Well, this blog never really happened. This blog was neglected as a side effect of journal entries, a monsoon damaged laptop, and a refusal to take time out of paradise to stare at a computer screen.
The most difficult part of arriving home thus far is explaining to people my experiences and reconnecting to a normal life. How do you express to people the best thing that ever happened to you? You want to describe things, but no words can come close to doing it justice. So here is my attempt*:
*Disclaimer: it doesn’t come close.
The Places
First Road Trip
Tongariro Alpine Crossing
It began in a sort of savannah. Tall grass spread all around me, covering every inch I could see except the beaten path. We had 27 peanut butter and jellies spread among three backpacks. 19.4 kilometers, the sign read. We kept walking, grassy streams turned into dry lava rock. As we ascended, the terrain began to resemble Mars. Wind picked up
and the rocks got looser. We came to the edge. A cliff that descended almost vertically down. I got really nervous for a moment and clung to a rock formation. The view went on forever, a sort of desolate valley of gray rocks. It was where the filmed Mount Doom in Lord of the Rings. As we continued we came to dark red rocks. There was a formation that looked like the actual gates of Hell. It looked like the devil himself was about to come outta there. Pretty scary shit. Then, I sort of separated from the group, wandering further. I came over the summit and there they were. The emerald pools. I audibly gasped. Just past the dreary, almost extraterrestrial, hellish terrain, there were the most vibrant, bright turquoise pools. Three pools; a small sea foam green one, a larger turquoise one, and a deeper teal one.
Bear with my philosophical interpretation: I’ve always been a proponent of finding good moments even during shitty times. It felt like that- like despite the desolation there was such beauty, beauty that drew thousands of people to walk for hours to see. Things may be hard and scary and tiring, but all that strife is worth a beautiful moment. This was the first time I cried in New Zealand. It was that beautiful. It felt surreal and calm. We walked closer, but didn’t go in them because we would have shriveled up and died a sulphuric death.
Glowworms
You’re walking in the dark down a pathway. There is a group of french people walking along with you. You spark up conversation and walk with them. A few of them have head lamps to see the ground in front of them. You can see your shadow on the ground, you have half a bottle of wine in your right hand. You enter a sort of jungle path, a dirt embankment on your right and, based on the sound, a stream on the left. The french people turn off their headlamps, revealing hundreds of little constellations all around you. But they’re not stars at all. They are hundreds of tiny glow worms scattered in the forest. The night was speckled in little greenish blue glowing dots. Unlike stars though, 
you could reach out and touch them. It looked like a galaxy was just arms length away. A night sky, while beautiful, appears 2D and is impossibly far away. This was a labyrinth of speckled lights that was a part of the earth itself. Completely still, the tiny lights hung seemingly suspended in the air. When you got closer the the embankment and looked up under the tree roots there were more hiding behind every corner. Then you hear the sound of a rushing waterfall, only illuminated by the soft, cyan glow. It was magical.
Cape Reigna
We had been driving for about 6 hours. New Zealand had the time warping powers to make a 8 hour drive feel too short. There was always a beautiful view or an exciting stretch of twists and turns. We were making our way up to the
northern tip of New Zealand. We were bumping great music and speeding down roads with the windows down. The views were endless, and every turned beckoned ooo’s and aaah’s from the crew. It was a hundred shades of green, and endless blue skies. I can’t remember the exact song we were listening too, but we were all singing and dancing and vibing. At one moment, Kyle and I both turned to each other, both smiling uncontrollably. We both knew, without words, how happy we were. As if a glance could say, hell yeah dude this is dope. We turned back out to our respective windows, still on the same wavelength. “STOP HERE!!” someone yelled. We pulled over to a view, so far it cascaded over mountains, illuminated the desert, and finished with the horizon spreading out to sea. We hopped the fence and started running through the field. We could feel sheep poop under our feet, but didn’t give a fuck. We ran and ran. Finally we stopped to absorb the view. I remember closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, filling my lungs with crisp air. I remember feeling the wind form tiny goose bump peaks on my skin. I opened my eyes, and it was like seeing it for the first time again. It was as if I could see for miles and miles and in more colors than I knew were possible. It was bliss.
