Like a virus, rushing unchecked through her vascular system, poisoning her cells, infiltrating, metastasizing, hijacking her organs, Emeline's New Zealand assimilation has gathered speed. It has now reached threshold, as the virologists say. Her case, as the pathologists might say, is terminal.
For months, we've walked among these people, these Kiwis, these simple rural folk, and laughed at them as they do their shopping in shorts and muddy wellies, with their wild unkempt hair, their mud-streaked faces and their crooked, medieval teeth. We've nudged each other when they've walked past us in freezing weather, wearing only T-shirts, shorts and flip-flops. And then we've laughed again when they've told us what they call flip-flops: Jandals.
There's a version of Extreme Makeover on the TV here. It's very different from the US version. First, they give them new teeth. Then they give them new shoes. That's half the show.
Kiwis. They are a strange people; as wild as the land around them. In Queenstown a few weeks ago, as we tasted wine, I spoke with an upper-class American girl attending graduate school at Lincoln University in Christchurch. Lincoln is a well-known center for agricultural research. "The students," she said dryly "are positively feral."
A perfectly-weighted description. Holly Golightly couldn't have said it much better.
Last Sunday, I was drinking my morning coffee in a breakfast place we go to every weekend, when Emeline decided she wanted some milk. In true Kiwi style, she simply grabbed the milk jug and started chugging. Feral! And there was no one for me to nudge. Once it began, it progressed quickly. It was so quick. She didn't feel any pain. And now she has become one of them. Them. One of the Others.
For months, we've walked among these people, these Kiwis, these simple rural folk, and laughed at them as they do their shopping in shorts and muddy wellies, with their wild unkempt hair, their mud-streaked faces and their crooked, medieval teeth. We've nudged each other when they've walked past us in freezing weather, wearing only T-shirts, shorts and flip-flops. And then we've laughed again when they've told us what they call flip-flops: Jandals.
There's a version of Extreme Makeover on the TV here. It's very different from the US version. First, they give them new teeth. Then they give them new shoes. That's half the show.
Kiwis. They are a strange people; as wild as the land around them. In Queenstown a few weeks ago, as we tasted wine, I spoke with an upper-class American girl attending graduate school at Lincoln University in Christchurch. Lincoln is a well-known center for agricultural research. "The students," she said dryly "are positively feral."
A perfectly-weighted description. Holly Golightly couldn't have said it much better.
Last Sunday, I was drinking my morning coffee in a breakfast place we go to every weekend, when Emeline decided she wanted some milk. In true Kiwi style, she simply grabbed the milk jug and started chugging. Feral! And there was no one for me to nudge. Once it began, it progressed quickly. It was so quick. She didn't feel any pain. And now she has become one of them. Them. One of the Others.
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