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Death by Kayak in Byron

Today is Sunday, January 4, 2015. Today Stina and I double puked off the side of a kayak. And had to be towed to shore. I know you are all a little confused as to how we got here, so let me take you back. Back to last night….

Tonight was Rory and Stina “hit the town” party night. When the big 3-0 is only a few months away from sucking all joy from your life and replacing it with cellulite, you have to plan these nights well in advance. Because you can’t do it 5 times a week like you could when you were 19. Let me re-phrase, you shouldn’t do it 5 times a week. That shit ain’t cute on 30. The way I drank, it wasn’t even cute on 19. But fuck all that near 30 talk, because tonight, I’m 25. Going-out Rory is always 25. Are you rolling your eyes right now? I deserve that. Whatever, I’m 25 and I JUST WANNA DANCE! After fighting with the cunts for the shower and chugging a few bottles of wine, we headed into town at 8:30pm. The cunts, you see, finally woke up from their lighthouse-induced coma so that they could shower and promptly return to laying in bed sexting. I mean texting. See ya later, suckers. We made a bee-line for Beach Hotel, as planned the previous night. We grabbed a drink and started looking around trying to decide what group of boys to shamelessly hit on first. Just then a group of Aussie cougars came up to us. Well, two cougars and their B-team friend, who was more like a lioness. The cougars told us they were staying IN A HOSTEL. I about choked on my drink. Homegirls were knocking on 40. I can only imagine what fucked up shit they are doing to unsuspecting young tourists boys at that hostel. But then lioness came into town today and made them move to an air bnb, because she has birthed a child and has no fake tits and can’t be caught dead in a hostel (good for you, lioness). Apparently they are planning a trip to LA to make a movie, which is based on a book the lioness wrote and one of the cougars is adapting it to a screenplay. It’s basically a pathetic cougar tale that is a cross between “How Stella got her groove back” and “The Hangover”. Newsflash: even Stella knew to stay away from hostels. This entire convo ensued without the cougars noticing Stina and I giving each other the “how fucking pathetic” look. Go us.

The cougars did, however, explain to us why everyone keeps asking if we are Canadians. Aussies can’t tell our accents apart, and since asking a Canadian if they are American is insulting to Canadians, they just always ask if you are Canadian first. Apparently an American could never be insulted by someone assuming they are Canadian. It actually makes a lot of sense, since Canadians are like the teddy bears of the world. The teddy bear that you had when you were 5 and now you aren’t sure where it is and don’t really give a shit, but still think of it fondly on very rare occasions. But I guess thats something.

So now we are deciding, with input of the cougars, what group of men we will all hit on. It’s scaring me how well I am getting along with these ladies. Shit. Big fake titties cougar finds one she likes in a blue shirt, so I grab him by said shirt and haul him over to us (subtly is not my strong suit). He was with a big group of dudes, but the only hot one. So naturally, he immediately fell in love with Stina and I spent the night talking to his not-hot friends. Well, one was hot, but his teeth were fucked. Fucked up teeth knocks you down to an automatic 3, regardless of whatever else you got going on. Seriously, if you can’t fix your future kid’s teeth, do them and the world a favor and just sterilize yourself. But I digress. The cougars realized they had nothing to contribute and disappeared. No one cared. So you all want to know about the boys. They are all “Footy” players from Adelaide on Holiday. We asked them what the fuck “footy” is, and they spent the next 20 minutes trying to explain “Aussie Football Rules” to us before giving up and showing us a youtube clip. Basically, it’s a cross between American football, everyone else’s football, and rugby. It’s about as stupid as it sounds. I’m assuming at some point a bunch of dorks who couldn’t make any real sports teams got together and made their own sport so they wouldn’t feel left out. They couldn’t even give it a cool nickname.

The good news is that I didn’t bite anyone’s arm. The bad news – I managed to find an entirely new way to objectify innocent men at a bar. Stina’s footy hottie was telling us that one of the coaches is going to check them for “skin folds” when they get back, because they have all gotten so fat on Holiday. What are “Skin folds” you ask? It’s basically where you pinch people’s fat rolls. So naturally I had no choice but to go around to every dude on the team and tell them that I was sent here by their coach to perform a surprise “Skin fold” test on them. Arms and stomach. They were confused, but actually went with it. I was thoroughly entertained for hours. Literally, hours. When the night was winding down at the bar I invited myself over to the house they had rented for an “after party”. Stina was already invited, obviously, to make out with hottie, but as I had no one to make out with I really just wanted to keep raging. The boys obliged and entertained me for a few hours with drinking games, when more drinking was the last thing on earth I needed. We played kings cup, I argued with them about every rule (typical), they bbq’d, I ate a giant hot dog, we drank more, I passed out on their couch. But not before one of they guys (hottie with the fucked up teeth) showed me pics of his Columbian girlfriend and I told him she was ugly, because she was, and he got slightly offended. But I think he kind of knew. So I recorded some video on his phone saying I was going to sleep with her boyfriend (or something of that nature) and tried to get him to send it to her. I thought it was hilarious at the time. While I was entertaining half of the Adelaide fake sports team, Stina was making out with hottie. I mean, “on a walk”…yeah, they pull that same bullshit “bush walk” move over here too. I passed out on the couch. I made out with no fugly dudes with girlfriends. I did not steal anything. This is TOTALLY maturity. Ok, I’m at least halfway there.

