Where Sea Meets Sky (7 page)

The bus drops me off near my hostel, the Sky Tower Backpackers, located across the street from the famed tower, a building so tall that it puts the CN Tower to shame. It makes me nauseous to crane my neck back and stare at the top, and even more sick when I see a tiny person jumping off the top and descending it while attached to wires, like they’re rappelling some cliff, not a thousand-foot-tall structure among city streets.

The girl at the front desk of the backpackers is cute and friendly and giving me the eye, but I’m suddenly in no mood for chit-chat. Part of me wants to talk about a million things, do a million things, but most of me just wants to crash for a few hours.

She gives me the key to the hostel and the bunk room and tells me a few rules that I don’t really pay attention to. Then she shows me the way.

The room wasn’t the cheapest—it has only two bunk beds instead of four or six, but I figured the first few nights I was in Auckland I’d need all the extra privacy and sleep I could get. To my relief the room is empty and clean enough and the only available bunk is on the top, which means no one will be disturbing me.

It seems like there are only men in the room, judging by the state of their backpacks and the mess around their beds. There are lockers and I use one to store all my valuables, like my passport and credit cards, then I change into a new pair of clothes and climb onto the top bunk, cradling my backpack in my arms like it’s a girl who refuses to spoon. I had heard horror stories about people’s shit being stolen from their bags, and even though my roommates don’t seem to care about their stuff, I figure it doesn’t hurt to be cautious on the first day.

In seconds, I am out.

I wake up to shaking. It takes me a few moments to figure out where I am, then why the bunk is swaying back and forth. I try to open my eyes and it feels like I need a crowbar to finish the job. Dim golden light is coming in through the window. I don’t know what time it is or what day it is. I barely remember I’m not in Canada.

“Aw, sorry man, did I wake you?” A strange accent jabs into my skull.

I slowly turn my head to see what jackass has dared to wake the sleeping giant.

A short dude with a mess of brown hair is standing by the bunk and staring up at me expectantly with a big smile on his face. Though I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck and my body is begging for more sleep, I can’t really be mad at this guy. He’s got one of those faces.

“I was sleeping, so yes,” I tell him groggily. One of my arms is numb under my backpack.

His grin broadens. “American? Canadian?”

“Canadian,” I tell him.

“Right on, I’ve been to Toronto.” Before I can tell him I’m
not
from Toronto, he gestures to the other guys in the room. “We’re from Germany. I’m Tibald and this is Schnell and Michael.”

I lift my head and see two other guys sitting on the bottom bunk. They raise their hands in hello. They all seem to have this wholesome, enthusiastic vibe that I can’t seem to wrap my head around.

“What’s your name?” Tibald asks, stepping up onto the bunk below so he can get a better look at me. I move back slightly, not used to having my personal space invaded by strange men (which is probably a good thing not to be used to).

“Josh,” I say, clearing my throat. I eye the golden cityscape outside of the window. “What time is it?”

“Seven,” he says. “At night. You must be jet-lagged. You should have seen us for the first few days. There’s an eleven-hour difference between here and Koln, where we’re from. We were batshit crazy.”

His English is very good. I nod. “Jet lag, I guess. I didn’t sleep on the plane either.”

“Well, you got enough sleep now,” he says, smacking the railing. “If you keep sleeping, you’ll wake up in the middle of the night. Come out with us. Have you seen any of Auckland yet? Did you come straight here?”

There are too many questions for my brain to handle. “No, and yes.”

He breaks into a smile again. “Well, then, you have no choice but to come with us. We’re just about to get something to eat at a pub.”

I slowly sit up. “I should shower . . .”

“Shower? What for? Are you planning on meeting any women and bringing them back here? I hope not. The bunk seems barely able to support you alone.”

I stare at the boisterous little man blankly. “Suit yourself,” I finally say. “You’re the ones who will have to put up with my stink.” I hop off the bunk—does teeter dangerously under my weight—and quickly brush my teeth at the sink they have in the room. I finish off with a spritz of cologne, just in case.

Twenty minutes later, Tibald, Schnell, Michael, and I are all at some Irish pub around the corner. I’m still tired but the beer is perking me up. I snack on potato wedges dipped in sour cream and sweet chili sauce before moving onto meat pie.

The Germans are an affable bunch. Tibald is the loudest and most talkative, while Schnell is silent and stone-faced and looks eerily like Paul Bettany in
The Da Vinci Code
. Michael, with his baby face, is happy and eager to please. I learn that they’re all triathletes back at home and Michael was thinking of doing his degree in sports medicine at one of the city universities, so they all came down to check it out together. They’ve been here one week already and in a few days are joining some multi-week bike tour, heading toward the South Island.

“So what are your plans?” Tibald asks me after he goes over their route in detail.

I shrug and take a sip of my beer. “I’m staying at the backpackers here for a few more days and then . . . I dunno.”

Tibald laughs. “You’re serious? No plans, nowhere you want to go?”

“Nope.”

“Milford Sound, Mount Cook, Lake Taupo, Bay of Islands, Abel Tasman? None of those places tickle your fancy?”

“There will be no tickling,” I tell him.

“So why are you here?” he asks.

I pause before I gulp down the rest of my beer. Why am I here? Wasn’t I still in the process of figuring it out?

Aware that the Germans are all staring at me, waiting for my answer, I say, “I just figured it was something I should do.”