The Coromandel
Cathedral Cove
We arrived at Cathedral Cove after a 40 minute hike through winding paths in the jungle. The water was bright blue, a turquoise I wasn’t used to being from the murky North Atlantic. The cliffs was white and covered in the roots of the trees on top. Carved from the cliff was a tunnel, or cove. There was a tall upright rock formation on one side, and a flat one on the other – perfect for jumping from. We swam in the warm water and climbed up the rock to jump off. We had heard about a secret cave on the other cliffside. 
We swam over to the cave. The waves pulled us in like a funnel and we swam up to the sand. The water came in and out of the cave, as it was breathing. The light from outside the cave illuminated the waves as a sort of emerald tone. We sat watching the cave fill and drain, then fill and drain again. I felt so young here. A childlike joy came over all of us. I remember seeing Dani’s face light up with excitement when we came to the cave. As usual, Ben was climbing higher and higher, scaring all of us. The next day, we came back here with everyone. That day the waves were huge and strong. Kyle and I were thrown around in the powerful waves, coming up to the surface laughing uncontrollably. A man and his son were pointing at something. We looked and in the midst of a wave, there was a flat gray thing floating around- a stingray! It disappeared as soon as it came. There were a lot of tourists here, but it didn’t seem commercialized. New Zealand was good at making a tourist destination feel untouched by humans.
Cook Islands
Snorkeling
I had never snorkeled before Cook Islands. We took our free day to snorkel in the lagoon. It was intense blue water that was the warmest I’d ever swam in.
Goggles and a snorkel are the key to another world. A world filled with colors that previously seemed impossible by nature. There were black and white striped ones, bright blue ones with yellow tails, troves of hundreds of identical ones, solo parrotfish, and tiny anemone dwellers. The scuba instructors showed us a trick that if you snapped your fingers next to a school of fish, they would react and dart in a different direction, then snap again and they’d dart again all in unison. Emily “yelled” a muffled scream, pointing at the side of a coral formation. I looked to where she was pointing, and there was a moray eel. It looked like a creepy psycho shrively old alien snake. Actually horrifyingly awesome.
I remember floating on the top of the water, kicking my way along with my flippers and allowing the rest of my body to relax. I took a moment to consciously think about how the water felt on my skin.
It coursed over my whole body, a calm yet wild energy. I felt my long hair flow along my shoulders and back when I swam forward, then suspend around me when I went still. I felt the warmth of the sun heat portions of my back that peaked from the surface of the water. I thought about how lucky I was to be there, and be able to experience that. That my legs and arms and lungs and eyes allowed me to absorb that moment. That without one of those things, I wouldn’t feel this. I wouldn’t see this underwater universe.
The Beach Games
The day after Easter, we were going to beach games. They told us they had never been to this before and that it was the first time the community hosted it. Little did I know this would turn out to be one of the best days of my life. We got there to a beachfront park of sorts. There were tents and chairs. They split us into groups and gave us t-shirts; orange, green, red and yellow. I was on team orange. First we did a relay race that involved carrying a water bubbler jug full of water and running to a barrel while wearing flippers. I fell flat on my face in front 200 people, it was genuinely very very difficult. Discouraged by the games, I noticed Jason and Wilson in the water with a few of the kids. I walked over and waded into the blue lagoon up to my shorts. The little boys were showing us how to spot the fish in the coral. The children were adorable, talkative and excitable. A bunch more children and IES kids joined us in the water. They splashed and
jumped. One girl swam up to me and grabbed my hand, “I’m Agnes”, she said. Kyle and I held her arms and swung her upside down in the water. She climbed on my back and I swam around, avoiding the sharp coral on the seafloor. She introduced me to her friends Twinnie, Memory and Lupe. Lupe was beautiful, dark eyes and hair, a soft face, and tiny gold earrings. She asked me where I was from.