And so this brings me back to today. We awoke around 7am in what can only be described as a rental frat house. We high tailed it out of there and caught a cab. Our cab driver asked if we were out for an early morning walk. I replied, “something like that”. He was old, his heart couldn’t take it. Now, when we arrived in Bryon Bay a few days ago we booked a sea kayaking trip for SUNDAY MORNING. What would ever possess us to do such a thing? It is, without a doubt, my single biggest activity planning mistake. For shame. But we had paid in full, so an old buff guy with tattoos who reminded me of Tori Spelling’s husband (just shorter, more buff, and obviously more remorseful) picked us up. Stina told him that we had a “very aggressive” night, so he would know to go easy on us. He loved us instantly and took massive amounts of pity on us (refer to Waiheke post re: old men loving us). We referred to him as “dad” for the rest of the trip. That fucking kayak trip. A day that will live in infamy for at least a week.

We should have known to turn the fuck around the second they gave us HELMETS and told us to CARRY OUR OWN KAYAK DOWN TO THE BEACH. These aren’t little pussy kayaks. Ocean kayaks are gnarly. We dragged that thing down to the beach Weekend at Bernie’s style and were sweating and exhausted before we even got in the water.

Post puke wave riding
Post puke wave riding
Getting through the waves was fucking terrifying, but we managed to get out without flipping over (credit for this probably goes entirely to kayak dad). We started off ok, but quickly faded. Faded fast. And hard. Stina started heaving. Which then made me heave. Before we knew it we were both puking of the side of the kayak. One of the guides (the 24 year old hippy-hot guide) told us he has actually never seen a double puke off a kayak before. We are trailblazers. To add insult to injury, we didn’t even see any damn dolphins or whales, not even a turtle, which is the whole point of the fucking trip. Stina thinks it’s because we puked in their house and they were mad. But people piss in there all the time and no one says boo. It became very clear that there was no way Stina and I were getting ourselves back to shore, as we were still intermittently vomming into open ocean.
Help me, I'm hungover
Help me, I’m hungover
So dad tied a rope to our kayak and literally towed our sad, pathetic assess all the way to shore. Everyone on our tour hated us. Because we puked, smelled like booze, complained a lot, and got lots of attention from the guides (like the extra attention given to kids on the spectrum, not because we are charming).
Getting towed in like the big drunk losers we are
Getting towed in like the big drunk losers we are
I think you all know where the rest of this day is headed….we went to bed. I typed this blog, so that’s something. Oh, and we ate our thousandth pizza of the trip.
A little pic our guides snapped once we survived the three hour tour...
A little pic our guides snapped once we survived the three hour tour…

Happy NYE in Sydney!

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Today I woke up feeling like I had been hit by a truck. I honestly felt so shitty that I thought I might have the flu. So I had to forgo beach day at Manly with Stina and instead spent the entire day in bed trying to rest up so I could actually make it to the ridiculously expensive NYE party we had already purchased tickets for. At a about 2pm I started to come back to life, very slowly. We started hitting the champs at about 4pm, which always tends to perk me up a bit. We had a little pre-party that consisted of our host, Dan, and 6 chicks – only one of which he is sleeping with. I think. One of his coworkers was there w/ a friend of hers. She was already drunk (I hope) and quite entertaining. She was bitching (in a funny way) about how her friend just cancelled a NYE party on her and she had nothing to do. Turns out, that party was still on, she was just disinvited because she hooked up with one of the guys throwing the party the previous weekend and woke up the next morning asking him “what are we??”. That is like “How to freak a dude out 101” girlfriend. Amateur hour.

At around 6pm, Stina and I headed out to The Rocks so we could get a good table at our party for the fireworks. We were, of course, 30 minutes early, so we grabbed a drink and hopped in the queue. There was a bit of line drama with people trying to cut. Shockingly someone else put the douchebags in their place before I had to do it myself. And thank god, because I needed all the energy I could muster so I could make it to fireworks without collapsing. But let the record show, I would have slapped a bitch if need be. We grabbed one of the few coveted tables with a great view of the Opera house and had to guard it with our lives for the next hour and a half until Stina’s friends (same group from Queenstown) arrived an hour late. I am obviously cringing as I say this, because you all know how I feel about punctuality. Needless to say, I was stressed. But since I’m trying to be “go with the flow Rory” I decided to heed T-Swift’s advice and shake it off. While we were guarding our table, this one fat chick kept putting her fucking drinks down, as if she thought the table was now hers. So I basically had to have an ass pushing competition with this bitch for an hour. It wasn’t so much the fact that she put her drink on my table that bugged me as it was that she was offensively ugly and I just don’t really like ugly people around me. It brings down the average of everyone in close proximity. Kind of like a really shitty house on a nice block. And if you were are using someone’s table, wouldnt general etiquette dictate a courtesy ask? We also had a mail-order bride with entitlement issues that rivaled the Kardashians trying to get at our table. She was escorted by a super old white guy with yellow fever and kept taking the smallest sips of champagne and putting her drink on our table. I thought Stina was going to punch the bitch out, but instead she just spit in her drink and we giggled the next time she took a sip. Mean girls ain’t got shit on us.

