A trip down (altered) memory lane

I went to Christchurch for the first time about 16 years ago, and I hadn't been back until last week.  It's fair to say that things have changed a bit.
Just in case anyone international is reading this, that's because in February 2011 there was a serious earthquake in Christchurch - 185 people lost their lives as a result.

A temporary memorial with a chair for each life lost in Christchurch's 2011 quake.

I remember when I heard about it; I was in France as an assistant English language teacher, went down for breakfast in the school where I lived, and one of the staff asked if I'd listened to the news.  When I said no, she told me there had been a serious earthquake in New Zealand.
"I don't want to scare you, but they said there were quite a few people missing and some dead."
She couldn't remember the name of the city.
A call to my parents back home got me the essential information, and that night I sat disbelieving in front of the tv looking at rubble in Christchurch.  When NZ makes tv news in France, you know it's serious.

Even now, Christchurch's CBD contains scenes like this...

Most of the Christchurch CBD is open, save a few streets.

It's something else to see the city with your own eyes, even after almost three years.  There's an eerie amount of empty space in the CBD, and pockets of uninhabitable houses.

New life on the edge of Christchurch's CBD.

Vacant sites are dotted throughtout the CBD in Christchurch.

The cathedral which used to be symbolic of Christchurch is a no-go zone, and the subject of court battles on whether or not it should come down.

Christchurch Cathedral - damaged after February 2011 earthquake.

But what's popping up in the empty sites thanks to the Gap Filler organisation is awesome - just like the attitude of Cantabrians!  Gap Filler temporarily makes vacant sites into something for the community.  So there's cafe, bar, and social hub the Pallet Pavillion, contraptions made from recovered bits and pieces, and a series of mini-golf holes throughout the city.  Caravans are turning into cafes, and the centre now boasts a container mall.

Pallet Pavillion sprung up in a vacant city centre site.

A course of mini golf holes can also be followed through the old Christchurch CBD.

Re: START mall in central Christchurch.

I guess this handmade tribute on ever-present temporary fencing sums it up.

Three "business speak" phrases which should just disappear

I've never spent much time in the corporate world but, looking back on that time, I realise it was enough for these phrases to grate.

Photo: Keven Law

• going forward
  Whatever happened to "in future"?  I think that's a perfectly valid phrase.
• add value
  I can't put my finger on why I dislike this one, but I guess it just feels like generic jargon.  If someone has come up with innovative ideas, improved sales, or re-vamped the brand, just say it!
• Do you have the capacity to...?
  People are not buckets to fill with tasks.  Tried and true phrases like "Do you have time to...?" or even "Could you...?" still work.

Please, if you find yourself using these phrases, remember that you can speak like a normal person even if you are in an office.

Burnt Grapes & Breakfast

First, a warning about cooking when you have a cold and... more specifically... when you have a blocked nose.

This can happen. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - >

And here's how:

• you decide to cook up some grapes because they're about to go off
• you put a bit of water, sugar, and cinnamon in with the grapes
• you wander off to have an orange while you wait for them to boil down
• you get talking to your flatmate (who also has a cold and a blocked nose)
• you forget about the grapes
• you can't smell them cooking and, then, burning
• you don't remember until your other flatmate (who can currently smell) wanders in and asks who has been eating muffin splits
• it is too late

Secondly, I was talking to my flatmate about how Rachel Smalley was leaving Firstline- which is my breakfast programme of choice.

He went to that article I've linked to, and read out some news that worried me even more.

TV3's plans for Firstline are not clear, but parent company MediaWorks is in receivership and has been looking to develop a more commercial format...However it is understood that new owners at TV3 are aiming to make the channel's lineup more commercial, and have been looking at returning to a light breakfast show format to compete with TV One's Breakfast.

I watch Firstline because I don't like Breakfast.  I know I'm not your average news consumer now that I'm studying journalism, but I like to be informed at the start of the day.  I'd rather hear the headlines than watch the presenters race to see who can put up a tent fastest, or the poor weather presenter being sent on all manner of missions, from pet expos to sugar factories.
Please, MediaWorks... don't do it.

