Adventures in Kiwiland: The Male Perspective

The things that make life here in New Zealand so rich for me are probably very different from those that Allison and Soren find appealing.

Obvious, eh?

I'm not pregnant.

I'm not three years old--though I may sometimes act like it.

Take the scene on the streets of Wellington this weekend, for example. It's what the call The Sevens.

Endless rugby at Westpac Stadium downtown, and an endless party. A bit like a big NFL game, though seemingly more complicated by the constant action and the lack of protective wear for the players. American football seems like a sport for the ADHD crowd governed by a bunch of liability lawyers.

But back to the scene here.

Men in flesh coloured (see, I'm already spelling like the locals!) leotards with conspicuous placement of fake black hair. People dressed like trees, Borat, convicts, and other random things, all rushing through the streets to get to the stadium before they imbibe too much to walk.

And then, there's Elvis. I don't even like Elvis. But, this guy is good. Really. Standing in front of one of the local sports apparel stores belting it out. Full volume with full on style like The King.

Soren and I were both dancing in the street.

Which is probably why, when it was all over, Allison was standing fifty yards away.

I've got to figure out a way to post the video that I took of the uniquely Kiwi Elvis, who sang and danced just like the boy from Memphis, but spoke like one of the local blokes when he thanked the crowd. An odd juxtaposition, indeed. Americana meets antipodean camp.

I love it.