I said, “the United States.”
“Where’s that?”
“North America.”
“My mom is going to South America soon! Is it near that?”
“Hmmm, kinda! It’s really, really far that way,” I said pointing out to the Pacific ocean. Suddenly, there were about 30 kids in the water, clinging to us in the 4 feet of water. For about 8 of us, we each had 3 kids on each of us. At one point I had Agnes on my shoulders, Twinnie on my back and Memory holding onto my arm. It was insane for a few minutes, the kids wanted to do chicken fights which is when you put the kid on your shoulders and they try to push each other off. It was absolute chaos. Agnes pulled me aside and said, “let’s float.” She held my hand and we waded to an area away from the chaos. We floated on the surface of the water, closing our eyes. She started singing Hallelujah and I joined in. “You know that song?”, she said surprised. “Yeah, of course I do!” It was a beautiful moment. She stood up suddenly, “do you have a best friend?” she asked.
“Yeah! I have lots of best friends. Some are up there on the beach, and some are at home. What about you?”
“I have many friends too! Twinnie and Memory. And Lupe and Lupe’s brother,” she said 
jumping around.
“That’s awesome! You’re my friend too!” I said.
“You’re my friend too. And Kyle! Okay, let’s float,” she said grabbing my hand and we went back to floating.
We eventually returned to shore and did Zumba, which was really random but extremely fun. We gathered under the tent and they performed songs for us. They were beautiful, even though I couldn’t understand the words. Airy and upbeat harmonies paired with hula-esque dance moves. I envied the children’s lives growing up in a lush green paradise surrounded by the crystal lagoon. They were kind, affectionate people. As we left, I had lost my sneakers. I walked around for only a few moments, and had already been asked if I was okay. A few people got up to help me look for them, and rejoiced when I eventually did. As we said our goodbyes and thanked the people for their hospitality, Agnes clung to me like a koala. She said she would miss us. She hugged Kyle and I and said, “Will you be back next year?” Kyle and I looked at each other and shrugged, nodded, and told Agnes, “Maybe.”
South Island
Mt. Cook
We had been driving for hours. Hours that felt fleeting because there was no break in awe of the South Island countryside. Dusk began to fall over the mountains, illuminating the clouds above. It was pure beauty. We turned this corner, revealing a lakeside field. We pulled over and ran across the street.
We flagged down the boys’ car and they joined us. We ran through the field and overlooked the mountains. Everyone was radiantly happy. We hugged and jumped and climbed on rocks. Eventually, we piled back into the car and continued our journey. We arrived at Mt. Cook past nightfall. In the dark, we pitched our huge tent in a field. We could barely make out the silhouette of the mountains; only contrasted by the night sky. We settled down in our sleeping bags on the ground, huddled up. Someone had a speaker and began playing Bon Iver. That night sky was the most radiant I had ever seen in my life. It is a night sky reserve, so it has very little light, making it one of the best places to stargaze in the world. The stars stretched entirely across the sky in countless numbers. There was a sort of dimension, as if you could tell which were close and which were far away. We listened to Holocene by Bon Iver and counted the shooting stars.
We woke up at 6:30 am that morning for the hike. The sun was low and left a hazy fog floating around the trail. The sunrise left a slight peach tone projecting onto the snow topped peak. There was a stream of water that went through the trail. It was a sort of hazy grayish blue. It was eerily opaque. We were the only ones on the trail, except a lone runner. It was about an hour each way. There was this weird phenomenon when we looked at the hillside, where it appeared to be breathing. The shrubs seemed to pulse slowly. We figured it was an illusion because of the fog. We walked across three suspension bridges. The fog eventually lifted toward the end of our hike and we continued on.
