Author: KandE

“i envy your ability to shower daily”


by KandE

Only one event can compare to Clean Clothes Day in this new life: CLEAN HAIR DAY.
Today was misty and damp.
Today was cold and dreary.
But today: I’m capable of conquering the world with my day one tresses! Although I instead focused my efforts on Betsy Rossing the shit out of this curtain project. The back two panels have now been installed and we of the van are heartily rejoicing. They’re far from perfect–blame inexperience, cramped sewing hands, and wine–but they are distinctly ours. We chose this cheery blue, we took the immaculate measurements to ensure they are completely custom, and we’ve toiled over this, goddamnit! We’ve toiled! In other news, I now feel little to no aversion to donating blood after countless mishaps with the needled. Ergo, our work here will save lives! Cue the hair toss!

-K

And now for a few random snaps of the past week or two:

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^ I’m a sucker for a swing bridge.

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^ A hike following an old coal mine rail track several miles into the forest. We were climbing over rusted, antique machinery; stepping over slippery waterfall rocks; and navigating over many dangerous pathways with grave, immediate drop offs + no handrails. Viva New Zealand. That was fun.

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^ Letter writing in the last light of day

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^ A couple pals coming to check out my sun salutations by the river. What is this magical place?

 

my new favorite place.


by KandE

You can learn a great deal of things about a person during a session at the laundromat. The stains that populate the clothes they buy. The way they occupy themselves during the spin cycle. Whether one decides to fold or throw after the timer goes off, into dirty duffel bags or bright plastic hampers.

Me: I’m the girl with too many flannels, not enough brassieres, writing post cards in the sunniest corner. A takeaway long black sits in front of me as I slowly sway to the generic, poppy playlist overhead. (Hungry Like A Wolf up next. Independent Women on deck.) I’m the one telling the handsome man at dryer 9, “Wait! I’m not ready to go yet! I’ll help you fold in a few minutes when I finish what I’m working on.”

-K

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^ Laundry day a few weeks ago near Nelson.

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^ A few overdue wine wrap-ups. Mud House p. gris (8/10) and Mount Ara s. blanc (8.5/10)

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^ Oyster Bay s. blanc (5/10)

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^ &Two of my best recent cooking adventures!

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^ More food and drink shtuff: preparing my morning coffee at the river like my ancestors must have done.

Lincoln


by KandE

It happens most every day; we’ve come to expect it. After arriving at a new campsite, scrutinizing the suitability of each swath of 2×6 meter terrain — is it level? private? shaded? will the neighbors see me in my underwear? — our careful planning is for naught. For most every evening around the time of the dinner bell, some lumbering RV will tap it’s brake light gingerly in our proximity. Chin moving left to right as if spectating a phantom tennis match, the man behind the wheel will be trying to assess the situation quickly, eager to be rid of the burdensome title of driver. Beside him, there will be a female in the front, jabbing a steady pointer finger determinedly in our direction. They’ve got their own list of priorities in deciding which site to alight upon. Unfortunately for us, privacy never seems to be an area of overlap.

As each oversized, overfull vehicle comes to overcrowd our nest, the newcomers are not given the warmest of welcomes from the ’93 Hiace. Upon seeing our backyard quickly disintegrate, my typical response goes to the tune of “Get da fuck outta here!” in low, accented tones one would associate with the Chicago mafia. And so: it’s really no wonder that we’ve made no friends here, swapped no stories over the campfire. (Not that we could, NZ’s got a restrictive fire ban.) I clearly do not love my neighbors as I love my unobstructed views, or the opportunity to carry on, sans pants.

-K

Edit: I, of course, being the good Minnesotan I am, make sure all parties have windows firmly closed before being properly passive aggressive. We’re not actually hostile towards our fellow campers. We just like our space, preferring bird song and cheery, dappled trees for company over vehicles bursting with a gaggle of eager kids, or German teenagers with backseats full of cheap beer. (Of which there seems to be an inexhaustible supply. Wie schade.)

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^ The recipe for an exquisite morning.

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^ This place (Akaroa) is pretty as a postcard. I’ve never seen anything like it. Photo snapped while hanging out the van window.

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^ Are all forests here enchanted?

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^ F/18! Camera play. Refreshing. Picked up a new wide angle lens in Christchurch to have some fun with.

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Christchurch


by KandE

It’s Friday night in the adventure capital of the world! We’re young! We’re alive! And we’re drinking black tea at the kitchen table, sewing curtains together in our underwear.

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Sometimes it’s hard for me to pinpoint exactly whose life I’m leading. Am I a retiree on the road for the winter with my mister, the slow van everyone passes on the highway? Or is my existence closer to that of a young lady in old world Britain, spending my days devouring a small library of literature, penning letters to my dear friends, and improving upon on my needlework skills? Certainly I can’t be a 20something on “the trip of a lifetime,” can I?

Spoiler alert: you bet, mofos.

And I’m loving every luxurious, languorous moment as we slowly traipse and traverse across the countryside.

