Morning dew on ferns
Delicious kingfish for lunch
Afternoon view towards Auckland city center
No comments on A Day in Kohimarama Bay
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A few more photos from the weekend in Wellington.
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What an amazing and inspiring weekend. I attended my first WordCamp ever, in Wellington, New Zealand over the weekend. The conference was small enough (~90 people) that I had the chance to interact with many of the participants – designers, developers, personal bloggers, trainers, entrepreneurs. I loved hearing how people got involved using WordPress, their passion about the product, and how they use it.
The sessions covered a wide variety of topics – blogging for kids and how to ensure that’s safe, WordPress security and keeping your site safe, how BuddyPress is evolving, a short talk from New Zealand’s most popular blogger, group deals, and general overall tips and tricks to make blogging easier and more fun.
WordCamp NZ was held in the Te Papa Tongerewa which is an awe-inspiring venue. After the sessions ended on Sunday, a few of us explored the museum. We learned about faultlines (New Zealand straddles one), earthquakes, immigration to New Zealand throughout history, refugees, colossal squid, pounamu stone, and so much more. Our favorite exhibit, though, was an interactive technology one, where you could take photos or videos, upload them to a wall, then manipulate them with a magic wand. Look, there we are!
After the conference, we convinced a few of the attendees to try a reverse bungy jump. Three of us were strapped in to an open seat, and springs attached to a couple of cranes were pulled taut. All of a sudden, we were released, slingshot-ed into the air, high in the sky. We laughed, we screamed, we flipped – an incredibly exhilarating two minutes.
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As we were walking home, my parents were sharing about their day in the city. They had gone to MOMA, then to the Asian Art Museum. And they had walked from museum to museum, which was quite a long distance. “Why didn’t you take BART, like I suggested?” I asked them. At which point the homeless man walking beside us said, “It’s not safe to take BART at night.” I nodded and said, “Oh, but this was during the day today.” He nodded, pleased that we were safety conscious.
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As I was standing outside of the restaurant, waiting for my parents, two somewhat disheveled, perhaps inebriated, men approached me. The first one said, “Tell him it was 1971. 1971 I say.” Not able to resist what might be an interesting conversation, I looked at him quizzically. He continued, “The year Janis Joplin died. She was 27 and it was 1971. The same year I was born.” I’m not great with dates. I shrugged and said, “Sorry, I can’t help you. I’m not sure when Janis Joplin died.” And at that moment I took out my phone to call my parents to see where they were. The other man said, “Hey! Look! She’s calling someone to find out when Janis Joplin died!” Except that I wasn’t. I was calling my parents. Who, now that I think about it, may have known when Janis Joplin died, but I didn’t think to ask them. “Can you call Jimi Hendrix? Jim Morrison? They would know when Janis died.” I looked at them and said, over a ring tone, “No, they died as well. I can’t call them.”
They continued to banter back and forth, arguing about the year Janis Joplin died. A friend came out from the restaurant to wait with me, probably wondering what I was doing talking to these two gentlemen. And they peppered him with the same question. They were determined. They wanted to know if Janis Joplin died in 1970, or 1971. My friend didn’t know either, but was amused by their antics. My parents arrived and we entered the restaurant.
Out of curiosity, I looked it up. 1970. Kind of glad I didn’t look it up while on the sidewalk. The first guy would have been so disappointed.
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It was December of 2001. September 11th had happened. The dot-com bust had happened. The layoffs at my company had happened. The layoffs at most of my friends’ companies had happened. The future wasn’t looking bright.
One morning, I was perusing Craigslist and noticed an ad: “Come Teach in Korea!” it beckoned. That sounded interesting. After graduating, I had taught for seven years – in NC, in Kuwait, in Egypt, in CA, but never in Asia. It would be an adventure. If nothing else, it was a way to sit out the depression for a year. To have something to focus on, to create a life somewhere else where there seemed to be possibilities.