Bungee Jumping
I had to do one crazy thing. Kyle and I were talking, and decided that we had to do it. We made it to the site in the morning. They took our weight and assigned us a number. It was a small bridge suspended over a valley. The gorge had a bright blue river at the bottom. It was amidst fall in April, so the trees were golden yellow on the hillside. Kyle went first, naturally. She ran up the stairs, grinning with excitement. Seeing how happy she was made me ready to go. I walked up to the launch area and talked to the guy. The conversation went like this:
“Hi! I’m ready to jump!” I said.
“Okay great, put this on like a pair of pants,” the guy said with a British accent, handing me a harness. “Do you call them pants in America?” I call them trousers, and pants are underwear! You call underwear, underwear right?”
I gave him a blank stare, wondering why we were talking about underwear right before I was gonna jump off a bridge, but okay. “Yeah, underwear are called underwear,” I said, nodding. He pulled the straps very tight around my waist and legs. “How many times have you done this?” I asked.
“HA. Are you kidding?! I’d never do this,” he joked. “Alright head over to John, it’s his first day.”
I knew he was kidding, but reasonably, they’ve all had first days before. I went to John and he pronounced Concannon completely wrong, like “concan- on”. I let him pronounce it wrong. He wrapped my ankles in a BATH TOWEL, then a strap weaved over and between. I stood up and shuffled over to the next guy. My feet were tied tight, so I looked like a little penguin walking out. “OKAAY, march of the penguins, let’s go!” the guy said. I waved out to Kyle on the viewing deck. There were about 20 middle aged asian tourists on the viewing platform that waved back to me. The guy said, “wow, you know all those people?”
Out of nervousness I said, “yeah that’s my big asian family, I love ‘em.”
Then I jumped.
I could feel my heart jump into my throat, only pushing out a scream. My eyes went wide, shocked that my muscles allowed me to jump off a bridge. My body had allowed me to let go. My breath escaped me. I remember the yellow raft at the bottom of the gorge appeared 2D in contrast to the teal river. There is a single moment that sticks in my mind. Instinctually, I was about to die. For that moment of free fall, my intuition realized I was falling to my death. There was nothing else in that moment. The world was still and silent. Somehow the scariest moment of my life paradoxically felt the most peaceful. It was strange yet calm and eye opening. Then I felt the tension of the rope build and I flung back up. This is when the relief flooded my mind that I was alive.
Holy shit, I was so alive.
The Moment
There was a moment. A moment that will stick with me for the rest of my life. I sat in the center seat of our rental car, my companions laid hungover and asleep around me, opening my view so I could see out of both windows and the front. The low sunlight spilled over the fields, illuminating the grass to create an unimaginably vibrant green. Tiny fences of wood pieces strung together with wire whizzed by as we drove down the open road. The fields rose up into cascading hills in the distance, the light illuminating the crevasses and falling down the mountains. Sheep, seemingly unaware of the intense beauty they lived among, stood scattered, undisturbed by our car. There were no other cars, no other people. I hadn’t checked my phone in days. There was no time, no directions, no obligations, no social media, no technology. Unbridled by modern life, I sat etching the view in my mind. I thought to myself this is it. This is the feeling. I brought consciousness back to myself, and I noticed I was smiling. Grinning so hard, my cheeks were hurting. After a long inhale forcing my eye to fall close, I thought to myself, I am so happy. I’ve never been this happy. And on my exhale, tears poured from my eyes all at once. For the first time in my life, out of complete introspection and silence, I cried tears of happiness. Tears fell down my makeup-less cheeks and cascaded around my grin. I just kept crying, I didn’t even try to stop. I just let myself feel everything. That happiness, that feeling of being completely free.
The People
I’ve always been weird. An eccentric, hyper, inappropriately loud, childishly excitable performer… weirdo. When I was in the 3rd grade I had seen a Spongebob episode where Mr. Krabs, a money-obsessed crustacean, took a dollar bill and rubbed it between his legs. I, being the impressionable weirdo I am, took a red streamer at my class Valentine’s Day party (you know, those elementary parties that you give all your classmates hello kitty valentines and a heart shaped lollipop), and aggressively rubbed the streamer between my legs and yelled “YYYEAAAAAH!!!”. I got in trouble. I’ll allow that anecdote to explain my personality while sparing my dignity given any other stories.
