I Love Cheap Veg!

Hello,

So last Sunday I went to the farmers market here in Wellington and I thought it would be a great chance to show you a bit of the city. Please pardon my videographer skills, as they are not up to par with most of the other people on YouTube. However, I like to think I added my own person spice to this dish ;)



Enjoy <3




xxKa




https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Vp0nJd_f9k

ANZ: My Banking Experience in New Zealand

Getting a bank account is a daunting task that hangs over any recently immigrated person’s head. In order to get a bank account, you need proof of address. In order to get proof of address, you need something mailed to you (like the letter from receiving your tax number, for example). In order to get your tax number, you need a bank account. This was the cycle I was up against for a few days, until I heard about the best kept travel secret thus far:

You can get proof of address from the hostel you are staying at.

I don’t know if this is true in all hostels, but at the ones in New Zealand I know that this is possible. I’m not sure if every bank would accept proof of address from your hostel, but I know the ones in New Zealand should. This is important because in order to get a job you need your tax number, and then in order to get your tax number…you get it.

When opening my bank account in Ireland, I needed a letter mailed to me by the government or some other reputable organization, or I needed a copy of my signed lease (if I were to have signed a lease, which I did not). Some banks didn’t accept my PPS number letter (that’s like a social security number) which made things even more difficult, because there was no other reason for the government to send me anything. In the end, I was able to make it work with my PPS letter at the Bank of Ireland and I am happy with that bank.

So here in Wellington, with proof of address in hand, I waltzed over to the nearest ASB branch and fearlessly walked up to the counter and greeted the worker. ASB was the bank that one of my CELTA classmates told me she used when she lived in Wellington on a Working Holiday, so I thought BRILL this will be my bank too.

Well.

The worker was smiley enough until I told him I wanted to open an account.

His lip twitched, “Do you have proof of address?” Why yes, I do and here you go. Silence. “Do you have an ID?” Yes, here is my passport kind sir. He looked through the pages of my passport with a furrowed brow. Was he looking for my NZ entry stamp? Because I was electronically scanned in so I didn’t have anything stamped in my passport. Was he a bank teller, or did I accidently walk into a New Zealand immigration office? I started to question this.

More silence. “Why do you want to open a bank account?” Because I want to get a job, nice banker man. “Do you have a visa?” Uh…yes, I have one, do you want to see it? Luckily I had it with me, so I passed it over and he examined it like he was trying to read a foreign language. Then he said he needed to ask his supervisor something and was gone.

I stood there picking at my nails, still being hopeful, but also feeling a bit scrutinized. I just wanted to open an account. I have the legal right to be here in New Zealand. What could be wrong?

He came back, the same nervous smile painted a bit more confidently on his face, and said, “I’m sorry but we don’t open accounts for people with this visa. I do, however, have a solution for you that I think will be the best option. You can go to Kiwi bank.”

Kiwi bank? That’s the bank that is inside the post office. I heard they were rubbish. I heard if you needed to discuss anything with a teller, you were doing it next to others who were managing their mail, and there wasn’t much privacy for you to talk about your financial business. Kiwi bank was the last bank I wanted to open an account with. My friend had a Working Holiday and she was with ASB….whyyyy banker man, whyyy?

I asked him if that was my only option. He said “Yes” with a flicker in his voice that told me he was a load of bollocks. I smiled and gathered all of my paperwork, slowly and painfully, simmering in the awkwardness of the moment. I stepped into the fresh air outside and took a minute to think.

Do I go to Kiwi bank? I felt my heart slipping down in my chest. I really didn’t want to go there.

Do I really have to go there? No. You know what? No. I’m going to walk into a different bank. ANZ. Ya that bank. I’m going to go to ANZ. If they reject me, so what.

SO WHAT?!

WHAT?! Rejection isn’t the worse feeling in the world! *laughs nervously to herself*

I puffed my chest out like the birds do to intimidate their foe, and pavonised (you like that CELTA classmates???) up to the line of people waiting for service at the nearest ANZ branch.

I heard from a new friend at the hostel (if you're reading this, hi Jessica!) that ANZ was a good bank so I was hopeful. After speaking with a woman at the desk, she scheduled a slot for me with Kasheef to open my account.

