Reason #3: Clotheslines

Everyone here has a clothesline. (Except our Candian-American friends in Auckland, but they aren't real Kiwis, I guess.)

One appliance saleswoman was sort of talking us out of getting a dryer. She mocked a neighborhood in which she had lived in Australia because they wouldn't allow clotheslines. "They said it made us look like the third world or something. Imagine."

Kiwis hang their clothes to dry. Not because they have to. Not because dryers are outrageously expensive (though they are.) Because they can. And why not? The air is clean, the sun is extra-bright, and no one thinks you're poor or trashy for having a clothesline. It saves a few dollars, yes, and is good for the enviornment, but mostly, it's practical.

I have a fabulous clothesline. It's hung above the edge of our deck, so I don't have to reach up, and there's lots of room for big items like sheets to hang clear of the ground.

Due to the lack of a vent for a dryer, we bought a washer-dryer combo. So we have a clothes dryer, but I'm using it less and less. Why not hang stuff out on a sunny day? It's picturesque, It will make our clothes last longer, and Michael will learn to live with itchy jeans.

It's the Kiwi way.

NZ Move Reason #2: Tea

Since my brief stint in Russia, I’ve missed the daily ritual of tea. I love tea. I drink it without sugar, sometimes with milk or lemon. Since the day we arrived, I’ve commented on a daily basis that the first thing we need to buy for our Kiwi house is an electric tea kettle.


Like their British relatives, Kiwis drink tea. At work, you don’t just have breaks; they are “tea breaks.” And, as Michael discovered you use the tea brink to drink tea. Employers provide tea, and people actually drink it.

Every hotel room has an electric tea kettle and a tea pot, and we were handed a small bottle of milk at check-in in Napier so that our tea would be properly fortified.

The best example: at a barbeque on Friday night, Michael commented to an Irish coworker that we don’t have electric tea kettles in the States. This turned into a conversation with the whole group about the inconceivability at our tea-kettle deficiency. They were incredulous when I told them Americans heat our water for tea on the stove. It was tantamount to announcing that Americans are barbarians. Perhaps the only thing more tragic in a Kiwi’s eyes would be warm beer.

I think I’ve convinced Michael that the tea kettle is a necessity…. we otherwise might be ostracized from Kiwi society.

Why did I move to NZ? Reason #1 Parks

Reason #1: Parks

While it may not be my MAIN reason for moving to NZ, I think Kiwi values are well represented by parks.

This week, I've spent a lot of time in them. Today, I'm typing this blog from one.

Kiwis love their parks... so much that they have a plethora of names for them. While I have no official definitions to back up my descriptions, here are my observations:

A large wild park (think a national park in the U.S.) is called a Reserve. It may only be a square kilometer or two, but it's basically wildland, with lots of trails for tramping. And sheep, of course. There usually seem to be sheep involved. This morning, I spent a half hour admiring the Redwoods in the Te Mata domain. And our new home (once we move into it) has a reserve behind it.

A large city park (say Golden Gate Park) is a Domain. They appear to have all the amenities of any large urban park - playgrounds, sport areas, formal gardens, etc. I haven't found a Domain in Hawkes Bay just yet.

There are many plain old parks... you can hardly walk for ten minutes in any direction without running into one. I'm not talking about a big slightly-browned lawn with playground equipment and hoodlums, a la SoCal. I'm talking about expanses of grass surrounded by beautifully maicured flower gardens. There are monuments everywhere - WWI Gallipoli monuments being most popular. And, no matter what kind of park, there are PEOPLE in parks. Young people, old people, normal people just out enjoying hte day. The other day, I had to look hard to find an unoccuiped bench in a park midmorning. And there are plenty of benches. No bums sleeping on them, either.

Parks here are a joy. They are a safe haven. On an afternoon I'd be wasting walking around a mall in the O.C., I'm sitting on the grass in the middle of town looking at a 100-year-old fig tree. (I'd be sitting under it, but fig leaves are rather sturdy and hard when they fall on your head.)