Journalism takes you places

Journalism is like a back-stage pass to life, in some ways.  I'm only in training, but I can already see that not only do you get to find out new stuff almost every day, you also get to meet different people and hear their stories, as well as going places you might never otherwise have.
Granted, I imagine the job can take you places you don't really want to go yet are obliged to - but the rest of it can be fascinating.

I've just spent four weeks of 'holidays' getting some experience with a paper and, looking back, I've learnt about a pretty wide variety of topics.
For example, I now know how rat poison works.
I've spoken to relationship counsellors, rugby clubs, child safety advocates, high school students, and frustrated Dinsdale residents.
I've got all kitted up to get onto a building site.  Right down to the steel-capped boots.

Headed down to the Frankton Sale Yards to find people to talk to about petrol - felt I stuck out like a sore thumb in my corporate-ish clothes, and was asked by the young girl helping out "are you buying cows?"
Made a little road trip to meet the couple who are probably the biggest fans of the royal family in the Waikato.
And witnessed a piece of history at Rukumoana Marae.  Aside from the historic settlement, there was some great singing there that day.  See it below - sideways, because my phone did something weird with the recording.

Before signing of the deed, Rukumoana Marae.

Statue of King Mahuta, Rukumoana Marae.

They were four interesting weeks, but now it's back to student-land for some more learning!

Home citrus & home baking

Winter's the season of colds and flu, and the flat's a bit cold sometimes, so I'm really glad we have a set of citrus trees in the back garden.

It's great having them, but what's even better is having them AND a sunny day (when your washing dries on the line in a few hours) to go out and pick the fruit.

I foresee plenty of lemon, honey, and ginger drinks - as well as a bit of pasta with lemon, vinegar, and mustard sauce.

And on the topic of producing things at home, I can recommend baking Scott's Farewell Square - recipe in Ladies, A Plate: Traditional home baking by Alexa Johnston.
It doesn't have any citrus in it, but it tastes pretty good, and it's not a bad way to use up a few Weetbix that are past their use-by date.
Our kitchen scales were out of order, and my guess-work produced a rather crumbly example of the square, but never mind.
I got a few good slices out of it, and I'm sure the crumbly bits will be nice mixed with some natural yoghurt!

Market style

Basket full of goodness from Frankton Markets.

I think I like biking to the Frankton Market on Saturday mornings because I can (kind of) pretend I'm still in Europe.
As a uni student, I used to go to the veggie market in Wellington, but I didn't really understand the magic of markets until I headed overseas.

When I went to St Gaudens (in South-West France) as an English language assistant, I stumbled upon the markets one Thursday morning.  Actually, they spread through the whole town centre, so it would've been hard not to find them.
It became a part of weekly routine for me - like it is for so many French people.  Plus, if you're trying to learn French, you have to talk a lot more at the market than you do at a supermarket.
And, when you can get your fruit and veg at a market like what you see below, why would you want to go inside a supermarket and fight with everyone and their trolleys?  (Plus, there never seemed to be enough checkouts open).

Thursday market in the main square of St-Gaudens, France.

Thursday market in St-Gaudens, France.

I lived so close to the town centre there that I didn't need a bike to get to the markets there.  But if I had, this was my trusty steed.

French vélo.

In La Carolina, my town in the South of Spain, I adopted the same attitude.  Except, I think I took fewer market-related pictures.
Actually, looking through, it seems I took no market-related photos during my whole time in Spain.
Maybe I just market-photoed myself out in France, or perhaps  I was busy with other things.

Dos cervezas, por favor...

Y ponme una tapilla, camarero.

Paella in a pub - the Spanish Sunday roast.

Caseta at feria.

A sweet, sweet paella.

And, since I found them... a few more market pics from various areas of Southern France.

Covered market in Toulouse.

Flea market outside the St Sernin Basilisque in Toulouse.

Markets in the streets of Marseille.

Near the flower market in Nice.

Proof in the pudding

I have discovered something quite useful.

Tonight, after dinner, I decided I needed something sweet and comforting, so I made a microwave self-saucing chocolate pudding.
And it was tasty - if a little bit dry.  Anyway, that's my own fault.