Our view
Our view
A view worth defending
A view worth defending

The party was open bar until 10:30pm and passed hour’derves which we all took full advantage of. They were actually quite generous with both, and thank god, because at AUD 280 I might have flipped out on someone if I had to wait 30 minutes for a drink. Nothing too crazy or exciting happened. It was actually a pretty mellow party. I didn’t end the night crying, so I have deemed it a success. To give you some background on my expectations – I fucking hate NYE. With a passion. That shit never lives up to the hype and I usually find myself shit faced in a bar, covered in glitter, trying to find my phone and/or friends. I think last year I sat on the couch with Jorgie eating carbs in my pj’s and we barely made it till midnight – and that was prob the best NYE I had in about 5 years. We were home shortly after 2am, after getting drunk Stina some McDonalds. No one lost their shit or puked. Perhaps this is maturity? if so, it’s painfully overrated.

Fireworks over the Opera house!
Fireworks over the Opera house!
I know, it's no Wilson Park, but in a pinch....
I know, it’s no Wilson Park, but in a pinch….
For good measure
For good measure

Thursday, January 1, 2015

Happy New Year everyone! 2015 is going to fucking rock!! Let’s just enjoy this moment when we can tell ourselves how great the next year will be and actually believe it. Because you know in 364 days we’ll be saying “Fuck 2015! 2016 is my year!”. Do you want to know what my 2015 resolution is? To marry rich. Yes, I want to lose weight, find a job I actually like making great money, lose more weight, and try to be more positive. But marrying rich would really kill all those birds with one stone. And you know I’m always one for efficiency.

Today we took the ferry over to Manly Beach. We passed by the Microsoft Mega Yacht on the way there. It is either owned by the Company or some big shot at the Company (or so we were told).

Half of what I will get in the first divorce
Half of what I will get in the first divorce
I have included a pic of it – and yes, that is a fucking helicopter on the back of it. Apparently there are multiple submarines included as well. This can all be yours for the price of $200 million and $20 million a year in upkeep. For the record, when I say marry rich – this is the rich I’m talking about.
View from the ferry
View from the ferry
Just in case a genie in a bottle is reading this, I want to clarify. We seriously considered jumping off the ferry, swimming up to it and pretending like we were drowning. But those rich fuckers on board would probably have just sipped their Champagne and laughed at us as if someone arranged for a show where sharks eat us lowly poor humans purely for their entertainment.

Manly was pretty cool – more laid back than Bondi, which is fucking nuts. Had a bit of a Hermoa Beach vibe, just a bit bigger and more touristy. But today it was pretty crowded, and the jellyfish were out in full force so no swimming for us. All I wanted to do was get shit faced because I was finally feeling a bit better and what the hell else do you do on new years day? So we spent most of the day in bars (shocking, I know). If there is one thing I have learned while in Sydney, it’s that all the hot men are either working the bar or waiting your table. Seriously – hottest waiters I have ever seen in my life. Stina and I actually considered inviting a French bus boy home with us but then thought better of it. We made a quick stop at Opera bar on the way back to bid adieu to Sydney in style. On the way home, Stina wanted to get rid of some of her change. She counted out all the useless two cent coins taking up so much room in her purse, ready to throw them on the floor of the cab. Luckily, Dan and I realized these annoying little coins were actually two DOLLAR coins and stopped her before she chucked about $20. It doesn’t sound so funny now – nothing is as funny when sober. Perhaps the alcoholics are on to something there.

We were in bed by 10pm, as we had to be up at 5am for our flight to the Gold Coast tomorrow. Back to being real backpackers again. The downside is we have no family and friends to take us around and show us the sights. Good news is that showering is optional when backpacking.

Not Your Mama’s Christmas Eve

I’m currently sitting on my balcony in Queenstown with a view of the Skyline Gondola and about 10 Christmas morning hang gliders trying to figure out where to even begin. Probably due to my hangover. Let me focus. Ok. In the morning we went to Puzzling World, which is basically a grown up version of the McDonalds play place. So Puzzleword has a bunch of rooms with crazy optical illusions and puzzles. In one room you feel like the room is slanted at a crazy incline and can barely walk across it, but when you roll a ball, up is down and down is up.

The gang at Puzzleworld in the slanted room
The gang at Puzzleworld in the slanted room

It’s hard to explain and that probably didn’t quite do it. There is also a giant outdoor human maze. We decided to tackle the Maze with our bus husbands. We figured between two doctors, a lawyer and an accountant (low man on the totem pole) how long could it possibly take? A long fucking time. I can’t believe they put mice through that shit.

In the maze with our bus husbands
In the maze with our bus husbands

I thought Stina was going to break down a wall to get us out. I tried to cheat like 12 times.

