When the Irish Come to Town

Dunedin, the city where I am living, has a reputation for two things to non New Zealanders: albatross and penguins. Ok, maybe its Scottish history as well. But this is not a post about those wonderful, and beautiful, parts of this city.

To New Zealanders, Dunedin has a reputation for two things as well: it’s bloody cold, and it has quite the student life. I sort of laughed at the latter; I was, after all, born in Michigan and went to the University of Michigan as an undergraduate. But the Kiwis are right; Dunedin is cold. It is bone-chillingly cold, and the lack of insulation and central heating in the homes and public buildings just makes it worse. But this is not a post about the cold either. After all, it is spring here . . . and beautiful.

The Church on the Octagon on a beautiful spring morning in Dunedin. 

When I would tell Kiwis I would be studying at the University of Otago, they would always tell me about the cold, and then immediately about the student life. And no, I do not mean intramural sports. I mean alcohol. I mean couch burning. I mean students 18-year-olds from all over New Zealand (and on study abroad from all over the world) coming here just to party. It’s a great university, but the drinking culture is insane.

But this is not even a post about the students here, though it lays a nice foundation. As I mentioned in the last post, New Zealand is hosting the Rugby World Cup, and Dunedin had hosted four games: England vs. Argentina; England vs. Georgia (I went to that one); England vs. Romania; and Italy vs. Ireland. I though the Argentineans were boisterous. The Georgians and Romanians simply did not show up in vast enough numbers to comment on their presence.

Yesterday, however, Dunedin became a sea of green. I have never been to Ireland. I came close to going once, but decided I did not want to go up only for two days. If I am going to visit, I am going to spend at least a week. When living in France, I think the Irish were playing the French in soccer, and I saw the Irish fans under the Eiffel Tower. That was hours of amusement. But Paris is big, and they had plenty of places to go.

Dunedin, by contrast, is the size of Ann Arbor, about 100,000 (slightly more) people. I heard a rumour yesterday afternoon that when the Irish played the United States (and beat us 22-10, not a bad showing by the US) in New Plymouth, they drank the town dry. New Plymouth is smaller than Dunedin, and it is not a college town. I laughed and said, “Dunedin will be fine.”

Never underestimate the power of the Irish. Apparently, and this is still rumour, several bars in town ran out of beer, and ran out of it early. That is not totally surprising considering I saw them drinking on my way to yoga . . . at 9am. By 6pm, when I went back to town, it was packed! And I mean packed! Of course there were people at the Irish bar. But the Octagon, the centre of town, was fuller than I had ever seen it. The top photo shows you what kind of day it was, so it is not surprising that people wanted to be outside.

The Irish bar in town full of green!

Aww, new art and old. And green!

The day stayed gorgeous (unusual in the town that can easily have four seasons in a day three times over) as the masses headed to the game

Around 7pm, people started walking to the stadium, but they ran into a bit of trouble. New Zealand has another little quirk: EFTPOS. Kiwis carry almost no cash. There is no need. Everyone pays with EFTPOS (the “O” is pronounced like possum, not post; I get corrected frequently on that one). What is this craziness? I had to learn from Lonely Planet, and thank goodness I did. It means, “Electronic Funds Transfer Point of Sale.” In the United States, we simply say debit. But I’m not judging.

Unfortunately, the Rugby stadium only takes cash. And for some reason, New Zealand is not good on taking credit cards for which you have to sign (aka any credit card that is not also a debit/EFTPOS), so it meant these traveling Irish, drinking the town dry, were also taking all the cash. It is a sad sight to see long lines at the ATM only to get there and see this sign.

And yes, the ANZ bank was out of money too.

It is even sadder to see them all the way down the street.

Well, I ran into a friend and headed up to a “quiet” bar, and when I emerged at 8:30 to meet another friend, the game had begun, and the Octagon was empty. Completely empty. I then met my friend at the Irish bar, which was crowded, but not nearly as bad as before, and we went upstairs and managed to find a seat. I met some new people, got hassled by a very, very drunk Kiwi, and actually watched some of the game.

Ireland won. 36-6. I was in a taxi just after it finished (actually left the bar about 10 minutes before the end of the game to beat the crowd). But fear not, I saw some revelers . . . at 6:45am! Yes, the only restaurant open 24 hours in Dunedin is McDonald’s. Yes, they did some great business.

