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Published: February 28th 2007
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As Gene and I drove into the small town of Twizel, with a population of 1015, we wondered why anyone would choose to live there. The so-called town was comprised of a mere strip mall including a small grocery store and a few small shops and cafés. Consulting our Lonely Planet Guide to New Zealand, we learned that the town of Twizel came into existence in 1968 when it was built to service construction of the nearby hydroelectric power station. It was due to expire when the project was completed in 1984. The town, however, survived beyond the mid-80’s due to the persistence of its residents and its proximity to Mt. Cook.
Pulling into our Bed and Breakfast, I took check of my surroundings and noted that we were once again out in the country and in the middle of nowhere. As I peered outside the community kitchen’s windows, I laughed to myself as I observed sheep grazing right outside of the room.
As Gene and I were shown about our room, the owner of the B&B announced in passing that we should reconsider leaving the door to the deck open at night as the lights attract moths. While
I have always been one to take pleasure in the peace and quiet of the country, it’s doubtful that I could ever survive the country on a long-term basis.
After bringing in our bags and getting settled, I ventured outside to have a visit with the sheep. Resting comfortably in the shade underneath a tree, I sent them off running as I attempted a stealthy approach. Pouting, I retreated to our room.
Gene and I were eager to prepare our first home cooked meal since leaving the States. While the grocery store was certainly lacking in fresh vegetables, one could always manage on pasta. As always, even in my damndest of efforts, I was bound to screw something up in the kitchen. On this particular occasion, I just happened to drown the lettuce under the faucet.
“Aww, babe, you soaked the lettuce!” Gene muttered in disappointment.
“Well, you wanted me to clean it!” I still don’t understand how sprinkling the lettuce with water is sufficient to rinse off any pesticides.
Where is my salad spinner when I need it?!? I spent the next 20 minutes padding down the lettuce with cheap paper napkins.
After dinner,
I elected to laze about and read while Gene played photographer from our private deck. Leaving the sliding door open during the day was apparently not the brightest idea either as we had a few fluttery friends flying about our room within minutes and I could only guess at how many mosquitoes. Over a month into our trip and several bug encounters later, I was quite frustrated that I would again have to sleep with one eye open. Gene promised that he would slay anything that made me uneasy. However, as he sat outside on the deck capturing the sunset with his photographic lens, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Seated opposite the bedroom curtain, Gene wondered what all the commotion was about.
A short while later, Gene joined me with his paperback. We passed the next couple of hours engrossed in the lives of the fictional characters in our books.
As it neared bedtime, I grew convinced that the mosquitoes came out of their hiding places only to taunt us. “Did you see that?” I asked in a paranoid voice, as Gene turned almost instantaneously to scan our surroundings.
Damn mosquitoes. “I’m not going
to bed until every last one of those bastards is dead! Wait. Listen…. Is it raining outside?”
“I don’t believe so.” Gene stood up and pulled back the curtain to assess the weather conditions. “Jesus Christ! I think I just figured out the source of your so-called raindrops.” Gene yanked the curtain back even further to reveal thousands of moths covering the window and flying foolishly into the glass toward the inside light.
“Ugh, gross! That’s it!” Jumping up in my underwear, I grabbed the thick, heavy New Zealand paperback and started chasing the moths around our room.
Whack! I threw the book straight up into the air against the ceiling.
One down. Gene laughed his ass off as I hopped from the couch to the bed, onto the floor, and back onto the couch, throwing the book against the walls, ceiling and light fixtures. I found this to be no laughing matter. I remained determined and focused. Surprisingly enough, my antics yielded a very efficient method of insect genocide.
Satisfied with myself, I crawled back into bed and picked up my book. The second I focused on reading, I caught view of another mosquito from
the corner of my eye.
This has got to be some cruel joke! “Gene, there it is! Get it!” More interested in his book, Gene lazily clapped his hands together in an attempt to satisfy me, told me he thinks he may have gotten it and went back to reading.
“You didn’t get it! There it is!” Noticing the look of disinterest in Gene’s eyes, I leapt out of bed, book in hand.
Whack! “Damn, I missed it!”
Thump! Thump! Thump! Gene and I looked at one another. The pounding was coming from the other side of the wall. Giggling in my underwear, I was determined to make my kill. As I pounced about like a cat, Gene and I enacted scenarios of our neighbors pounding on our door.
I suggested, “If we hear a knock, we should turn out the lights in our room and you should answer the door nude as if they woke us up! Better yet, I’ll open the door and whack him on the forehead with my book, announcing, ‘Got’em!”
All was fine and dandy until we got stuck next to the angry couple at the breakfast table the following morning.
Oops!
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darby
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please email me
a higher res version of "you would think this place was pretty or something" to make a desktop background out of. thats awesome...