-K

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^ Two of those luxurious, languorous moments. Making flower crowns in a field with a sweet, little French girl + meditating on huge limestone formations in the middle of nowhere.

To Greymouth


by KandE

Gripped by terror, seized with rage, we are a people at war. Public enemy #1: Austrosimulium australense. Our adversaries in this battle are a formidable lot, with an indefatigable army, limitless reserves, and a monumental thirst for blood.

It’s cousin, the Minnesota mosquito, is an almost graceful creature in contrast. The whine and shimmer of wings gives the victim advance warning to allow for a fair fight, time to strategize a defense. While the mosquito is satisfied with one elegant little pinprick, the sandfly is a more feral beast. As soon as the insect makes contact with the enemy, it appears to burrow it’s entire head in the victim’s flesh, hitting hard, striking fast. The New Zealand predator also runs a more discreet operation, it’s prey unaware of it’s presence until it’s too late. The abominable bug treads lightly, silently bringing it’s brethren into formation, for a forward march onto any and all exposed areas of skin. After generations of combat, these bloodsuckers have learned to target their opponent’s feet and ankles, exploiting the least sensitive areas, for highest profitability.

Defensive strategies on our side include barricading ourselves in the van against siege attacks, applying layers of spray repellent in vain, windmill arms, and tucking our pants into our socks. No man, woman, or child is safe until these creatures are vanquished. This. Is. War.

-K

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^ Looks idyllic, eh? ALMOST.

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^ “This is hell.” (But a beautiful version, to be sure. I’m a sucker for a swing bridge.)

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^ This is what we’re working with, people. I count 15 just in this photo. But that could also be a dirty computer monitor. BEASTS!

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^ And now a few photos of me reading a book, drinking a beer on the beach so we may end on a happy note.

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Life really is lovely. Cheers. 🙂

Paula!


by KandE

It is possible to steal a car in New Zealand by going to the post office, supplying the woman behind the desk with a meager fee, and filling out a new registration form for the vehicle you wish to commandeer. All that is required is a license plate number, the new owner’s name, and local address. The former owner will get a notice in the mail of who you are and where you live should they wish to contest the transaction, but failing this, the car is yours! Congratulations, auto owner. Presto change-o at $9 NZD. Not saying we stole our van, but jussayin’. The way NZ conducts official matters such as this is laughable compared to our native land. No fine print. No signatures. Just an honest word and some coins scattered across a high desk coated in plastic. I can dig it.

And so, we are nearing the 3 week anniversary with Paula, the 1993 Toyota Hiace we purchased from a young, like-minded couple from Germany. She was 3+ driving hours away from our post in Auckland, but after seeing no other campervans with school bus yellow cupboards, I was convinced we could do no better. A purchase was all but inevitable given the effort it took to bus down and our dwindling list of options. Eric still did a thorough walk-around, pressing his thumb into the tires and looking at the engine, while I pretended I understood terms like “cam belt” and “self contained.” I had been told not to appear too eager or uneducated about the process, to give our future bargaining more weight. I was happy for my lover’s sage council, otherwise it would have been a DEAD GIVEAWAY had I started cheering enthusiastically to hear that the tires had been recently rotated. Whew! After the male in our party was satisfied that the milage wasn’t too high, and the female fell in love with the cheap plastic Christmas lights strung inside, an offer a few hundred below the asking price was made. All parties held their breath, an eventual nod was granted, and an adorable, surprisingly formal handshake sealed the deal. After wiring several thousand Euros to our seller’s account, we parted ways, and Eric and I celebrated our long awaited acquisition in true American fashion with a cheeseburger and a beer. Prost!

So far the list of potential renovations has a whopping 21 items penciled inside a neat column. I don’t think a wine rack will be feasible, but we’ve at least been able to handle the most crucial modifications. Several unnecessary and bulky items have been donated to the Salvation Army, a new color scheme has been chosen, a full bedding set + coordinating ukulele purchased, and a complete curtain revamp is underway. Never in my life have I been so excited about a sewing project. Hand sewing, Jesus have mercy. Photographs to come of a more personalized, polished space once the window treatments are completed. Crafting catastrophe or not, that’s a promise. 😉

-K

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^Most definitely a BEFORE shot

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^Making our way into a spacious kitchen!

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^ What the bedroom looks like when it’s doubling as the dining and lounge area in the daytime. Not pictured: the bathroom. All of my before photos are a bit half assed because I wasn’t too jazzed about documenting this portion. I’ll get to more about the toilet later… Yeesh.

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^ Happy with our new home. 🙂

Westport


by KandE

At the stroke of midnight last night, New Year’s Eve, I was bedeckt in black tie finery, crowded around an upright piano. Richard Anderson, Delta’s CEO, was honoring me and my former coworkers by arranging for Sir Elton John to perform for us at the prom. Unfortunately for me, I was gravely ill and couldn’t properly sing my part, to the chagrin of all involved.