“I see,” Tibald says, leaning back in his chair. “Just get here and figure out the rest later.”

“Something like that.”

“And you don’t know anyone here? You randomly picked New Zealand?”

I tilt my head, considering the question. My eyes quickly dart over to him and he slowly nods, smiling.

“You do know someone. Who is she?”

Now Schnell has perked up, seemingly more interested in my nonexistent story.

“Who said anything about a she?” I ask, but I realize I don’t want to pretend anymore. These guys are strangers but that makes it easier. I sigh and then launch into everything about Gemma.

When I’ve finished, the three of them look impressed, like,
Hey this guy is actually a dedicated stalker
. I must make them feel better about themselves.

“Are you going to go see her?” Michael asks.

I shake my head. “No. Like I said, I don’t even know her last name and she was right, there are a million Gemmas here, at least on Facebook.”

“But you know where she works.”

“Not really. I forgot the name. She just said an Australia rugby player, or ex-rugby player, owns it, has a chain of them or something.”

Suddenly Michael is on his phone, Googling something. “Murphy’s Gym?” he asks, looking up at me. “There’s an Australian rugby player, Nick Murphy, who used to play for the Wallabies. He owns a gym here called Murphy’s Gym. Could that be it?”

He slides the phone over to me and I stare at the smug face of Nick Murphy on the website’s home page. His neck is thick, his blond hair buzz-cut and he has the body of a meathead. I quickly scroll through, trying to find out if Gemma works there, but her name isn’t listed as one of the personal trainers.

“I don’t know,” I say warily. “It doesn’t seem like the place. I mean, she’s not listed as working there.”

“Well, maybe stuff happened between then and now,” Tibald says. “We should all go there tomorrow and see. It’s in Mission Bay, not too far from here.”

I feel sick. Must be the jet lag. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I say.

“Sure it is,” Tibald says, slamming his beer down. “You’ll have moral support. If she’s there, then, well at least you’ll get to see her again. If she’s not there, we’ll just head to the beach anyway. It’s sweet-as there.” He slurps the foam off the sides of the beer and gives me a look. “You know what ‘sweet-as’ means, right?”

“A weird way of saying awesome?” I ask. He nods and I sigh. My heart has been racing for the last minute. “I don’t really need moral support, you know. I mean . . . I don’t even know you guys.”

“Sure you do,” Tibald says. “That’s the beauty of traveling. Haven’t you caught on yet? There are no strangers here, just friends you haven’t met yet.”

I roll my eyes. “How cliché.”

“We only learn the clichés in Germany.” He grins then raises his beer. “Here is to tomorrow and Josh’s first night in New Zealand.
Prost!
”

Well, I have to
prost
to that.

When I wake up the next morning I literally have no idea where I am. I’m facedown on the scratchy carpeted floor. I can hear two people snoring on and off, like dueling piano players from hell. My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow and my nostrils are filled with the odor of stale beer.

Cautiously, knowing my brain is about to explode from dehydration, I raise my head. I’m in the backpackers. I’m in Auckland, New Zealand. I have the worst hangover of my life.

Tibald is passed out in his clothes on top of his sleeping bag. Schnell is snoring in his bed, but he’s all turned around and his feet are on the pillow. Michael is snoring on my bed, having fallen asleep on top of the wrong bunk. Why am I on the floor? I have no idea but it doesn’t bode well for my first morning in this country.

I lie there for a few minutes, trying to piece together the last night. We were drinking at an Irish bar, I remember that. Then we were walking down the city streets and eating sushi-to-go from vendors on the sidewalk. I remember being by the water, seeing the lights of the city reflecting on it, the span of the harbor bridge and the land across the dark bay. The memory is peaceful, and then I’m bombarded by spliced images of drunk girls and laughing faces, shots spilling over on crowded bars, and shitty, shitty dance music.

Ugh. First night in a foreign country and I can barely remember it. Perhaps that’s for the best.

I gingerly get to my feet and stagger over to the communal showers. I find one stall unoccupied and stand under scalding hot water until I feel remotely clean. I hear people talking as they stand around waiting for the showers, a blend of accents, but I’m in no rush, no hurry. Part of me prays that the Germans are too hungover to want to make the trip out to Mission Bay.

No such luck. When I get dressed and back to the room, I’m shocked to see all of them are awake and already showered. Smiling, even, though I guess that’s not surprising for Tibald.

“Hey, you’re alive!” he says, slapping me on the back.

I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously. “Why are you guys so chipper? Did you drug me last night?”

“We’re just more manly than you, Josh,” he says, spritzing himself with deodorant spray. “Germans can outdrink everyone. Ready to go meet your woman?”

“She’s not my woman,” I tell him, my eyes even more narrow now, trying to burn holes into his smiling façade.

He seems to thrive on it. “Sure, sure, she may not be yours but she was for one night and that’s enough.”

Actually it wasn’t enough, that’s why I’m here
. But I don’t say that.

He continues, slipping on his sneakers. “And, if she made that kind of impression on you then I’m guessing you did the same to her. Women are very into . . .” he wriggles his fingers at me up and down, “this.”

“He means to say tattoos,” Michael speaks up. “At least back home the women go crazy for them.”

I open my mouth to say something about it being more than the tattoos that made the night memorable for her, but I decide to keep quiet. Sometimes I forget that my humor doesn’t always translate.