I applied, I interviewed, I received an offer, I accepted. A week later I was packing my belongings in anticipation of being away from the Bay Area for a year.
As I was preparing to leave, my good friend Bryan said, “Hey. We made you a going away present.” He took me over to his computer and showed me a blog that he had set up for me. “This way you can write about all the stories that will happen to you.” My response was less than enthusiastic. “Really? No one cares about what I have to write about. But thanks. It’s cute.”
And almost ten years later, LoriLoo is still here. There have definitely been times when I’ve been more prolific than others, and I’m struggling to get back into the habit of writing daily. Why? Because in the process of starting this blog ten years ago, I discovered that people might care about what I’m writing about. Or they might not. And it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I’ve discovered that I love writing. I love thinking about the words that I choose, the manner in which I’ll construct a sentence. I love thinking about ideas from different perspectives and trying out different voices. I love sharing experiences and I love reading about others’. Which is why I’m still blogging.
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As I was walking home this morning, I found a crisp five-dollar bill laying on the sidewalk. My first reaction was “Woot! I’m so lucky! I found five dollars!” I picked it up and looked at it.
My next reaction was one of concern. Who lost this money? How can I find who this money belongs to? I was standing in front of the St Francis. What if a tourist had lost it? What if the bell-hop had dropped it, a well deserved tip after hauling a guest’s bags? I looked around, and no one was in the vicinity. I thought of the children’s rhyme, “Finders keepers; losers weepers.” I didn’t want anyone to weep. I stood for a moment, waiting for someone to return, realizing they had dropped their cash. No one came.
I slowly tucked the money in my pocket and continued walking home.
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I was hankering for a hike today. I wanted to get out of the city; I wanted to walk on soft pine needles; I wanted to be far away from multitudes of people. As we were driving to Samuel P Taylor State Park (thank you, California), my friend explained to me the main reason she doesn’t like hiking.
“When hiking, hikers always find dead people. And you know who those dead people are? Other hikers.”
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One of my co-workers arranged for us to view the filming of Top Gear while in London. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I had heard of Top Gear, but had never watched any of the episodes. I’m now a fan.
As we made our way to the large warehouse where the taping was to take place, I noticed a man with an intense tattoo on the side of his neck. Intense, as in beautiful. As in, super professional looking and incredibly intricate. I stared for a few moments then continued speaking to my colleagues.
The show consisted of live bits, as well as pre-recorded pieces. One of the pre-recorded pieces involved comparing the suspension of two cars. We watched as Jeremy Clarkson drove a Scoda Yeti through fields in the country. In the back seat of the car were two men, one giving the other a tattoo on his shoulder blade as they traversed over the land. I immediately recognized the tattoo artist – it was him! The man with the amazing tattoo on his neck. Wielding a tattoo needle. Then I thought about what they were doing. He was giving a tattoo to another man in the back seat of a car as they road over bumpy hills and fields. That’s crazy. Crazy, I say!
After the ride, the two men stepped out from the back seat. On one’s right shoulder blade was a nicely formed, slightly bleeding four-leaf clover.
The next clip showed them in a Range Rover, repeating the process on the left shoulder blade. The ride didn’t look as smooth, and a couple of shots showed the men in the back seat bumping their heads on the roof of the car. I cringed each time the needle slipped. After a few minutes, the car came to a stop and the men exited. The camera showed another tattoo, almost identical, but not as neat, on the man’s left shoulder blade, also slightly bleeding.
So many questions raced through my mind. Was this real? Who thought of this? Who were the men who agreed to get the tattoo/give the tattoo? Did they work for the show or were they random volunteers? How much did that hurt?
The producer called for a tea break. We went out into the chilly afternoon and there they were – the tattooer and the tattooee. My first question was answered: it was real. The man who received the tattoos had his shirt lifted for people to examine the tattoos up close and personal. Crazy!
LoriLoo 