was ready to go. When I told Mark, I expected him to think it was as absurd as I did—in the past, he has always been unphased when any jerk tried to chat me up—but this time he was genuinely horrified and upset that a teacher would be so unprofessional. His anger actually touched me more than anything else—probably because I didn’t ask for it or expect it.

- Clothing and Shopping
When one first comes to Christchurch, the initial impression is awe at the well-dressed state of most of the inhabitants. After one pokes around the stores, though, one begins to notice that all the clothes come from the same places. It’s the same thing as America, where everyone in high school shops at the GAP, only here, the GAP equivalent has really cool graphic tees and deconstructed blazers. Still, the lack of individuality is truly frightening. And while my clothes look fashionable and terribly awesome over on this side of the pacific, there I would look like every other drunken seventeen year old girl on a night out. That isn’t to say Mark and I didn’t still go shopping, because we did, even though we couldn’t afford it. We’re vain people like that: we like dressing each other, and dressing for each other. The best place ever was a strip mall on the edge of Christchurch—I found two terrific t-shirts and a Lenin-emblazoned sweatshirt which I have worn everyday since I’ve returned to Dallas

This is getting long. I’ll post the rest later.