There begins and ends my NYE excitement, brought to you by one snappy subconscious already in a deep, sleep induced coma. In reality, the night was quite quiet for Eric and me. We pulled in to a deserted parking lot along a modest, roadside waterfall and set up camp. (Setting up camp=parking, naturally.) We cracked open a couple bottles of local brews, played a few rounds of cards, and scratched some lottery tickets that Eric thoughtfully surprised me with, thus cementing our first and only holiday tradition.

I’d love to say that afterwards we lay back on a picnic table, holding hands, recounting the best year of our lives while picking out late night constellations, but the truth: I can only find a dipper and a measly belt. Also: I was out cold before the sun could properly set.

There were no corks being popped in our van, nor any cheap, plastic fedoras covered in glitter on either one of our heads. I let my exhausted limbs lie after a solid morning hike, my love beside me planning our next driving route and doing more mysterious battery calculations.

His face was the first sight of my 2016 at 5:30 this morning; his feet, the second, as I slipped outside for a moment. It was his bare back shortly after some swallows of fresh air, as I slipped back under the covers for a warm spoon. And so, life carries on into the new year. Nothing seems to be too markedly different, nor do I desire it to be, for I suspect we’re already on a course that doesn’t require many goals, resolutions, or piano accompaniments from aging, British pop stars.

-K

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^ One of the several beautiful views our NYE hike led us to.

St. Arnaud


by KandE

This afternoon while Eric was tirelessly toiling to fix our broken water pump, I was shaving 6 weeks of wildness from my legs. (In reality, this of course means my legs below the kneecaps.) I don’t know which one of us can boast a more productive, significant day!

The moment I felt the wind ruffle the delicate forest inhabiting each leg, I knew this experiment had died. It was the ripple of the feminist flag I felt on my calves, the only delay being razor acquisition. (Thanks for saving my life on this one, Bic.)

I realize I’m not doing well according to my original list of goals–“see how long my body hair can grow before I cave and shave”–but I think in my idealistic mind, I was planting too large of a garden. I’ve instead decided to scale back a bit, focusing my growing on one dedicated area (sorry, armpits) while relishing the harvest of the rest. For while I do want to live a simpler life, hanging out in my van, I’m not ready to embrace so many new lifestyles all at once.

… I also did not buy my razor second hand. (Yeesh.) Fail on all accounts. To which I say: No hair/don’t care.

Plus: WE HAVE WATER AGAIN! Thankyouthankyou, Eric. :*

-K

 

Wa-wa-water


by KandE

The word of the weekend: water. (Also this entry is brought to you by the letter W!)

Yesterday we visited the largest freshwater spring in the world (mildly underwhelming,) Eric attempted a load of laundry in the creek, and I discovered a brilliant swimming hole named “Crystal Pool” at a nearby scenic reserve. I would suggest the latter be renamed “Ice Crystal Pool,” but I still went for a quick dip to fulfill a ballin’ photo op and to sooth my PMSing soul in a river the Maori have long believed to have mystical healing properties.

Today’s aquatic adventures began in the form of my bathing! Huzzah! Eric is keeping track of all sorts of statistics in his journal, and has catalogued this as the X day since my last shower. (My apologies, the number is too horrific for me to admit publicly yet.) Anyway, I swallowed my pride and brought my shampoo and soap caddy to the cold, outdoor shower head at the park. I endured only a slight humiliation as families strolling on a Sunday morning took note of the hairy armpits being soaped across the sidewalk. OH, WELL. I’m clean (today) and nothing can dampen my deep, joyous contentment over silky hair. Not even our newly broken… (wait for it) … water pump! It’s not the worst problem we’ve been faced with on our trip so far, but it reduces our fully functional appliances down to to one: the stove. Unfortunately our batteries for the “house” are still on the fritz, meaning minimal charging of our electronics + no refrigerator, which leads us into our final ode to H2O. We devised a strategy today to keep our dinner meat + produce cold sans fridge, by attempting to harness the cool temps of the campsite river. We hacked an empty water bottle apart (I wasn’t even trying for that w,) stuffed our perishables inside, then wedged it into the shallows with a steady stream to pass through the plastic. It wasn’t a 100% success, but we’ve just finished our dinner and are suffereing no apparent ill effects.

Now that both tonight’s dinner + journaling are done, time to wash all of these highs and lows down with a glass of WINE.

-K

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^ Riverstone. A 7/10 for me, 6.5 for E.

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^ Ice Crystal Pool. It hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. At least, not about anything but the pain. Certain I now know what ice fishing on Lake Wissota is like.

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^ My sweet eldest nephew reminding us to KEEP LEFT. (And when I say us, I do mean Eric. The last time I tried to learn how to drive a manual, it ended in tears.)

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^ More cooking adventures. This is the 3rd time we’ve tried and failed to make a proper cuppa. (Street cred rapidly sinking.)

 

Golden Bay


by KandE

This trip has been following a reliable pattern of 2 steps forward, 1 proverbial step back.

Eric and I have attempted to advance our van living street cred by washing clothes in the stream at our campsite, (+2) however, they still smell like fermented piss. (-1)

Side note: watching your boyfriend labor over a pair of your pink floral panties is quite enough to make any woman further smitten.

-K

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