McDonald's -- the morning after.

And yes, the ducks are glad the Irish came to town as well.

The ducks -- the morning after

Overall, I can say, the Irish know how to have a good time. They were wonderfully polite and did their best to help the sad state of the Dunedin economy. I wish them all the best.

I’m also a bit sad it was the last game in Dunedin. Dunedin is rarely full of people, and it has been wonderful to see so many people around, music in the streets (including a friend playing bass in a band), and streets closed to the crazy drivers, so pedestrians can roam about. Rugby may be a brutal sport, but it draws people out and into celebration mode. Good times!

© Rebecca Stahl 2011, all rights reserved

A Wee Lay-up

I have lived abroad before, in France actually. I should, therefore, know what to expect about cultural differences, right? What I am finding instead is more often than not I am caught off guard by something someone says, or I say something that is completely inappropriate for the circumstances. But why?

English is my native language. French is not. Simple enough, I realize, but it makes all the difference and not in the way you might think. It is easier to be caught off guard in an English-speaking country than a French-speaking one.

While in France, I have to think about the correct word or phrase in every situation. The only way to continue to grow my French language skills is to be constantly “on,” constantly learning, and the only people from whom I learned were those with whom I would come into contact. I remember a particular day in France when I was talking to a friend, and I said, “ça peur.” It has no direct translation, but idiomatically it means, “that’s scary.” I was proud of myself. My friend laughed. To her, I was supposed to talk like a book, not a French person. Together we realized that I was integrating. It was a big step.

I do not have that problem in English. I do not have to be “on.” I just talk, right? I reckon, though, it is just a matter of time before I am keen to hang out and go for a wee drink, eh? Oh wait . . .

I feel as though I am living in the twilight zone. I am not sure what my patterns are and what I consider normal anymore until I am confronted by something that seems strange. For example, many flights in New Zealand are on 60-seat planes. After flying a lot, the first time I had to get on a 737 (you know, what Southwest flies), I was struck by how big it is. I was just on one again yesterday, after not flying for awhile, and it felt “normal.” I guess time away from the extraordinary makes old friends ordinary.

But this week has struck me on two fronts, woken me up to the fact that I really am in a foreign country that speaks a different language, sometimes a non-verbal one. (I have to share that, in college, I lived with 3-4 linguists, and these sorts of conversations dominate(d) our conversations.)

One of my friends here is from Australia, and she received two basketball tickets. She did what any normal, non-basketball going person would do – she called an American. Yes, my friends, I went to a basketball game in a small town in New Zealand. I would say it might be able to contend with Division B in college. Might is the operative word in that sentence.

Proof.

Basketball, to me, is America. I played growing up, and as an almost 30-year-old woman, that is unusual in the rest of the world. Girls here play netball (I have no idea what it is, either), and in France, when I asked what girls do in school, my host sister said, “dance.” So, I am proud of the fact that basketball is a major sport in the United States, for boys and girls, and it is the only truly American sport, created in the 1880s at a YMCA. The point is that basketball makes me think about home.

The announcer was about the most honest announcer I have ever heard. He told us how the team had been on and off all season, and this being the last game of the season, they had to really pull it together. If the other team scored an undefended point, we were sure to hear that a defender should have been there. It sounded like the commentary from Harry Potter Quidditch, not a basketball game.

But the proof that I was not in America were the references to the wee layups and the wee free throws. Basketball Kiwified! And that was not all. In America, we root for our favorite teams, right? Well, rooting has quite a different connotation, and it is not something you discuss in public at family friendly events. Here, you support a team. I was careful . . . until I was not. Luckily, my friend understood, and no one else could hear me. It is hard to be on when at a place that feels so comfortable.

So, the wee plays and careful word choice on my part made the evening interesting. I also had to explain the game to my friend; she had never before attended a basketball game. Luckily, it being New Zealand, the announcer also added in a bit of rule explanation. Apparently, this is not a popular sport here. Overall, I had a great time living in language/culture purgatory. An American movie helped me realize that I cannot escape it.

I am back up in Wellington for a few days; we have a Fulbright event to attend. I planned to stay with a friend Monday night, but thanks to the ash cloud, she is stuck away from Aotearoa, the land of the Long White Cloud (the Maori name for NZ), and instead of bugging someone last minute, I decided to stay in a hostel. Facebook was alive with great references to Bridesmaids, so I went to see what all the fuss was about. For the record, we must look insane to the rest of the world.