Then we were off to Queenstown! The adventure capital of the world. AKA, Rory’s paradise. We passed some beautiful lakes and crystal blue rivers on the way. Fairly standard for South Island. We also passed the 45th parallel, if that is cool to anyone. Doubtful. And then we arrived at AJ Hackett on the outskirts of the city for someone on our bus to jump off a bridge. We were at the famous “K Bridge”, which is the site of the world’s first commercial bungy (AJ Hackett and Co spells it this way, I do actually know how to spell bungee, just not much else).

K-bridge Bungy!
K-bridge Bungy!

We didn’t jump, as we were doing the canyon swing in about an hour, but suffice to say we signed up for a jump as soon as we got to our hostel. So pics in a few days! Then we were off to our Canyon Swing! A canyon swing is basically a bungee jump on crack. You are driven up into a canyon and then thrown off a ledge suspended in the canyon and swing through said canyon. Stina and I did a backwards tandem jump together first, to warm up. Then we each did a second swing where you hang upside down and the jumpmaster drops you…when you least expect it. Fucking amazing. Apparently if you jump topless its free. I told the guy 29 year olds can’t do shit like that, and frankly, no one wants to see 29 year old boobies flopping around in a canyon anyway. He asked if I was married. I said no. And he said “oh, then you are fucked. It’s ok for a guy to be old and unmarried, but not a girl”. I told him I was aware and why did he think I was throwing myself off a cliff? Ass hole. Later that night I became 25 again, so no worries.

The Canyon...and what you jump off of
The Canyon…and what you jump off of
Stina and I about to jump backwards off the ledge
Stina and I about to jump backwards off the ledge
Stina being reeled back up after her second jump
Stina being reeled back up after her second jump

After our canyon swings we picked up our bags and had to find our hostel. We stopped on the street and asked a girl working in a fish and chips stall where Church Street was. She said she didn’t know and would google it for us. It was the next street over. Literally, the cross street of her place of fucking employment. Stina could not handle the stupidity. I thought she was going to perform an impromptu sterilization right there at the stall. So I must repeat my question from the other day’s post: how the hell do these morons get themselves to work? I wanted to give her a card for my “how to not be loser” seminar, but I haven’t gotten around to printing them up. Bad for business, I know. I’ve been a little busy. We arrive at our hostel to find a lovely private room that basically looks like a hotel room. A little Christmas present I booked for Stina a few months ago. She looked like she was going to wet herself. We then bought a shit load of booze, as they don’t sell any on Christmas day here, and everyone knows that provisioning is always the key to a good holiday. $20 says half our bus will have no booze and be crying about it on Christmas day. The half that are losers.

And then it was FERGBERGER time. If you have not heard of a Fergberger, google it. It’s basically Queenstown’s In-n-out. Their claim to burger fame. The end-all, be-all of food in this fair little city. So we met up with some of our bus mates, queued for about 20 minutes, and settle into burger bliss by the lake. We fully expected to be disappointed, especially after the sad excuse for Mexican food we had the other night. Oh, that reminds me, we have two Mexican girls on the bus, and everyone just calls them “the Mexicans”. When they are late, our bus driver goes “Where are those damn Mexicans?”. She is totally serious. I laugh my ass off every time. There are two other girls who are not Mexican but are really tan and no one can tell the four apart, so we just refer to all of them them as “The Mexicans”. But I digress. Fergberger was the shit. They are literally as big as your head. They do breakfast burgers as well, so naturally that is now on the itinerary. Later at the bar I was so full I had to have one of our bus husbands rub my belly.

Belly rub from one of our hubbies
Belly rub from one of our hubbies

It sounds weird…but I’ve had him do it before, after all-you-can-eat pizza night. To a 29 year old overeater, a belly rub is better than foreplay. I can’t possibly be alone is this, can I?

And then it was bar crawl time. Also known as “7pm” here in NZ. And you people wonder why I pass out at midnight every night. 5 hours of drinking is like a marathon for this old bitch. We started at Loco’s where we did our secret santa gift exchange. Thank god one of the A-team people got me, and I was rewarded with rings that you can blow bubbles from ($5 max on the gift – I’m not sure how you can do better than bubble rings for $5, honestly. She outdid herself). These would come in handy later in the night…I’ll get there. Stina got this one girl, Sofie (who we like) a mini nerf gun that you can shoot people with. Basically, the best present ever. Sofie did not agree and was very disappointed. When we were shopping we must have forgotten that Sofie is a real girl and hates all things fun. More for show than go, if you know what I mean. So I gave her one my bubble rings in exchange for the gun and proceeded to put the gun to people’s heads and threaten to shoot them for about an hour. Doesn’t sound funny now. But vodka makes a lot of weird shit funny.

Mushache maddess
Mushache maddess

Oh, and someone got stick-on mustaches. Stina and I spent about an hour just fucking around with all the lame presents laughing our asses off. People were confused.