Anyways, these qualities earned me middle school labels as an “attention seeker” or “annoying”. Which, isn’t too bad, but it did lead to years of self-taming. Calm down, you’re talking too much, they’ll think you’re annoying, you shouldn’t have said that, be normal I’d think to myself. It didn’t work most of the time, but it made sleepovers stressful and conversations regrettable. Through highschool, I grew to not give a fuck and accept my absurdity, but I’d still find myself diluting my personality occasionally.
Then I went to New Zealand, and met my people. “My people” may be the most eye-roll inducing phrase of all time, but I don’t know how else to explain it. I genuinely didn’t know that people could be as absurd as me. Kyle, who instantly ran into the ocean to skinny dip the moment I drunkenly suggested it. Or when Kyle and I laughed for 15 minutes over a “How-it’s-Made” video about bottle caps. Fun fact: I have this ability to burp at a ground shaking level despite my small size. At home, it would beckon a choir of “EWWW” from friends. But then I met Dani, the only girl, nay, person I know that can out-burp me. Seriously, this girl is impressive. We spent the rest of the time rating each others burps on a scale 1-10 (I’m looking at you Rob, give me a 3 one. more. time.). Or when Dani tried to bike and take a selfie in Raro and ate shit. Or when Ben M ate a giant bug at the campfire. Or when Kennedy and I changed the words to Despacito to have Mexican food for lyrics and we laughed about enchiladas for 3 full songs in the back seat. Or when Tasha, Sam S and I had a mud fight in Rarotonga. Or when Scott geeked out over his Game of Thrones spreadsheet. Or Jason and Sam talking in southern accents on our hike about being “knee high to a junebug”. Or Brian’s unexpectedly sexual catchphrases. Or Kyle, Emily, Sam A and I laughing about refried beans in the most delusional conversation to date. The list goes on. My old need to tame myself dissolved and I could say anything, and do anything, and be myself unapologetically and not feel a trace of judgment.
And somehow despite the antics and absurdity, we shared depth. In group road trips, there is a phenomenon when you are stuck in a van with people for a few days; you get to know each other. Like really, really get to know each other. We played this game we called questions. The rules were simple; you asked someone a question and they had to answer it as honestly as they could. Then that person would pick the next person and a question, and so on. They ranged from silly to deep. “If you could have a superpower, which one would you choose?” “What was your first childhood memory?” “What are your siblings like?” “ What’s your biggest fear?” “What is something you would change about yourself?” “Which family member’s death would hit you the hardest?” Dani has a really awesome brother who lives in California and she loves Block Island and lavender. And Kyle and her mom always split the wishbone. And Ben G loves John Mayer, the moon and the beach in Delaware. And Kennedy is the most passionate about chemistry of anyone I know. And hours and hours of this game ensued. It is amazing how much you can learn about people with a car and the absence of phones. We grew into a family. Hostel games, road trip conversations, sleeping under the stars and pulling over to run through fields, culminated in an odd little family.
About a week before we left our new lives, Kyle and I each got two ice creams at the gas station and sat at the base of the museum in the domain. Overlooking the glowing skyline of the city we got to know, we ate our ice creams and lit a cig (sorry parents). The sky tower was lit up light purple. The museum was lit up green and orange. Despite the lights, we were still able to see some stars above the museum. We played the songs from our road trips, mainly Holocene by Bon Iver, the one we listened to under the nightsky at Mount Cook. We looked, but still couldn’t find the Southern Cross, even though we had tried countless times before. We talked about life and our adventures, and space and how we changed and how the earth was so massive. Kyle did handstands and I danced on the pedestal. We talked about our friendship and how we just “get” each other. We talked about how far we were from home, and how isolated we had been from the rest of the world. It shocked me, but now in a different way. I had been living on the opposite side of the planet for almost 5 months and that still felt baffling. Not because of the distance, not because of the time difference, not because the world’s most vast ocean separated me from my home continent, but because I didn’t feel shocked by that anymore. Despite the fact that I was literally as far away from home as I could get on this planet, I felt like I was already at home. I knew the streets of Auckland, I was programmed to look right and then left when crossing the street, I had an arsenal of memories associated with New Zealand, I knew the mojo barista by name, I had a group of friends that felt like a family, and I was happy; I felt at home.
