A not-so-warm welcome.

July 7 – Day One

I finally made it. After more than 24 hours spent in airports and aboard aircraft, I finally touched down in Wellington, New Zealand. The short flight from Auckland to Wellington had been picturesque. The clouds were thin, and every white-capped ocean wave, every hilly island jutting out from the main land mass, even every wooly white sheep was visible from our cruising altitude of 36,000 feet. I was in such good spirits as Oriental Bay came into view that not even the turbulence caused by blustery winds fazed me.

As I was picked up from the airport by Cherie, a representative from Massey, I was feeling good. The jet lag had yet to hit me, the sun was shining, and I was confident that this was the beginning to something new and exciting. And it was, in a way. Just not quite what I was expecting.

When we pulled up to the Cube Complex at last, I was pleased. It was located perfectly; within walking distance of everything I needed: shopping, food, the campus, and even the harbor. The supervisor was friendly, and helped me up to my room, pointing out things like the bakery café and laundry room on the way.

There had apparently been some confusion about my room, and so I didn't end up in 6J2 as originally planned. I was placed one flat over, in 6I. And as soon as Andrew the oriental supervisor unlocked the door, I knew that, whatever I had been expecting of great roommates and fun apartment living, wasn't likely to come true.

It wasn’t the apartment itself that I didn’t like (because I did – it had a great view), and it wasn’t necessarily my first flat mate I was introduced to (though, he was probably the beginning of it). It wasn’t even really the fact that the rugs and couches were unswept, the bathrooms were grimy and I found out I was living with three guys. No, the thing that really hit me (and I mean nearly literally hit me, like a hammer hitting an anvil or a bus hitting a pedestrian) was the smell. Think rotting food (or perhaps spoiled milk?) mixed with the overpowering scent of marijuana. It had my stomach turning somersaults from the get-go.

I was later informed by Sam (the only one I met during my first day, and who actually turned out not to be an actual resident -- he was simply flat-sitting for a friend) that the place used to be much worse, when five guys had been living there.

“Nothing ever got done,” he said. Which worried me that this was the state of something getting done.

Sam then gave me a tour of all the damage done in the apartment – the hole through the bathroom wall, the scuff marks on the ceiling, and the offensive plastic bag filled with what appeared to be the rotting contents of the refrigerator that were waiting to make it out to the rubbish bin (though they never did make it there that night).

By the time I found myself back in the safety of my tiny (yet un-smelly) room, I was desperately trying not to lose it. Call me a naïve American, or perhaps even just naïve, but I had never really considered the possibility of being assigned male flatmates. It’s just not something that generally happens at schools in Ohio. I suppose I wouldn’t have had as much of a problem with it if they were clean. Or even if they just smelled decent. But they didn’t, and I was going to have to deal with it.

Tomorrow I will see if there are any other rooms available in the building… preferably ones that don’t smell like Bob Marley’s up-chucked dinner from 1966.