Sometimes a looming feeling emerges, especially when I’m lost; It’s not “what’s the point,” although some derivative to that effect; It’s “what direction am I headed, and yes on two different levels; literally and figuratively. I found myself at a rugby stadium, observing the league games. I was suppose to be at the Trusts Stadium, but that is besides the point. While I was a respectful, yet distant bystander, I couldn’t help but feel like an ethnographic researcher, observing, but not participating. It was as if (and I don’t mean this to sound condescending) it was all a joke simply because all of these people were completely serious about a sport I had never even watched before. The men would get pumped up by singing songs in the locker room and young boys in striped jerseys, who would someday grow into the roles of their predecessors, would echo the lyrics well after the cessation of chanting. I could predict their lives as a bystander, which made me think about my own life and how it has been laid out, vulnerable to the lofty prediction of a foreign bystander. I can just imagine, “Ah, yes, she will go to college, play volleyball, graduate, be hired by a mid-paying job, continue recreational sports well into her years, get married, have a few children and continue the cycle.” To each his or her own (country). What I mean to say is that so much of our identity and life is already laid out by cultural standards, but what I have learned is that there are so many different paths to follow or create. I don’t have to settle into the working class as soon as I graduate. I don’t have to get married or have children. I don’t have to buy a house or even live in a house for that matter (I would much prefer a boat.) So I guess the point is not having direction at the moment. And perhaps this feeling of floating without destination or a definite ETA (estimated time of arrival) stems from the digression of one path to the realization of many.

I was “suppose” to be at the Trusts Auditorium at 4:30 to watch a netball game; Mystics vs. Pulse for my “Sports Media” class. I decided to leave early; 1:15 to make sure I got to the right place in time. Even when I asked someone at the bus station how to get to the Trust Auditorium on Lincoln St. he told me the wrong directions. I did exactly what he told me. “Take the 131 bus to Smales Farm, transfer to the Albany bus, get off and walk to the destination.” Obviously, he didn’t listen to me and automatically assumed I was going to watch rugby at a stadium. I was very early and congratulated myself for finding the right place, enough time to even watch a few league rugby games. Around 4pm I started getting suspicious. Shouldn’t there be more people parking? Do they simply not support girls as much as guys? So I walked up to the gates where a lady and man were having a conversation. At my presence they turn and look. I ask them if this is the right place, wishing that it is, but knowing something is wrong about the atmosphere. No music, no crowds, no “open” ticket stands. They look at me apologetically. Its definite. I am at the wrong place. Really? I’m lost again? Thankfully, the lady, Shannon, events coordinator at North Shore Stadium, is headed home with her daughter and is passing by the Trust Stadium….sooo I hitch a ride with her and her ten year old daughter and her friend who are playing with a bucket of water and blue squishy balls, probably used for decoration. Blue balls… I know Ha Ha. I get to the game at half time, record the skirted netballers on my Flip, note camera locations, observe the crowd and ponder my next move. I was headed to Waitekere to have dinner with some previous WWOOF hosts, Jane and Hilary (man’s name), but realized that I didn’t know how to get there and didn’t have their number. So I texted Chloe who travelled with me beforehand asking for the number. I asked someone for directions (suprising eh?) to the train station. The guy said it was a long walk, perhaps 25-30 minutes. When he said long walk, I though he meant undoable. I have gone on 2 and ½ hour walks before (trying to find my way home). By the time I had arrived at the station, Chloe had texted back. The train pulled us seconds later. I hopped on and headed to Swanson, a familiar stop I had made two months before. I called the numbers. No answer, only voicemail. I was reaching the last stop before my phone buzzed. Hilary called and said he would come right away to pick me up. Happy ending I guess. Everything seemed to work out some way or another. I had the best home-made Japanese dinner and slept in one of their house trucks. The next morning I helped shovel dirt for artichoke plants. I got to plant one before I left and whispered sweet nothings in its leaves; to grow strong and hopefully end up one day as a gourmet meal on the plate of an eager diner. But wait there’s more! The trains don’t run on Sundays sooo… Hilary looked up the bus schedule, printed out a map, drove me to the station, and an hour later I was almost at the right place. Apparently, you are suppose to press the stop button for every stop, but the bus usually stops at Akoranga station no matter what. As we drive past the stop I try to alert the driver, who breaks a bit, but says its too late. I get off at the next stop with another girl who is in the same situation and wait… a few minutes later a bus stops. It is not the right one. 15 minutes later a bus stops and it is the right one. We get on and are welcomed by the driver who says this happens all the time. Home sweet home, I arrive. Windsurfing lessons at 2pm on the beach. Catch a bus at 1:40. No problems. Go windsurfing. Problem. Windsurfing on the beach is much different than windsurfing in a lake. The ocean has waves, to state the obvious. But it was still fun and something to aspire to eventually. I have no more problems with buses for the rest of the day. Go home, read a few pages for art history. I have tutorial in a different place tomorrow. Can’t wait to get lost looking for it. Should be another adventure and a half.