Hosteling in the city

Day two in New Zealand, and I am starting to suspect that I will like it here. When I was a kid, I saw pictures of hobos carrying sticks laden with supplies wrapped in clothe. The hobos are the most respectable of the vagabonds. They are always moving, and they are always looking for work. The tramps are the next best, working only when the need be. Then there are the bums, who would rather beg than work. So when I was a kid, and I saw those pictures, I thought, “Wow, a hobo is what I want to be.” And so if things weren’t going my way and I got mad I’d say, “I know how to fix this, I’ll start packing my sack.” But by the time the sack was packed, I was next to cooled off and walking out into the Minnesota winter with only my favorite toys in a plastic backpack didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore, but the idea never left me.

Fast forward almost 20 years, and here I am sitting in a room surrounded by backpacks belonging to people from all over the world. They are bigger, more elaborate backpacks filled with electronic doodads and chalk full of clothing. They are everything a person needs to live wrapped up in a neat little package and when hoisted up onto the back, the sensation of their weight is surprisingly light. It appears that the idea I had as a kid grew as I grew into a more complex and organized entity until it had to cease becoming simply an idea. By the looks of it, the idea was either a shared, independently arising phenomenon or it was extremely contagious. I suspect the former. The travel instinct is ubiquitous. Everyone feels it from time to time, some more than others.

Who feels it the most? The hostel crowd I suspect, a unique group. Everyone is from everywhere and won’t be here for long, so there is a general atmosphere of friendly, open community. The kitchen is a great place to see the action happen. Strangers sit around the table eating various meals, some of the them quite gourmet and others simply made with the goal of getting a job done. Across the table flies information concerning, length of stay, date of arrival, aspirations, favorite destinations, ways to stretch the bank account a little farther. There seems to be no lack of canned, easy flowing questions, and no one seems to get bored of being repetitious because every answer is unique.

Despite some obnoxious snoring last night, I got a some good rest. After tidying up a bit and getting some fuel in me, I decided to have a walk to town to see the goings ons. First place I stopped was the Christchurch cathedral. I’m sure many have heard of the large earth quake that hit the city in September. There are buildings everywhere surrounded by fencing with signs directing patrons to the new location of the formerly occupying businesses. However, from the outside the cathedral appears to have remained unscathed by the quake, something I found surprising considering its age and architecture. From there I decided a city bus could provide a cheap tour of the city and a way to get to the ocean, so I hopped on the number 3 to Sumner. Once out of the city it was obvious that I have not even come close to seeing the natural beauty that New Zealand has to offer. Sumner is a little seaside suburb made up of a central business district down by the waterside and an odd patchwork of houses balanced on the surrounding cliffs. On this particular day it reminded me of Duluth in a way. After grabbing an ever popular meat pie (Yum?) and exploring a seaside cave, I hopped back on the 3 and made my way back to town. On my walk back I heard the music of a busker in a doorway. It was one of those happy songs.