First American movie in months, what is my first thought? They were driving on the wrong side of the road. Oy! I guess all my “look right” reminding worked. While watching movies in France, I knew they were seeing a translation, which is really an adaptation (another thesis of mine in my old life). The funniest experience I ever had was seeing Matrix 2 in France during the scene where the “bad guy” repeats about every French swear word there is in a matter of about 10 seconds. The place erupted in laughter. But here in NZ, they do not translate the films. There are no subtitles running in Kiwi. They get to see the American version even if it makes no sense. And I get to see where I fit into the mix.

Before the movie, the woman sitting next to me was explaining living in Christchurch to a friend. I guess she moved up here or is visiting from the earthquake-weary city. I heard her explain the 22 February earthquake. I suppressed the urge to tell her I had also been there, to find a bond, but I sat there realizing I was in the Twilight Zone of my mind – somewhere between the United States and Aotearoa.

I may not struggle to find my words on a daily basis here, and I may technically understand everything that goes on around me, but each day, I am struck by the fact that I am not in the United States anymore. It is fun to see where I have transformed and what my new “normal” is. If nothing else, it keeps me on my toes, eh?

© 2011 Rebecca Stahl, all rights reserved

Words, Words, Words

While culturally I have found few major differences between the United States and New Zealand, linguistically I may as well be speaking a foreign language here. When I was teaching English in France, I co-taught with a woman from England (a dear friend now), and once one of the students asked us if we spoke the same language. We just laughed. Here, not a day goes by that I do not learn a new word.

The woman who so graciously allowed me to stay with her upon my arrival (only for 3 weeks longer than she had originally planned), and who will soon be gracing the United States (specifically Iowa) with her presence, let me borrow a book called A Kiwi-American dictionary. It was slightly, okay very, outdated, but it was hilarious. I reckon the time has come for me to share some of what I have learned – the top 10 kiwi words and phrases!

1.     Reckon – there is nothing inherently funny about the word reckon, but notice it in the sentence above. To an American, saying “I reckon” sounds a wee bit more proper than we would like. It sounds like Jon Stewart making fun of Queen Elizabeth. In kiwiland, I heard an 8-year-old say it . . . with a straight face!!

2.     Wee – wee simply means small here, as in “a wee bit.” Here, it seems everyone says it all the time. And they say it without the use of “bit” after it. Thus, a wee nap is a proper use of the word.

3.     Kiwi / kiwi / kiwifruit – now this just gets confusing. To an American, a kiwi is something you eat. Here, that would get you put in prison, either for killing an endangered bird or for cannibalism. A Kiwi is a person who lives here, a nickname of sorts for the folks who live in New Zealand. At first I was embarrassed to use it, but people here actually do use the word. Cool, eh? A kiwi is a small flightless bird. New Zealand used to be full of flightless birds because there were no predator mammals (the only native mammal in New Zealand is one species of bat). The kiwi is now incredibly endangered, and most people can only see them in wildlife reserves – my parents saw some when they were here. The kiwifruit? Well, that’s the fruit. They are gorgeous here (and by gorgeous I mean the taste, not the sight – that’s a kiwism as well). See my problem? It just gets so confusing!!

4.     Zed – Ok, ok, it’s not really a word, but it is the last letter of the alphabet. The friendly friends to the north of the United States understand this one, but to those of us from that middle country of North America, this is an odd way to end the alphabet, especially when banks are called ANZ (pronounced A-N-Zed) and when you say X-Y-Z (pronounced X-Y-Zed). We knew we had been spending too much time in the Future Partners Forum when I was talking and said X-Y-Zed and shortly thereafter one of our kiwi friends said X-Y-Zee. None of us knew where we were, which I guess was sort of the point of the partnership – finding new ways to get along. Let’s start with the last letter of the alphabet and move forward from there.

5.     False friends – rooting and rubber. These may not be good in a Top 10 list, but they must be mentioned. Luckily I had been forewarned. In New Zealand, rooting means something very different than in the States. It means sex. Thus, you do not root for a team, and you certainly do not root around in your trunk for something you lost, especially because here, the trunk of a car is called the boot. And a rubber? Well, that is just an eraser, but something we must all warn the kiwis not to request in general public in the United States.  