The Return
Then I was ripped from that home. I reasoned with myself; perhaps the limited time is what ultimately made it better. Sure, it would be amazing to live in New Zealand and be with these friends, but it wouldn’t have been the same. We had a constant energy to keep exploring and get to know each other deeper and open up faster because we only had 4.5 months. It made us appreciate our views and each other more intensely. I kept telling myself this as I packed up my flower crown from Cook Islands, thrift shop finds and the bag of seashells and rocks I had collected. I drank my last flat white (a kind of coffee) in the cafe by my apartment. It was the first and only time I ever went into that cafe. One by one, my friends each exited the cafe, rolling their bags to the cab. Then it was my turn. With my eyes still weary from tearful goodbyes and a suitcase full of souvenirs, I boarded that plane at 4pm. I took my final breath of New Zealand air and watched the coastline fade into endless sea.
I sat between an American girl and a Kiwi man. The girl was cool, she had studied in Dunedin and was from Texas. We laughed and ordered drinks and synced our TV screens to watch Beauty and the Beast together. The Kiwi man was missing half of his right pinky and talked to us about the psychology of fear and how to be friends with deaf people. We just smiled and asked questions between laughter. I parted ways with my new friend Hope in customs, knowing full well I’d never see her again. Eventually I landed in Boston. I thought about all the times I had come to that terminal home from Philadelphia and how I was so so happy to be back when I was 18. Now I wasn’t happy; it felt like waking up from a long, beautiful dream. I walked into my childhood home, where my old bedroom had a new carpet and white paint job. I was moved into my first baby room. I sat on the rooftop that extended from my bedroom window and looked at the moon. I thought about how Ben loved the moon. I thought about how I’d be waking up in New Zealand. I thought about how the Southern cross was no longer visible from my coordinates.
The roads I had taken to school everyday are the exact same. The aisles of of Market Basket still meticulously feature the exact products as they always have, in that order. The cash still shows monotone, expressionless, green colonial old men staring back at me. Nothing has changed; but I have. I lie awake at night when I can’t sleep, imagining I’m back under the night sky of Mount Cook. The song “something just like this” comes on the radio and I close my eyes, imagining I’m still driving around South Island with the windows down singing with my best friends. I float in the bone chilling Atlantic Ocean and imagine I’m back in Cook Islands, floating in the Pacific lagoon with Agnes. These are now moments that feel so long ago yet are so engrained in my mind. In moments of frustration, I transport back to these times. Some people say I haven’t changed at all, but I know I have. Overall, I am happier, more confident, more adventurous, and perhaps a bit more restless. The most difficult part of coming home has been explaining that to people. I look the same, I still laugh at the same silly things, but I’m not the same. People ask me “How was New Zealand?!” and while my mind floods with images and moments and feelings and chills course over my skin, my mouth drops numb and my shoulders pull up to a shrug and all I can mutter is, “amazing… I… it was awesome, I can’t even… describe it.” I suppose the fact that I can’t communicate it has proven another beautiful idea; it was uniquely mine.