That's their logo. Doesn't it look like a person giving you a hug?! *u*

When I met your man, he was nothing but the epitome of excellent customer service. He was extremely friendly, explained everything to me so that I understood the most important aspects of my new account, made a few jokes, and he didn’t even ask to see my visa. All he needed was PROOF OF ADDRESS and an ID like a NORMAL bank would need to open an account. Honestly, just his smile and attitude made my day. I left a really nice review about him online afterwards.

So now…I HAS BANK ACCOUNT. And once you have a bank account…. you already know! (see paragraph 1)

If you happen to be considering opening a bank account in New Zealand, I really do recommend ANZ. Especially the one on Lambton Quay in Wellington. I’ve been there a few times after opening my account, and they helped me with everything and were so kind! They make it all so easy and pain free when banking can sometimes be a hassle and a stress!

I honestly felt like a criminal from the way they treated me at ASB....what was that about? In the end, I got my account and am with a great bank!

PS- Tomorrow is Sunday, so that means FARMERS MARKET. And guess who's got $3.50 cash for a bag of carrots, a head of lettuce, and some broccoli?? Someone who spent that money on, let's say, a bus ticket would have been really disappointed at their lack of vegetables for the week...

Just saying.

Until next time loves,

Ciao.

xxKa

The Things I Do For Duvet Covers

When I left Dublin on February 15, exactly one month and a day ago from today, I had to be careful with my packing because there was a weight limit of 25-30 kg for my journey. That's not a lot when you consider uprooting and replanting in another country.

However, while I was donating shoes that were still perfectly good and shirts that I was wearing on a weekly basis, I still managed to shove my duvet cover into my carry on. This duvet cover was the first one I bought when I moved to Ireland. I had to leave it behind when going back to the USA at the end of my Working Holiday in Dublin, but there it was for me again when I (unexpectedly) made it back a year later. I even dragged it with me to Edinburgh while I took my CELTA course, only to have found an air b&b that was fully furnished with bedding.

I haven't actually slept with it since I left Dublin at the end of 2015, but now here it is once more providing warm and comfortable blanketing for me in Wellington, New Zealand.

We've been through a lot together, and I've developed some sentimental feelings.

That's me and Duvey. 

Just kidding, I haven't named it, whatchu think?!

I might add that I reasoned bringing it with me so that I could save money by not having to buy a new one. Fair enough, right??



So today in the morning, I sent a message to a Facebook group that posts deals in Wellington about where I can buy the cheapest space heater and blankets. Even though it's summer here, my room still gets really cold on cloudy days and I can feel myself getting sick :( Wah

Instantly, a woman responded saying she'd donate some of her blankets to me! I was so shocked by her kindness! All I had to do was pick them up in Kilbirnie. That was perfect for me. I needed an excuse to workout, so I decided to run there and then I'd walk back with all the blankets. I put two Lidl bags (reusable grocery bags) into a backpack and was on my way.

Her place in Kilbirnie is about 4 miles (6.5 km) from my house, so after the tenth song played on my ipod I was there. It was a beautiful sunny day with a cool breeze- the perfect day for a trek.

I was surprised to find that she had collected heaps of things from her place for me to have, because she was moving out soon! Before I knew it, we were cramming 3 thick heavy blankets, a duvet, many pillow cases, a mirror, and a few pieces of clothing into my bags. She had to grab me a big black bin bag to fit everything.

She also gave me three duvet covers.

three. free. duvet covers.

Yet again, I had dragged this golden flowery goodness across the world with me for no reason. But that's ok. Like I said, sentimental feelings were involved so...

I left her apartment with a full backpack, two Lidl bags, and the bin bag and was on my way. At first, I was thinking 'this isn't so bad.' I had tied one of the Lidl bags to the strap on my backpack (I was feeling real smart for that little maneuver. hah)

After 15 minutes, I was dying. DYING. Like, out of breath, sweating, sore....and I had so much more to go. I wasn't even a mile into my journey. I started to day dream about cars pulling over and offering me help. Then I dreamed about the common folk who were walking in the same direction as me asking if I needed a hand. But somehow I knew, deep down, that I was going to have to go through this by myself.

Not even halfway there yet, and I'm feeling light headed. My stomach was turning around on itself. I hadn't eaten for four hours. When I was crossing the road, I didn't see a car coming and they HONKED at me...sounded like the honk from Hades, I swear that shit made me jump like Basketball Jones. I don't even know if that was a good reference, I just really like that song.