We then moved on to another bar which played non-stop Christmas music and we all danced our asses off for about 2 hours until normal, non-backpacker bus folk started to accumulate. We had a limbo competition using a string of tinsle as the pole. The DJ put up a $50 bar tab to the winner, so you know it was on. Stina, myself, and horse face (not sure I’ve mentioned her before, but her face looks like a horse and her voice is super manly – yes, more manly than mine!) came in second and some no-fun nancy skinny bitch took first. Games like that need to be scored on a sliding scale that take into account your weight-to-height-to-age-to-awesomeness ratio. The bar tab was wasted on this bitch. Later that night there was a competition for who could look the most Christmasy. As the only Jew in the room, I was naturally the obvious choice for our group of friends to thrown their support behind. It was clear that the boring bitch (who already won a game!!) was going to win, as the B-team decorated her, and they are FAR more numerous in number than the A-team and therefore had more Christmas shit at their disposal. So Stina literally stole the Christmas tree from behind the bar and I danced around holding it on my head. It was for sure a winner. But I was basically disqualified for theft.

The Jew that stole Christmas
The Jew that stole Christmas

The one time Kiwis actually give a fuck is when you put a tree on your head?! Come the fuck on! I demanded a recount. My plea fell of the deaf ears of the grinch working the bar. Bastards.

But our luck was about to turn. Because upon returning from the ladies room (where I pissed on a Santa Hat that someone had put in the toilet – zero fucks!!) Stina informed me she had found the hottest guys in the bar. So I did what any 25 year old gal would do…I went up behind them and blew bubbles at their (very tall) heads. As that did not illicit the response I was looking for (which was eternal love) I pushed my way to the bar next to them…the classic whoo girl move, been doing it for years ladies. Works just about every time until you turn 25, and then the effectiveness drops exponentially, much the like viability of your eggs. But it was my lucky night, because it worked. Stina got the hotter one, but I got the younger one. If we are being honest, the younger one got stuck with me. But 29 year olds who pretend to be 25 at bars take whatever scraps they can get. So bring on the 26 year old Sweedish wing-men! Did I mention these hot men were both about 6’8 and BROTHERS. It was a Christmas miracle. The bar closed so we spilled onto the streets and loitered about for a while. The extremely tall and good looking Sweedish men wondered how we knew everyone in town. We mumbled something about a bus but kept the explanation short, as we preferred them to think we were kind of a big deal.

Tall, beautiful Sweedish boyfriends. Merry X-mas to us..
Tall, beautiful Sweedish boyfriends. Merry X-mas to us..

Then, as you all well know, after the party is the after-party. We went back to our luxurious flashpacker suite to pop bottles. Yes, I actually said “lets go pop some bottles”, and yes, the Sweeds thought it was hilarious. So we spend the next few hours drinking Rose Sparking wine, dancing to the Jammy pack, and introducing the Sweeds to the baby dino. No, that is not secret lingo for some weird sexual move. It is literally where I just talk in a high pitched voice as a baby dinosaur. A Pterodactyl, to be exact. At one point my boo decided he also wanted to be a baby dino, so I made him get in the fetal position and then declared him re-born a Velociraptor Dino and instructed him to make whatever noise he thinks a baby raptor would make. It’s about as weird as it sounds. Keep in mind it was 2am and I had already drank every vodka tonic in town. After sufficiently scaring these boys, we sent them home to their parents. Yes, they were on Holiday with their parents. We also invited ourselves to (1) Christmas dinner with their parents, and (2) Their NYE party in Sydney. They don’t want us at either one. Shocker.

Able Tasman and Airmen

Thursday, Dec 18

I thought today’s blog would be pretty quick, as this was mostly a travel day. But then the sun went down…and you all know Rory and Stina can’t fight the moonlight. Today we were up at 5:15am to catch the ferry to the South Island. Only good part about being up at the ass crack of dawn is you can rationalize your need for a McDonalds breakfast without feeling like a huge fat ass. That’s a lie, I still felt like a fat ass. Whatever. We slept for most of the ferry ride since we were hungover, and got our new bus once we arrived in Picton. It’s basically a truck with a bus in the back…it’s fucking huge. So it was aptly named “the truck bus” and off we went. It was about a 5 hour drive down to Able Tasman National Park, but we did manage to stop in Marlborough for a little wine tasting. Bubbles were purchased, obviously.

About ten minutes before we got to our hostel, the owners rang (called) our driver and told her that (1) They have Air Force boys staying there, (2) They are seriously getting after it, and (3) last night they all got naked. Oh happy day for us! It was our intention to have a nice kiwi BBQ with our busmates and make it an early night. But alas, plans change. Once we pull up to our hostel, we are greeted on our bus by the owners and one of the Air Force men in a slutty Santa’s little helper outfit. He was the youngest of the Air Force guys and being hazed. He reeked of booze. Beer pong was happening. I should have known then what we were in for….

The hostel is pretty sweet – lots of outdoor space and fire pits, beach view. However 2 problems: First, the owner is total bitch. I’m talking serious see you next Tuesday shit here people. I almost flipped out on her at check in but thought it would probably be best not to get kicked out on night 1. Second, our room is a glorified tuna can. Literally.

