Lost Between The Bars In Canterbury

Christchurch, as you may be aware, is pursued by an English shadow. Through the familiarly named streets; Gloucester / Manchester / Hereford / Durham / Worcester Streets, Bedford Road, Oxford Terrace, Sheffield Crescent, to mention only a small handful, to the charming Anglican cathedral in the centre of the square. The architecture of many official buildings is similar to that of a post-war seaside town in England, the type that still remains in the town halls and theatres of Brighton and Scarborough. The River Avon chisels the landscape with tranquility as white haired men, dressed in straw hats and pinstripes punt their rickety boats gently and merrily down the stream.

I am slowly adapting to the deft sewage scent that wafts down the high ceilings and reaches past the corridors of the 'boutique' Coachman Backpackers Hostel. Apart from this daily intrusion to the nostrils and the alarming red neon light that hangs vertically from the building as if to attract the perverted moths from the corners of the alleyways, it is a pleasing place to dump the burden of the backpack down. The rouge carpet leading you up the stairs from the lobby and on to the sociable lounge area encourages community and preservation from the anonymity of a foreign land. Even the Japanese receptionist has taken pity on me and regularly feeds me with the left over crumbs of her half eaten chocolate brownies.



After an adventurous ride on the free canary yellow shuttle bus to Pak N Save in order to buy 200grams of Champagne shaved leg ham (What, $1.70 from the deli on special? Glory is mine) as well as some TimTams and my daily dose of apples and pears, I ventured further away from the franchised stores of the plaza and passed the daunting bronze bust of Queen Victoria and the impressive statue of Captain James Cook looming in Victoria Square. Following this I traced my finger on the one page map that I had stolen from the hostel's bookshelf and made my way, without hassle, on to the labyrinth Eden that is the Botanical Gardens, watching the dead leaves descend effortlessly to their winter's grave made up of dirty earth.




I was at a loose end for the evening (though playing FIFA 2010 on the PSP should never really be considered as killing time). Michigan Caroline and a German girl whose English pronunciation was as bizarre as her erratic behaviour, leaning towards the faltering staccato of a South African native, dragged adidas dressed Rene and myself to the Rialto Cinema to indulge in the finest of New Zealand film making in the recent, Sundance Film Festival endorsed 'Boy'. The cinema itself had an element of sophisticated glitz adorned by the mature guests and kind offerings of macadamia and cashew nuts with a cool glass of wine at the stalls rather than the standard Pepsi Max and popcorn in movie theatres that I am accustomed to. However, my favourite popcorn trick would not really work through a crumpled paper bag of sweetened pistachios.



Rene saw the trailer and quickly bailed on the experience, wishing to spend his dollars and cents on the more jet fuelled Iron Man 2 (but to be fair to him, he did receive a spectacular silver bucket emblazoned with the motifs from the movie after purchasing a snack combination at the counter). 'Boy', directed by Taika Waititi (Eagle versus Shark), was an absorbing film, demonstrating adept storytelling in the point of view of an 11 year old (he of the title) and his smaller brother Rocky within the bleak backdrop of a nothing East Coast town of New Zealand in the 80's.

Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RwqfR8g-Qow

To round off the weekend, a group of us competed at the Bard On Avon's Sunday night pub quiz. We ordered a basket of chips and stayed close to the warm log fire as we failed miserably to answer tedious questions on homegrown topics such as:

Question: What sport did Kiwi Alan Thompson win Gold at the 1984 Olympic Games?
Answer: Kayaking.

To our amazement, we didn't come last thanks to a few saving graces, namely Anthony's ability to memorise quotes from the Nobel Peace Prize winning statesmen, Henry Kissinger.


A-Bomb sinks a Dos Equis at the Mexican Cafe

I turned my back on Rene in the midst of chewing on my quiet rage as I bothered the cobwebs guarding my general knowledge. He thus decided to join the celebrations of our dorm mate's birthday, a decent enough Topman cartoon of a youth from Essex and his two friends who we invited to sit by us on an adjoining table in The Bard. Distracted by their tiddly winks drinking games and distanced from the incoherent quiz master's microphone, Rene was found later that night shivering in his bottom bunk. He confided desperately to me in hushed tones that he had vomited twice in the neighbouring internet cafe on Colombus Street, Dub Dub Dub, where he had visited in an intoxicated haze, and destroyed two keyboards in two thick heaves. Apparently the boy racers' medicine of sambuca did not agree with him. It would seem that I had failed in my guardian responsibilities over the Bavarian adolescent, but I was satisfied that he learnt a valuable lesson that night.


Christchurch Song of the Day: Journey - Don't Stop Believin'
This is another song that appears to follow me everywhere I go, on coaches, radios, television and passers by humming. An 80's anthem that is suited strongly to the road trip that has been embarked to date in this rogue country.
Rarely has this been sung better than by Dr. John Dorian and Christopher 'Chocolate Bear' Turkleton in Scrubs. Who knew what a gentle voice JD had:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NS7WGY49iAQ&feature=related


i-Pod Song of the Day: Interpol - No I In Threesome
The New York four- piece showcase a stunning song title, whilst Paul Banks (Clacton-on-Sea's second favourite deserter across the Atlantic) bare bones declarations echo with the feedback riddled atmospheric strings and guitars.
For fans of Desree's Life and Hanson's MmmBop, pick up your headphones and listen to this instant pick me up:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KDm4Vs7xl6U