I don’t know where peace comes from, but I feel it sometimes
I.
Picture this, toe to head: dressy black shoes; slim fit, tapered black pants; a too-large button-up shirt, in blue and white gingham, that billows out like a pirate shirt; a nicely trimmed beard and longish hair pulled back with a hair tie.
All of it topped with a very long apron. It’s grayish brown—a would-be color that might go with the blue and white gingham or with the black pants, but definitely not with both.
I am a buffet food attendant, and this is my uniform.
II.
There are a lot of Japanese workers and guests here, so I’ve learned a phrase in Japanese:
Maji tsukareta (マジ 疲れた)
It means?
I am seriously tired.
III.
I imagine them at the rental agency. The sales associate, surely a Kiwi, hands them a set of keys, to the man (because that’s the society we still live in). When he speaks, though, he addresses all three: the man, his girlfriend, and his girlfriend’s best friend. Three travelers on the other side of the world.
“Remember — it’s not about the destination. It’s about the journey,” he tells them. The three smile and laugh, happy their rental car sales associate wants to provide them with more than just a campervan. Sage advice in lieu of the daily insurance (which they’ve opted to turn down). They think to themselves, this is so New Zealand!
A few days later they’re riding along in the campervan when the man finds the perfect moment to repeat the sales associate’s freely offered axiom. Only, because his native language is French, not English, it comes out as, “Remember — it’s about the dourney!”
And it sticks. The three laugh and laugh and dub their campervan Dourney—as a way to remember.
So it is that, days later still, a blue van (an extended-wheelbase Toyota Hiace to be precise) will sidle up alongside Dourney at a campsite outside of Queenstown. One of the girls (the girlfriend) will see the blue van’s driver get out alone and open up the back door of his van. She’ll watch for a moment as he continues to prep for the night — at which point she’ll call out, “Hey! How are you?” When he responds, they’ll exchange pleasantries and names, and she’ll say, “We’re going to have some wine. Want to join us?”
He’ll say why not and join them, bringing a chocolate bar to share. They’ll get to know each other and come to discover, joyfully, that the blue van driver’s brother and sister-in-law once lived in the three’s hometown in Switzerland.
The three will tell him they’re on holiday for three weeks, traveling New Zealand by campervan. And he’ll tell them that he’s on his way to Mt. Cook for a job at a hotel restaurant.
The three will gesture toward the blue van. “It’s name is Hard Boiled,” he’ll tell them.
“Ah,” they’ll say. “Ours is Dourney!” Which, of course, they’ll follow up with a story, full of laughter and interruptions. He’ll laugh too, and sweep his coffee cup in circles, watching the red wine swirl and slowly creep down white porcelain sides. He’ll remember just what it’s all about.
IV.
This is life. Just like working at 4Culture was life. Whatever you’re experiencing — that is life too. Just as it is. Whatever it is. And yet we wrestle ceaslessly [sic] with it, just fighting. But, of course, that’s life too. The forest fire. The spilled yogurt. The wave crashing. The friendly banter. The sandfly bite. The catchy anthem. The soaking rain. The smear of ink too fresh for touching. The flutter of a heart — and its murmer [sic].
[entry in notebook dated November 16, 2018]
V.
I’m aproned, scraping half-eaten (at best) food into a waste bin, behind the walls of our cleanup station. It’s a little space hidden from paying customers’ view. Except that it really isn’t. It’s just a little out of the way, with walls on three sides reaching not quite to shoulder height.
What’s more, due to a difference in floor elevation, one of the walls only comes to waist height if you’re on the outside. So anyone walking into the buffet has a perfectly clear view down into our station, with its piles of dirty plates and bowls, its aluminum bucket brimming with beverage remains, its scent of all the buffet has to offer with no discrimination.
It’s just that no one ever looks down inside. They are here to enjoy themselves, not to see how the sausage gets made. Eyes only for food and the dramatic view of Mt. Cook through the restaurant’s gargantuan windows.
The exception being this one boy. He must be 8 or 9 (though let’s be honest, he could be anywhere between 6 and 10 — I’m that bad with kid’s ages). While his parents are checking in at the front desk, he wanders, step by step, closer to the service station where I am scraping.
I try to catch his eye and give him a smile, but he sees nothing but the cutlery scraping against plate and the food falling into trash. Completely entranced. Seeing clearly the things we have all collectively agreed to hide in plain view.
All my time on the buffet floor blurs together, like empty oyster shells with gnawed-clean lamb chop bones with barely touched tiramisu in a waste bin. But this boy remains, hovering just over the wall and looking down. Seeing me and how things are.
VI.
strange sense of time in restaurant — it’s like life outside of it ceases to exist. The rules of success and failure within the buffet are the sole determinants of life, the sole drivers. They are like the immutable laws of physics. Sense of self diminishes. You are little more than a machine for clearing tables and fulfilling customer requests.
[undated entry in notebook]
VII.
Tonight I spent the evening, after dinner, with my friends and fellow food attendants Daniela and Dario.
We walked back to our end of the village during a brief lull in the near-constant rain and snow of the last couple days — up here in the mountains where winter won’t let go, even as summer approaches.
They asked me if I wanted to come in and see their place, so I said sure.
We entered through the kitchen and removed our shoes before entering the living room. The arrangement struck me immediately: four sofas set in a square, each facing a low coffee table. They laugh when they tell me this is their dining table. Their house is the Blackburn Place, otherwise known as BB Lodge, otherwise known as the Japanese House. (Until Dario and Daniela moved in, the house was occupied only by Japanese trek guides employed by the hotel. So it was that two Italians moved into the Japanese House.)
Dario said he would have a tea and asked if we would like some as well. We said yes, and soon we all sat together, Dario with a chai rooibos tea, I with turmeric, and Daniela with an earl grey. I was surprised by how much I liked the turmeric tea and told them so.
I was sitting on one sofa. Dario was cross-legged on one end of an adjacent sofa, Daniela at its other end. For some reason, I noticed their clothing: both were dressed unassumingly, in clothes clearly meant to keep them warm. Comfortable. Lived in. That’s how their clothing felt to me. Honest. For a purpose. Like this shared house where we sat. My house, only a few hundred yards away, was built purely for accommodating, whereas theirs felt wrapped in layers of living.
Our conversation went far and wide, but we settled into a warm spot where we could talk about the beliefs that shaped us. We exchanged stories of Catholicism and of Mormonism, then moved gently into our lay interest in Buddhism. We spoke of our own habits with meditation—or, as we agreed was the better term, with sitting.
And maybe that’s what we were doing there together. We were just sitting. And sipping tea. Not looking at the time or needing to.
As darkness started to settle in, I stood up and said goodbye. Walking out into the cold, I passed by their living room window and looked back inside. Dario and Daniela were still there, sitting comfortably in the warmth. They waved.
I waved back and turned toward home.
Things to look at
In Place explores what it’s like to be in this place, Aotearoa New Zealand — and what it means to be in place more generally, what it means to belong. For more posts, visit https://medium.com/in-place.