Stina in our box.  I mean room.
Stina in our box. I mean room.
It’s a box. With a sliding glass door and two beds. And nothing else. No fucking electrical outlets. And this was the upgrade. Oddly enough, the dorm rooms do have electrical outlets. Because that makes sense. The people that pay you more should naturally have less amenities. Again, they just don’t give a fuck.

So our driver, Lego, cooked everyone a BBQ and Stina and I downed a few bottles of wine. A few of the other gals told us we didn’t have a choice and had to come out…we are easily persuaded so we started to hit the beer. And then the lovely gentlemen of the NZ Royal Airforce came to play. They were all three sheets to the wind by that point, which made it all the more fun. Stina and I found our two boyfriends for the night. Or rather, they found us. They informed us that they were on some sort of “team bonding” outing where they do shit like mountain biking and kayaking in the morning and then just get totally fucked up all day and night. On their last bonding adventure, they went “Tramping”. Stina and I giggled and explained that tramping essentially translates to whoring. To clarify what tramping entails they said “we went bush walking”, at which point we burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, for obvious reasons. It took them a minute, but they got it. It doesn’t sound funny now as I am typing it, but I swear it was hilarious. Trust me on this one.

After about 3 hours of drinking, we headed down to the bar with boyfriends and a bunch of the others. Oh, the bar. I was at a loss for how to explain this bar to you all, but don’t worry – it came to me. If Toby Keith and Bob Marley got together and opened a bar in NZ, this would be it. Oh, and it was open mic night. So all the freaks came out to play. The bartender was high as balls, so drinks took forever. I’ve seen glaciers melt faster than that guy poured a whiskey coke. One of the Airmen had a hat made entirely of glowsticks, which I stole within about 3 minutes. Ok so this is where it gets weird…you knew it was coming. This weirdo who had just hopped on our bus today was blacked out of his mind and walking around the bar trying to fondle all the Air Force guys. I’m talking like, full on dick grabbing, sitting on their laps, trying to kiss them. It was fucking hilarious. Now, you pull that shit on bunch of guys in the Air Force at home, you get your ass kicked. But – say it with me people – Kiwis don’t give a fuck! About anything! Not even some drunk weirdo trying to fondle them in a NZ honky tonk. They were shockingly nice to him, actually. Until Stina informed the weirdo that the boys were going to get naked later and they leave their door open when they slept. Weirdo’s eyes lit up, I died laughing, and the Air boys looked terrified. What else….oh! So remember a few posts ago when I was talking about how I wanted to bite that guy’s arm? Well. Yeeeeeeah. I bit a dudes arm. It was big and muscular. And I don’t know what got into me…probably all the arm biting talk Stina and I have had in the past few days, but I bit him. Not too hard. Twice. He was generally baffled, as one can imagine, but in true Kiwi nature zero fucks were given. Oh, then boyfriend got jealous so I had to bite his arm too so he didn’t feel left out. I’m so selfless.

Me and boyfriend.  I swear he isn't a predator like my face implies
Me and boyfriend. I swear he isn’t a predator like my face implies
Stina's boyfriend in the back.  Yes I wore that hat ALL NIGHT
Stina’s boyfriend in the back. Yes I wore that hat ALL NIGHT
The dude who's arm I bit in the back...and some fugster he had no business wasting his time with
The dude who’s arm I bit in the back…and some fugster he had no business wasting his time with

The bar closed at midnight or so, probably so the staff could go get high. So back to the hostel we went and more beers were had. At this point it was just Stina and I and boyfriends left by the fire pit chatting. Boyfriend was starting to get the look in his eye. You know the look I’m talking about ladies. The one were they are contemplating how best to make their move. Sometimes the look reads like desperation, sometimes it looks pathetic, and sometimes (if you are lucky), it’s confident. This one was probably a mix of the first two. I took this as my cue to go to bed, and off I went. Stina said he was very sad. I would be too. I’m pretty awesome. Oh, you may be wondering why I did not want to make out with Air man…well, two reasons. One: not hot. Very nice. But not hot. Two: I found out over the course of the night that he isn’t actually in the air force!! He is their trainer! Wrong move boyfriend, the Air Force thing was the only card you had to play, and you tossed it. Stina followed to bed shortly after me, after her boyfriend asked her to “go for a walk”. We know what that shit means here. No thank you, sir.

Up in tomorrows post: I’ll give you a run down of the new bus characters and SAILING!

A bartender thought I was 22

Yes, that is the title of my blog today. Because it basically made my week. This is what girls staring down the barrel of 30 dream of. I’m not saying he was the brightest bartender in the world, but I’ll take it. I guess that is my reward for putting on mascara for the first time all trip.