After the honk, I had to drop everything on the side of the path and take a breather. Resting wasn't as helpful as I thought it was going to be. My arms felt so weak, my head was tingling, and I just wanted to sit down more than anything. I had no food with me, no water, and...no money. I can't say I really gave this journey much thought before embarking on it.

I didn't let myself sit down because I knew it would be ten times harder to continue, and I literally couldn't stop because I had nothing with me. I wasn't going to feel better until I made it home and could have some water and rest. So I loaded up and headed out once more.

At this point I started saying 'god is with me and everything with be alright' in my head, over and over, and I'm not even religious. I don't know if I believe in a god. But I was sending a prayer to the universe, and just saying it actually made me feel stronger. I was able to muster up another spurt of strength before it got really bad again.

Was I going to die? No, no, that's silly. Was I going to get sick and need to go to the hospital? I instantly changed my thoughts after this one, focusing on my breathing. That really helped me. I would focus on breathing; sometimes in through my nose and out through my mouth, and other times more like I was at a pregnancy class. By the third mile I was properly wheezing.

Am I going to pass out? I watched as the streets became more crowded and still no one offered to help the human pack mule carry her things. I wondered if someone would help me if I passed out. Would that be a big enough sign? My breathing started to induce weird looks from my neighbors. The people in front of me would turn around and look when I got close enough. Others just looked at me like I was a nuisance when my bags would brush up against them.

But like I said before, I knew that this journey was meant to be made alone. I didn't actually expect anyone to offer help, although I was fantasizing about it...

By the time I reached the street that lead to my house (which goes up a hill) my eyes were rolling a bit. Then they started to close. You know that feeling when you're really tired and your eyes can't stay open. That was happening to me. I felt like I was going to throw up.

Then I finally reached my place (after an hour and 40 minutes of this hell), threw the bags in my room, and crawled upstairs to grab food and water. It was like some mechanism inside me turned on and I suddenly knew how to take care of exhaustion. I've never experienced anything like this before in my life, but I think I handled it pretty well.

First I ate a banana. I had to take a bite and let it sit in my mouth for a minute so I could breathe. Then I chewed a bit. Then I stopped to breathe again. I was wheezing for at least 15 minutes. I took little sips of water, and forced myself to sit up on the floor with my back against the bed. All I wanted to do was lay down, but I was worried that I would pass out. After finishing the banana, and steadying my breath a little more, I pulled myself up onto my bed and just plopped there like a potato. I was too weak to stand up.

From then on, things gradually became better. I ate more, I drank more. Even after finishing almost 2 litres of water, my pee was still dark (tmi? sorry not sorry).

Now as I lay here typing, I can feel every inch of my body from the soreness. But other than that, I'm ok. That was some crazy kind of experience. And if I learned anything from it, I'd have to say it was this:

Always bring money with you on long journeys. I don't care if you're trying to save, swallow your pride and spend $3.50 on a bus ticket.





If you've made it this far, you're a star.


Until next time


xxKa

Welcome to New Zealand! My Journey to Wellington

Wow, it's been a long time since I've written on here! So much as happened....

I left Ireland, lived at home in the USA for 11 months, came back to Dublin, visited Italy for the first time, moved to Edinburgh, became CELTA certified to teach English, moved back to Dublin for two months, spent a few days in London and saw Shere, Surrey, and now I'm on my 17th day in Wellington, New Zealand.

It has been an interesting experience so far.

I flew from Dublin into Wellington after 30+ hours, four flights, and three layovers, with tears in my eyes as I viewed the infamous windy Wellington sign on the cliffs near the airport. This sign is similar to the "Hollywood" sign in California, except the 'ton' part of 'Wellington' looks like it's being blown away.

That is not my picture, it's one from Google images. I would have taken a photo if I was actually excited to be arriving. 

The truth is, I was the opposite of excited. What's the word for that, anyways? Anti-cited. un-cited.

I was not excited to be arriving in Wellington. There were so many thoughts in my head, so many worries and doubts, and this did not look or feel like home. It was grey and raining. I was anxiety ridden. 

What is home supposed to look or feel like? I guess you just know when you're there.

The trickiest part of my journey was the 1 and a half hour layover I had in Brisbane, Australia. I wasn't sure if that would be enough time to make it. But I had to be positive.

When I checked my luggage in Dublin, they tagged it through to Australia. At that location, I would be changing to Singapore Airlines (operated by Virgin Australia) and they were not partnered with Aer Lingus (the airline I was departing on). Well, Singapore Airlines is a partner airline of Aer Lingus, but not when they are operated by Virgin Australia. That's why they couldn't tag it to Wellington. I guess. It got pretty confusing.

