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Travel log

I'm so glad I finished my damn streak. Now I'm back to the little apple trees. Not the one where you risk your life for a few apples.
Apples, asses and apples, that's my weekday life. Now and then work is almost bearable. Sometimes you work extremely fast and in a bad mood because you have been told that the guy in the row behind you is checking my ass all the time, sometimes you get scared to death by your supervisor, sometimes the iPod dies and has to work without music .
By the way, I had totally forgotten that the Black Eye Peas once made good music, long before mainstream prostitution. I listened to the album four times in a row.

I feel really good here in the hostel. Little rituals are slowly creeping in and Sarah is there again. I always play chess with Sebastian and I still have a guilty conscience because we lost the big pool tournament in the hostel because of me. I think he really regrets asking me if I want to be his playing partner. He's really good at playing in the pool and I (that day) tend not to be like that. I felt really bad afterwards, but after the tournament we are all on the beach and (hold on!) Burned a moa statue. In my graduation article (thank you Nina, by the way) it was already stated that I don't like bouquets, or let's say hate them and one of the last things I said before my big trip to New Zealand was: I'm so glad that the moas are extinct. Then it was three times as great for me to burn this big thing. The flames were sometimes even blue, I don't even want to know what kind of materials the moa was made of. The emphasis is on was. We drove a car with a 2m tall Moa on the roof. Crazy. I sat by the warm fire on the beach for ages, drank and played the harmonica. I started to play the harmonica to avoid my Abitur, but my blue one was forgotten by me at home. And Marc (German, works with me and probably my first male haircut victim) found one on the street here in New Zealand, plugged it in, apparently cleaned it all with the thought of meeting someone who knows the instrument. It's actually much better than the one at home. Then I listened to Bob Dylan songs for 3 hours while working; to hear the onset of the harmonica. But it wasn't such a great idea because then I was really totally thoughtful and almost sad because I had to think of everything bad that has happened to me over the past few years. But it was a grief that you have to admit from time to time and then it seems right, why not during the appeal trimming. I could have just changed the music, but I didn't want to.

We were about to sleep on the beach. Sleeping on a beach is on my list, but not on a stoney beach. So we'll do that another time.
Right now I am lying in the huge hammock at the hostel (which is wonderful, ten people theoretically would have room on it) and probably wearing the coolest chiller pants ever that I got from the English hippy fairy Fren. She and her Rasta friend Pat left today, which is a shame because they were really cool. Almost always stoned, but cool. They were here in Blenheim for eight months, worked and are now off to Mexico. And I'm drinking lime right now, I'm indulging myself because I'm working. Lime is a flavord soft drink, so it's unnaturally bright green and tastes overly sweet, you can't drink too much of it, but now just a few sips from the chilled bottle - I can't think of anything better. I will really miss Lime in Germany and that they always pack your purchases in bags for you, I will also miss. It's always a sheer waste of bags, but you don't have any stress at all when shopping. And if you have to wait a little longer at the checkout because they have any problems, they compliment your passport photo - there are no beautiful passport photos. And chips are always on offer here, that can only be a good country if they always have chips on offer.

But speaking of Passport. Here is someone in the hostel who is really weird, grotesque, bizarre, weird and weird. He talks to almost no one, but he talks in his sleep - the poor boys who share the room with him, especially because Bobby also sniffs loudly and everyone smells. When we shared the tent with him, he always got a targeted elbow hook - very effective. Back to Mike the weird, he's walking around haphazardly, has been here in the hostel for nine months. But the absolutely strange thing is - he doesn't have an Entery stamp in his passport. He's from Australia and says he flew here by plane. But if that were the case, then it is impossible not to have a stamp in the passport. You have to have one. The hostel operators told me all this, we have already gone through all the chaos theories. The only logical explanation is that of Pierre the Windowman: He is from space!
But he's peaceful and doesn't cause any problems, so he's allowed to stay in the hostel.