6.     Sweet as! – used as an exclamation, as in “Sweet as!” There are simply no words to explain this. It just is . . . sweet as!

7.     Sorted – “Have you got your flatting situation sorted?” Does this make any sense to an American? Try that being one of the first things you hear upon entering a country. I thought I did not understand French when I got there, but then I came to a country where they do not speak American. Sorted is just “to sort out,” but they use it here far more frequently. You get parking tickets sorted and plans sorted, etc. Luckily, I have met amazing people here, so my flatting situation is sorted until the end of my time here.

8.     Cheers – often used in conjunction with “mate,” as in “cheers, mate.” Of course, mate it often saved for one’s actual mates. Thus, cheers can simply mean thanks. What a wonderful word that never ceases to make me smile.

9.     Keen – This is a verb, as in “I’m keen to go on a hike out to the Peninsula.” In fact, my actual response was, “I’m hella keen.” I figure it’s time to meld some phrasing while I’m here. And yes, everyone says it here, just like reckon. They do not, however, say hella – but I can hope, right?

10. Good on you! – this is, by far, my favorite kiwi phrase. Oh, does it appear everywhere meaning “good for you,” sort of. It just seems to work for all situations where you want to tell someone that they are doing a good thing for the world.

So, do we speak the same language? I have begun to understand kiwi English, and what is scarier, I have begun to speak like them. I reckon that will help me fit in better here, but it will be difficult to get my life sorted when I get back to the States if I forget how to talk like a Yankee. There are far more words I can share, but for now, that will do. 

© 2011 Rebecca Stahl, all rights reserved

In case you thought life here was perfect

So many of my posts (well, the earthquake posts excluded) have been about how awesome and amazing New Zealand is. And it is! But I do not want anyone to get the wrong impression of this place. There is a monster lurking underneath it all, and it is that monster I wish to share with you today (followed by more awesomeness).

The kiwis are a wonderful bunch of people, in case I have not made that abundantly clear. But being awesome all the time must get tiresome, and like those little squish toys, the tension must come out somewhere. Have no fear – it does! Where you ask?

The driving!

I have personally driven in some of the craziest cities in the states – Chicago, Los Angeles, and Phoenix full of snowbirds. I have driven into Paris and found where to return a rental car (I still consider that one of my shining moments in life). I have been a pedestrian in places as frightening as Rome where I do not believe there actually are rules on the road. I knew that New Zealand has a pretty massive drink driving problem, and I read a lot about the numerous car crashes, but I thought I would be safe as a pedestrian.

Oh how wrong I was. Yes, I have learned to “look right” before crossing the street. I have learned to walk on the left side of the sidewalk. In short, this is not a “wrong side of the street” issue.  No, it is simply scary to be a pedestrian here. Pedestrians do not have the right-of-way. Now, I lived in Ann Arbor, Michigan for four years, and the rule there is, “if there is any possible way for a car to stop for a pedestrian, even with ice on the ground and the pedestrian jaywalking, that car will stop.”

Here, however, cars do not stop. They honk at you as they come within centimeters of your little toes that you would really like to keep attached. They help with balance. And I do not mean just for jaywalking. I can handle that. No, crossing at a T-intersection where the sidewalk (“footpath”) ends, and you just need to cross a street to keep going straight – that’s where they get you. They come out of nowhere, from behind, and honk at you as they go whizzing by, barely slowing down. When you get scared and make a funny face (other people do that, right?) taxi drivers yell and say, “do you have a problem?”

Yes, I’m scared here to walk. But I will persevere. I will learn their ways, and I will make do. The funny thing is that if there is a crosswalk, and someone is waiting to cross, they will slam on their brakes risking the lives of all their passengers, or at least a good case of whiplash, to ensure that the person who has not yet entered the road may safely cross. To each his own, I guess. Remember, we are supposed to embrace the quirks.

But seriously, aside from learning that the road is a dangerous place in New Zealand, I have found one more thing I love – the birds. I have never had an affinity for birds, which is a bit odd considering my affinity for trees; in fact, I tend not to like birds. But I have noticed their voices singing recently. When I walk down the busiest street in the capital city and hear the birds call out, a little bit of joy enters my heart. New Zealand is famous for its birds, especially the flightless ones, but I have yet to see a kiwi (the bird), but there are birds everywhere, and they sing their songs in the morning, through the garden, and even on the busiest streets. They are a constant reminder that we are connected to nature, that it exists with us, and that we can remember to sing in the mornings and throughout the day along with the birds. It might just bring some joy into our lives.