But the real proof of the pudding was in my after-dinner trip to the supermarket.
I looked at the cakes in the bakery... and I didn't want any.
I walked straight past the confectionery aisle.
And those bins by the check-outs, offering three chocolate bars for $3?  Yeah, nah.

Amazing.
Clearly, I should make chocolate self-saucing pudding more often.

Saturday Pastimes

Sunny day     Perfect for riding a retro bike to the Frankton Markets

High five       to whoever got the cyclist/pedestrian underpasses for the Rifle Range Rd (etc) roundabout!

20 bucks       or so for as much fruit and veg as I could fit in my basket and backpack - the silverbeet was sticking out the top on the way home

"Too much"      said a Nawton dude as I biked past with all my bounty.

Clean bathroom   makes me feel happy every time I go in there!

Feature writing   is a necessary evil when you have a 1500-word assignment due on Tuesday but a

sunlit spot      makes it quite bearable.

Kiwi commentators   attempting to pronounce  French rugby players' surnames: good effort, needs more work.

Vegetable paella  turned out not very paella-y at all, especially since I didn't have rice, so used orzo instead.

Home-made smoothie   with banana, coconut, and prunes: not bad at satisfying my sweet tooth when I didn't have chocolate.  But (as to be expected I suppose) the prunes all sunk to the bottom.  :S

You know you're in the Waikato when...

...there's a cow covering half the sign.

Bus trip banter

I get the bus to and from Tech four days a week, but it's not often as entertaining as yesterday's return trip.

At the travel centre, I'm wedged onto the end of a bench, beside a couple of mature ladies, with my head buried in a copy of the day's Herald -I am a journalism student, after all.
A cheerful young man wanders over, singing.

Photo by Morio, from Wikimedia Commons

"I want to be on X Factor!" he announces to all three of us.
"You don't wanna go on that show," says Lady #1.  "You might get kicked off!  He's a hard man, that Stan Walker."
"Oh, nah, he's alright.  I'd give him a singing competition any day - blow him out of the water."

There's a quiet moment, then he launches into singing along with the advertising jingle coming out of the PA.
"See, that's a nice tune, eh?"
"You've got my vote," says Lady#2.

My bus shows up, and I take my Herald to a seat down near the back.
"How long 'til you leave?" says a voice up the front.
I look up to see a teenage girl waiting expectantly for a response from the grey-haired bus driver.
He holds up his two index fingers, leaving a gap in between.
"About that long."
The girl mirrors his gesture.
"About that long? ... Five minutes?"
The driver makes a show of checking his watch.
"Seven minutes."
She decides to explain her question, and points at the vocally-ambitious young chap sitting on one of the benches outside.
"He wants to have a smoke before."

"Oh!  Smoking!" says the driver, drawing a slightly nervous chuckle from the girl.  "Gives you cancer.  Tell him to stop."
She turns.  "Oi, stop smoking."
Her cheeky friend steps into the conversation.
"Did you use to smoke?" he asks the driver.
"Oh, once, a couple of days ago."  Once the pair's laughter has died down, he continues.  "No, 42 years ago I gave up!"

The young girl tries to hurry her nonchalant friend along, which seems to give him an idea.
"He's got two!" she shrieks.
"What?" exclaims the driver.  "Have you got one up each nostril?"

However the young guy's smoking, he's soon finished.  He goes to stub his cigarette out and put it in the nearby bin, so the driver takes the opportunity to close the doors and begin reversing away from the bay.
In between gales of laughter, the girl says our driver is the best ever.  I'm struggling to hold in a giggle.
Even the butt of the joke thinks it's amusing, and gives the bus driver a high five when he is eventually let on.

Whale Bay, Raglan, New Zealand

It looks like the remainder of the bus ride may be less amusing, until he pipes up about 200 metres down the road.
"Boss, do you go down Grandview?"
"Grandview?"  The driver ponders the idea for a moment.  "We're going to Hillcrest."
The young pair dissolve into giggles, because we clearly aren't.  There's some muttering between the pair of them, and then a new suggestion.
"Oh, never mind Grandview, boss.  Let's just keep going to Raglan!"
"Well, make up your mind!"