In London, my first layover, I spoke with a woman at the Singapore Airlines desk (because I still needed to check in for that last flight). She was able to check me in AND re-tag my luggage for Wellington! Happy days! Except she told me I needed to retrieve my luggage in Brisbane, then drop it back off at the check in desk... apparently tagging it was just going to save me time. I'm not sure how. I nodded and smiled like I knew what she was talking about.

Then I was off on a 12 hour flight to Singapore, where I was welcomed by tropical weather and Pikachus scattered throughout the airport! The airport train that passed through the terminals was painted all in Pikachus. There was a blow-up Pikachu next to some plants inside one of the halls. There were Pikachus on t-shirts. It was a happy site to see.

However, my smile faded after I spent fifteen minutes walking to my gate only to find there was a security check right before it. I passed gates 1-15 and they all looked normal, then SPAM security check before gates 16-19. I was expecting to have to go through another security check, I just thought it would have been when I got off the plane, not right before I got onto my next one. 

It would have been fine, except I completely forgot I had replenished my water bottle and they confiscated it! So I was left with another hour and NO water. Rawrs.

Then I spent 8 hours flying to Brisbane. I tried to mentally prepare myself for the hussle I was about to endure. I confirmed with the flight attendant that I wouldn't be needing a boarding card because this wasn't my final destination. I practiced my game face. I was ready to go.

Loaded with my bags and feeling like a pack mule, I sped walked through the terminal. After I passed through some duty free shopping, I arrived at a passport check. Wait, what? I hadn't needed to do this at any of my other stops! I asked a worker where to go, and told him I only had an hour and a half until my next flight. He pointed me to the appropriate line (which had over 50 people and wasn't moving) and told me which desk to go to after I've retrieved my luggage to get a new flight to Wellington. 

Boom. My heart dropped. I wasn't going to make my next flight.

I almost cried. Reluctantly, I shuffled to the end of the line and accepted my fate. Then I waited. And waited. And kept waiting. There was no sense of time, only rows of people.

I tried to peek at my neighbors' passports to see where everyone was from. No Australians in my line; they had the luxury of residential perks. I spotted an Italian couple and my heart fluttered. There were loads of red passports; no blue ones like mine that I could see. I slide my hands around my waist and hid my passport under my arm. When I finally neared the end, there was a worker checking boarding cards. I was told I didn't need one! When she got to me, she directed me to a DIFFERENT LINE and told me to ask the worker at the back how to get there. I had no time to be furious.

I went to this other line, presumably where I could scan my passport to get through, but the light blinked red. A nice worker came to help me and said, "why did they send you over here? You should be over there!" and I nearly lost it. He was kind enough to lift up the rope and put me next in line to see the passport checker person. The guy behind me said, "Welcome to our queue!"

I was finally there! The clouds were parting, and I could see the sun! When I spoke with the passport checker person, she said she could not let me in because I didn't have an Aussie visa. And then the sun vanished and dark clouds filed in above my head, and rain started to pour over everything.

How was I going to get my bag? Would they notice the Wellington tag and send it along? Was I given misinformation in London? I had no time to think, I just had to run where they told me to go. Before I knew it, I had passed through a security check and was sprinting to my gate. 

Now remember, I still had pack mule status.

They were announcing "final call for flight blah blah blah to Wellington" and I was wobbling like a penguin under the weight of my things. Still, I persevered. I did not stop running. I've never actually witnessed someone running through the airport before, but here I was sweating like a mother pheasant plucker. By the time I reached the desk, I was huffing and puffing. Before I could say anything he said, "Erika Bradbury?" I made an exasperated comment about my luggage, and the man had a look in the system quickly before nodding in a non-confident way and sending me off to the plane. 

I was too exhausted to dwell on his lack of confidence with the head nod. I made it to my flight literally ten minutes before take off. I was super happy and super lucky. 

My neighbors on the flight were a bunch of guys from a sports team. Rugby? Football? I'm not sure. They were wearing a blue uniform and they were all tall and thick. Probably rugby.

And now here we are at the part where I was looking at the Hollywood-Wellington sign out the airplane window through teary eyes. But it wasn't the long journey that made me cry. That's a story for *potentially* another time.

Thanks for reading and I'll be updating again soon!

Cheers,

xx Ka