Of course, paying too much attention to the birds here could also make you lose your toes, so be sure to sing carefully!

In other news, I have started another blog, this one dedicated to new ways of thinking in family law. If you work in the field of family law, in any capacity, or if you know someone who does, please share the following link with them: "Family Law - Shifting the Paradigm," at www.famlawshiftingparadigm.blogspot.com. Thanks! 

© 2011 Rebecca Stahl, all rights reserved

A day in the life . . .

I have been wondering what to say next – the initial trips and orientation are over, the craziness of disaster is getting hard to discuss, and I am “settling” into life here in Wellington, at least until my dad and stepmom arrive on Wednesday!! But there are little things I want to share, and I think that my day yesterday, with a bit of additional thoughts, might be the perfect way to tie it all together.

My last post before the earthquake was about the little quirks here in NZ, about what it means to have culture shock in a place that is so much like home. I promised more . . . so here goes. My housing situation here in Wellington is with a professor and her 8-year-old daughter. On Fridays, the girl has a spelling test, and her mom tests her in the morning. Yesterday the child asked me if I would like to help. I have helped with piano and even some yoga postures, so spelling should have been a piece of cake, but the theme was “ou,” and as I looked at the list of honour, labour, etc., I felt my confidence dwindle. Needless to say, I declined to help, informing her that we spell things differently in the States. On that note, one of the weirdest emails I have written since arriving was asking my thesis advisor how to spell – not a question you expect to be asking in year 20 of education.

Leaving the house, I walked to school. My walk takes me right through the botanic gardens. I have tried different routes to get home nearly every day. I find it a good way to learn my way around. The best part, though, is that if I get “lost” I can always find my way home by finding the Botanic Garden. I keep saying, “how bad can life be when getting lost means you end up wandering through the beautiful gardens that surround this city?” My walk to school in the mornings takes me to one of the most glorious lookouts over the city. And I have learned that by adding about 1 minute (maybe less) to my “commute,” I can walk through the edge of the gardens instead of along the road that runs next to them. Today (Saturday), I discovered that by adding about 10 minutes, I can walk through the heart of the gardens.

Am I a tourist, or do I live here?

As I leave the gardens on my way to school, I arrive at the corner of a busy street, and like everyone else, find the easiest and quickest way to ignore traffic signs and jaywalk  to the Old Government Buildings (and if you knew me in Tucson, you know this is not a good idea for me). The law school is housed within the Old Government Buildings, which is the largest wooden building in the southern hemisphere (also one of the safest in an earthquake!). I even took a tour of the building today, then promptly went upstairs after it, past the signs that say, “No Public Access” and used my swipe card to enter my office. From that office, I look out over “The Beehive,” aka Parliament.  

The flag is at half mast for Christchurch.

Tourist? Resident?

Wellington is a small city, and I probably know 10 people here, maybe 20. One of the people I met in Christchurch who was part of the Future Partners Forum with me just informed me that she is starting her job at the law school on Monday – her office is next door to mine. Wellington is a small city. New Zealand is a small country.

And when I leave my office at the end of the day, I walk amongst the backpack runners. I think this is a Wellington phenomenon, but there are hundreds of people who run to/from work with backpacks. I can only assume that inside the backpack are their work clothes. New Zealand is a laid-back country.

And where do we walk? We walk UP. I grew up near San Francisco, so I know about hills. The two times I lived in France, I lived up hills. But nothing, and I mean nothing, has prepared me for New Zealand. While much of Wellington is below sea level, and many of the buildings and the airport are built on reclaimed land or land that magically appeared after a major earthquake in the mid 1850s, you walk up a lot. Panting and wheezing, I get back to the house, back to a place I’m not sure whether to call home.

So, from spelling to gardens to the heritage buildings of the city, my day gets confused between tourist and resident. On my way to school today (working on a Saturday because my parents are coming, and I will be not working as much this week), I took some time to read the tourist signposts along the way, trying to appreciate the fact that I am in an amazing place, with wonderful history and heritage. 