So, not much to tell from yesterday other than some drunken fun…but thats what you all like to read about anyway. So here goes. We left Mordor, but the scars of the hike still remain. I think I have PTSD to be honest. Some moron tried to steal my seat on the bus – she learned really quickly that was a mistake. We drove to Wellington, stopping along the way to have a little gumboot throwing contest (gumboot = rain boot). It’s like a thing here. You chuck a rain boot down a gumboot throwing lane (yes, they have actual areas in parks designated for throwing boots) and whoever gets it the furthest wins a free drink. We did not win. But anyone who saw me play softball when I was 12 could have guessed that. We also watched The Hobbit on the drive. What a stupid fucking movie. Has Peter Jackson never heard the phrase “quit while you’re ahead”? It was like watching a movie made by really rich 12 year old boys who just figured out how to masturbate…and think dragons are cool.

When we got to Welllington is started to rain. Too bad it didn’t rain the day before, because then we wouldn’t have been able to hike. I mean, no one would have stopped us (you know, since Kiwis don’t give a fuck if you die on a hike that you have no business being on) but I’d like to think I would have had the good sense not to go in the rain. Since I typically don’t get out of bed in the rain. I got a pedicure. The nail ladies were Vietnamese (shocker) and the moron in the chair next to me kept asking them if they were Chinese. “Is that Chinese you are speaking? You are from Vietnam? What language do they speak there?”. Someone please buy this bitch a bowl of Pho.

After that we did what we do every day day that it rains – start drinking early. All of our peoples from the bus were shuffling in to the bar and we settled in for a long evening of doing what we do best. Stina and I put down quite a bit of beer before the beer pong tournament began. If I’m being honest, we did not fare well. Probably because its been a while (you all know I prefer flip cup) and they were playing with only three cups. So just when you are getting warmed up, its game over. I talked the guys who ran the bar into flip cup (again, shocker), and he decided it should be a fucking 40 person game. I never even got to flip, because some Dutch skank took about 10 minutes to flip a cup upside down. Are they too busy prosecuting international criminals to practice their flip up over there in Holland? Priorities, people. Please. But she was hot, so none of the boys minded the fact that she caused us to lose to a bunch of horny undergrad skanks from Minnesota on a study abroad trip. It was painful. I yelled. Those same skanks kept shaking their boobs at the beer pong table to distract the guys. Well played girls, well played. Prob would have worked better if they had gone through puberty first. But you know boys, they’ll take what they can get.

The night basically turned into a big dance party. They let you dance on tables at this bar, so obviously Rory was a happy camper. I also cleared out the entire length of the bar area so I could dance to Footloose. Because I kick that song’s ass. Single Ladies came on – thats where it got ugly. That’s where it ALWAYS gets ugly. Ugh, why do I think I can dance when I get the drink in me?

The same bartender who needs a refresher course in radiometric fossil dating tried to hold my hand while we were dancing. A lot. It was weird. If I was a bartender, holding hands would not be my go-to move of choice. But I didn’t say anything – because everyone know you don’t piss off your bartender. After about 6 hours of solid drinking and way too much dancing, the clock stuck midnight. With a 6am ferry to catch the next morning, we headed to bed. Let’s be honest, I would have gone to bed either way. Even 22 year olds need their beauty rest.
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Beer Pong Team Mean Girls
Beer Pong Team Mean Girls

Most people on our bus hopped off in Wellington, so we’ll have quite a few new people once we get to the South Island. Ring-a-ding is gone, Face is gone, Spaak is gone (we are actually sad about this one), American boys are gone, and our favorite British couple is gone. However, we still have our kick ass bus driver. But there is a silver lining here – new people for Rory to make fun of. Get ready.

Endless Summer in Raglan

Today we had the alarm set for 7am to catch our bus to Raglan. I was up at 6:45 because the prospect of getting out of that dorm room was enough to lull even my subconscious out of sleep. Since I’m sure you are dying to know what happened to the girl from yesterday’s blog, hot mess came home at some point during the night. And very quietly. Thank you, hot mess. You surprised me. And you have evaded a hostel STD for one more night.

First stop on the bus: a completely pointless stop at the main Stray bus office to give us an overview of how the bus works. Why was this pointless, you ask? Because everyone has already gotten themselves on the bus, so it would rationally follow that people already understand how it works. But hey, I’m not in charge (can you see me gritting my teeth even as I type this statement?). We drive out to the office and file in. Some intern gives us a two minute talk with a powerpoint presentation that she probably spent two weeks on. No information was given that my dog could not have gleaned from the website in about 3 minutes. After our little presentation we all stood around, waiting for someone to herd us. I think we all know who that someone ended up being. Now, I did tell myself I was going to “go with the flow” on this trip, but I had a beach to get to. So I began yelling at everyone to get back on the bus so we can leave. Some were pleased that someone, anyone took charge, but most just gave me the “who does this chick think she is?” look. A look I am very familiar and quite comfortable with. I’m knocking on 30 here people, telling me I’m a control freak with a serious lack of patience is not news to me. So, off we went on our way to the beach, with a supermarket stop (our next hostel is BYOB, so really a booze stop) and a quick trip to see a waterfall. The waterfall is named Bridal Veil Falls…because it looks like a brides veil. Unlike every other waterfall in the world. Those lucky kiwis.

