One Wedding, No Funeral, and a Whale

It was Sunday here in New Mordor and my day of rest. After spending time exploring Christchurch and walking along the banks of the river, I felt it was time for a reprieve from Real Life and my hotel offered a limited broadband connection. Paying the usurious price for Internet access - as is typical for hotels that already charge a small fortune for a room - I slid into Second Life.
Funny to think I felt "at home" as I rezzed into my apartment. I was wearing the same clothes as I had been over a week ago and had the desire to change. Mony snagged me. There was a wedding and we were late! Being an absentee from SL for years (or at least it seemed lke that) I didn't even know there was supposed to be a wedding. But no matter, all I needed to do was change into a suit and TP over.

Ah, if only t'were that simple! Either SL was behaving badly or my hotel connection was having a hard time. I suspect the latter. After taking off my shirt to make way for a nice clean version with tie, I couldn't attach it. Nor could I change my pants or slip on a jacket. After five minutes of standing topless, I put my old shirt back on, which worked OK. So I had to go to a wedding in casuals. Admittedly the shirt was from Simone!, the designer jeans from Lissa Maertens' Cattiva e Cattivo, and hair by Armidi, but would the guests at the wedding spot that? Hmm.

We arrived just in time to wave the happy couple goodbye. Two of Mony's friends, Commando Kidd and Skyra Woodget, had renewed their vows and we'd at least been able to say "hi" and "bye." We then hung around for a while to enjoy the post-nuptial dancing until we slipped away for some SL exploring.

My hotel connection was time capped. After precisely two hours of fun, the virtual doors closed and I left Mony on the Linden Balloon Platform along with a flock of newbies. Damn.


Back in RL, my buddies had arrived back and we headed out to a place called Vic and Whale, which, according to our waitress, was either named after a London pub or referred to the original owners, one of whom was called Vic and the other had the nickname Whale. Both sound plausible so take you choice of which you prefer, The meat of choice was a lamb shank in a mushroom and peppercorn sauce, served with mashed potato and truffle oil, and a crisp salad with a balsamic vinaigrette dressing. Yummy yum yum. After all, this was lamb and this is New Zealand.

Why I Won't Be A Time Traveler

In British TV culture, there is a popular iconic hero called "Dr. Who." Since the early sixties, this character has made both TV and big screen appearances with the role of the Doctor being played by a succession of actors. The premise of the story is that the Doctor is a Time Lord, able to travel backwards and forwards in time using his time ship, the Tardis. The Tardis looks, from the outside, like an old London police phone box. But it is also "transdimensional, " which means that inside it is HUGE with many many rooms. And one other defining characteristic of the Tardis is this: It is broken. Sure, the Doctor can sometimes go from time A to time B with reasonable accuracy, but on the whole, what makes the series interesting is that you are never sure if the Tardis is going to (a) work, or (b) get to when it is supposed to be going.

That just about sums up my perceptions of Time as it now exists on my Australasia tour. Traveling from Adelaide to Auckland, NZ necessitated a change of 2 hours 30 minutes forward. Yes, there is a bizarre 30-minute variation. The flight from Auckland to Christchurch (same day) didn't need a time change - until we got to the hotel. The friendly staff reminded my colleagues and I that Daylight Savings was about to kick in at 2:00 am. At this stage, I was unsure of the time, the date, and even the day, so I decided to just give up on the whole thing. The Doctor is a slightly eccentric character and I was now beginning to understand why - he has clearly decided to toss the whole notion of Time out the window.

All I now knew was that it was late and I was hungry. Time to go find something to eat.
Along the banks of the river in Christchurch is a strip of eating places. We got there too late for any significant food intake but the Sticky Fingers restaurant was able to provide three vital products; beer, pizza, and chips. And for those who need the translation, "chips" in NZ and Australia are "French fries." The other good news was that one of the pizzas on offer was the "Carnivore." Bearing in mind that for the past week I seem to have been trying hard to eat my way through the entire animal population of the Southern hemisphere, choosing the "Carnivore" was a no brainer.

And it was indeed meaty! Chicken, ham, barbecue sauce, and several other dead animals made it a deliciously fulfilling offering, enhanced by tomato sauce-laden fries. Washed down with a couple of glasses of Speight's, this meal took us through to "late" - remember, I had given up on trying to work out the time. We walked past the other watering holes along the bank of the river, which were all by now full of folks eating, drinking, and making merry. Given two weeks to explore, I think I could quite happily have spent all my time drifting from place to place without having to eat in the same place twice.

Eventually, I crawled into bed, ignored the clock, and slept though until I felt hungry. I mean, who needs a clock anyway?