Surfing the Crime Wave.

What's worse than having your car stolen?



Having your house burgled 10 days later.



What's worse than having a car stolen and house burgled within the space of 11 days?



Having your house tagged 3 days after that.



Forget "Student City", Palmerston North will always be "Hell's Kitchen" to me

Prior to moving in and not trusting the marketing hyperbole (Location Location Location! If we don't like the pulling power of the location you're in, we'll stretch the concept of artistic licence, along with the boundaries of desirable locales, and fling you into a chic location across town), I had researched the area that I was to move into with my students (only in very general terms; it is well known amongst insiders in the Education field that once a student knows where you live, it's witness protection time again). I wanted to find out once and for all what suburb it was in. See I couldn't get a straight answer from a real estate agent. (I know - that was redundant).

The conversation went something like this ..

"If I lived in a house near ________ Street, what suburb is that?"

"What bit of ___________Street Miss?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe at the intersection of ________ Crescent and ________ Drive?"

"What about it?"

"Well, like I said - what suburb would I be in?"

"Huh?"

"Suburbs. Smaller sections of Palmerston North City that have specific area names. Terrace End. Awapuni. Hokowhitu. Milson. Suburbs".

"Ohhhhh."

"So...................? What suburb would I be in if I lived near the intersection of ________Crescent and _________Drive?"

"That's not a suburb Miss, that's just The Hood."

If only I had had this lesson from the Universtiy of (low)Life before signing the papers. But I remind myself regularly (each time I fall asleep to the sonic boom of boy racers accelerating past both my house and the speed of sound) that like "Fitty" someone has to come from the mean streets.

Keepin' it real in the Roslyn massive.

'Sup.

Storytime.

Chapter One: "The Late, Great, Coffee Experience"

Once upon a time there was an exasperated teacher, who asked for little out of life; only that she might be able to grab a coffee-to-go on the way to work of a weekday morning, in order to insulate herself from the grim task of being overtaxed, underpaid and living a life lacking in sexual harassment.
To her incredulity, in a town of 75 000 people possessed of more than a dozen coffee outlets within the CBD area, only 2 (2!) were open to the public before 7.30am in the morning. This was an extreme inconvenience to the aforementioned (surprisingly youthful) teacher, who had to be at work by 7.30am at the least (and even this was a concession to the small town habits of her new school, where 40% of fellow staff milked cows before the start of the school day (or some such thing)).

But a mere 2 outlets it was, and you can imagine her distress when (after some careful critique) she discovered one of the two provided service and coffee that were equally unpalatable. Despite this setback, our intrepid (and alluring) teacher's loins were girded and she decided that she would see this as a challenge, rather than an indication from the universe that she should relinquish her coffee habit and pick up one far more reliable and quality controlled (that would be home bake).

Clearly, she was going to have to (filthy concept) 'compromise'.

She took it back to basics and asked herself, "What did she actually want in a weekday coffee experience?"

1. Good coffee
2. On time

(Observe, gentle reader, how brief and humble were her desires).

Upon reflection (ever the reflective practitioner), she realised that she had instinctively listed her needs in order of priority, and it was then that she experienced her first revelation...

-She would have to let go of the 2nd, in order to accomplish the 1st-.

She took a deep breath, and repeatedly chanting "What would Oprah do?", she struck out the very next (Tuesday) morning, to 'Live Her Best Life' a life that would, yes, abandon punctuality, but continue to include good coffee so help her baby Jesus.

Chapter Two: "How Can I Help You, Ma'am?"

In past times of crisis (she tried not to dwell on the alarming frequency of such times in her life) she had always found it useful to fall back on approved pedagogical practises. Tackling this particular crisis would be a matter of first discovering what is known on a selected topic.

What was known in this case was that regardless of opening hours, the best coffee in town was to be found at 'Ebony' on George Street (also home of the 2 coffee houses mentioned in Chapter One). Armed with this knowledge, and determined to throw the caution of on-time-ness to the wind of the soy-latte-to-go, she advanced on Ebony at the (eek!) tardy hour of 7.30am (if one has to dawdle in the pursuit of one's beverage of choice, one should at least make the effort to be the first customer of the day).

And what a day it was! For, despite the earliness of the hour, the doors were wide with welcome, lights on, chairs under tables - even pavement tables artfully arranged - and a barista standing to attention behind a gleaming counter, his benevolent smile emanating a glow that struck the recently buffed till drawer and ricocheted in the direction of the astounded (and charming) teacher who is the protagonist of our narrative.