I took a short walk this evening to see the full moon. I walked to the top of the gardens, to that lookout point I pass each morning and saw it with fresh eyes, in the night sky, lit up by the glorious moon. As I looked up, I saw the Southern Cross constellation – probably the best reminder that I am in a new landscape. After all, it is not visible from the northern hemisphere. But then just behind it was Orion, probably the only other constellation I can recognize. I felt one emotion – calm. After all the tumult, all the craziness of these months and certainly these last few weeks, that moon (that so many have predicted will bring more disaster) brought me to a sense of peace and calm as never before.

My cousin just posted a beautiful quote on facebook, “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscape but in having new eyes.” – Marcel Proust. As I continue to live in this new world, I’m trying to see it through new eyes each and every day, to see its beauty, its quirks, and its similarities to home. I am still not sure whether I am a tourist or a resident, but hopefully I can keep my eyes open to the beauty of where I am.

Namaste!

© 2011 Rebecca Stahl, all rights reserved

This blog is not affiliated with Fulbright or Fulbright New Zealand, and all opinions expressed herein are my own.

The Little Things

During orientation we were asked to embrace the differences between New Zealand and the United States. I appreciate the sentiment; after all, an underlying purpose of the Fulbright Program is to ensure understanding between cultures. But it seems sort of silly between New Zealand and the United States. After all, I have one friend on a Fulbright in Kenya, and another friend currently in Georgia (the country, not the state) teaching English after having spent time in South Korea teaching English and doing the Peace Corps in Tanzania. New Zealand is small potatoes next to those.

With that disclaimer, however, there are a few differences I have noticed, and while I do not want to imply that either country has a single story (the link is to an amazing article written by the friend in Kenya about places having single stories), I do want to point out the most interesting differences I have noticed over the past month.

First, people here walk around without shoes. I thought it was just in the south at first. After all, the south in so many countries (gross generalization) seems to be far more relaxed. But no, people do it everywhere in the country, from the Bay of Islands (think San Diego beach town) to Auckland (think major metropolis – 1/3 of the New Zealand population lives here). And yes, they go into stores and restaurants without shoes. By no means is it everyone, but I see several everyday. The best part was the American I saw at the bank without shoes – apparently he caught on quickly.

Second, teatime! I wrote about how wonderful teatime is on my other blog, Is Yoga Legal, but here I want to discuss it differently. I noted in my last post that NZ used to be tied to the Motherland – the UK until it realized that it is much closer to the Pacific Island nations. I really will get more into that another time, but back to tea. The tea culture, no doubt, comes from NZ’s English history. With no evidence to support this notion, I believe that teatime was a requirement in England. It is COLD and DARK. Tea warms you up, which seems to be as good a reason as any to have morning tea and afternoon tea and tea after supper. I happen to love this, and I love even more that the law school at the University of Otago has a tearoom. It is about the size of a closet, but there is a hot water dispenser, and a sign asking people not to use too much milk, so there is enough for everyone. Many people take milk in their tea here – something that has not caught no as much in America.

Third, lax (or no) security on airlines. I did not remove my shoes or throw out my coffee when transferring from the International to the Domestic Terminal in Auckland and going through security again. I even got to keep my sweatshirt on. I thought it was lovely. Then I went from Dunedin to Wellington where they opened security ten minutes before the flight took off. I thought that was cute. Then, from Wellington to Dunedin, my flight number had 4 digits. Someone told me this meant it would be a small plane with no security. I laughed . . . then I saw that she was right. You read that correctly – no security. I will just leave that for you to ponder.

Finally, I would be remiss if I did not mention one final thing (though there are many more, and another post will  come with those). I took a shuttle to the airport for my trip to Wellington, and my bracelet fell off in the shuttle. The shuttle driver came inside and found me, outside security, of course, because it was not open, and she returned my bracelet to me. I think that action embodies so much of what I have witnessed here – amazing people. I laugh and grin about shoeless people in banks, but what I really see is how wonderful people have been, how welcoming, warm, and genuinely happy to talk to me.

I know there are wonderful people in the United States, but when we are forced to rely on others, living in a foreign country, we appreciate it a lot more. I feel so blessed to be here, so lucky to be among such amazing and wonderfully warm-hearted people, and to be in this beautiful country.

Namaste and Blessings.

© 2011 Rebecca Stahl, all rights reserved

This blog is not affiliated with Fulbright or Fulbright New Zealand, and all opinions expressed herein are my own.