Inevitably you return to your old life. But your favorite tree on T-Hall lawn has been waiting for you. And there are so many iced coffee options that were absent in NZ. And there are a lot of beautiful little spots on campus, you just have to look harder. And you make some new friends down the hall from you. Life resumes. And then you run into your ex boyfriend at the same coffee shop you had your first date and he orders the same coffee and wears the same sweatshirt and you subconsciously smile and shake your head in disbelief. Disbelief that you ever allowed someone to command your emotions so intensely and that you wasted an ounce of energy on something so stagnant. The thought that you had cried 2 am tears because of him rather than for their true purpose; as a side effect of awe brought on by the magnificent beauty of earth. You had replayed that moment of running into him again in your sleepless mind as if there would be some huge confrontation. Just the thought had caused your heart to jump into your throat rendering you breathless. But after your heart settles back into place, you realize he’s just another person. Despite nostalgia having had a cruel ability to paint the past as better than it really was, you know you don’t need another person to recognize your qualities for them to remain true.
I have one fear; routine. The thought of waking up in the same town you’ve always lived in, working at the 9-5 job you’ve always had, saying the same conversations you’ve always said, being trapped in repetition until you die- is horrifying to me. I used to feel like I was coasting through life, falling into that nightmarish routine lifestyle. I have this urge to run away, hence why I went on the other side of the globe for 5 months. I have dreams of long road trips to the Grand Canyon, and uprooting to move across the country after college, and owning a coffee shop in New Zealand. But until then, I must entertain myself and create excitement with what I’ve been given. I live at school with no car and a bank account that has dipped into single digits. That is about as trapped as you can get. Instead of focusing on what you lack, focus on what you have. You have $3, a ukulele, colored pencils, nail polish, and a journal. So you get a coffee, and you sit in the grass, and you play the ukulele, and you walk to the horses, and you draw in your journal, and you write down your thoughts a poems, and you tell that girl at the coffee shop you like her tattoo, and you cut your own hair, and you make new friends, and you stop biting your nails, and you sing. Find what makes you happy and do it. Create. Do something everyday even if it feels redundant. Be kind. Tell that customer you like her shorts because you do. Don’t be afraid to fall on your face trying that damn yoga pose. Post that video of you singing because you like how you sound. Don’t wear a bra because that shit is uncomfortable. Ask that person why because you’re curious. Shit’s simple.
Sure, I get sad sometimes. It’s hard going from such a highest high, back to normal life again. None of my friends I made in my program go to school with me, so I don’t have someone to reminisce with everyday. I get anxious that the best days of my life are already past me. I look at pictures and ache at the impossibility of re-living those moments. But I have technology to communicate to my friends, and many of them are a day’s drive away. I have lessons with me that make me strive to continue that adventurous spirit. I was lucky enough to visit those places, and the feelings I had when I was there are still palpable and real. New Zealand is a part of me. I am so grateful for the experience and the people. I know myself, but that’s not to say I won’t change. I intend on changing. And I don’t want to tame that evolution. So as I find myself at 21, working at Rite-Aid, rolling Durham Tees, my mind wanders to South Island in the car that I had that moment overlooking the countryside. Suddenly I am smiling uncontrollably at a bunch of t-shirts and a customer is looking at me like I’m crazy.
But it’s cool, I am a bit crazy.
was in his late 50s, lived in San Francisco his whole life, was a lawyer, had a son who lived in Jackson Hole but didn’t ski *eye roll*, and he was going to NZ for two weeks to go fly fishing with his “buddies”. The day I can jet off to the opposite side of the world with my friends, is the day I made it. Needless to say, he was a badass. 
ordered a packable backpack that came prepacked, that I haven’t unpacked out of fear that it will suffer the same fate as my unpacked packable raincoat. Let’s just say, I have a lot of packing ahead of me. It’s very intimidating. The program tries to guide us with online PDFs and past student experiences. It says (ad lib): “a dufflebag, a school backpack, a hiking pack, a carry-on, and a rolling bag that could undoubtedly fit a small human, or a combination of a few of these. The seasons are opposite, so spring is fall, and winter is summer. It’s warm but not that warm, but kinda cold too! They’re trendy, but casual. Pack enough, but be sure not to pack too much! lol good luck, see ya there!” It’s puzzling, to say the least.
New Zealand 