And, what a barista it was! Tall, lithe, with shoulder length blond hair that cascaded exactly like Nicole Kidman’s on the cover of Vanity Fair announcing to the world that she was heart whole post-Tom Cruise break up and ready to wear heels like never before. A cheeky nose ring twinkling from his right nostril, the vision leaned slightly toward her at an angle that announced, simultaneously “I am at your service” and “Smell me, and tell me I don’t turn you on” and enquired in honey sweet trans-Atlantic tones “How can I help you, Ma’am?”

Chapter Three “Tuesdays with Adonis”

Well, as you can vividly imagine dear reader, the troubled (yet tasty) teacher of our tale was tormented by duo desires; to reply with a rather racy request, or pertly protest at being publicly patronised.

Wildly disconcerted (but resolved to hide the fact) she adopted a business like manner (such as a spinster school teacher might adopt when faced with about 23 years worth of hot human flesh on hand to fulfil her every refreshment desire) and made her order, all the while managing to stand with exemplary posture, in a flattering light, at just the right angle to show her ring-less left hand off to best advantage. The ‘Ma’ams’ continued to come thick and fast but strangely enough, the young barista managed to pull it off due in no small part to his down home, “Aw shucks” southern fried charm which, while being criminally offensive coming from George W. Bush, works a treat when one is imagining the local cute barista saying the same thing naked.

Strange that.

Congratulating herself on her Oscar worthy performance (Best Supporting Actress in a Weak-kneed Role) the teacher continued on to work, sipping reverently on what could easily be the best coffee she had ever tasted (note to self: best save the used take-out cup as a prop for my speech at our wedding reception). She made careful note of the day and time, and resolved to always be slightly late to work (and slightly flushed) every Tuesday from that day on.

And she always was.

Cold : So Hot Right Now.

It had to happen – a post about the weather - specifically about the winter cold. Are you ready…?

I love it. There is nothing I like better that the ‘snapped rubber band’ ping of air on my cheeks, or numb fingers slowly and achingly thawing out. I like red runny noses, watery eyes, high colour and seeing my breath.
Cheeks reminiscent of a ruddy Prince Edward are a small price to pay for the brisk, crisp, chill of a frosty morning. And my, oh my, doesn’t PN do it well. It is a daily joy to behold the dusting of icing sugar over the lawn and I always give in to the temptation to goose step across it grinning at the immensely satisfying crunch.

Last winter in the 09, we had a single day waking up to a frost. One day in the entire season (such as it is, in the winterless north). My motives for the move south are many and varied, but I would be lying if I said that anticipating a quality winter freeze wasn’t part of the allure; along with finally being able to utilise all the hats, scarves, coats, gloves, and boots that I have accumulated (impractically) over the Auckland years.

So I’m not apologising for failing to join in all the whinging and miserable shivering that is taking place on streets and in workplaces all over town - smell that wood smoke, enjoy a vigorous shudder of cold, tuck yourself around with an afghan and put on the minestrone soup…

Deus ex Manawatu.

I can’t claim I didn’t know that Palmerston North belonged to Jesus – it was mentioned, mentioned and mentioned again (and by mentioned, I mean brandished as a dire warning). What I can lay claim to is the habitual disregard of advise based on second hand experiences. Lucky for me, His heavy hand is everywhere – poking me in the eye as I walk across The Square and idly regard the cenotaph, tugging on my earlobe when I catch the sharp intakes of breath at my frequent, explosive blasphemy and slapping me in the face on a daily basis at work. (If I had a loaf or fish for the number of times I’ve heard that work simply won’t be accomplished on a Sunday (deity forbid having a few lemonades at the local!) I could feed the multitudes – no parabolic miracle required). It shouldn't continue to shock and awe, but it does - clearly, those going to hell are slow learners.

I have every intention of making my mark on my new home town; live long and loud enough anywhere and you can't fail to, but it suddenly occurs to me that the traffic is both ways. No doubt this time next year I'll be a Palmerston North-ed version of my former self; flattened and perpendicular. Would it be appropriate for an atheist to pray that such a version doesn't include church goin'? A dear friend of mine reluctantly moved to PN after a long stretch living joyously amongst the winding topography of Wellington. She remembers spending the first night in her new house on Main Street in the throes of a panic attack, running desperately to the bedsides of her 2 children, gripped with the need to assure them that no matter what, they would never become 'straight line people'.

Dear Baby Jesus,

Please save me from such a fate,

Not yours,
Rachel.

Secret Society.

So I'm loving the Palmerston North Film Society. Pay $85 when you are feeling flush, enjoy a movie a week for 12 months - no more money down.

But wait, there's more....

Screenings are on Wednesday evenings and you know I need a little somethin' to look forward to once I realise that it's only 11.24am on Wednesday morning, instead of the 4.41pm Friday afternoon that it should be, it feels like it should be, it's beyond wrong that's it's not. Added to which, the selections are varied, intelligent and heralded by an emailed synopsis a few days beforehand, so it's easy to avoid a familiar film you aren't bothered to see again.