Bridal Veil Falls
Bridal Veil Falls
Bridal Veil Selfie
Bridal Veil Selfie

Once we got to Raglan two morons on our bus were late because they went shopping on a 10 minute stop and made half the bus late for their surf school. I tell you this because I want it on the record that I did not flip out on them. Just rolling with punches here people. Just FYI, I am starting to think “laid back” is code word for “big giant pussy who doesn’t speak her mind”, but I”m gonna give it some getting used to.

Ok….I took a break in between writing this post and got pretty shit faced. Now where was I? Ah yes, so we headed to the beach just as the sun decided to go into hiding, so we sat on the black sand and laughed at the people during surf lessons. Well, I laughed at them. Everyone else probably just wondered what I was laughing at. Everyone wanted to leave but, of course, no one would say anything. So again I took matters into my own hands an initiated the trip home to the sauna. This brings me to what Stina and I have decided are the three rules of our time in NZ:
1. Always order less food than you think you need because these people are closet fatties.
2. Always buy more alcohol than you think you need. you will understand this in a second.
3. STATE YOUR PURPOSE. This one is probably the most important. Basically, if you want something, speak up and ask for it. And about 95% of the time you’ll get your way.

Hot surfer on the black sand beach in Raglan.
Hot surfer on the black sand beach in Raglan.

Now, on to the fun stuff. We went back to the hostel and immediately turned on the sauna. After sauana time, our bus driver cooked us a huge BBQ and we all got drunk. Well, some of us got drunk. I got really drunk. About an hour into our drunk bonding time with what will be our little crew for the next few weeks, our bus driver looked at us and said “you two are trouble”. I think it was right after the manager told us he had more wine for purchased and Stina asked “is it free if she makes our with you?” (point to me) and we were the only two that laughed. To this guy’s credit, I saw a moment of hesitation where he seriously considered it. How could he not? But alas, we have been identified as the trouble makers. Within a day. I can’t say I’m surprised, but we did show our hand rather quickly.

We drank though our measly two liters of wine in a box (sounds better than “boxed wine”, doesn’t it?) rather quickly, as you all who know us can imagine. Luckily, the very nice manager from Boston sold us another three liters. And no, I did not make out with him for it. I paid for my boxed wine like a lady! Boston guy seemed unsure when he stated the price, so naturally I haggled him down a whole $6. He looked at me like I was a fucking nut job for haggling with him on the price of a box of wine. But you know this little jew loves her a good deal. Our team lost trivia night. Primarily because trivia in NZ tends to be all about NZ, which is total bullshit, as I am American and therefore everything should be catered specifically to me. For our credit, Stina owned the question about Bey and Jay-Z’s daughter and I was able to identify Tom Selleck on a page of pictures of guys with mustache’s. I did proclaim “who the hell is that?” at the picture of Joseph Stalin though. Not my best moment. For the record, I would have been able to identify Hitler. Just saying. And this is where everything gets fuzzy. I ran around making an ass out of myself for another hour or so, we initiated a dance party where I probably taught everyone how to “drop it like its hot”, as I often do, and then woke up this morning in my bed with Stina handing me a cup of water and a few painkillers. I have a vague recollection of trying to hook Stina up with the pro surfer staying at our place. And apparently the only qualifications I required was that he, himself, insisted he was pro surfer. As the hottest guy in the room, girls were throwing themselves at him and offering to get him drinks. Stina doesn’t get boys drinks, they get her drinks. So we left him to the hoodrats and their varied STD’s. OMG! Speaking of STD’s I almost forgot to tell you about the douchebag from USC on our bus! So sorry, but better late than never.

He needs his own paragraph. Ok, why is a dude who is in a fraternity at USC (1) traveling alone (where are his “brothers”?) and (2) traveling while school is in session. I have come up with the theory that (1) no one likes him – not even other USC douche lords and (2) he was suspended for a rufie-related incident after which his parents funded his travels to get rid of him because they don’t like him either. But, to his credit, he did get laid at about 8pm. The pair of them came back with some story about a “hike” they went on. That fucker wouldn’t go hiking even if mommy and daddy put his bmw on top of hill, trust me. It was fairly hilarious. Oh, and at the beach he found out Stina was from Manhattan Beach and began to rattle of the names of spoiled frat boys that she may know (because he is really fucking cool and knows everyone you guys). She did not know any of them and I asked “how old are these people?”. “21”. Holy shit. He thinks Stina is 21. And me as well, by association, of course (just go with it, it’s how I sleep at night). Everyone was utterly shocked when they found out how old we really are. I’m not even kidding, genuinely shocked. Score 459 for team Rorina (Rory and Stina…can we do better?). Anyway, Stina talked me into being nice to him for the entertainment, so surely there will be more on this subject to come. We shall henceforth refer to him as Douchey McRich. I’ll probably change that tomorrow to something better, but I’m hungover and that’s the best I got.

It is now 8am and I am on a bus getting ready to go rappel down a waterfall inside a cave – and you all know Rory loves a good cave. And abseiling. And anything else that will prepare me to win the amazing race. And we might have to hitchhike tomorrow for a short stretch at a certain point when we hop off the bus. It’s a kiwi thing dad, don’t worry.