But they don't make it to the sea.  They just go as far as the suburbs, and hop out with a cheery "thanks, boss."
"Have a pleasant afternoon," he replies.

A sure sign

Have we humans got to the point where we have so little sense that we need to be constantly reminded of the most basic things?
Basically, I'm asking because of the sign onslaught in the bathrooms at work.  It struck me the other day that there's almost nowhere that I can look to avoid being reminded to behave in some way that should be automatic.

Inside the cubicle, two different stickers instruct me on what can go in the sanitary bin and what cannot.
I get out, and am reminded not to flush paper hand towels down the loo, as it causes blockages.  I'm not surprised, because even toilet paper seems to do that in this special ablutions block.
When I do put hand towels in the bin, there's a sign to remind me to compress them to save space.

The far wall reminds me to keep things tidy and be considerate, because this is a space shared with others (though hopefully not the same cubicle at the same time).  Given that women have a reputation for being the tidier sex, it makes me wonder how many signs there are in the men's bathrooms - not enough to find out for myself, though.

I head back to work, but not without a last insulting sign.  This one has the audacity to call my hands a  "germ farm."
I think I'll go back to my desk for some peace.

Teenage dream

There's nothing like a free event to get you out rubbing shoulders with the locals.  Strangely enough, the Night Glow last Saturday reminded me what it was like to be a teenager.  It also made me hope that, when I was, I showed a bit more wisdom than some young attendees.

Within seconds of getting off the bus, I wandered past a girl who was already wishing she had dressed for the conditions, instead of the boys.  She may have thought her singlet was hot, but she looked freezing as she stood with her arms wrapped around her shoulders.  And the sun was still up at that point so, unless she was planning to go home before the main event, she still had to staunch it out for a few more hours.

Around by the carnival rides, girls were sharing a can of goodness-knows-what - and perhaps they shared their leopard print outfit plans too.

Some young people came in pyjamas and onesies, clearly planning to use the Glow as a giant night light.

And then there were the teens whose excitement at being let out for the night was uncontainable.
"No touching!  No touching!" one girl screeched at the young man walking beside her.
He took it in good humour, raising his hands in surrender, and appearing almost as delighted as her.
"Because it might make people think things that we don't want them to think!"
To avoid this, and in case they hadn't seen, they immediately turned around to the gaggle of friends behind them.
"Guys!  Ok, guys..."

But the night was a let-down for some of the young'uns.  It wasn't because they didn't have enough money to go on the big slide, nor because they weren't allowed candy floss.  It wasn't even because they weren't impressed with the balloons.
No, it was simply because they checked their phone, and didn't find any messages.
"Oh my god!  I'm so unloved!"

If you're going to act this way, you had better hope that you have the excuse of being in your teenage years.  It's okay then, because the New Scientist (kind of) says your brain is still frantically trying to develop.

Tourist in the Tron

Everyone else in my journalism class seems to have a blog, so I guess I should have one too.

I'm not travelling Europe any more, which renders my previous blog addresses irrelevant, and makes the choice of subject matter less straightforward.  But, since travelling has been a theme of mine for the past couple of years, in a way, I'm a tourist in the Waikato.

Shortly after returning to New Zealand, I was happily living in Napier and (perhaps slightly less happily) working in Hastings.  We'll focus on Napier, shall we?  Seaside location, great weather, cafés every which way, wineries...  Perhaps the latter is straying into Hastings' territory, but the point is the same: it wasn't a bad
part of New Zealand to be in.

Then I decided that journalism was the way forward, and a variety of factors brought me to the city affectionately known as the Tron.
Just imagine me telling people in Napier that I was moving to Hamilton.  The more polite among them just said 'oh,' then changed the subject.  Some wanted to clarify, thinking they had misheard me.  'You're moving
from Napier to Hamilton?'  Others just laughed.
I think all of about three people actually gave me a positive reaction.  One liked the Sky City Casino, another was born in the area and owed it his loyalty, and the last was recently married to the Waikato boy.

I've only been here about two months but -hey- so far, so good.  I haven't found any good reason for the bad rap the Tron so often gets. Slowly, I'm starting to explore what the city and its surrounds have to offer - and Love The Tron is certainly helpful for pointing me in the right direction!