All this is as it should be and not at all shocking - what does disturb is the number of "Say what?" responses I get when I mention the film society at all. Mentions made to PN locals. PN locals who have already professed an open mind, a love for cinema and a belief in the value of mid-week experiential adventures in the CBD.
So what gives? In a town of thwarted social butterflies who grimly challenge all new-comers to try and find anything of interest to get up to, how come no one I bump into seems to know about what IS available?

Speaking of film, best I get a plug in for The Portal (corner of Princess and Main Street), a DVD hire store without rival, best known for it’s comprehensive collection of ‘Arthouse’ (hate that word, but you know what I mean) cinema. If you missed it during the film festival, studied the director during Film/TV and Media Studies 101 or caught the tail end of it once on a wet Sunday afternoon circa 1987, you’ll find it there - along with some opinionated converstion about film at the counter.
And I mean that in a good way.

Sausages: The Deal Breaker.

Palmerston North is many things, but it could never be called vegan friendly. Perhaps it’s because there is a local movement afoot to redefine vegetarianism. I’m yet to meet a self proclaimed vegetarian from the 06 who has ceased to eat meat. Hedging your bets by calling yourself a less strict vegetarian only counts if by “strict” you mean “than actual”. A less strict vegetarian can also be called a flexitarian: ethics so flexible in the face of a barbeque as to be non-existent. For the person who eats animal products and yet labels themselves vegetarian, presumably in an effort to impress others with their ‘special nature’, here’s a thought.

Just BE vegan/vegetarian.

That way you can have the desired effect on others without being ignorant/pretentious/hypocritical/offensive/all of the above.

In a related topic, I wish I had a dollar for every meat eater who, upon finding out that I’m vegan, has cheerfully barked “I could be vegetarian!” To which I always reply “If that’s the case – why aren’t you?” Their faces immediately fall into an incredulous frown. “Oh - but I just couldn’t give up sausages”.

I suppose it’s a bit like saying “I could be a lesbian, but……”

Palmerston North: Your Tagline Here.

It’s important to have a sense of identity. It gives you a framework from which to present yourself to the world and helps you decide whether those shoes are really ‘you’. Things that can disrupt your sense of identity are based around loss; of job/relationship/family member/faith. Leaving behind an adored hometown of 15 years to try and put down roots in Palmerston North has shaken my sense of identity and I feel the aftershocks almost daily. But what I really want to write about is Palmerston North’s sense of identity. Let’s not get carried away, I’m not going to personifiy the town to the point of sentient self awareness - which raises the question, if a town can have no awareness of its ‘identity’, what’s the tag line about?

You know – the tagline, so popular with Block Buster Amercian movies and self help books (Believing in Yourself - A practical guide to building Self-confidence; Asserting Yourself: How to Feel Confident about Getting More from Life; Naming your book: Just How Much do you Need to put into the Title, Hasn’t your Editor told you about Writing the First Chapter as an Introduction?).

The latest incarnation of a tagline for PN is 'Palmerston North: Student City'. For reasons of brevity, I’m going to leave the presumption inherent in the word ‘City’ alone, in order to deal with the broader concept. Let’s play word association. I’ll say "Student" then you say whatever comes to mind..................I thought so – binge drinking, slovenly habits, squalid living conditions, the smell of unwashed hair and cheap black jeans. And that’s just the chicks.

And if the town has no sense of these connotations then what we are identifying here isn’t Palmerston North, it’s us – he tangata, he tangata, he tangata. If that’s the image the people of Palmerston North want to cultivate in front of the world then they have begun the best way possible with the blunt instrument that is the tagline ‘Student City’.

Obviously, there are alternatives and I don’t see why I shouldn’t claim the right to create the tag line that fits my vision for the PN I want to live in (maybe initially this is regardless of the reality to be found being holed up by the Armed Offenders Squad outside my Roslyn window on a Sunday night, but I’m a firm believer in the transforming power of the noun).
In light of that, here goes........

1.Palmerston North: The thinking woman’s backwater.
2.Palmerston North: Not better or worse, just different.
3.Palmerston North: We don’t know nothing about a good time.

Let’s throw this open to other locals. A recent informal, liquored up survey resulted in:

4.Palmerston North: Take it and like it.
5.Palmerston North: Let’s get laid........back.
6.Palmerston North: You’ll touch yourself.

(So maybe alcohol isn’t next to Godliness, but at least that proves #3).

Of course in an ideal world, we would keep ‘Student City’, drop three letters and live happily ever after.