Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Our first “Are you American and do you like Bush” questions

So it finally happened, and I’m surprised it took three-and-a-half weeks, but there it was. Our first time being asked about Bush and if we were American. It was completely harmless and it came from a very nice fellow. Our SKY TV installer (blasted Rupert Murdoch, go to hell you jackass!) was named Keith, a mid-50s fellow who actually was a contractor for SKY, not an employee, so I can like him even if I hate who he works for. He was here for about 2 hours and after the 1st hour or so, he said:

“I’m not sure how to ask this, so I’ll go ahead and say it this way: if you were to be visiting Niagara Falls would you arrive from the north or the south?”

We looked at each other: “From the west, actually!” We laughed, Keith was asking if we were Canadian or American, he couldn’t quite tell from the accent. And then the very next question was unexpected and funny: “So do you like your President Bush?” Uh, not at all! “And that’s putting it mildly,” I said. Keith chuckled a bit and then we talked some about Lebanon and the middle east and his recent experience with an American woman living in Nelson. He told us he had to be careful when speaking to Americans now because he wasn’t sure what to expect anymore after this lady. Until then he’d come right out (probably as he did with us) and said some nasty stuff about George because, he said, it seemed the only Americans who travel and live abroad are those that hate George. We all agreed that until George, Americans distinguished between respect for the office of the presidency, and the president himself. Not anymore, thanks to Geroge!

So this lady he installed for recently was a bit more forthright and, luckily, beat Keith to the punch by saying to him, “Gosh, I just don’t know what we’re going to do when he has to leave office!” I KNOW, PAAAARRRRRTTTTYYYY! And all the women will again have control of their own bodies! And maybe some productive stem cell research will occur in the States again instead of every other country in the world. Oh, and maybe God will quit telling him how to run the country so a human can once again take over. And we could bring our troops home from that war of choice . . . hope Fedy’s not reading this. Okay, enough. That was our first encounter with someone bold enough to ask the question.

We have had some interesting interactions with people who seem to be uncomfortable with foreigners. The lady at the library who we asked to sign us up for cards was greatly reticent to do it. Don visited the library first by himself and had asked what was required to sign up. The next day we both went over and brought all the necessary materials. We walked in and met Anna. Anna asked us all the same questions, you need identification . . . we had drivers licenses. You need documentation of residency, we had it. You need to bring a piece of mail that tells us you live in Nelson, we had that too. “Well then come sit down over here and we’ll get the process started,” she reluctantly said to us.

The moment we sat down she asked us how long we’d lived in Nelson. One week. Oh, you have to live here for at least 4 weeks before we’ll sign you up, said Anna. WHAT? No one told Don that. Anna repeated it twice more. But we have mail, we have IDs, we even brought our copy of the rental lease that says we’re committed for 12 months, isn’t that enough? Anna said no. Then she took off her meanie hat and put on her Kiwi hat and said, “but I will go and confirm.” Niceness always wins back the genetically nice Kiwis.

Don pulled out the documentation he had been given the day before—no restrictions of any kind were placed on new residents like that. Anna had said it was to prevent visitors from coming in and renting books they might not return once their holiday in Nelson was over. But Don found on that documentation that the library has a temporary library card for trampers and backpackers who aren’t required to have any firm residency of any timeframe!

Anna came back to the desk and said “We’ll go ahead and do it.” Well good cuz I coulda got my American girl cap out and taken her to town for being so damn rude. Thereafter, she was pleasant as a peach.

On the other side, the lady at the temporary agency we visited today to inquire about employment possibilities was extremely nice, knowing we were new to town and legal to work. (We visited mostly for Don cuz I’ve been supporting his unemployed ass AND making more money than him for the first time ever—told him he had to go out and get his ‘spensive self a damn job! J So I’ll let him write about that experience as he has it.) So more next time on if the Kiwis are friendly or not, since so many of you are asking.

New one: the garbage can is called a wheelie bin. Those damn “ies!” Don’s calling around right now, and I just heard him start using the term himself, hilarious! First call, “how much to rent a garbage can?” Second call, no more garbage cans, “how much to hire a wheelie bin?” It sounds like poetry coming from Don’s lips.

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